Jamiedidit

Hay Fever

2011-07-19T16:05:00.002-04:00

I am coughing.

I’ve been coughing since the July 4th weekend, and I can’t make it quit. One day, I had that little throat tickle that means your summer cold is about to arrive, and the next day I needed a little band of grade-school kids to follow me around saying, “Oooh, She POPPIN.!” Now it’s just this never ending, sinusy little cough and it’s driving me insane. We went to see Harry Potter over the weekend and I was so nervous that I was going to be the annoying theatre cougher who ruins the movie for everyone, and then I had a realization.

I sound just like Aunt Marian.

Aunt Marian kept a case of what she called “the hay fever” through all four seasons, 365 days each year. I could sit in the balcony at church and hear her coughing into her Kleenex all through the service, and know the back corner was taken care of for another day. The coughing was kind of comforting from a distance, because you knew she was in the building, but from an up close and personal perspective, it embarrassed the fool out of me. No matter where we were, people were offering her water, cough drops and handkerchiefs, and she would just smile and wave them away as she got herself under control. Restaurants, movies, department stores…it didn’t matter where we were, there always seemed to be someone who looked ready to jump her with the Heimlich Maneuver at any second.

It drove me CRAZY. And until now I didn’t realize how much I have missed it.

I’m not sure when exactly it happened, but somewhere early in her series of stokes she lost the cough, along with everything else that followed: her independence, her driving, her speech and her memory, as if she was being chipped away piece-by-piece. She was mostly confused, often ornery, and seemed to be stuck in Fayetteville, circa 1930. She loved to have visitors, but would get extremely frustrated with her inability to communicate and eventually tire herself out. The last time Pete and I were there, you could get the start of a sentence, with a patented AM catchphrase, “Well, I declare…” and then she would fade off to a soft whisper and we would ask her to repeat herself. But, then sometimes she was a pistol from the minute we walked in the door, adamant that she was going home – sometimes to her childhood home and sometimes to the home we have recently put up for sale – no matter that she could not drive, bathe herself, or move around without help.

And now she is gone.

I have been wondering for quite a while how I was going to handle this whole death thing. I’ve never lost anyone really close before, so I had figured she would be the first one. It’s not going particularly well, which I really find ridiculous especially taking into consideration the length of time we were given to prepare for this.

It’s not as though I don’t have any closure. I sat there at Hospice, both alone with her and beside the rest of the family, watching her fade away from us as we followed Lulu’s instruction that she not ever be left alone. Stubborn, determined Lulu, the most like Aunt Marian of all of us, was holding her hand when she died.

The memorial service captured her perfectly. The pastor, who knew her well and referred to her as “Aunt Marian” rather than “Mrs. Davis” talked about how much of a mother she was, although she had no children, and to me that was always her defining quality. When I was younger I always felt sorry for Aunt Marian, and once I asked her why she and Uncle Jack had never had children. Now I can see the flip side of the situation, and how she had the opportunity to be so important in the lives of so many more children – neighborhood children, church children, all of my Dad’s generation and their children – than she could have if she had been a parent, which is something I am starting to think is a superlative choice.

Now it’s been almost two months, and I think the old bird is haunting me. I dream we are at her old beach house, and can’t get a dial tone on the pay phone she kept in the hallway and I can’t find any change. I keep buying strawberries and those 6-packs of yellow shortcakes rounds to make for dessert. I pore over her datebook from 1981 and call my parents to explain mysterious entries, and wonder how anyone could have that many luncheons. Last weekend I saw a locust, which I thought had all died off earlier this summer, and I laughed, thinking how much she hated locusts and how religiously she stomped them. Pete has caught me crying several times over old photo albums that are supposed to be in storage at my parents’ house.

And now I have this cough. This stupid, annoying, “Jamie, do you want some water?” hay-fever sounding cough.

I get it, old woman. I miss you, too.

Foreign Language Fail.

2011-06-07T16:35:00.001-04:00

Today, Mom and I stopped for lunch at our local McDonald’s. In our cosmopolitan city, there are now no less than four convenient McDonald’s locations, but the best by far is the original Commerce Ave. Mickey D’s. It might not be as clean as the others, or have a PlayPlace, or be new and fancy with that one-sideways-yellow-slash logo, but the fries are hot and crispy and the sweet tea is almost syrupy in its icy cold sweetness. Maybe it’s just me – I also exclusively patronize our original Wendy’s, even though at times they should probably be shut down and their staff looks greasier than the fries. I swear it tastes better. Just don’t look at the health department rating.

As we walked in the door, there was a Korean man at the counter trying to place his order. He had absolutely no English, so the cashier was using the time-tested method of yelling at him in hopes that he understood. “You want THREE DOUBLES? THREE?” The man ordered, paid, and the line moved on. Just after Mom and I placed our order, he received his. It was wrong. Way wrong.

No one seemed to be sure of what he wanted, but every person in line had an opinion on it. I suppose that’s the spirit of hospitality we have here in LaGrange, because he had plenty of people attempting translation. “He wants a NUMBER three, not THREE DOUBLES!!!”

Finally, the man took his extendable measuring tape out of his belt loop, stretched it out a remarkable distance that would have NEVER been able to stay straight had I been holding it, leaned waaaaaaay over the counter and started tapping the photo of the Number Eleven Value Meal. That’s a Filet-o-Fish meal, for those of you who are curious.

The cashier kept asking, “You wanna eleven? ELEVEN?” as he kept banging on the sign. He would tap chicken nuggets and say “NO” and then tap the Filet-O-Fish and make what looked like a sandwich with his little hands, and say “THREE.”

Because I have a full understanding, not of Korean, but of fast food ordering hand language, I can interpret this to mean that what he really wanted was three filet-o-fish sandwiches without the fries, just the sandwich.

Just as Mom and I received our food and headed towards the booths, the cashier threw her hands in the air and gave up.

She rolled her eyes and said, in a tone of complete and utter exhaustion, “LAW. And you KNOW I don’t know no Spanish.”

Only in the LG.

Jamie's So-Called Life

2011-05-20T15:41:00.002-04:00

Sometimes I think my life is really a sitcom and nobody told me about it.

Lots of people used to tell me that the Sara Rue character from Less than Perfect, a slightly wacky administrative assistant at a TV station, was oh-so-exactly like me (this was before she became a spokesperson for Jenny Craig) which I never really understood, as I am not at all random and flighty and apt to tell long rambling stories at the office to people looking at me like…I…am…..Oh. Nevermind, then. Moving on.

Anyhow, the big news this week is the marriage of country singers Blake Shelton and Miranda Lambert. I don’t really listen to much post-Shania country music anymore, because it’s mostly pop anyway and Pete hates it. So we compromise and I don’t make him listen to country if he doesn’t make me listen to Perfect Circle. I could write an entire blog post about my hatred for Perfect Circle. So I kept seeing all these articles about Blake and Miranda meeting at a CMT concert where they performed “You’re the Reason God Made Oklahoma” which I have now watched 8 billion times over the past week because I just love a cheesy 70’s country duet. Those late night Time-Life collection infomercials? Oh, I am there.

As a result of all this, I made myself a little Pandora country station and have spent the week trying to train it….Crystal Gayle, yes… Toby Keith, not so much. I have been just as happy as a little clam all week long. Until this morning.

It’s Friday. There is nobody here. So I turned my Pandora up and was singing along with my country station, and Bryan White started singing “Someone Else’s Star.” Oh, broken-hearted ballad of the late 90’s, how I missed you without even realizing it! That whole Bryan White album is like a playlist of old, unrequited crushes. So Bryan and I were just a-singing, and we went in for the last big chorus, “I guess I must be wishing on…..” and at some point in that chorus, the phone rang, and I, without even realizing what I was doing, automatically picked it up, and rather than answer “________ ______ ______ _____ ______” (my very long company name) I totally kept singing into the phone, until I realized what I was doing when someone said, “Hello?” and hung up on me.

Do you know how embarrassing that was? Hugely, hugely embarrassing. Stuff like this happens to me all the time. Remember the blog about when the hottie caught me trying to scratch my peeling, sunburned back with a spiral binder? All the time. I think I just got lost in the moment, because that’s just one of those (bazillion) songs that just puts you back in a very specific time, and I LOVE WHEN THAT HAPPENS!

Perhaps we each should have a playlist. Mine would have, in no particular order:

1. Anything from the Judds Heartland album sounds like riding down the road perched on the hard plastic middle compartment of my parents car, singing my little Dorothy-Hamill-hairstyled heart out while my brother and sister were passed out in the back seat.
2. Anything from the Indigo Girls Rites of Passage album sounds like power ballad-ing with my sister, competing over who can take the melody and who gets stuck with the harmony, which I lose every time. This guy I knew in college once said Lulu sounded powerful like Wynonna and I sound timid like Alison Krauss and she has been really cocky about it ever since.
3. Most of the Paul Simon Graceland album, but especially the song “Homeless” because my brother cracks me up every time he sings along with the choir from Zimbabwe.
4. “Another Lonely Day” by Ben Harper and David Bowie’s “Ziggy Stardust” sound like one college year’s worth of house parties and Josh on acoustic guitar.
5. “Jezebel”, by Heritage Cherry (Shannon Wright before she was “The Wrights.” Townie shout out!) sounds like a Thanksgiving band night at the restaurant where I learned how to wait tables and how not to finish college.
6. That one album Oasis made and early Dave Matthews sound like long road trips in Becky’s red Saab convertible to various locations far and near.
7. Tonic, Danny’s Boy, and the “Once” soundtrack all sound like long afternoons on Leighton’s front porch.

I’m sure there are more, but lunch hour is nearly over and those are just off the top of my head. Do you have a list? If “You’re the Reason God Make Oklahoma” is on it, we have a duet coming up!

True Love and Hooters.

2011-01-26T17:26:00.003-05:00

Here we are during the last week of January, and what did I see today?

Cadbury Eggs.

Normally, I am a huge proponent of keeping holiday items out of sight until their proper season. Like, I don’t like to see Christmas decorations in Wal-Mart before Halloween, you know? Cadbury Eggs are the exception to this. I may have mentioned this before, but Cadbury Eggs should really be available all year long.

Anyhow, the Cadbury eggs threw me for a loop, and all day I have been thinking Easter was next month and how great that was, because it would be warm by then. And then I woke up and realized that something was missing!

Valentine’s Day!!!!

I LOVE Valentine’s Day. (As I have previously discussed.) I love any holiday, really, especially if there is a Charlie Brown special about it, but Valentine’s Day really rocks my socks off. Do you know what I really wish we could do? I wish grown-ups could exchange Valentines. I think it would be so awesome. Valentines are a lot like school supplies. They both give me the same sort of giddiness. Don’t you think it would be fun for that one day a year if you just dropped all your friends a little card? We could make envelopes and put them on our doors. It would be great.

Really, I think kids Valentine’s Day is WAY better than adult Valentine’s Day. I think we try to make too much of it with the flowers and the candy and the restaurant reservations. The most memorable Valentine’s Day of my life occurred when I was in middle school. True story – that year, all five Seagraves piled in the car to go to Columbus. I don’t remember what we were doing down there, maybe we went to see a movie. Anyhow, after we finished doing whatever we were doing, it was dinner time and it dawned on Dad that we were never going to get a table anywhere on Valentine’s Day. There were hour-plus wait times at all every place we stopped. Where is the most embarrassing place a preteen girl can get trapped with her family on Valentine’s Day? Hooters. No joke. I couldn’t look anywhere, so I just kept my face in my sweet tea the whole time and consequently almost peed myself on the way home.

But now, I don’t think about how mortified my conventional little self was to be surrounded with big ol’ boobies at Hooter’s, with my parents and siblings, on Valentine’s Day, when I really wanted to be at some middle school party wearing a Skittles hairbow. I think about how awesome it was that my folks took us to go do whatever activity I am sure we enjoyed before the boobies totally took over the entire story. That’s awesome. That’s love.

That being said, do we think that, hypothetically, if someone saw two lockets on etsy that would make perfect Valentine’s presents and knew her boyfriend would never look there, is it tacky to have someone call him with this information? Because if it’s NOT tacky, please point Pete here and here.

Or were y’all down with making envelopes? Arts and craft party next week!

Out of the Closet

2010-10-27T11:55:00.003-04:00

Well, there’s just no hiding it anymore.

I know this might come as a shock to most of you, but I am a big ol’ girl. I think the correct term is “plus-size” these days, although I prefer “zaftig” both because it’s a great Scrabble word and I think it’s Yiddish, and I have an inexplicable love for all things Jewish, especially for one raised in the heavily Baptist bible belt. Whatever term you use, let’s just say I wear a lot of tunics.

This is not a new thing for me. As an adult, I historically swing wildly between 170 lbs. and the lower 190’s, except for a short period in college when I started waitressing for a local bar & grill and dropped immediately down to 155 due to (a) running my ass off all day and (b) cutting out dinner in favor of the pink lemonade and vodka available when the bartender is a good friend. That was the only time the weight on my scale actually matched the weight on my driver’s license, and I cannot overstate how happy that made me.

When you are heavy, there are certain experiences you go through and never talk about again, even with other big girls, in the hopes that if you just push it into the back of your mind, it might go away after a while. (It doesn’t.)

· Having to go without Guess? jeans back in the day, because the only ones that would fit were in the men’s department……and they had a tell-tale green triangle logo on the back.
· The older cousin who you always looked up to stopping you on the stairs one Christmas to ask if you would “try to lose a little weight…..for me?”
· The Aunt who said in the midst of one of my diet attempts,“If that’s all you’re eating, I don’t see how you’re not reducing.” (She’s dead now, God rest her hateful soul.)
· The inevitable person who asks when you are due, which is always a fun thing.
· Attempting to find Jeans, swimsuits or cocktail dresses that don’t look like your grandmother bought them……for herself.

Don’t get me wrong, this is not something I dwell on every day. There are whole stretches of time when I am, amazingly enough, not thinking about whether I have a muffin top in these pants, or whether anybody is looking at me funny when I eat one of the doughnuts in the office break room. Sometimes I actually feel pretty damn awesome about myself. I’m creative. I’m funny. I’m smart. I know more about random 70’s cartoons than anyone besides my brother (perhaps that ought not go on this list). I have a rocking awesome boyfriend, who is actually normal-sized and STILL thinks I am hot. I have a large group of friends who make life so wonderfully, ridiculously fun. I have a big, funny, over-the-top family who are incredibly supportive - except for that cousin. I think about that “Can’t you try…for me?” remark at every family holiday we ever have.

But normally, I am a pretty happy person. Almost Pollyanna-like in my cheerful countenance at times.

But then yesterday, I found a link through Barefoot Foodie (Oh, please, please go read her blog. She’s the greatest ever, ever, ever.) to this post from the Marie Claire website. I always liked Marie Claire, because their magazine runs pretty decent articles that stray from the normal fashion magazine topics into areas like humanitarian efforts and the like.

Not anymore.

The post, by MC columnist Maura Kelly, is called Should “Fatties” Get A Room? (Even on TV?). The title alone just grabbed me by the throat. And as I continued to read the post, I actually felt choked. With anger? With sadness? Maybe both. Maybe even with shame.

The crux of the article involves how Kelly feels uncomfortable with the show “Mike & Molly” because she finds watching fat people in intimate situations disgusting. (“Mike & Molly” is a sitcom about a couple who meet at Overeaters Anonymous. I actually haven’t seen it, so I can’t give you much more than that.)

A quote from the article: ”So anyway, yes, I think I'd be grossed out if I had to watch two characters with rolls and rolls of fat kissing each other ... because I'd be grossed out if I had to watch them doing anything.”

Perhaps it’s just me (although, it really can’t be just me, as the post in question is standing at over 950 comments) and I am being overly sensitive, but that sentence really rocked me to the core. How fat is too fat? Do people think it looks odd or gross if my boyfriend leans over to kiss me on a date? Are they thinking, “What is he doing with the fat chick?” Kelly goes so far as to say that she doesn’t even like to watch fat people walk across the room.

Walk. Across. The Room.

I would like to say that this absolutely enraged me and that I immediately put pen to paper to ask Maura Kelly who she thought she was to say such things about ANYONE. But I didn’t.

Instead, I logged onto my Facebook account to make sure that I had the tagged photos set to “private” so I could make sure nobody could see anything that might make me look fat. I know, I’m embarrassed to admit it myself, but that’s the God’s honest truth.

Maybe deep inside every person lives a little piece of herself or himself that is the embodiment of all the bad thoughts and every negative self-image one has ever felt.

