Aw. Kitty.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.