Maura Kelly, a woman I have never met, pulled mine out into the open yesterday and it’s pretty humbling to realize that a stupid blog post like that would matter so much to me.

So now I am going to count all my blessings and think about all the awesome things about me that have nothing to do with the size of my pants, and go on about my business.

Because Maura Kelly might not find me aesthetically pleasing, but I damn sure do.

My Main Man.

2009-10-01T11:52:00.006-04:00

So, I'm alive. I know you were worried! But I have been ultra busy, and sometimes ultra relaxed, like during our recent Beach Trip, which I will tell you all about soon.

But at the moment, my boss (who reads this blog, so I am assuming that I am his inspiration) has decided we need a company blog.

If you are interested in Real Estate in the West Georgia/East Alabama area, check us out at http://www.spinksbrowndurand.com/.

But if you just want a quick Jamiedidit fix, and I hope you do, here is MY latest article about one of the great loves of my life, other than Pete, Jason Segel, and the Incredible Hulk: http://blog.spinksbrowndurand.com/uncategorized/everybody-needs-a-grandpa-like-this/#more-55

See you back here real soon!

Now, THIS is what I call crazy.

2009-08-26T14:39:00.003-04:00

So. Let me tell you about my latest catastrophe.

I have a job. I have a good, possibly even great job. The only problem with my job is that there is no insurance. Realtors, being independent contractors, are unable to have group insurance, and there are not enough non-sales employees to warrant us having a group policy. Thus, the only medical insurance I have is a little supplemental policy from Aflac, because I have been dealing with my health from the “It’ll never happen to me” standpoint.

Recently, I rethought that attitude when my buddy Rhonda, the smartest woman in America, told me I could totally have a regular major medical policy for as much as I was paying for my craptastic supplemental policy. So I called up to my local insurance guru, who put me in touch with the agent who handles medical insurance for her office. This is where my trouble began.

As I know absolutely nothing about the insurance world, I had no idea what to ask about my coverage needs. The main two questions I had were whether maternity insurance was included (in case of an Act of God) and if my psychiatry appointments would be covered.

Here is your lesson for the day: Honesty is NOT always the best policy.

As soon as I said the word “psychiatry,” the red flags went up. The agent (Who, I might add, was nothing but helpful and I would highly recommend using her to anyone local who may read this post.)said that psychiatric appointments were generally not covered by individual policies, and if she were to find a carrier, my premiums would increase by 20% to 70%.

Twenty to Seventy percent.

TWENTY to SEVENTY percent.

So I told her to forget the mental health coverage and just run the numbers with “normal” coverage., but she was required to enter my specific diagnosis as a pre-existing condition.

Although my doctor says I have a “mild mood disorder,” there is no official diagnosis for that. My official chart reads “296.60, Bipolar I, D/O mixed unspecified.” Bipolar disorder is one of the mental health diagnosis with the “uh-oh” connotation. If somebody says they have anxiety issues, people think, “Eat a Xanax, you’ll be fine!” If you admit to having bipolar disorder, they look at you like you should be in a ward somewhere, or at the very least on heavy, heavy medication.

I am not remotely embarrassed by or ashamed of my diagnosis. I am thankful and happy that I have a very “light case” (for lack of a better term) of the disorder that can be handled with one tiny pill daily. There are horror stories about people who truly, truly suffer with Bipolar Disorder every day. One of the reasons it is so hard to get medical coverage with the disorder is the instability of many patients and the likelihood that they will harm themselves, costing the insurance company money. I am lucky in many, many ways.

However, my luck apparently ran out at the insurance counter. The agent tried to find a carrier who would accept me, and had no luck. The entire insurance community has given me the Heisman.

Let’s think about what this means:

Unless I choose to leave my very good job in this unstable economy and take a chance that I can find an employer offering group insurance, which does not have the same restrictions, I will have to pay out of pocket for any medical care I receive. Pap smears, regular visits to a GP if I get a cold, eye doctors, anything. A major procedure would, quite literally, bankrupt me. Bankrupt.

I am a college-educated, tax-paying, productive member of society with steady employment who has no insurance. Do you know who can receive medical care, including mental health benefits? People enrolled in the Medicare program. Here is a link to the government pamphlet explaining your mental health care benefits under Medicare: http://www.medicare.gov/publications/pubs/pdf/mental.pdf

Ideally, I would like for my insurance carrier to cover my once-every-three-months shrink appointment, but I could handle (because I am employed, remember?) shelling out for those visits, if I could pay a co-pay for things like the OB-GYN and the regular general physician. But I cannot even do that. All I have been thinking about lately is a long string of what if’s.

What if I got pregnant?
What if I broke my leg?
What if I were in a car accident?
What would I do?
How would I pay for it?
How would I pay for the rest of my bills?

Maybe I should quit my job…..

I had that Weekly Reader too, you know!

2009-08-07T15:45:00.006-04:00

My name is Jamie, and I am a book-o-holic. And I’m sure most of you were already aware of that little fact. At the moment, I am completely sucked into the Kindle phenomenon. Oooh, it’s so great. I was originally of the opinion that I would never, ever, ever, ever feel the need for the Kindle. A book hoarder like me would never leave my actual paper pages for a digital screen. The whole tactile experience would be lost. The smell of a newly opened book, extinguished. Future generations would never be able to dig up a Kindle and learn about our culture. We can read the Dead Sea Scrolls, what are they going to do with a desiccated hunk of plastic?

Um. So. It turns out that I was just rationalizing to take the focus from the fact that I am cheap.

This Kindle thing is fabulous. El fabuloso. Most definitely the best gift I have ever, ever received, with the possible exception of the year Santa brought a puppy.

The first three books I bought for the kindle were:
1. Breaking Dawn by Stephanie Meyer (Yeah, yeah.)
2. Shelf Discovery by Lizzie Skurnick
3. Best Friends Forever by Jennifer Weiner

First off, mad props to Lizzie Skurnick. Skurnick has a column on jezebel.com called “Fine Lines” in which she re-reads old Young Adult books, and reviews them based on her adult perspective combined with her reminiscences of her teen reading. Why do I not have ideas like this????? Do you realize how many books which are, as I type, residing in a closet somewhere in my parents’ house were reviewed in this collection of essays? Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret and Island of the Blue Dolphins and The Westing Game and even Flowers in the Attic. Freaking Flowers in the Attic! I can see me right now in the seventh grade, carrying a turquoise Liz Claiborne pocketbook within which was one of the (many, many) V.C. Andrews books and a tester for Polo Sport Cologne. I don’t know which the more confusing fad was: (a) compulsory reading of terrible, poorly written, often incestuous teen literature or (b) requiring that one’s purse smelled like men’s fragrance. Did we think we were growing boyfriends in our Liz Claiborne’s?

Second off, I’m struggling with Best Friends Forever. I love Jennifer Weiner. Love her long time. I bumped into a copy of her first book, Good in Bed, years ago and have been in love ever since. But I am not in love with this book. I started reading Weiner because she writes novels generally starring big girls, which is more of a rarity than you would realize. Carrie Bradshaw and Sookie Stackhouse don’t exactly shop at Lane Bryant, you know. But I stayed because she writes books that I would enjoy reading even if they did not have the weight angle. The plots are strong. The characters feel real, and flawed, and a lot of the time they remind me of people I know, if only we were a little smarter and had more snappy dialogue. Plus I am a big fan of Jennifer Weiner’s voice when she just writes as herself. There’s a link to her blog – A Moment of Jen – over there on the right. She also writes guest posts for various sites like the Huffington Post, and she actually wrote the essay on Judy Blume’s Blubber for Skurnik’s Shelf Discovery.

So what is it about this book?

I just can’t quite figure it out. I’m almost done with it and I am hoping for a last minute pass. I think it’s partly because the heroine reminds me a bit too much of myself in certain ways. Or me in a younger, less self-assured time, perhaps. I think it might be because I just cannot justify any investment in Valerie, the “frenemy". I find myself talking to the Kindle, saying “LADY, your friend there is obviously in need of heavy psychiatric medication and quite possibly some electroshock therapy as well” but thus far it is not working. Maybe I will give you a more detailed analysis when I finish. Like I said, I have high hopes for the end.

Maybe I should make that a regular feature, like Jamiereadit Day on Jamiedidit. A-ha! Coming next month…..September Book Club selection Same Kind of Different as Me.

Although, now that I think about it, V.C. Andrews might need a re-reading.

Things Will Be Great When You're DOWNTOWN!

2009-07-31T17:13:00.005-04:00

So. As of today, the Todd and I have been together for seven years. Granted, there was a breakup in there if you are being technical, but who likes technicality in matters of the heart? So, seven years. Wow. That’s longer than quite a few marriages I could name. We’re like Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell, except with much less collagen and no Academy Awards.

Did you know Goldie Hawn won a Best Supporting Actress award in 1969 for her role in Cactus Flower? From Laugh-In straight to the Oscars in one fell swoop. Now that is what I call a good career trajectory. And she gets Kurt Russell out of the bargain, and any man who voiced the lead character in a major Disney film (The Fox & the Hound’s Copper) would win my heart, too. Anyway, Kurt and Goldie have been together since 1983, so they have a good twenty-six years on the Todd and I. Let’s not look too far ahead, though, because it makes me nervous.

Last weekend, the Todd was home for the first time in three weeks and we decided to celebrate our anniversary a bit early. This was a serious, serious decision. We are, perhaps not “foodies” because that carries sort of a food snob connotation, but most definitely food lovers. You would not think our tiny little town would have much of a choice between restaurants, but you would be mistaken. Our Main Street area has five great, great little places to eat. Ou’ La La, where I recently hosted the baby shower for Nicole and Amelia, is a sweet little coffee shop with a killer dinner menu as well – often featuring the fabulous Tessa playing with Main Street Trio. C’Sons is a brand new place across from Ou’ La La. It’s all new and sparkly and the menu changes every day. And they have this fun covered porch balcony thing that makes me feel very L.A. Then, of course, our friend Tulla has not one…not two…but three restaurants, all with different specialties, all within walking distance from each other. Tulla’s Bayou Bar & Grill is (obviously) all about spicy Louisiana food. Venucci, Pete’s favorite, is all Italian, from the Chianti to the Cannoli. Finally, The Basil Leaf, the flagship restaurant, is billed as Upscale Contemporary. I mean, really, how does one choose?

I will tell you how one chooses. One goes to the Basil Leaf on Tuesday with the fabulous Brennan Sisters to make sure your allotment of Fried Green Tomatoes with goat cheese and white wine sauce (Mmm!) is met for the week and then you try out the new place, C’Sons. (Get it? SEASONS. Ha ha!)

Y’all. You just don’t know. We both wanted to get really dressed up, but his idea of dressed up and my idea of dressed up varies a bit. Example: at Chuck the Girl’s wedding, I had to be onsite early, as I was giving a reading. So after the wedding, all the guys took off their jackets because the reception was outside. The Todd kept wearing his…buttoned…way longer than he normally would have worn it. I knew something was wrong.

“Why don’t you take your jacket off?”
-- “I don’t want to take my jacket off.”
“Why don’t you want to take your jacket off?”
-- “I just don’t want to take my jacket off.”
“Dude, it’s hot. The guys are all playing football (Note: That’s right, we played football. It was the greatest wedding ever.) and you’re sitting here all sweating.
-- “I can’t take my jacket off.”
“What are you talking about?”
-- “I sort of left my dress belt in Atlanta.”
“What do you mean you…..Oh. My. Word.”

Ladies and Gentlemen, nothing says dressed up like a belt emblazoned with the Grateful Dead bears.

So we both dressed up – somewhat equally – and went out on the town. It was great. I had Wild Mushroom Ravioli with a red pepper coulis and all sorts of yummy goodness cooked within. The Todd had the Fried Alaskan Halibut with, I think, claw crabmeat, hollandaise sauce, grits and asparagus. I hate stuff that swims, but he said it was pretty much awesome. We were seated at a low table, which was really good, as the Todd was rocking his skateboard shoes with dress pants and a tie. This is how we roll, peeps.

It was fabulous. After dinner we walked around downtown on a useless hunt for Tiramisu. Venucci makes a killer Tiramisu, but it was sadly not on the menu that night. So we settled for a stroll around the square and an ice cream cone. There was supposed to be a post-dinner showing of Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, but we were just too full to watch it! We postponed Harry until Sunday and, now that I have seen it twice, I have some serious bones to pick with that screenwriter. But I will wait on that, for the moment.

All in all, it was a lovely evening, and has been a lovely seven years. And will, I hope, continue to be just as lovely, because I can think of several more restaurants that need to host our anniversary dinners.

Don't hate on the octopus.

2009-07-27T18:05:00.004-04:00

Back in my babysitting days, I used to have pregdar. I don’t know if you have heard about pregdar, but it is a really handy superpower giving one the ability to detect pregnancy at a very early date. I could always tell when one of my families was going to increase their ranks before I was supposed to know. I don’t know what it was. It could be that pregnant people so often unconsciously touch their bellies. It could be that they have some weird extra pheromone only dogs and Jamie can smell, I don’t know.

I can tell you that the magical pregdar ability faded when I stopped babysitting on a regular basis. And I used to miss having that particular superpower. It would have been useful (and possibly even profitable) in college. Like, maybe, right after Spring Break. I could have been the Oracle of LaGrange College.

Now, however, I am only too happy to be free from the pregdar. If I still had my pregdar, that sucker would be continuously beeping. Think of a cell phone that is just before losing all battery power. You know that little “boop boop boop” that sounds every five minutes or so? That is what my life would be like with pregdar.

Everybody I know is pregnant. People had warned me. They all said as soon as the bridal showers stopped…the baby showers would begin. And they were right. In fact, I just gave my first baby shower as a hostess, for my friend Nicole and her soon-to-be-here daughter Amelia. Paisley and I hosted and it was tres chic, if I do say so myself. I even made a diaper wreath.

But that’s only the tip of the ol’ iceberg. Pregnancy is running rampant throughout my group of friends. Scads of them. Three in my book club alone! (I hear Dave Matthews singing “Don’t Drink the Water” somewhere.) In fact, just a few minutes ago I got an email from another friend who is newly pregnant and due in February, but I am not going to tell you who Mystery Preggers is. I hate it when people ruin a surprise like that, don’t you?

And I am so happy for all these friends and so excited to meet all these new little people! And of course, this means I get to discuss baby names – glorious, glorious baby names!

But, secretly…well, secretly until I decided to put it in a blog…I am a little sad. Not so much sad as raging, out-of-control, green-eyed jealous. I have become the main character in a bad Lifetime movie. The one who looks longingly at large amounts of white eyelet and gingham. Who seriously considers buying a fabulously tacky octopus dress because maybe someday……you know?

I mean how cute is this? How fun would this be? My kid would be the anti-Lilly!

I was recently pleased to find that this crazy biological clock thing is not just happening to me. A friend summed it up like this, “There used to be a time when once a month I would think, ‘Whew!’, and now I find myself thinking, ‘Damn!’” I think there is a lot of truth in that. The funny thing is that we really aren’t “allowed” to think it. For example, my friend chose to remain anonymous because she did not want her boyfriend to see her name attached to the above statement. I don’t have to worry about that, because the Todd is just about as computer literate as Fred Flintstone. I love the man, but if he could make it work he would still use a rotary telephone. He doesn’t even have an email address. (Hi, honey!)

For some reason, my friend and I and women like us – even as women in our early thirties - are not supposed to think about or talk about having children while we remain unmarried. And that extends to our respective boyfriends. The Todd and I talk about having children in the abstract….like, “Hey, honey, does the name Jemima make you think of pancake syrup?” or “Hey, Babe, if we ever have a son, will you swear you will never make him wear one of those girly looking rompers?” (Answers: No and….perhaps.) But if I went home and said, “Honey, I think it’s time we bought an ovulation kit.” the Todd would turn 17 shades of green and probably have to lie down. And that’s not even a tiny little piece of what the folks would do. They would totally forget that I am nearing middle age with a quickness. They would act as though I had been found in the back seat of a car on prom night.

In reality, I know that this is not the time for us to have a baby. Not until the Todd can keep it to, maybe, five shades of green. We’re just not ready for it practically or financially. So, Mom, when you read this, I promise I am not pregnant or planning to be so anytime soon. But that doesn’t mean I don’t long for it sometimes.

So, now I am back to trying to stifle the baby jealousy. And I think I do a pretty good job, usually. I haven’t been caught in the nursery section of Walmart in at least six weeks. And I am happy for all my pregnant friends – absolutely, incandescently, radiantly ecstatic for them. But there is always that little piece of me that really, really wants to buy tacky octopus dresses off Etsy.

He wears a lot of hats.

2009-06-19T22:16:00.007-04:00

This here, my friends, is the man who brought me into this world.

Later, I am sure on several occasions he thought about taking me back OUT of this world, and then thought, “Oh yeah. I am the man posing with a Budweiser in my swim trunks. Must be dominant genes.”

He has not sobered with age.

When I was little, I thought he was the coolest man ever, and I will tell you why. My Uncle Jack, husband of the great and ornery Aunt Marian, owned a concrete yard, which el Padre managed. After Uncle Jack’s death in 1981, Dad sort of inherited his office, which included a wet bar, a speakerphone under the desk, a dumbwaiter to send memos back and forth from the main office below, and his chair could swivel around from the desk and look out the window.

My dad was J.R. Ewing. Just not as skinny and he never hung out with Barbara Eden.

So down from the main office, there was a little building we called the “yard office,” on top of which was a giant cooler. During the fall, one could ride up on a forklift, open the giant cooler, and choose which big honking deer to take down and have processed. Which I supposed is perhaps a little weird, but very cool to a kindergartener. At least this one.

My dad was Pa Ingalls. Except with modern day things like refrigeration.

But here’s my favorite story. One day Dad says he wants to take me to a movie, which I thought was kind of odd, because movies were usually something the five of us did together, or else something we did with Mom and one or another of our buddies. Plus, we had to go to Atlanta, which I totally did not understand. We have a perfectly good theatre here, who wants to ride an hour to see a movie? And I had to dress up.

So the next day, I went to work with Dad, and after his day finished we get in the car and head to Atlanta, where we went to the Varsity and Dad told old stories about his high school days in Atlanta and old car-hops like the illustrious Flossie Mae. I started to feel pretty important.

Then we go downtown, and the magic began. I had no idea what the Fox Theatre was! There was a 50th Anniversary release of Gone With the Wind, a movie with which I had fallen in love. (I recently rewatched it and it had lost a great deal of its former luster, which makes me kind of sad yet very progressive.) But the movie paled in comparison to the Fox Theatre.

I had never seen anything like it. It was beautiful. Even the bathrooms were beautiful. Each room we passed through was even more opulent than the last. And the ceiling….oh, that ceiling. I couldn’t even pay half attention to the movie because I had to keep an eye on the clouds passing overhead! Were those REAL clouds? Wasn’t there a roof? It looked like there was a roof from the outside, but how do they have real stars twinkling on the ceiling?

Oh, I was mesmerized. Even Scarlett and her trials and tribulations and lyin; stealin’ cheatin’ and killin’ could not compete with that theatre.

So, in addition to being J.R. Ewing and Pa Ingalls, my Dad was also Gerald O’Hara.
But he really didn’t have to be any of those people, because he’s my Dad.

Is Proustian like Faustian? I hope not.

2009-06-16T17:00:00.001-04:00

So. My Northern alter-ego, Layne over at Layne Street, tagged me in a blog survey. However, I was already halfway through this post, so since I think it covers both a post and a survey, it’s going to work for both today.

Each month, Vanity Fair uses the following questionnaire for their back page. Lest you think I am fashionable enough to read Vanity Fair, I stumbled onto this in a random series of events that began with John Cusack. Here is what Vanity Fair says:

The Proust Questionnaire has its origins in a parlor game popularized (though not devised) by Marcel Proust, the French essayist and novelist, who believed that, in answering these questions, an individual reveals his or her true nature. Here is the basic Proust Questionnaire.

Have I explained well enough that I did not write this? Vanity Fair wrote this? Good.

1. What is your idea of perfect happiness? I’m not quite sure. Pete, Disney World, a big fat novel and fried dill pickles would play a part in it, though.
2. What is your greatest fear? My credit score.
3. What is the trait you most deplore in yourself? Also my credit score. And my total lack of willpower.
4. What is the trait you most deplore in others? Self-Importance. Not confidence, but diva-like behavior.
5. Which living person do you most admire? Is it bad that I can’t think of one? All the people popping into my head are dead. I need a new hero.
6. What is your greatest extravagance? Books. Not in monetary cost, but in time spent indulging my addiction.
7. What is your current state of mind? New York. What? You don’t like Billy Joel?
8. What do you consider the most overrated virtue? An overabundance of virtue. You have to be a little bad to appreciate being – well- virtuous.
9. On what occasion do you lie? Okay. Sometimes, but not often, I use The Todd’s well-known aversion to parties to get out of ones I don’t want to attend.
10. What do you most dislike about your appearance? Baby Sister and I have both inherited Aunt Marian’s unfortunate linebacker ribcage.
11. Which living person do you most despise? Oddly, unlike #5, I had an immediate answer…which I won’t share.
12. What is the quality you most like in a man? Staying away from the obvious….a really great vocabulary. Beat me at Scrabble and I am yours forever. The Todd reads faster than me and I find it WAY hot.
13. What is the quality you most like in a woman? A love for overanalyzation and a hint of sarcasm.
14. Which words or phrases do you most overuse? Either “Rock my face off” or “waste of flesh” depending on my mood.
15. What or who is the greatest love of your life? You would think The Todd, but you would be wrong. It’s the Incredible Hulk. First love never dies.
16. When and where were you happiest? Over this past weekend the girls and I went to Callaway Gardens to the beach. It wasn’t too hot and there were geese roaming the crowd. That was pretty stellar in itself.
17. Which talent would you most like to have? So. My friend Tessa learned how to play the cello while we were all taking piano. Tessa won much of her college tuition playing the cello. Tessa makes bank playing for weddings and symphonies. Tessa has recorded at a renowned studio, randomly sat-in with bands in Atlanta, and plays with some local bands regularly. And she loves it. Who’s teaching my kids the cello? Tessa.
18. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be? Um, I would play the cello.
19. What do you consider your greatest achievement? I finished my untenably long quest for a diploma and started taking Zumba in the same year. What else do you require?
20. If you were to die and come back as a person or a thing, what would it be? A library book. But it would have to be a library, as opposed to a bookstore book.
21. Where would you most like to live? Hey, I have a brand spanking new diploma. I can live wherever the wind blows.
22. What is your most treasured possession? The Land of Cheese. (It’s a painting my folks had in their living room. It’s wonderfully hideous.)
23. What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery? The point where misery becomes the status quo and you don’t realize there are other states of mind.
24. What is your favorite occupation? The chick who swims with the dolphins at Sea World. That would rock. Also - a children’s librarian, for one that I would actually pursue.
25. What is your most marked characteristic? Overanalyzation.
26. What do you most value in your friends? Laundry Rooms. Just kidding.
27. Who are your favorite writers? Pat Conroy and Maud Hart Lovelace. And Audrey Niffenegger.
28. Who is your hero of fiction? As a child, Betsy Ray (The Betsy-Tacy Series – Lovelace). As an adult, Clare DeTamble (The Time Traveler’s Wife – Neffenegger – and I highly, HIGHLY encourage you to read it.)
29. Which historical figure do you most identify with? Madeleine.
30. Who are your heroes in real life? Little old people at the grocery store that still hold hands and Mr. Calvin, my boss’ father.
31. What are your favorite names? How long do you have? Have we covered my love for Jemima?
32. What is it that you most dislike? Peanut Butter and granddaddy-longlegs.
33. What is your greatest regret? The amount of money I have wasted on overdraft fees in my lifetime.
34. How would you like to die? In my sleep, after having a great supper, finishing a good book, then kissing my man goodnight.
35. What is your motto? Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins. (I Peter 4:8) Also – “What goes around comes around” because my mama said so.

Three Stories, One Post.

2009-06-08T16:26:00.005-04:00

How do you say “collegiate” in South Asian?

Remember me? I know….I’ve been a slacker. But it’s not without good reason. I have become (drumroll) a college graduate, after a long 12-year trek to a degree. Yes, slack, thy name is Jamie. What can I say? I just like to work, not school.

People have been congratulating me about the whole graduation thing, which really sort of makes me uncomfortable. (Unless there is cash gift involved. Those are always welcome.) I took SO LONG to finally get in gear and finish school that I really just wanted it to be a non-event. Example? I had the school mail me my diploma so that I didn’t have to walk. So I was pretty relieved to run into a buddy downtown last week and have him just lay it on the line. He asked what I had been doing, I said graduating, and he said…

“Well, hell, you’ve been going since Vietnam!”

Why I don’t cut hair.

We have previously discussed my inability to fix hair. I have long, vaguely straight hair. It has three styles: down, ponytail, and bun-with-pencil. Today I have a barrette on either side a la Natalie from The Facts of Life and I thought I was branching out.

Why then, you ask, did I think I could groom my dog? Because (Bachelor’s Degree notwithstanding) I am a fool. As is my boyfriend. The Todd has started shaving his head because he is, in his words, “follically challenged.” So he’s been living vicariously through Trey, our three-legged mutt. On the side of Trey’s missing leg, he (obviously) can’t scratch himself, and he gets sort of dreaded. Not dreaded as in “fear of the Dread Pirate Roberts” but dreaded as in “Dreaded Reggae legend Bob Marley.” The Todd thinks the dreads are cute and refuses to let me cut them.

We live in GA. It’s hot. The dog has DREADLOCKS. He is miserable. So miserable, in fact, that I come home and find he has chewed off what I am told was the “best” dread. I had reached the limit. I went to the magical place that is Wally World and purchased an entire deluxe pet grooming kit. Heavy duty. Some sort of carbon steel. And a DVD to show me how all this was going to go down.

If you ever find yourself in this type of predicament, let me advise you to do what I say, not what I do, and watch the DVD.

I thought I could just put a guard and the blade and go to town. Not such a good idea, it turns out. Trey is usually (except for the dreadlocks and missing leg) a silky, fluffy, pretty sort of dog. Now he looks like he has the mange. I wish I had a picture.

Blogger Etiquette.

So last week we had dinner for Angie’s “Dirty Thirty” birthday, and I got myself into a pickle. I never think I am going to see the people who write the blogs I read. Even though I live in Mayberry, GA and everyone knows everyone else. Even though I stumbled onto this particular blog through the blog of a MUTUAL FRIEND.

I love photography blogs. LOVE them. Especially the more modern ideas on wedding and baby and family photography that are common today. Growing up, everyone I knew was pretty much just the Olin Mills and Church Directory photo type, so I love that all these little families now are getting professional photo shoots done. Maybe when Trey’s mangey look grows out, The Todd and I should think about some family pictures.

Anyhow, there’s this lady in town who has a photography blog. It’s called Linden Tree Photography and she’s really great and there’s a link to her site over on the right hand side of the page. So after the Dirty Thirty dinner, we were all standing outside and I saw the Linden Tree Photography lady and her husband walking towards us and I totally stopped her and was all, “I love your blog” and went on and on as if she was Thomas Edison inventing the lightbulb. Pretty sure I looked like a freak. But if I ever have a photo shoot to do, she’s my top pick. So, sorry, Linden Tree Lady, if I offended you.

Have you ever had someone stop you and mention your blog? Does it freak you out (or did it freak you out when you were first writing) when you realized that people you didn’t know or didn’t think would see it were reading it?

My boss called me not too long ago at the office and asked me the address of my blog. (He’s read it. Luckily, I don’t have a boss I have to censor for. Much.) So I gave it to him, and then asked why. He was giving it to a friend of his…..who happens to be the company’s lawyer. I still haven’t figured out if he was passing it to the lawyer for some enjoyable reading or making sure I wasn’t going to get the company in any trouble.

Oh well, if he says anything mean about it, I’ll offer to cut his dog’s hair.

I'll tell my Mama on you.

2009-05-08T12:58:00.003-04:00

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about Mamas lately. Not just because this weekend is Mother’s Day, but just because Mamas have been everywhere this year in my world. And not always in a nice, happy, sunshine and lollypops way either.

I have a couple of friends who lost their mothers over the past year. One suddenly, at an advanced age. One at a younger age, but after a very lengthy fight with pancreatic cancer. Both of these women humble me with the strength they have shown in getting through, well, not having a Mama anymore. I don’t know how I would handle that and I realize it’s a part of life for which I am woefully unequipped. However, it makes me so thankful that I don’t have to go through such a loss now, and hopefully for many, many years. So I will be thinking of them this weekend, as they will be thinking of their precious Mamas who will not be here for Mother’s Day.

Another of my very close friends became a mother last month, and then lost her son two short weeks later. And this will be her first Mother’s Day, yet she will be without her child. I wish I was eloquent enough to write something comforting and profound, but this girl does not have the words. So I will be thinking of my friend this weekend also, even though I don’t have any words to offer her.

And then there is the ever expanding group of women I know who will be celebrating EXPECTANT Mother’s Day, including a cousin I dearly love. I think being a mommy-to-be on Mother’s Day must be just indescribable. You’re already a mother, but all of the “reality mommy” stuff is ahead of you and I think the anticipation of knowing that next year you’ll have a baby on Mother’s Day would almost be too much for me to bear. I don’t see how people can just go about their daily lives and not explode with excitement. So I will be thinking of these ladies too, as they prepare to bring these new little people into the world for me to cuddle and read to and spoil.

And me? What will I be doing? I will be hanging out with my wonderful Mommy, who is wonderfully witty, intensely protective and unfailingly supportive. The woman who taught me how to swim and how not to drive. The woman who introduced me not only to unicorns and the Betsy-Tacy series, but also to the value of a good cup of coffee and a cigarette. The one, the only, my Mama.

Rolling with the Holies.

2009-05-01T17:32:00.001-04:00

So, I’ve been going to church. I even have The Todd going to church. Granted, he says he’s going for the IHOP meal we have with our folks (we all go together, like the Ingalls) after church, but I think he secretly enjoys it. I know for some of you church has always been a common occurrence, but this has not always been the deal around these parts.

As a small child, the fam was Methodist. I love the Methodist church for its rituals. Well, I guess they still have the same rituals…..but then it’s been over 20 years. I loved going up to the front of the church for communion – and they had communion with real bread, not those oyster crackers like the Baptists. And then we always sang the same hymn while people were walking to and from the front after their dose of grape juice. Grape juice still makes me feel all chaste and angelic. I used to get really excited when Dad would be an usher, because they all walked down the aisle in a double line and looked very stern and important. And I really, really like the Apostle’s Creed. The Apostle’s Creed almost makes me feel holy, much like a glass of grape juice. Although, I never really got the whole part about believing in the “holy Catholic church” being a Protestant and all.

Then, as teenagers, we switched to the Baptist Church, as they had a plethora of church activities for younguns. Mission trips, weekends at various Christian camps and trips to the beach. Most of these things involve a church bus. Singing contemporary praise songs in a prison is cool and all, but I don’t think that’s the main draw. You would be amazed at the things one can do on a church bus. Things like smuggling liquor across the Mexican Border. Liquor in bottles shaped like little men in sombreros.

You may have noticed that there is no faith mentioned in either of the above scenarios. In fact, I would go so far as to say the Baptist experience nearly killed any desire to remain in the world of organized religion. Boy howdy, you have not experienced a clique until you throw God into the mix. Cattiness gets a whole new flavor when mixed with righteous indignation.

Church attendance aside, my folks have a deep, yet very personal, faith. We as children knew about God and we knew Mom & Dad had a personal relationship with him, but it wasn’t something that was discussed. Mom would give us devotionals every Christmas that remained in unopened, pristine condition on my bookshelf for several years. If you are in need of a devotional book, let me tell you, I have it covered from age 12 to 30.

Oddly enough, when I was 15, a twisty series of events ended in a job in the nursery of a brand-spanking-new nondenominational church. It was the craziest thing I had ever seen. The church was held Sunday mornings in our old downtown theatre. Oh, and it was also multicultural, which I didn’t really think made much of a difference, but seemed to be the first thing people asked about when I told them where I worked. The entire childcare section consisted of three little rooms that had once housed the theatre offices. We would often find sneaky runaway kindergarteners in the balcony. So for the next several years I spent Wednesdays at the most traditional church possible and Sundays at this crazy experimental theatre church.

So this whole time, I kept running into the same problem. Being saved. Especially at the Baptist church, the whole dunking thing was a major deal. Now, as a Methodist, I had been baptized as a baby and confirmed in the fourth grade and, to me, this made me just as much of a Grade-A member of the God Squad as anybody else. Apparently this was not so, as I heard my youth minister talking to one of our Disciple Now leaders that he was worried about my soul. (See: Baptist Church and ruining one’s faith in organized religion) And these leaders kept telling us these stories about how they were stuck in the pit of despair due to (insert alcoholism, addiction, partying, depression, etc.) and they were on a rooftop screaming at God and all of a sudden this feeling of peace came over them and their life immediately changed. That’s a true story I heard at that Disciple Now session.

Dude, I must be missing out. Where was my awesome raging at God moment? I wanted a burning bush or something. But at the same time, I also felt very strongly that I was just as saved as they were.

And then I went to college and like many people drifted away from the church. I would think about going back to the church, but there were so many points to ponder. The rest of my family was still technically Baptist, and there was obviously no way in Hell (Get it? No way in Hell?) I would attend a service there ever again. Being soulless and un-dunked and pretty much lost and in the arms of the enemy and all, you know. I was technically Methodist, but that’s a pretty fancy church and I am a pretty casual person. God might not care what you look like but I was betting the Methodists might. And I didn’t really know anything about any other denominations. So for years I just quit thinking about it.

But then I remembered the little theatre church.

By this time, fifteen years later, the little theatre church was a big huge church. They even had a big pond…with ducks. Those three little office rooms had morphed from a nursery to two floors of full-fledged Sunday School classes. The church band had expanded from just a piano to an entire stage full of congregation members with a drum set, bongos, acoustic and electrical guitars, saxophone and flute. It was wild.

So I took a seat (With Mom, because I don’t even eat at McDonald’s alone, much less go in a whole room of people and pick a seat by myself. I knew there was a meet & greet coming and I didn’t want to be the “alone” person.) and sat back to see what God had to say. There was a preacher I was unfamiliar with and – y’all – he was incredible. I had never heard a sermon like that. He wasn’t dry and stiff. He didn’t hint that without a large donation I was headed for fire and brimstone. He didn’t make me feel that I would one day hear him tell someone he was worried about my soul. It was applicable! It was heartening! By golly, it was uplifting!

And, in all seriousness, as I have kept going, it’s made me want to do more, to be more. I finally opened those devotional books on my shelf. In fact, I open them every morning and every evening. And I have been surprised at the difference it has made in my life. I found my faith.

I mean, it’s not a burning bush….but I think I might be okay without one.

I kind of like Jethro.

2009-04-09T11:50:00.002-04:00

Sometimes, I think the Internet is a sick, sick thing that the devil has put here to suck up my brainpower. Like Wikipedia. Wikipedia is like crack for me. It’s the world’s longest game of “6 Degrees of Kevin Bacon.” Last week I watched Love Actually (for the 427th time) and looked up Emma Thompson in Wikipedia to see what other roles were listed. Before I knew it I had gotten mired in an entry dealing with the divide between church and state. No kidding.

So I have been trying to curb the wiki-ing, but other brain sucking diversions have sprung up to take its place. Have y’all seen nymbler.com? One of my preggers buddies, Nicole, is having a girl and we (well, okay, just ME) have been fascinated with Nymbler. Check it out.

I like baby names. I am obsessed with baby names. I could discuss baby names for hours. Days, perhaps. I am not remotely ashamed that I have a collection of baby name books dating back to when I was 13. I was very upset at the original name of my Cabbage Patch kid and sent in the adoption certificate to have it changed from Heidi to Carla, after a character in the 80’s cartoon Kidd Video. If you remember Kidd Video, you are my new best friend because even Baby Brother could only muster up a vague recollection.

Oddly enough, this obsession does not extend to actual babies, just their names.

(Dear friends: This does not mean I don’t like your babies. I love your babies. I just don’t love them with a sick and freaky obsession, for which you should be relieved.)

As you can imagine, this tends to drive my friends (all of whom seem to be pregnant right now) batty. Especially when I break out the baby name rules…..which, let me explain, are only MY rules. You choose your names as you wish, more power to you. You want to name your kid Bronx Mowgli, Ashlee Simpson, float your own boat. Maybe he can grow up and hang out with Kal-El Cage and Pilot Inspektor Lee. (Then again, if Jason Lee wanted to have babies with me, I would let him name them Inspektor Gadget, if only he would get rid of that Earl mustache.)

Who named your baby? Jamiedidit.
1. No nickname names. Call her Katie. But make the birth certificate say Katherine. Unless, of course, there is a tradition of some sort.
2. If you fight over a family name, whoever pops the kid out first wins.
3. Last name-first names are great. I think this is because NOBODY will ever be able to use my last name as a first name and I am jealous of the rest of you.
4. Nicknames (as long as you have a regular name for formal use) are even better. Baby Sister has a rocking nickname, and I am way jealous. There is nothing one can do with Jamie except amend it to James. I have a great-aunt named Winifred, which is way up there on the list of World’s Most Hideous Names, but the nickname she has is so rockstar awesome that I will most likely use it one day, and therefore will not tell you people about it.
5. British names are great. In the UK you can use the name Jemima (LOVE Jemima) and they think Beatrix Potter’s Puddle-Duck, not Pancake Syrup. For that matter, you can use Beatrix!
6. (The Golden Rule) Spell it conventionally, people. Let me tell you, I spent the first half of my life hoping there would be stuff with “Jamie” preprinted on it at tacky Florida souvenir shops, and it never happened. There was always JAIME, but no JAMIE. So I know you think all those funky Kaitlyn, Katelin, Caytlan, etc. spellings are cute, but then your kid will never get any fun personalized stuff because nobody will be able to spell her name.

Oh, and Nicole? Decided on “Amelia Claire.” Very classy, very perfect. I think I will call her Millie.

Here I come, Dancing with the Stars!

2009-04-07T14:54:00.006-04:00

I have this mental list of things I absolutely refuse to do. Things like this random sample: skydive, return to Mexico, watch Old Yeller, ever attempt post-graduate studies and...go to the gym. One of these things has been removed from the list.

I went to the gym.

Exercise and I do not play well together. I never even had the “Get in Shape, Girl” playset. My only real attempt at any sort of athletic pursuit was a hellish couple of seasons in girls’ softball. My wonderful and equally daydreaming friend Amanda and I often split the position of catcher, and argued over who would remain in the dugout. But then I hit a pop-up into my own eye and was allowed to gracefully retire from my team.

I take that back……I also took dance lessons for years. Tap and jazz at the CEA with Miss Julia Hope and later Miss Jennie. I can work a step-ball-change and I can shuffle off to Buffalo, but the jazz skills are lacking. I did, at one time, join the junior jazz group of a different local dance/gymnastics center. For one sweet, shining moment I was a Tumbletown All-Star. And then I singlehandedly ruined our chances to win the Kiwanis Kapers due to my complete inability to perform the Bobby Brown. (Or the Roger Rabbit, whichever you prefer.) "Pump Up the Jam" still gives me a panic attack.

So, you see, physical prowess is not my strong suit.

Angie & Dr. Brenton are trying to change that. Angie is on this health kick, which I am really not excited about, as it removes her cube steak from my diet for the forseeable future. And she makes really good cube steak, with home-made mashed potatoes and everything.

So Angie starts talking about how she’s so excited about starting this thing called Zumba, and I thought she was playing bridge or something. I was so confused. I think I got it mixed up with Mah Jongg and I couldn’t figure out how that was at all healthy, because I thought it was some game named for the Chinese word for gossip.

Turns out Zumba is Latin dance aerobics. And Angie loves it. She loves it so much she’s already talking about starting Pilates, too. But her enthusiasm won me over, and I went to my first Zumba class this past Saturday.

I had this image in my head of becoming like a Southern Jane Fonda crossed with Salma Hayek, but I think I came out of the class a little more like Charo. But I finished it, and it wasn’t nearly as bad as I feared.

Maybe next week I can work my way up to being Suzanne Somers.

Welcome to April!

2009-04-06T17:15:00.002-04:00

Time to redecorate around here! Baby Sister spent the day Saturday helping me tweak my home decor, so today the blog gets the same treatment! Maybe tomorrow you'll get a real post.

I should do infomercials.

2009-04-02T17:27:00.002-04:00

My Aunt Marian, doyenne of Poplar Creek, she of the 57 china patterns, is unsurprisingly very strict about her personal beauty regimen. Powder, mascara and lipstick, that’s it. But, it has to be from Estee Lauder. All Estee Lauder, all the time. Rosa Rosa for subdued events and a flashy fuchsia (I want to say it was Azalea Pink, but I am not sure.) just for general fabulousness. Ooh, boy, I just thought that bright hot pink lipstick was the most grown-up, sophisticated thing EVER when I was a kid. No matter that she had to put it on before entering and just after leaving ANYWHERE.

Come to think of it, this may have something to do with my need for dark lipstick. No, not fuchsia….I do dark, not bright. Plus, at the moment I am into this color I get at Walgreen’s which is from some el cheapo brand, but it’s called “Metallic Seduction” and makes me feel very old Hollywood every time I put it on. You know, every time I enter or leave anywhere. Oh, dear.

Somewhere around 75 or 80, when she finally started to wrinkle, AM jumped on the Estee moisturizer bandwagon. No more Oil of Olay for that girl! So, now she is an addict, and gets a little panicked when the supply is running low. Mom got the call from AM yesterday for the moisturizer run, for her first time. See, what you have to understand is that we don’t do expensive makeup. (See above on Walgreen’s.) I do have mad love for Clinique, because of my long affair with Black Honey Almost Lipstick that began when it swept the halls of Gardner Newman Middle School. But after one splurge on a $40 tub of Superdefense Anti-Aging Moisturizer (What can I say? I had just turned 30 and had a fistful of Christmas Bonus cash.) I forced myself to tone it back to Revlon. Which sucked, because that Superdefense rocked my newly tightened pores off.

Mom calls me and is astounded that she just paid $58 for the face lotion. ASTOUNDED. And it was the small size, so I’m pretty sure AM reamed her when Mom delivered the package, because the last time I made the face lotion trip, she had to have the big dog $115 version.

And, of course, there was the ever-popular free gift. This is where I have a bone to pick with Estee. Probably her own bone, because if she’s not dead that anti-aging line should be WAY more emphasized. It might even be worth the $115.

Estee, Estee, Estee. You need to drag your ass out of that grave, honey, because you have left your company in the hands of some reprobates.

I might not BUY expensive makeup, but I will rock a free gift like it’s nobody’s business, and Baby Sister and I have always been the beneficiaries of AM’s free gifts. We ESPECIALLY love your free gifts, because of 2 things: More than Mascara and that fun brown shimmery lipstick that ALWAYS appears in free gifts. You know, with that horrid Rosewood color that nobody (meaning me) looks good in?

Estee, I have to tell you, your folks are slipping. There was no fun brown shimmery lipstick! There wasn’t even any crappy Rosewood…….just a vile hot pink, although I am sure AM is enjoying that part. And – horror upon horror – what is this madness about taking away my beloved More than Mascara and substituting Projectionist? I call foul. At least you left the rocking awesome brush in there. I will not totally write you off until you take away that brush. Y’all can tell me all you want to about curved or contoured or tiny fancy mascara brushes. Nothing in the world will beat a travel size Estee brush. Holler if you hear me, ladies.

However, I was willing to forgive this because you included some fancy schmancy SPF 15 lotion. Which I mistakenly assumed would resemble my beloved Clinique Superdefense. I mean, you rich chick cosmetic moguls are all the same, right?

Let me tell you, Estee, I got out of the shower this morning, snatched on a robe, and ran…ran, I tell you, to try out my new face stuff. I dipped out a nice size daub and spread it on my newly washed cheeks. And do you know what my first thought was, Estee?

“My face smells like a perm!”

That’s right. I don’t know who is scenting your products these days, but you made my face smell like a bad day at Regis. When you sit down to eat your Mall Food Court Chick-Fil-A and you get a whiff of some banana-clipped hairdresser named Wanda (no offense, Wandas of the World) giving a permanent wave next to the Claire’s tennybopper outlet and that nasty funk stink ruins your meal.

Thanks, you nasty little minx. Next time I go free gift, I’m scoping out Elizabeth Arden. Take THAT.

Why should Snow White get all the love?

2009-03-26T15:10:00.004-04:00

I don’t have kids. My family is full of late procreators….and quite a few non-procreators as well, come to think of it. Grandmama was almost 40 when she had Dad in 1947. Dad held out until he was 30 until I was born. My cousin Billy was pushing 40 when he and his (rockstar awesome) wife Amanda had Jack. So I figure there’s no hurry, eh?

Instead of my own kids, I have quite a collection of other peoples’ kids who I dearly love. Years of babysitting will do that to you. Of course, a few of the older kids have now married and two even have their OWN children now. I’m only 31. I don’t know if I was the world’s youngest babysitter or if they just are early breeders.

Most of “my” kids are late-high-school /early-college age now, and I get a kick out of seeing who is cheering and who is playing baseball and who chooses to go where for college….and of course all the girls get a recommendation for Phi Mu if they Rush. And I love them all.

But today I’m giving a big, fat, bloggy hug to the One, the Only, my girl MaryLiz.

MaryLiz has been my best girl since I ran into her Mom (one of my former teachers) at the park when they were on a playdate along with her brother, Zach. I broke out the ol’ Mary Poppins umbrella and moved into their world. And much fun was had. MUCH fun. Swimming lessons, dance classes, soccer practices, boy scouts, birthday parties………oh, and Harry Potter. We are all about some Harry Potter.

Somehow, and I’m still not really sure how this happened, Zach has gotten halfway through college and ML is about to graduate from high school.

And I am still driving the same car. But anyway…..

ML told me not too long ago that she had earned the part of Carabosse in the local ballet production of Sleeping Beauty – probably in large part due to all the dance classes to which I drove her! (Just kidding, doll.) So I told her I would most definitely be there to watch.

So the Todd and I put on our grown-up panties and went to the ballet last Sunday afternoon.

Sidenote: One of the things I really enjoy about my little hometown is the importance we place on the arts. For a town of our size, we have a very influential little artistic community. We have two museums, a local ballet company, a local symphony and multiple choral groups. And that’s just under the aegis of the local society of the performing arts. There are also extremely well-executed programs coming from the local high schools, churches and the college. We are lucky, lucky folks.

Y’all. When ML just tossed out “Yeah, I’m dancing Carabosse.” I just figured it was just some role. Some average, everyday role. It turns out I should actually study up on my fairy tales rather than assume Walt Disney is checking his facts.

Because Carabosse? Yeah, that’s MALEFICIENT. My baby girl had the big, bad, villain role. You know what that means? She got the rocking costume too. Everybody else looked like Easter Peeps and ML was swooping all around them like Stevie Nicks with point shoes and a crown. It was very black and purple and veil-ish. She spun delightfully.

So props to my wonderful, beautiful girl. She was splendid. I was so proud of her I cried. The Todd was so impressed that he said…..well, he said a word that caused the lady in front of us to turn around and give us the fisheye.

So, Mary Liz, you were fabulous. I love you, beautiful girl!

Just call me Miss Piggy

2009-03-06T14:11:00.014-05:00

You know, love comes in many different forms.

My first loves were all green: The Incredible Hulk, Kermit, and this giant statue of a green knight that stood in front of a bar in Destin Florida in the late 70's & early 80’s.

No kidding.

I think I somewhere misconstrued "a knight in shining armor." And NO, our parents never took us INTO the bar…..it had a little crappy shop attached to it where we bought kites. Gaaah, people.

Later, there was Kirk Cameron, OF COURSE.

Then came the general string of crushes and involvements with various heartbreakers who really existed and that I actually knew. And now I have The Todd.

However, I am thinking of leaving the Todd, striking out for LA and falling madly in love with Jason Segel. I just think he’s precious, and pretty cute, to boot – even when he played the slightly gross friend of Seth Rogen in Knocked Up. In fact, it kind of freaks me out that I found him even the slightest bit attractive in that role, but it explains a lot about a lot of those heartbreakers I mentioned.

However, my Jason Segel love really has come to fruition thanks to a bit of trivia about “Forgetting Sarah Marshall.” No, NOT the naked breakup scene. The Muppets. In the movie, there’s this whole thing about the main character (Segel) and his quest to write a vampire Muppet musical. And I thought, “Hmm. I could get into that. Like a musical about the Count from Sesame Street.” And then I promptly forgot about it…until I watched the commentary stuff.

It turns out that the whole vampire puppet bit is in the movie because Jason Segel….the real person, not his character….had the dream of staging a vampire Muppet musical! Now THAT, my friends, is a man after my own heart.

So I was poking around the Internet today, trying to find a clip of the vampre bit to cheer up Chuck the Girl, and I stumbled onto some fabulous news…..Jason Segel is bringing back the Muppets. Chud.com (That stands for Cinematic Happenings Under Development. I know, it got me, too.) interviewed my future main man about the film: “Hopefully it will fall right in the pantheon of The Great Muppet Caper, The Muppets Take Manhattan, Muppet Movie. You know, we're trying to make one of those.”

He says they even have a cameo for Charles Grodin. Every time I used to see Grodin on his political show, all I could think of were his wretched dealings with Miss Piggy over the Baseball Diamond. They got you in the end, Nicky Holliday.

So I sat down and weighed out Jason Segel vs. the Todd with a Pro/Con list. And it was running pretty neck-and-neck until I saw this clip, in which I found out that Segel and Neil Patrick Harris randomly break out into duets from Les Miserables when they are bored on the set of How I Met Your Mother.

Muppets AND Les Mis? The Todd is Toast.

Homer Simpson, Take Notice.

2009-02-26T12:20:00.007-05:00

Baby Sister says I write about food too much. This is probably a correct statement, but I am a foodie, what can I say. If she had a blog, it would be about her unlimited series of Projects of the Week. Baby Sister is the poor man’s Martha Stewart. Well, technically the poor man’s Martha Stewart is Rachael Ray, so I guess Lulu is the ghetto welfare version of Martha Stewart. Since Christmas she has totally redecorated her living room. And although some of it was through purchased items, she also:

1. Painted some canvases.
2. Sewed this rocking set of curtains which are royal blue toile bordered with sage green stripes. I realize that this sounds pretty wonky, but it looks very fresh and classy.
3. Decoupaged (Is that a word) some end tables and a bookshelf.

Her apartment looks so cute, you have no idea. Yay, Lulu.

Anyhow, back to food. I don’t care what Baby Sister says, sometimes you see something, and people need to be warned. I saw this picture on a site called “This is Why You're Fat.”

Looks like those little Edy’s Dibs things right? Everything else on TIWYF is just disgusting and/or pretty much an instant death. Chicken fried bacon dipped in chocolate, anyone? So I was confused as to why Dibs had made the list.

Then I read the caption. Y’all. That is fried Coca-Cola. Now, I will fry just about anything. Fried pickles, onion rings, cube steak. If you can batter it, I’ll eat it, which explains so much about my closet. But this fried dessert thing I just can’t get behind. Have you seen this stuff? Fried candy bars, deep fried Oreos. That’s even more disgusting than the sick & twisted fad of dipping French fries into Frosties. But FRIED COCA-COLA?

A vendor named Gonzales at the Texas State Fair, home of the Corn Dog, was the lucky inventor of this delightfully disgusting delicacy. (Alliteration is fun.) Here is the official description I took from some AP story……” Gonzales deep-fries Coca-Cola-flavored batter. He then drizzles Coke fountain syrup on it. The fried Coke is topped with whipped cream, cinnamon sugar and a cherry.”

They were voted second in a food competition at the Texas state fair. I have never been to Great State of Texas, although I have cousins who live there. I am going to have to inquire about the local delicacies around those parts. I think I will stick to frying pickles and tomatoes.

Love and/or Marriage.

2009-02-16T17:43:00.005-05:00

So, Valentine’s weekend was lovely. We got some great take-out, grabbed some movies (see below) and had a nice, romantic time at home. Which I felt was totally perfect until I logged on to the Internet today. The first thing I read this morning was a post on Ashley’s Closet about the auctioning off of Michael Jackson’s belongings. I think Neverland Ranch was up for foreclosure at one point, I’m not sure. So, anyhow…….check out what he’s got up for sale!

The Todd got off so easy. Had I known this bad-boy was on the market take out and movies would NOT have cut it. Do you know how much fun this would be? I would have my own personal Zoltar the Magnificent, like that kid in Big who turned into Tom Hanks. In all seriousness, if the Todd came home and said “Hey, Babe….I found $2,000 laying in a puddle. Would you rather have an engagement ring or a life-size fortune teller arcade thing?” the answer would not involve a white dress and a caterer. Y’all would be lined up out my door to hear your future for $1 apiece.

Back in the real world, one of the movies we checked out this weekend was “Fireproof.” And I was really excited to see it, because everyone I know has raved about it. Plus, it has Kirk Cameron, who (as I am sure you know) left the secular world of acting after “Growing Pains” and only does Christian films now. In return for this, God has kept him from aging since 1984. I heard somewhere that the kiss at the end of the movie was filmed in profile because Kirk does not kiss any of his co-stars out of respect for his wife, so they shot it in silhouette so he could really kiss his wife. Now I thought that was pretty awesome, because every time I watch Grey’s I wonder how Patrick Dempsey’s wife stands it. Anyhow, I’m not so sure what I think about the movie, and it’s been percolating in my brain. For those of you who have not seen the film, it’s about marriage as a lifetime commitment, and learning to make it “fireproof.” One of the characters defines this as: “Fireproof doesn't mean the fire will never come. It means when the fire comes that you will be able to withstand it.”

I think that’s a wonderful idea, and I totally back the idea of the film. My church is doing the 40-day Love Dare program talked about in the film as a small group right now, which I also think is cool. But I don’t understand where the line is on this. In the movie, the couple had grown apart – pretty fiercely, because at one point ol’ Mike Seaver had me worried he was going to cross over the physical abuse line – but they were able to rebuild their marriage and even improve it, as both of them came to know the Lord. But what happens if there IS physical abuse involved? What about infidelity? Is there a line?

But I guess the film was not written to split hairs as I am doing here. The message was that marriage is not taken seriously these days, and that people who marry should respect that it should be a lifetime commitment. I wholly support their line of thinking.

I think the reason the film struck me is (insert music cue for introspective pondering) that marriage has been on my mind a lot these days. I’ve been getting a lot of “So…when do you think you and the Todd will get married” type of questions, which naturally pile up around Christmas and Valentine’s Day and any gift-giving holiday. This line of questioning sucks harder the older we get, as neither the Todd nor I have any inclination to tie the knot and it gets increasingly hard for people to uinderstand that. But, as I have now passed 30, I spent some time recently examining the issue, and I have found two substantial reasons to get hitched:

Reason #1
My Aunt Marian (who you either have heard or will hear much about) is now in the nursing home full-time and we are trying to get rid of her house. AM has no children. Her last name is Davis. The Todd’s last name is Daniel. This puts a nearly inconceivable amount of stuff with a “D” monogram up for grabs, as none of my female cousins have been smart enough to marry anyone with a matching initial. I mean, we would totally have a full set of anything one can use for entertaining. Except for that we don’t entertain.

Reason #2
People who are married get to use three names on facebook rather than two. I have feelings of inadequacy about my name length.

Let’s ask the expert…..

Zoltar the Magnificent, are monogramming and facebook enough reasons to tether yourself to anyone (no matter how rocking awesome) for eternity?

Zoltar says “My sources say no.”

Whew. I feel better now.

Cupid, Draw Back your Bow....

2009-02-13T17:08:00.006-05:00

Check this out: http://todayspictures.slate.com/20090213. Every day Slate.com runs a “Today’s Pictures” feature with photos on a daily theme. With Valentine’s Day being this weekend, today’s theme is K-I-S-S-I-N-G, and it’s way cute. This is the opening photo…..(CREDIT: This is obviously not my photo. It was taken by someone from Magnum Photos and I took it from Slate.)

Valentine’s Day gives me a complex. When I was single, I thought actually having someone to celebrate Valentine’s Day with would make everything automatically perfect. Oooohhhh, but no. First off, I hate planning things, which is an odd thing for a former event planner to say. It’s not really that I hate to plan things; I really LIKE to plan things….as long as they are not MY things. As far as I go, I’m a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of girl. The Todd is also a non planner. The only thing he plans ahead of time is a concert. The only thing I plan ahead of time is the release of certain books and/or movies. (Bring it, Harry Potter. July 17th is just around the corner.) What this results in is a serious lack of plans. “We’ll just see what comes up…” often ends in “not a damn thing.” Thus, when I DO plan something, I go all Martha-Stewart on acid and want to make everything picture perfect. There is no possible way for reality to reach half of where my expectations set themselves.

Example: I once planned a picnic for us to go to Callaway Gardens. I borrowed Baby Sister’s huge picnic basket and filled it with things like pate. Do either of us eat pate? Dude. I don’t even eat ketchup.

So you see how Valentine’s Day is problematic for crazy over-the-top Jamie. THIS year, we are getting a TV as our present to each other, but I still want to do SOMETHING. And of course it can’t be just dinner or a movie. Oh, what to do that is both original and fits into our tiny Dave Ramsey budget. (I know you’re thinking “She knows Dave Ramsey and she’s buying a TV?” But what you do not know is that said TV is a used 27” for $100. Dave would SO approve.) So I have to think of something fun.

One unnamed person called me yesterday to ask if I thought it would be sweet or stupid for her to send her man on a scavenger hunt around town winding up at her house for dinner. I told her I thought it was great. Then she called me to ask which new lingerie she should buy. Somebody is getting a GOOD Valentine! I pondered doing something like that for a minute and then realized that if I handed Pete a scavenger hunt clues, he would look at me like, “No, Beavis. Really. Let’s just go grab some steaks.” And as far as lingerie? Girlfriend was grabbing satin and lace, and that just does not work in my world. Pete’s all about the two Lauras…..Ingalls and Ashley. His freak-o grandpa taste used to irritate me, but now I think this is awesome. I can look like I walked out of Sense & Sensibility for the rest of my life, and Pete will think I’m dressing for him. Two birds, one stone.

So now I don’t know what we’ll do. I think this evening I will break out the old Southern Born & Bread cookbook and figure out something fairly easy (and romantic) to cook. Any ideas? Do y’all still go all out for Valentine’s? Are you one of those people who thinks it’s a “greeting card holiday” and don’t celebrate? Do you include people other than your honey? Once, when Chuck the Girl and I were living together, we both found ourselves single as Valentine’s Day rolled around. And on the day itself, one of our good guy friends brought us each a rose. I've always thought that was the sweetest gesture, and it’s always stuck with me, and I know it has with Chuck, too. So there you go, folks. If you can’t figure out what to do for the holiday, go make someone else’s holiday special!

Who made her own blog background and header?

2009-02-10T17:20:00.003-05:00

Jamie-freaking-didit, that's who. You may not think this is much of an accomplishment, but you would be sadly mistaken.

So, perhaps later I will actually write a post, but for now you can just feast your eyes upon all the fancy.

Junkies aren't that funny.

2009-02-04T14:32:00.007-05:00

So normally I try to be all snarky on my little site here, but I’m about to go serious on y’all. Just a warning.

The VH1 marathon has long been one of my greatest loves. I will watch the most ridiculous, pointless drivel ever produced simply because I can get a whole season in one day. Half an episode of Flava Flav and my whole day is shot. I now harbor illicit feelings for “Noted Fashion Photographer Nigel Barker” and his sexy accent. Thanks, America’s Next Top Model.

In an effort to take back my weekends, I have been avoiding Vh1 like the plague. (Although, are they doing the World Series of Pop Culture any time soon? I want to enter a team called “Lisa Frank and the Rainbows.”) However, I have stumbled across what I think is valid documentary footage hiding between Bret Michaels and Chachi.

My new show, Sober House, is a continuation of Celebrity Rehab, which I never watched. Dr. Drew, who I have loved ever since he did Lovelines with Adam Corolla, is the host. (OOOH – I just looked Dr. Drew up on Wikipedia, and he won 40 gallons of Sunny D and a year’s supply of Turtle Wax on Wheel of Fortune in 1984. There’s your fun fact for the day.) Sober House takes graduates of the Celebrity Rehab and provides them with a place to live as they ease back into sober living. Hence the title.

I didn’t watch Celebrity Rehab because I really thought it was, well, tacky (for lack of a better word) of VH1 to exploit addicts for my viewing pleasure. And possibly detrimental to the health of the cast. This way lies Danny Bonaduce, you know. But now that I have come across Sober House, it’s the most gripping thing I’ve ever seen, and I think if more people would watch it, the anti-drug movement could learn a few things.

Jamie’s Soapbox A: Sober living itself is a topic not often covered in the mass media. Rehab is covered, and covered, and covered some more. In fact, I think rehab has become a topic most people just tune out, it’s become a joke because so many celebrities (as well as “regular” people) walk through various treatment centers as if they had revolving doors. I think part of the reason treatment works for so few people is the absence of focus on sober living. The massive task of attaining sobriety in a rehabilitative facility is so easily ruined upon completion of the program because the patient often winds up trying to fit his new sobriety into his old life, old job, old friends, etc. Part of the last Sober House episode followed the cast members as they attempted to go clubbing in LA while sober. And they were just LONGING to get wasted. It was a constant temptation for them, and I’m not sure some of them didn’t have a few drinks, at least. Imagine how much harder it would have been for them without having the safety and the structure of the Sober House as a return destination. That’s a recipe for disaster. I think many addicts would have a better chance at recovery given the intermediate step provided by VH1 for the Sober House cast members.

Jamie’s Soapbox B: The Sober House folks are not playing around. They aren’t editing for censors. Well, I mean, they probably ARE editing for censors, but that only means there is some truly unbelievable stuff going on behind the camera, because the events they are showing are pretty harsh. The second focus of last week’s episode was Steven Adler, who I think was actually kicked out of Guns ‘N Roses for drug abuse. Do you realize how solidly blitzed you would have to be to have AXL ROSE kick you out the door? Axl Rose??? Adler not only showed up at the Sober House high and was found with drugs on his person, he then snuck in some more dope and proceeded to get trashed, resulting in an arrest. Adler was beyond trashed. He was obliterated. He was rude, belligerent, and wholly out of his mind. I think the Drug Free advertising folks need to be in on this. I think the reality of what you look like when you are obliterated is much more likely to push people away from the line or the needle than a kitschy ad campaign. There’s a commercial running against cigarettes right now with a cowboy singing “No you don’t always die from tobacco” through his Stephen Hawking fake-voice box. Has this made me put down the Camel Lights? No. I think much of the addict population feels the same way as the infamous “this is your brain…this is your brain on drugs…..any questions?” ad campaign from several years ago, and all the ones that followed it. The way to keep people from becoming junkies is not to make a sly ad poking as much fun at the situation as it does preach about it. The way to keep people from becoming addicts is to make them realize that this is what being an addict is: (I got this from VH1)

VH1 TV Shows Music Videos Celebrity Photos News & Gossip

Your brain on drugs is not a frying pan and an egg. Your brain on drugs is Steven Adler.

A lil' survey action.

2009-02-02T13:35:00.004-05:00

When I started this blog, I had the thought in my head that I wouldn’t do these surveys, because I am hopelessly addicted to them and I was afraid this would become one long list of blog surveys. However, Simple Yet Classic has tagged me, as one of her new blog followers, so I think it might be okay….this one time! Here we go:

Step 1: respond and rework—answer the questions on your own blog, replace one question that you dislike with a question of your own invention, add one more question of your own.

Step 2: tag—eight other un-tagged people.

1. What were you doing and who were you with at 9:59 PM on Friday night?
-- Sick, sick, sick. Probably laying on my couch reading and watching a Grey’s rerun while mainlining Nyquil.

2. What is the last thing you read/are currently reading?
-- Why is everyone reading Twilight? Apparently I am the only person not to really like it. I hoped it was going to be Harry Potter for Vampires, but instead, I thought I had picked up a Halloween themed Sweet Valley High book. At the moment, I am reading the Outlander series by Diana Gabaldon for the 43,000th time. And I can tell you now that if you look them up on Amazon, you are going to think I am absolutely insane. There is no way to describe the series without making it sound like a cheese-fest, but it is not. Just take my word for it. They have been through my entire office, and we were fighting over who would get the next installment first.

3. Do you nap a lot?
-- Nope. It gives me a headache, and it drives me insane that the Todd will take a nap given the slightest chance.

4. Who was the last person you hugged?
-- Ew. I was sick all weekend. I can’t remember the last person I hugged, but if I could I would make them pay me back for all the Nyquil and Orange Juice I drank over the weekend thanks to the funk they gave me.

5. What is your current obsession/addiction?
-- Digital scrapbooking. It’s a sickness. Right now I am in mourning because all the designers who post freebies on their sites are slowly realizing they can sell them instead.

6. What is your first childhood memory?
-- Going with mom to the OBGYN’s when she was preggers with Baby Brother. Not the gross part, just being at the Dr.’s office.

7. What websites do you always visit when you go online?
-- Facebook, Blogger, and our company website.

8. What was the last item you bought?
-- Nyquil, natch.

9. What is your secret guilty pleasure movie?
-- Peggy Sue Got Married. Don’t laugh. You would be amazed at the folks in that movie who later became very, very famous. Check that link.

10. If you could have a house totally paid for, fully furnished- anywhere in the world, where would it be?
-- I was just reading something about Maine the other day. The coast of Maine. So this week, I would live in a restored lighthouse on the coast of Maine. Much like the family in Pete’s Dragon.

11. Favorite Vacation spot?
-- Walt Disney World. I would go to Walt Disney World as often as the Todd takes naps if it were possible. In fact, forget the Maine coast. Can I live in Cinderella’s castle? Because that would be sweet.

12. Say something to the person who tagged you:
-- Simple Yet Classic: Can’t wait until those letters start appearing in the Etsy shop. Everyone I know is pregnant and they’re all getting one.

13. Name one thing you just can't resist no matter how bad it is for you:
-- Camel lights.

14. What is your favorite item of clothing?
-- I had this great cream dress with a black lace overlay once upon a time when I was smaller. It was very modern flapper and I wish I could get in it again. I think I wore it to one wedding, ate a piece of wedding cake and it no longer fit.

15. What would your American Gladiator name be and why?
-- Do I have to pick a new one? I always wanted to be Lace back in the day. Can I just take her spot? It was all about Lace and Nitro.

16. Name one thing you cannot live without:
-- Books, obviously. I can’t go without reading.

17. Has a celebrity's haircut ever influenced you on your own hairstyle?
-- I did have The Rachel at one time and I loved it. There have also been several occasions when I thought I could have Lisa Rinna’s hair and was quickly reminded why it was not possible. I get serious short hair envy all the time.

18. If you could pick one ingredient in a mojito that best represents you what would it be and why?
-- Isn’t there mint in a mojito? I would be all about the mint, and then I would put it in some sweet tea.

And I am tagging all 6 of my followers, along with Brett over at The Eakin Family, because I know she’ll read this. Sooo…..Mrs. Comerford, The Belle, Layne Street, Savannah Redtop, Tara at Waiting on the World to Change and The Reality of Happily Ever After. That way I’m only 1 short of the 8-tag goal.

No more tears.

2009-01-27T12:25:00.005-05:00

Two conversations from Friday night:

A – Dad calls to ask some random furniture questions, and I am crying my eyes out watching Across the Universe. Y’all. I’m sure you have heard of Across the Universe – you know, the Beatles-but-not-really movie? Trust me, if you have not yet seen it, I strenuously urge you to hit up ye olde Netflix. It’s fabulous. Anyhow, there is this scene involving the Watts Riots and the Vietnam War, and it is held together with this rocking awesome Gospel rendition of “Let It Be.” I have seen this movie 47,000 times and I cry every single time I watch it. Very cathartic, you know. Check it out:

I keep hoping my church choir (yes, we are one of "those" churches) will do this on a Sunday. No offense to Lennon/McCartney et al, but thay have been totally trumped by this interpretation. I really don't think the song should ever be performed any other way. However, Dad is not impressed, not having seen this masterful powerhouse performance, and is pretty much ridiculing my emotional distress. So I say, “Dad, you don’t get it. It’s like the kangaroo, but with people!” Dad is immediately remorseful, though chuckling.

B – The Todd calls not long after that, and I answer, still sniffling because I had to rewind the “Let It Be” scene due to el Padre’s interruption.
Pete: “What are you doing?”
Jamie: (sniff, sniff) “Watching a movie” (sniff, sob, sniff)
Pete: “Are you watching the kangaroo? BY YOURSELF?!?”

What, you ask, is the kangaroo? Only the single greatest (though, I fear, inspired by a really serious trip with the brown acid) specimen of Australian Animation ever to come out of Sydney. Dot and the Kangaroo. Cartoon characters spliced on top of actual video of the Outback? Adventures during which one rides in the pouch of a red kangaroo? A singing platypus? What more could you ask for? By the way, not showing off or anything, but the Latin term for the platypus is Ornithorhynchus paradoxus, which I learned at the foot of the singing mammal himself. This made the letter P so much easier, you have no idea.

For those of you with children, know that I will one day show up at you house with a copy of this movie, but I warn you that it is not without its problems. First off, there is a Bunyip. I would explain the sheer terror of the Bunyip scene, and its accompanying song, but it gives me nightmares to think about it. I am thirty-one years of age, and I will skip this scene. God bless DVD’s. Second, the crying. Oh, the crying. Obviously, kangaroos are meant to live in the wild of the Australian Outback. Pioneer children like Dot are meant to live in cabins. One cannot really change this territorial pattern. Let me just say that whole “wild animals need their freedom” discussion was lost, totally lost, on Toddler Jamie. Witness the sadness:

I am CRYING. Tears running, right now. Is that not the worst thing ever? Oh, it just rips my heart out. I think it’s the change from cartoon kangaroo to real kangaroo that does it. Sort of like an Australian Velveteen Rabbit, if you will. As a child, I would just work myself up into a sobbing frenzy, and then beg to watch the film again, promising I would not cry if they would just rewind it. And nothing, nothing, has ever come close…….except for the Let It Be scene.

I think I will watch that again.

Yay for love!!!!

2009-01-16T11:24:00.002-05:00

One of my best friends, Chuck the Girl, is getting married. I am quite the excited one, not only because I love Chuck and I am happy for her and all that, but also because I do NOT have to buy a bridesmaid dress. I am a terrible bridesmaid. My Phi Mu little sister asked me to be a bridesmaid (This was several years back. She now has two kids, so at least the wedding took.) and here is the list of things for which I am sure she later regretted having me in the wedding.

1. I missed SEVERAL showers.
2. I forgot to bring her lingerie gift to Savannah for her bachelorette weekend. (In fact, it’s probably in a closet somewhere.)
3. I was half a day late for said bachelorette weekend.
4. I also had a little sleepwalking episode at the bachelorette weekend which really does not have anything to do with this topic but it was funny and I will tell you about it one day.
5. The Todd and I blew a tire on the way to her wedding rehearsal and I missed the first half of it.
6. I took off my dyed sandals and wore Chaco’s under my dress at the reception. (Shut up. They were cool then.)

So you can see how I am extra excited to be just a regular guest at Chuck’s nuptial festivities. Well, I’m doing the save-the-dates and the invitations to a shower we are giving her, but that’s just fun for me. OOHHH, and I get to do a reading, and I am allowed to read anything I want, which is just mind-boggling with possibilities! Suggestions?

Now, in Chuck’s honor, I am giving you the top four true “how we started dating” stories I have ever heard. In the interest of anonymity, I will not tell you who they are, but one of them is me and the Todd.

Couple #4 – We will call them Jack and Diane.
Diane lives in the country. Jack’s family moves in close by, I think next door but I can’t remember. Diane brings a homemade blueberry pie to welcome Jack’s family. Jack sees her cross the yard with a pie and decides right then and there that Diane is the woman for him.

Couple #3 – We will call them Jake and Samantha.
Jake and Samantha’s folks are friends, but Jake is way old and way hot. Years go by without Jake and Samantha having any contact at all. One day, Samantha and her friend see random dirty hippy at the local bar. Random dirty hippy is watching Samantha, and comes over to ask how her family is doing. Samantha has no idea who random dirty hippy is, and is a bit freaked out. Random dirty hippy introduces himself to Samantha’s friend. Samantha realizes random dirty hippy is old, hot Jake. Love ensues.

Couple #2 – We will call them Fred and Daphne with a guest appearance by Velma.
Daphne and Velma are college roommates. Velma has many classes with Fred, as they have the same major. Velma repeatedly tells Fred that her roommate is perfect for him, but Fred and Daphne NEVER MEET. After graduation, Fred declares he is going to the mall to find a wife. Velma goes with him. He spots a random girl in a bookstore and announces to Velma that the random girl will be his bride. Velma looks into the bookstore, and the random girl turns out to be her roommate Daphne.

Couple #1 – We will call them Chuck and Matt.
Chuck and Matt go to high school together. Chuck is the snobby cheerleader. Matt is the regular guy. Chuck and Matt do not really run in the same circles. Fast forward to their 10 year reunion. Chuck sees drop-dead hottie. Drop dead hottie is Matt. They end up engaged. Sometimes life is a John Hughes movie.

I love you, Chuck and Matt!

I did it!

2009-01-16T09:06:00.003-05:00

See my new follower counter????? DON'T LET ME BE A PASTE-EATER!!!

2009-01-15T18:09:00.004-05:00

I am so jealous. You have no idea. You know, I am not by any means the only one of my friends to have a blog. I probably have friends whose PETS have blogs, because I can think of several pets with MySpace pages and Facebook fan groups. (**Cough, cough, DEVON AND BUSTER, cough cough.**) But let me tell you what I found out last night. We had book club last night at Ou La La, home of the world’s greatest chocolate covered espresso beans. And several of us have blogs; I think there was a race to see who would post about book club first this morning and I obviously lost.

So……..one of the girls says that she doesn’t put anything personal on her blog. Would you like to know why?

BECAUSE SHE HAS FOLLOWERS!!!! I don’t think too much about who reads this blog and I definitely don’t think I have any readers who have not physically spoken to me at least once. In fact, If you are reading this and I don’t know you, speak up, because I want to know. Anyhow, girlfriend has over 200 people who get updated on her daily life. Damn! I think that’s so rockin’ awesome! My little friend is an Internet sensation. Like a mini-celebrity.

Is it strange that I think this is a big deal? Is that just showing my age? I read blogs – I probably read too many blogs. But most of them are either written by people I actually know or about some sort of crafty thing – digital scrapbooking is my new toy. The one exception is the Blog d’Ellison. I LOVE the BdE. The guy who writes it cracks me up. But I just don’t read too many “random” blogs. Perhaps I should.

Another of the book club girls has an equally great blog, but it doesn’t have a follower option on her page. There could be twice as many people who read her blog but I just wouldn’t know about it. I think I am getting blog insecurity. I should get a follower counter. But what if NOBODY FOLLOWS IT? It would freak me out. I would feel like the paste-eater of the Internet Blogging Scene. I would be the blog that tries too hard. Hmm.

Here is (most of) our little No-Name Book Club – I would tell you which one is Miss Internet ’09 but I think it’s supposed to be a secret.

Right now, we are in the midst of discussing “Redeeming Love” by Francine Rivers, but I am not going to talk about it, because I have another book to tell you about which I think is having an adverse effect on my life.

A friend of mine – Miss Internet ’09, in fact – recently lent me the book “Prep.” It’s about boarding school, and it’s written by a girl (woman, I guess) named Curtis. And I hope she was really cute, because I feel very few female people could pull off Curtis as a given name. I understand the boy’s name as girl’s name thing – I sort of have to, unless I want to change the name of this blog. But I feel Curtis is going a bit far. But that’s beside the point.

“Prep” has as its main character a girl who is in Boarding School on scholarship and all her raging early teenager emotions are all deeply explored in this book. All the awkward feelings she has are written out letter by letter. Her first crush, the more popular people, the less popular people, the uncomfortable stuff you don’t want to remember? It’s all there. And ever since I read it I have these moments where I feel like I am 14 years old. I think the character has given me her inferiority complex. And now it is seeping out off me in strange ways.

Like deranged blog follower jealousy.

2008-12-22T16:51:00.011-05:00

Hoo, boy! I know people say this all the time, but I don’t know where December has gone – or November, while we’re talking about it. I feel like yesterday was the election and tomorrow is Christmas. And that really stinks, because I am really stoked about ye olde Christmas Season this year. Which is not unusual, but this year I have just been Mrs. Claus all over the place. I’m not sure why this is, but I think it has something to do with the X-Entertainment Christmas Jukebox. Check it out. Here. I did not know that C3PO had a Christmas album, but it sure has made me giggle.

I am not a Star Wars geek, by the way. (My cousin Michael used to have this huge fabulous collection off figures, but he’s a collector anyhow.) I know I’ve seen the first (or fourth, depending on your viewpoint) movie, and I’ve seen Han Solo in the carbonite, but once you start in with Billy Dee Williams I lose it. But C3PO singing “Christmas in the Stars” is just, simply, hilarious, and I don’t care how uppity you are.

The Christmas Season also brings with it my Birthday Season. Jesus and I were born less than a week apart. I’m not trying to draw any comparisons, I’m just saying that Baby Jamie came home from the hospital on Christmas Eve, Mary gave birth to Our Lord and Savior that same night, coincidence? You be the judge.

Obviously, I am being facetious.

Turning 31 is sort of a non-event. Turning 30 is a milestone, but I think I just get to drift along now until 40 hits. Geez. Typing that makes it real. Ouch. So, per usual, we had a lovely family dinner , which is always an occasion. Y’all just don’t know.

THIS year, however, the girls surprised me with THIS:

That’s right. It’s My Little Pony. The next best thing to a unicorn. I may not be a Star Wars geek, but my love for the Unicorn approaches the embarrassing and ridiculous. The only reason there are no Unicorns in my house is because Unicorn stuff is all either made of fake crystal or airbrushed on velvet and available only in truck stops. So you see how a My Little Pony cake really fits the occasion. And...it was a cupcake cake.

So, go on about your business, I will be here rocking out to C3PO (hee-hee - it's on youtube!)and eating cupcakes thanks to Nic, Pais, Angie & Sunshine. Thanks, ladies!

Christmas Time

2008-12-18T09:00:00.012-05:00

Oh, gosh. I am a neglectful poster. And I have had a lot of posts running around in my head. Lots of posts with a point. Valid points, even, Perhaps my New Year’s resolution will be to post more regularly. However, I have excuse after excuse after excuse. Finals, Board Meeting, blah blah blah. But the MAIN reason is a super secret handmade Christmas gift which has taken up every free minute I have. Not that I minded, because it was SO MUCH FUN. In fact, I am already planning the next one. But, in the meantime, Merry Christmas from the Todd and me.

Todd Turns 37.

2008-11-12T13:05:00.007-05:00

This is my second favorite picture in all the world:

That pic was taken on the Todd’s 31st birthday, not too long after we started dating. We were at the infamous “Valley Bowl” where you could still smoke INSIDE until sometime during the past year. And I think it was $1.25 a game. Not that it was so long ago the prices were that low – this was only in 2002, the Valley Bowl is just REALLY cheap. That marked the end of my bowling career, by the way.

Also – just in case you are wondering, I am slightly less pale now. VERY slightly less pale, but definitely less pale. I think the camera flash is actually bouncing off my skin and blinding the person taking the picture.

Anyhow. Tomorrow is the Todd’s 37th birthday, and I just wanted to jot down a little post here saying that six years later I still love his crazy, book nerdy, skateboarding, bongo playing, crappy bowling self. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PETE!

Oh – just on case you were wondering about my FIRST favorite picture in the world, here it is. Gotta love Owen Mills.

Chock Full O' Links!

2008-11-05T08:52:00.011-05:00

As a woman who really stays as far from the political game as possible, I feel the need to write about it now that everything is over and there is no point in it anymore. You know, so the American people can hear my thoughts. Somebody call Anderson Cooper.

Actually, did y’all see him last night? He used to be so hot! When did he turn into a plastic grey-haired Ken doll? (Credit: Nicole) He and Val Kilmer must hang out because he, too, has lost the hotness. I think Val’s face is actually melting. Anyhow, back to Anderson Cooper, because he does get points for talking to folks on a HOLOGRAM. Life continues to mimic the Jetsons. Next stop: flying cars.

Okay – first of all, I tried to semi-follow this election, which is unusual for me. I checked snopes.com to make sure I was up to date on who was/was not wearing flag pins. I even watched TWO debates AND the Democratic National Convention with Angie and Brenton, her rabid Hillary-loving boyfriend. (Thatnks, Dr. Brenton. I will never get those hours back.) Never, during any debate, did I hear a clear plan. Lots of rhetoric, no reasoned discourse. Much like when I say I am trying to lose weight. I still eat french fries and don’t exercise, but by golly I am TRYING!

After the debates, I decided it was time to take the lead on this search for truth. So I began a little investigation to see how these candidates were going to help ME. Not the country, but me as an American woman. Because I am selfish like that. Plus, unmarried, middle-class, 30ish women with gainful employment are the black hole of the American political system. I didn’t care about McCain’s POW experience. Whoa, there. It’s valiant and honorable and I thank him for his service to the country, but I wanted to hear about what he plans to do today. I also did not care about Obama’s relationships with his mother – or his father, or whoever his books were about. I DID care that Hillary Clinton is in league with the Devil, so thank goodness we were spared that much.

Where, you ask, did I find my political information? An unbiased (or as unbiased as possible, McCain’s pro-life and anti-gay stances are never popular in the media, nor with me) interview with both candidates actually posing questions pertinent to women and putting the answers in print?

Glamour Magazine. No fooling. That's a link to the article, lest you think I am full of it.

So, long story short (too late!) I voted early for John McCain. Even though I don’t agree with everything he said.

But, now that it’s all over, here are the things I hope President-Elect Obama can make happen for me. Call it my three-pronged plan.

1. This whole “No Child Gets Ahead” thing blows. If you want my full diatribe on the values of leveling, see me privately. Personally, I think your first step should make the following titles required reading before age 6: Curious George Goes to the Hospital, Where The Wild Things Are, The Lorax, The Giving Tree, and The Berenstain Bears and the New Baby. Just a thought.
2. Please mandate that all holiday decorations not be displayed for purchase until after the preceding holiday is over. This sanction should not apply to Cadbury Eggs, which should be available year-round. (**EDIT: That link is to an x-entertainment article that, though I find it hilarious, is pretty nasty-humored. Read at your own risk.)
3. Get me a pony. Maybe even a unicorn. I’ve been waiting on that for years.

It ain't just for field trips!

2008-10-20T18:30:00.005-04:00

This past weekend, Widespread Panic played in Atlanta. The Todd is a h-u-g-e Panic fan. I like them, but really I am more of a Phish girl myself. Well, I am more of a Carly Simon girl than anything else, but if you want to just talk just the jam bands, I lean more towards Phish. But I don’t really count as a jam fan in “true” circles, because I don’t do concerts. I mean I do concerts, but not 2 day festivals, etc. The bootleg will be perfectly fine with me, I'm not going to Hampton in March, you know? the The Todd, however, is a whole other story. So last Friday and Saturday he was at Lakewood Amphitheatre with some buddies. Sooo, on Saturday I had a lovely girls’ day with Nicole and Paisley!

Nicole had never been to Callaway Gardens, except for one trip this summer to the beach, and Paisley and I had a blast taking her through the sites. It was officially “Garden Fest” but we just stuck to the usual stuff. It was MUCH fun, but we all agreed that if we had the staff and bank account that the Gardens obviously does, we could find something colorful to bloom besides mums. Giant, beautiful mums, but still just mums. See, look behind Nic and Pais – MUMS!

What I really should have taken pictures off were the fish. There is a gigantic Koi pond outside Sibley and I swear the title character from the movie "Big Fish" was in there. As soon as you walk out on the deck, all the fish come swimming up to you – sort of like the happy Callaway version of Shark Week. Anyway, this bad boy was so big that he sucked up one of the smaller fish and spit it back out. Perhaps Koi are not cannibalistic.

There was also an Enchanted Topiary Garden at Sibley…….it reminds me of something out of Dr. Seuss.

And here’s Nicole with an enchanted topiary flower –

There was also an organ concert going on over at the Chapel (where you aren’t allowed to play anything but hymns), and we could hear it all though the Sibley Center. This was good for two reasons: A) it made the flowers so much holier, and B) we didn’t feel so back not actually sitting in the chapel for the concert. I wanted to get some photos of the stained glass – because there are 4 panes on one side, each representing a season – but I thought that would be kind of rude to the organist. Instead, here’s Pais on a rock outcropping/waterfall next to the chapel –

And, finally, the last time I went to the Gardens, I was ticked off because I did not see any turtles. Usually there are turtles everywhere. And - TA DA! - just outside the chapel, swimming in the shallows, was this little guy. Can you see him?

All in all, a lovely day. The weather was perfect! Breezy, not too hot - although, Nicole was quite perturbed with the absence of festival food. No caramel apples means a sad Nicole! We had a fantastic time. I think we should make this a regular occasion. Next up.....Fantasy In Lights!

LeVar Burton would be so proud.

2008-10-13T18:52:00.004-04:00

Ahhhhhhhh. That sound you hear is happy, contented little me after a most relaxing weekend. I went to lunch last Thursday with my friend Amanda, who loves to read, as do I. When I got out of the car at the restaurant (Which was Fatdaddy’s, for you locals. Best chicken fingers in town, no lie.) and Amanda had a BAG of books for me. Hello, Christmas in October! So – other than vacuuming and washing dishes – pretty much all I did, A-L-L weekend long was read. Pete was home, and he’s been trying to get through War & Peace for the past several weeks, with breaks for his nutso sci-fi in between sections. I don’t mean science fiction as in – wait, I don’t read science fiction so I have nothing to offer you. But several of these books he has bought for $1 at gas stations on road trips – you get the idea? There is also some Carl Hiaasen in there, which is not science fiction, but I tried to read it and thought my head would explode. So there you go. Russian classics, meet crappy pulp fiction.

Anyhow, I had just finished a ginormous (gigantic + enormous) biography of Katharine Hepburn (Kate: The Woman Who Was Hepburn, by William J. Mann)so I was in the perfect mood to attack a bag o’ chick lit. By the way, this new biography has totally ruined my whole idea of Katharine Hepburn. Apparently the whole legend about KH and Spencer Tracy was much less a 26 year love affair and much more alcoholic codependency AND not even a romantic relationship. The entire book really portrayed Hepburn as sort of a frigid lesbian obsessed with fame. Screw you, William J. Mann! I’m going back to a crappy biographer who doesn’t check facts! So THERE! I’m getting off topic now….

I was really excited about these books! Nothing is better on a cloudy fall day than opening all the windows and curling up with your significant other and a couple of books. There is nothing more perfect than that. Well, unless your significant other walked in the door with a Cotton Candy Blizzard with extra Cotton Candy…..which mine did. Like I said, perfection. No kids, no meetings, no weddings, no parties, no classes, no studying, no volunteering, just books.

It took me all weekend, but here are my recommendations:

1. Names My Sisters Call Me – Hysterical. If you have ever been engaged (which I have not, but everyone else has) or if your family is the slightest bit –um- "dramatic" (I am not calling y’all dramatic, I am just saying that some of our family togetherness could be filmed and spliced into the reality show of your choice.) then you need to read this book. Oh, it cracked me up, and I could look at every character and say “Oh, I know her! That’s so-and-so!” In fact, I did call one of my best friends and took the book to her no less than 5 minutes after I finished it.

2. The Cinderella Pact – Lately there is a huge amount of big girl books, written for those of us who spend entire days on the couch with their boyfriends, a book, and a Cotton Candy blizzard. Lane Bryant should really have a book section, and then my life would be complete. So this is a Big Girl Book, and I think it might have been one of my favorites. Overall, I will say that usually Jennifer Wiener is my big girl author, and she’s always good, go try her – even if you’re tiny – Cameron Diaz made a move out off one of her books! But this chick (Sarah Strohmeyer) was just about as good. Besides, they mention Lane Bryant in the book, just as I did above. Awesome.

I also finished another one, and I forgot the name of it, but it should have been called “Crap With a British Accent.” (Sorry, Amanda.) I don’t know why people think that JUST because the Bridget Jones books were made into hit movies means that 75% of chick lit should be set in London. This one was so bad that I cannot even remember the TITLE – something about cocktails, which should have given the crap factor away. Because, I don’t know about you, but I don’t usually say “Let’s go meet for cocktails!” I just use the more generic “Hey, let’s go get a drink.” Actually, these days I don’t even say that anymore because “Are you going to Angie’s for Grey’s?” is so much easier.

So, go buy those books - or check them out at your local library. And then try War & Peace, because the good Lord knows Pete will not be discussing anything about it with me.

Aw. Kitty.

2008-09-24T18:16:00.003-04:00

It’s vacation time in my world. Not that I’m going anywhere special…it’s more of a noncation. So really, I’ve been just lazing around. I had these fantastic plans to hang some curtains and do the 87,000 projects I have around the house, but so far it has been just so much more pleasing to lay in my sister Lulu’s backyard and chat. So that’s what I’ve done for the past few days, mostly. Well, that and fight with AM, who has made a roaring recovery over at Poplar Creek and is now back at the top of her Jamie-baiting game. Monday we had an argument over why I should or should not take her old girdles home. Rest assured that said girdles are still in her possession, although whether I need them or not is still up for some debate.

I think God must have known how perturbed I was by Girdlegate ’08, because there was one heck of a rocking surprise for me Monday night. I came home pretty irritated from Poplar Creek, although AM tried to apologize by inviting me to dinner, but I refused the invitation by telling her it would be a cold, cold day before she saw me eat even the smallest bite of food in her presence. So I got back to my duplex, snapped the dogs’ leashes on, and went outside. As we were playing in the yard, I kept hearing this yowling noise. It was L-O-U-D. Once, when Pete and I were living in Greenwood Park, there was a rather “romantic” feline couple who went on a date outside our apartment. That’s about what this sounded like. So I forgot about it and took the dogs back inside.

An hour or so later, I was outside again with Fisher and Trey, and was getting ready to leave for Angie’s (Yay! More Angie!) and I could still hear all the yowling. The house next door to me, which belongs to my friend April, is empty and up for sale, and there’s a crawlspace under it. So then I decided that there must have been a mama cat having kittens under April’s house. I thought I had better go check – I mean, because I would totally have been prepared for cat gynecological surgery and all – so I put the boys back in and shut the door. When I turned around, there was this little grey head popping out of April’s yard. So I said, “What are you doing, cat?” and then…..

That cat ran across April’s yard, ran across my side yard, and jumped into my arms like a dog. And I thought, “Oh, maaaannnnn.”

So I called Mom, the Queen of Pet Rescue, and she came to check it out. It’s a little grey kitten –I think you call this color “Russian Blue” or some crazy name. My best friend (and former roomie) Chuck used to have a cat this color, and it used to beat up on Fisher all the time. Needless to say, Fisher has just sniffed at the kitten and left it alone.

I left the kitten with some water and the towel, left for Angie’s, and decided I would wait until the morning and see if it was still there. And the next morning, it was propped on its little towel waiting for me, and promptly bounded over the grass to twine itself around my feet. Apparently, I have an outside cat now. El Pedro hasn’t seemed mad about it, and the dogs aren’t really interested in it, so I’m waiting to see if it will stick around. It HAS already killed it's first mouse...or mole, or some furry critter...and I think that was a present thanking me for adopting it.

Naming the cat is becoming difficult. Baby Brother, unsurprisingly, suggested Azrael, after Gargamel's cat from The Smurfs. Since it’s getting close to Halloween, though, I was leaning more towards the cat from Miss Switch. For those of you who are not freaks like us, Miss Switch was an ABC After-School Special from when we were little, about Rupert and Amelia and their substitute teacher, who also happened to be a witch. Miss Switch had a cat and I liked the idea of naming my kitten after hers, but the name is Bathsheba. So for now we’re going with that, but what if it’s a boy cat? So I’m taking suggestions for boy cartoon cats. Or names for gender-free cartoon cats!

Clint Eastwood has nothing on me.

2008-09-19T19:11:00.003-04:00

The Good

In an act of complete awesomeness, my cousin Michael surprised me by sending me an iPod in the mail, which pretty much rocked my face off. See, Mike is a B-I-G Grateful Dead fan. He has the greatest tape collection I have ever seen. Not that I have seen that many huge tape collections but I have a feeling his collection would still be pretty impressive even to someone who knew better. Let me give you an example: in 1964, the Dead were playing as “The Warlocks” and they had to change the name because there was already a band called “The Warlocks.” Who has a tape of the Warlocks? My cousin Michael.

I was once in Statesville, North Carolina visiting with my Mom’s folks and I begged and pleaded for Mike to burn me some copies of his tapes. And we have revisited the idea, but he’s never gotten around to it, as since then he and his wife have had a lovely daughter (Hi, Callie!) and in general had a life, rather than 8 billion free hours to make me some CD’s.

Fast forward to this Monday, when a mysterious manila envelope landed in my mailbox containing a brand new iPod with 360 Dead songs preloaded onto it. Pete is so jealous he could barely see straight, and our conversation that afternoon consisted to me ending every sentence with, “But I have an iPod.”

I realize I am the last person on the planet not to already have an iPod, but - what can I say, I am a freak. A freak who still drives a car with a tape deck. So my new iPod brings me into the 21st century. Yay!

The Bad(Ass)

Aunt Marian is progressing in leaps and bounds. When this last stroke landed her in the hospital, nobody expected her to make it. The family all came in for Seagraves Deathwatch 2008, gathered around the bedside and…..made fun of each other. Because that’s what we do when we get together, no matter how somber the occasion. But the force of our combined love, or perhaps a desire to shut us up, inspired Aunt Marian to have a feeding tube inserted. Believe it or not, she’s almost ready to make her move to “assisted living.” I’m seriously excited about it because the place she is at the moment reminds me of the Pound. There’s an old lady who sits by the elevator and asks my Dad if he’ll take her with him when he leaves. So we’re all happy that she’ll be over at the other place, which is called Poplar Creek. One of my LC Phi Mu sisters is in charge, and I’ve heard nothing but great things about Karen and her staff. An added bonus is that Pete’s grandmother, Helen, will be there, so we can visit both ladies at once. Helen has been slowly sliding into dementia for a while now, so I don’t know that she and AM (who is pretty sharp most of the time) will be hanging out a lot. At least there will be someone she knows there, though.

The Ugly

Who bounced a check? Jamiedidit. Somehow, I have developed a black hole in the part of my brain that covers personal finances. This is not some new thing that has popped up on the horizon. Once, during my freshman year of college, I bounced 14 checks in a row. Overdraft fees then were $15. They are standing at $32 right now. Just in case you wanted to know that. This is why I generally avoid automated payments.

Fun with Printmaster.

2008-09-09T06:00:00.002-04:00

So I know I'm a month behind on posting, but AM - she of the Old Maid insults - is still in the nursing home. And school started back. And I'm just plain lazy and out of motivation. But in the meantime until I get caught up with all the stuff I am supposed to do, and can concentrate on a post with a point, here are a few things I have been making in my spare time. That sound you hear is me tooting my own crafty little horn.

That was for my little buddy Hoop's 5th birthday party. I work with his Grandmother, and grew up with his Mom, and each year they are nice enough to let me get as cheesy as I want on his birthday invitations.

And those are some business cards for my good friend Tessa, cellist extrordinaire. I'm still fooling with the fonts.

And finally, one for Miss Angie Cotton, who we have not seen very often lately, as she is lost in New Boyfriend Land. I reside in Old Boyfriend Land, which has many charms of it's own, even if it's missing some of the newfangled amenities of NBL, where everyone is still goo-goo eyed and on their best behavior. When your friends are in New Boyfriend Land, there's always a period of adjustment until they quit walking around in a hormonal fog. And you celebrate the new relationship, and you are delighted that your buddy has found love. But in your secret, bitchy little heart, you just hope they settle down and come back to the outside world before the new season of Grey's Anatomy. We love you Angie! Come back soon!

Called Out.

2008-08-08T18:58:00.002-04:00

So, my 93-year-old Aunt Marian is in the hospital after the latest in a series of strokes. She can't swallow. She can't walk. She has trouble talking clearly. BUT….she can still ride my ass. While she was getting some tests run this morning, Lulu's new boyfriend (Brandon) met some of my extended family. Later, after Brandon had left and Aunt Marian had returned to her hospital room, this is the conversation that occurred.

Lulu: "See, Aunt Marian, everyone else met Brandon and they don't think he's too old!"

Aunt Marian: "He looks too old. How old is he?"

Lulu: "He's thirty."

AM: "How old are you?"

Lulu: "Twenty-Six."

AM: "It's time for you to get married"

::All eyes in the room swing towards me, the thirty-year-old single sister.::

Lulu: "Jamie's not married and she's older than me!"

AM: "Well, Jamie's an old maid."

I will let you know when my new deck of cards is coming out.

It's okay, guys. I have faith in you.

2008-07-21T20:08:00.002-04:00

Netflix is one of my favorite inventions, especially after the Video Warehouse experience noted below. There are over 200 titles in my queue (I love that word. Queue.) and I reorganize them obsessively. Every now and then, though, one slips through the cracks and I wind up standing in front of my mailbox wondering what the heck that movie is and why I wanted to see it.

So there I stood this past Friday, looking quizzically at the envelope containing The Last Kiss. For one thing, I am not a big fan of Zach Braff. I have never remotely liked Scrubs and I don’t find him so much zany as I do annoying. But I seem to remember reading some review that said this was a bright and shining moment for new filmmakers, so realistic, so true-to-life, so I suppose that was how it landed in my mailbox and wasted two hours of my life.

Let me just give you a synopsis of this little gem of a film so that you can keep those two hours for better use. The Last Kiss tells the story of four lifelong friends (including Casey Affleck, always a bonus) facing 30 in Wisconsin. Guy #1 has a meltdown after his girlfriend leaves him and makes the decision that a road trip to Mexico will solve his depression – which is not such a big deal. Guy #2 hooks up with this um…”totally uninhibited”…chick at a wedding and discovers she is his dream girl, only to freak out at the thought of meeting her parents and join the crazy Mexican field trip. Guy #3 decides that rather than work on his marriage he will leave his wife and child and join the Mexican field trip as well – although (being Casey Affleck) he does bail on the road trip at the last minute and come back to be a father, if not a husband.

Meanwhile, Zach Braff becomes the world’s biggest idiot. He and his girlfriend (Who is Jacinda Barrett, who I have loved ever since she was on The Real World.) are expecting a baby. So as the level of responsibility grows, his mental age lowers. Find out you’re going to be a Daddy? Flirt with a cute college kid. Think about buying a house? Sneak away to meet said college student and make a date for that weekend. The drama comes to a boiling point when he gets busted by sweet Jacinda – who I might add is the perfect woman, and I’m not saying that as my opinion, I am repeating the opinion of one of the Doofus Brothers in the film. So Jacinda busts him, he gives the whole, “It didn’t mean anything…now I know how much I love you” line, she tells him to leave AND HE GOES BACK TO SLEEP WITH THE COLLEGE CHICK!!! And of course, Jacinda at last takes him back, because he slept on her porch for three days.

So this is true-to-life drama? I mean, these things happen. Cheating, divorce, idiocy. I get that. We’ve all been through it. But what this whole movie says is that men my age are stupid. I’m not saying I think men my age are stupid. I am a huge fan of men my age – maybe not Zach Braff, but most of them. But still - is this how Hollywood is defining the men of my generation?

Damn. If I was you guys I’d be pissed off.

Extend THIS, Out-Sourced Telemarketers.

2008-07-18T16:30:00.008-04:00

So I'm having a crap day. The definitive "one of those days" days. Every question is asinine. Every phone call annoying. I answered the phone 7 times today only to find out - from a recording - that this is my 2nd chance to extend the warranty on my car. Keep in mind that I drive a 1995 Mazda. If the Clicks26 is under ANY sort of warranty, I assure you I am not aware of it. Not to mention the fact that I was at the office, so how did they know it was my car they were offering the warranty for? Finally, on the 7th go-round, I smashed down the number 1 button in a rage and a very nice Eastern Asian woman with a heavy accent and the probably ficticious name of Jessica asked me for how long I would like to extend a warranty that obviously does not exist.

At this point my head turned into a dragon and I insisted loudly and rudely that my office be taken off every mailing list in Eastern Asia, at which point Jessica hung up on me. You aren't going to sell me a warranty acting that way, little Missy.

Too Sexy for My Sunburn

2008-07-17T18:58:00.002-04:00

Embarrassing moment #1 Not in my entire life, just since this blog started, and that’s only if you don’t count the fact that I admitted my new affection for He-Man.org. Over the past weekend, my friends Paisley and Nicole accompanied me to the amazing and wonderful Callaway Gardens. It was Nicole’s inaugural visit, so I originally planned to ride the paddleboats and see the circus and visit the chapel, the Sibley Center, the Butterfly Center…you see where this is headed. But we decided to stay on Robin’s Lake Beach. Which, by the way, was missing both the ferry and the little train, a matter I fully intend to investigate. What’s a trip to the Gardens without riding around the woods on a train? I can’t count box turtles without it!

This whole tangent made no sense to anyone who didn’t grow up in this area, and I am sorry for the confusion. And for your loss, by the way. Because if a child can’t grow up counting box turtles from a kid-sized train hurtling through the Georgia pine forest, what good is being a kid?

Y’all just don’t know - the beach was wonderful. I am the whitest woman in at least the state of Georgia if you don’t count actual albinos, so I loaded up on the sunscreen. We had a fabulous day. Lay out for a while, go swim out past where the kids were to lower the odds that we were swimming in baby pee (Thank you, Paisley for bringing that subject up.), then go let the sun dry you off. It was perfect, and the snack bar was serving up some pretty delicious chicken fingers! Chicken fingers are always an important part of the equation. And the sweet tea was stellar.

Somehow in all of this lazy day, I neglected to reapply the ol’ SPF to my upper back. Later that night, I was putting out close to enough heat to toast a Pop-Tart. I tried the aloe thing, the lotion thing, and I was all set to try the vinegar thing but that’s just no fun for anyone that has to be around you.

This morning the peeling started in earnest. I’m not trying to be offensive or anything, but it’s pretty gross. You know those snake skins your science teacher would keep on a shelf in her classroom? I feel like that snake. So this morning I was itching terribly, but my office looks like a goldfish bowl. It’s just not the best place to contort the body so that you’re able to scratch that little spot just under your shoulderblade yet above your bra strap. That little spot that you can almost get your hand on, but just not quite. And it was driving me nuts. Nothing would work. Not a pen, not my fingertips, not the corner of a file folder. And then it struck me – my boss likes to use this fun little machine (This might not be a big deal to you but I had never seen one until I started working here.) that makes little books with those round binders. Sweet, bendy, binders. Let me tell you, if you have an itch, those things will scratch it. So my poor, peeling, sunburned self is pushed into a corner where nobody can see me with a bendy book binder down the back of my shirt, scratching like fire…..when I hear a “Hello?”

I love the Todd and all, but there was the cutest little real estate agent standing there, looking at me like I was the world’s biggest freak. I mean, he totally busted me, and he was so polite, which meant that of course he had seen the whole thing and was just too nice to mention it. So I was totally humiliated, and too freaked out to use my wonder-binder for the rest of the day.

Case in point: if Callaway Gardens still had a train, I would have been in the SHADE, not gotten a sunburn, and then not been caught with a book binder hooked under the back of my bra.

The nose knows.

2008-07-15T17:59:00.003-04:00

Random fact about my family: we are nostalgia freaks. My Christmas present a few years ago was the entire collection of Betsy-Tacy books in hardback. Throughout my childhood (and most of my adulthood) ol’ Betsy Ray was checked out from either Coleman or Memorial Library and in residence on my nightstand. In fact, one summer when I was in college I went through Italy and Switzerland, and packed in my little carry-on was "Betsy and the Great World". The same library edition I read as a kid. It just would not be permissible to go on my own trip into the Great World and not take Betsy along.

So I was totally unsurprised when Baby Brother called yesterday with a delimma. There was some construction going on in his office and when he returned from his lunch hour the smell of the hallway knocked him flat. Yet there was something familiar about the slightly mildewy stench. Baby Brother was just being driven crazy trying to figure out where he knew that smell from, and all he could get to was it was something from when he was a kid.

I answer the phone to this question: “Did I have a He-Man figure that smelled like a skunk?” I’m embarrassed to say that this also sort of struck me as familiar. So we ponder this for a while and finally decide he was remembering the smell of the figures after you played with them in the bathtub and the heads got a bit slimy on the inside. Don’t act like it’s gross, I know your toys did the same thing.

Somehow, I could not stop picking at the idea in my head. We had missed something. So I googled He-Man and discovered the treasure trove of information at He-Man.org. I am always amazed and oddly excited at the lengths people will go to for stuff like this. But I needed exactly this information, so way to go, He-Man fans.

Ladies and Gentlemen, meet STINKOR – Lord of Odor, whose Wikipedia entry describes as “humanoid skunk whose superpower is the ability to release a toxic odor from his body that renders foes immobile.” The toy's description mentions that the actual figurine is infused with skunk scent.

I don’t know what the heck is going on over at Baby Brother’s office, but I think we ought to look into harnessing his nasal powers for the forces of Good.

Photo from http://he-man.org/

Ah, love.

2008-07-11T18:45:00.002-04:00

Why the Todd and I stay together: he thinks this comic is as funny as I do. People like to talk about trust and honesty as the center of relationships. What works for us? Lunacy.

Note: This comic came from http://www.nataliedee.com/. You should check her out.

Old MySpace Blog 1: Alan Rickman Rocks My World.

2008-07-10T09:52:00.005-04:00

I love Alan Rickman. It’s his voice. He first came into my life as the bad guy in that crappy Robin Hood movie with Kevin Costner. (Cue Bryan Adams singing “Everything I Do, I Do It for You.” Come on, I know they played it at your middle school Boss Hoss Jam…I was there. I saw you slow dancing in your Hypercolor Shorts.) Anyhow, for a perhaps better reference, Mr. Rickman is also Professor Snape of Harry Potter fame and the Metatron in Dogma (“Hit me with that….fish?”) and his sneering baritone just makes my whole day wonderfully British.

In addition to his sarcastic villains and Jane Austen heroes (see “Sense and Sensibility”), Mr. Rickman starred in Devon and Benjy’s favorite holiday flick, “Love, Actually” with every Brit you’ve ever seen in any movie. Being in the holiday spirit, I ran down to my local Video Warehouse in search of this lovely little film. Little did I know the journey I had begun….

Chapter One
I enter Video Warehouse and search the left hand side of the store in vain. Now, this part is my fault – I should have noted that that ENTIRE side of racks holds “New Releases.” I don’t exactly understand why the “New, Unedited, Director’s Cut” of “Van Wilder” counts as a new release when it’s sitting right next to the “Unrated, Uncut, Special Edition,” but I’m not in charge.

I then search, again in vain, for the nonexistent “Romance Section” and decide to consult Fat Albert, my favorite clerk. (His name is not really Fat Albert, but he looks just like him, except he’s a bit on the effeminate side. Being both a big girl AND a fag hag, I am allowed to lovingly bestow this nickname, so don’t give me any crap about calling him fat. In fact, I am thinking of setting him up with the equally sweet and portly Jason from the Wal-Mart Customer Service Department, but I digress…) Bingo! We have a winner! I happily carry my prize up to the counter and hand it over to Fat Albert. Even though ol’ Al checks me out EVERY time I get a movie, he continues to ask me for my account number. I give him the name, and Albert says, “Oh, girl! I don’t know why I can’t remember that. Y’all always got that dog in the car with you.” Then he looks me straight in the face, OBVIOUSLY knowing I use this account all the time, and tells me I am not listed on Pete’s account, and therefore cannot relieve my Alan Rickman longing. I try to use my fag hag skills, but no dice. Albert tells me to come back with Pedro and get on the card.

Sidenote: I realize I could use MY account, but it still carries a rather large late charge from when Austin Powers 2 first came out. Long story.

Chapter Two
Pete returns from South Carolina for Turkey Day. Deciding we are too old for the annual pre-Thanksgiving pub crawl, we load up (with the dog, per usual) and ride back down to Video Warehouse. I grab the “Love, Actually” DVD as my choice and we head to the counter. Fat Albert is once again our clerk. He asks if “Y’all got that dog in the truck again?” and tallies up our bill. We ask that I be added to the account, and Albert explains that, as Pete and I are not married, this is not possible. I remind Albert that he TOLD me to get on the account, but he holds his (considerably large) ground. Still though, we go home with Alan Rickman.

At the house, I make some popcorn and pop in my movie…..which doesn’t play. How much trouble can I possibly go through? Why won’t it play? Because Fat Albert failed to notice that the super-video-store clear coating has been ripped off, leaving stick gunk all over the top of the disc. Rather than Alan Rickman, we watch Pete’s choice, called “Gus Van Sant’s Last Days.” The title alone sends me into a tizzy. “Is this about Lynyrd Skynyrd? Do we ALWAYS have to get a band movie?” And Pete’s all, “Way to go, Todd. A – That’s Ronnie Van ZANT. B – Gus Van Sant directed “Good Will Hunting” and this is his take on the last days of Kurt Cobain. C – Yes, it DOES always have to be a band movie.” (Sadly, we really talk like that. I think it’s all the Grey’s we watch.) So, “Gus Van Sant’s Last Day’s” turns out to be WHOLLY unwatchable, even for Pete. It’s mainly the fake Kurt Cobain dressing in outlandish outfits (a black slip with a deerstalker’s cap) and carrying around a rifle. The Mormans come to the house and talk to random members of his drug-loving entourage. Hilarity does NOT ensue. I go to bed pissed, hearing Professor Snape in my head.

Chapter Three
Yesterday, in the midst of a hellacious head-cold, I go to the Wally to get some meds. While I am there, I think, “Hey, they have a movie section – SCORE!” However, the Wally movie section is much like the Video Warehouse new releases. They had both the “Uncut, Unrated” and “Director’s Cut – 3 hours of Commentary!” editions – this time of “Knocked Up”. Aw, Seth Rogan. So cute in his tubby little way. Mid-aisle, in the bargain sections, still NO LOVE ACTUALLY! Really. The closest thing they had at the Wally was “Love, American Style,” which was some super 70’s TV thing, NOT starring Alan Rickman. Oh – and you can also find a two-for-one special on “I’m Gonna Get You, Sucka” and some other Wayans Brother crap…..also not starring Alan Rickman. So I leave the Wally dejected, sad, and sick as a dog. Although I did have a Potter-thon, but it wasn’t the same.

My tears fall down like rain.

2008-07-09T15:53:00.005-04:00

As if the cost of a gallon of gas exceeding the cost of a pack of Camel Lights is not enough, we finally have genuine proof that the world is, in fact, coming to an end. I heard the news yesterday on the way to Mountville for our weekly dinner with the Todd's folks. We were in the the Clicks, with its wide range of radio stations offering country, country, country and 107.3. You really can't ask much of a 1995 Mazda 626, you know? 107.3 was playing the general rotation of Music I Don’t Give a Rip About, so I was listening to the Country Countdown and laughing because somewhere along the line Mr. Festival has learned the words to Taylor Swift’s “Our Song.”

So the host of the Country Countdown announces some new, hot record by a young man named Darius Rucker. The name sort of (watch out) struck a chord (I warned you.) with me but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. And the song, titled “Don’t Think I Don’t Think About It” sucked. I have this theory that you really shouldn’t try for one of those long drawn out song titles unless you have a name that sounds like you could be a County Sheriff in a really bad Lifetime movie – no offense to any Deputies who may be reading this. I totally support you and I plan on getting one of those window stickers to prove it. Anyhow, I just don’t think Darius is up there with Porter, Conway or Merle in the list of appropriate names for country songwriters.

Back to the story…I’m about to change the song, my hand is on the dial, and Pete starts cracking up. “Oh, man! Do you know who that is?” I’m sure y’all already know who it was, because you have better name recognition than I do and all that, but…

…IT WAS HOOTIE!

Okay, it wasn’t Hootie. Because though Hootie IS a person, he is not in the band Hootie and the Blowfish. He was a friend of the band from the college choir at the University of South Carolina, check Wikipedia. Darius Rucker does not enjoy being called Hootie and he will tell you right quick-like. But still, for all intents and purposes, it was freaking Hootie.

I don’t think y’all understand how big this is: Hootie has gone country (look at them boots). He’s gone country, but not back to his roots! (Aw, snap.) I could be totally wrong, but I just don’t see Hootie, I mean Mr. Rucker, being raised musically on Waylon, Willie and the boys. This is a travesty.

You know, I could be totally off on this. Darius Rucker could have grown up in some po-dunk town wishing he was one of the Oak Ridge Boys. But he’s ruining my youth. Hootie was a big part of my Senior Spring Break, of countless Bonfire Parties, Cabin Trips and excursions through rock quarries. I don’t think I ever drank anything without either Hootie or Dave (only up to the Crash album, after that I left him forever) playing in the background until I got to college. Let Her Cry? Let ME cry, Hootie. You and your hot, long-haired drummer, Jim “Soni” Sonefeld.

So you go on and have your hot country comeback, Mr. Darius Rucker. Try to forget the Hootie in your past. BUT…Don’t Think I Won’t Think About It.

Whodidit? Jamiedidit.

2008-07-08T21:23:00.002-04:00

So here we are, the first entry in what just may be words of wisdom that change the world as we know it, but will more than likely be ramblings from my snarky little mind that will only be read by my nearest and dearest. It might be important to warn you now of my love for the run-on sentence, as it is something you need to get used to. What do you need to know about me, I wonder. I'm a book whore. I live in my lil' Georgia hometown with the boyfriend (whose name is Pete, not Todd, yet will often be referred to as such) and the mutts. I'm in school and working, and trying to gracefully slide into my thirties. This is my journey.