Namaste what?!

2008-02-29T16:49:00.002-06:00

Dear Readers -

To those of you kind enough to tune in from time to time to read this little blog, I would like to take this opportunity to say thank you. I have enjoyed it immensely and have been uplifted by your kind and thought provoking comments over the past year. I never knew these tele-friendships would come to be such a meaningful part of my life. The time has come, however, for me to give blogging a much needed rest in order to explore other paths of my life.

I would like to propose a toast my favorite bloggers...

Semi-Charmed

One Kentucky Writer

Speculatin on a Hypotenuse

Laura K at the Bay

iList Paducah iBlog

Evil HR Lady

and especially Bizzyville who helped me to believe that I had something worth saying.

Hopefully, I'll be back at this someday, in the meantime I have you all on Speedblog!

Namaste

The Star Attraction

2008-02-27T17:14:00.004-06:00

I have to take a moment to say that I personally witnessed this, and it happened exactly that way. The concerned appeared very truly such, and it was a touching exchange. Even while observing such an act of kindness, however, I couldn't stop myself from thinking "That question must get really old." It's an oddly amusing question, because she is about as empowered as I've ever seen her. Bizzy is truly an inspiration, a person who brings joy and laughter along wherever she goes.

On that note, I wanted to shout out to one of my new favorite blogs, Semi-Charmed. This girl has been way too long without blogging. Check it out for yourself here. She tells it like it is, real life, no fluff...something we could all us a lot more of. Plus, she can flat turn a phrase.

Personally, I've been doing a lot of thinking...thinking about The Planets. In case you haven't heard, everything we learned in elementary school is now totally defunct...out the window. Mr. Wilson was wrong. We have 11 planets, not nine...8 "normal" and three dwarf planets. OK, I'm thinking. Wait a minute. First of all, haven't we all just recently been re-trained? Shouldn't it be "little planets?" Secondly, what about all the other millions of big rocks out there in the Kiper belt? We haven't even seen the half of them. How do we know there aren't more dwarfs out there...maybe even midgets?! Are we going to take in every stray dwarf and call them a planet now?

For the record, it's now: Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Ceres, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Eris, Pluto.

And if you are having trouble remembering all of the newly discovered planets out there, this little fourth grader from Montana came up with a lame way of pulling it all together for you...something about an elephant on a magic carpet or some such ridiculous nonsense.

Let's just say it right here and now...Pluto, Eris and Ceres don't deserve to be memorized by millions of fourth graders. They don't deserve to even be questions in the St. Mary Trivia Tournament. They're Midget Planets, for crying out loud. They're tiny. There's something inherently wrong with them!

OK, ok, I know I'm going to catch some heat for this and some of you rock-huggers will say something [in your whiny, bleeding voices] like...

"Just because they're not normal sized doesn't mean they don't matter."

Or "Just because they're not like Earth doesn't mean they don't participate in our Solar System."

Blah, blah, blah.

Well...I'm saying just that. They don't. They're sub-standard. They're not right. They're just plain weird, and nobody wants them around. End of story.

Next thing you know they'll be calling our boy Mercury a dwarf, and we can't be having that with the Gary Coleman of our Solar System...our literal star attraction.

Namaste

2008-02-25T19:05:00.002-06:00

Just got back from yoga class...my first class since December. Getting back into any form of exercise is a lot like deciding to watch Grey's Anatomy in the middle of season four. All of your friends know all the subplots, who's slept together, and random additional social configurations, but you're the loser who doesn't even know the name of Patrick Dempsey's character. I don't know if you understand this logic. If you do, we should probably get together for a drink sometime.

Last week a very gracious and premium seated season ticket holder invited my daughter and me to see "Annie" at the Carson Center. I am famous for saying that I dislike all musicals (caveat: "The Wizard of Oz"), but I guess I am being forced to throw yet another blanket statement out the proverbial window. I really, really liked "Annie." And I know I'm going out on a limb here with the possiblility of causing some musical aficianados unspeakable anguish...I liked it better than The Producers.

I ran across a couple of friends in the restroom (where else?) that I hadn't seen in years. They had their daughters (aged 5 and 6, respectively) with them to see the play. I felt such pride and a strange sense of relief after meeting their little girls to point at my own daughter seated in the foyer, absently playing with her cell phone..."That's my little girl." (now basically a full-grown woman).

I know that I have an entire blog pending about being a very young mother...maybe even more than that. The entire time my kids were growing up, going to school, and I was one of the youngest room mothers, I never thought there would ever be relief associated with it. I would love to say it's a cake walk by the time they're 17, but just tonight I had to speak with a very reputable and upstanding attorney of Paducah about teenagers and speeding tickets. Parenthood is like taking a high school achievement test. First you're sailing along being embarrassingly self-congratulatory when suddenly the questions turn into a mensa application as you turn the last page.

Namaste

2008-02-21T17:04:00.002-06:00

Today hope returned to my life. After spending some amount of time de-icing my car in the parking lot after work, driving to the library (closed!) to return some items before their actual due date, I returned home to find that my basil seeds have actually germinated! I was astonished. Last spring was a dismal year for my flowers. I simply abandoned them in favor of self-pity and air conditioning. This year I am attempting to rekindle my gardening passion armed with a few peat pots and an assortment of envelopes from the Burpee company. I have an assortment of annual herbs (dill, parsley, basil) as well as sage and even a few annual flowers. I hope my one and only fluorescent light will serve as surrogate sunlight long enough to get them started. By the time they are transplantable, we should be through with all of this icy mush.

There is no therapy like gardening. Setting a seed, watching it sprout and grow, caring for it like your own child. Working the soil in the springtime feels like talking to God. It's deep and hypnotic, revealing truth and meaning. It promotes a feeling of connection with life itself. Peace, I guess.

I wish I had the land to have a real garden...one like my grandfather's. Potatoes, corn, green beans, squash, watermelon and the most luscious tomatoes ever grown on this earth. He had a true talent for gardening, for growing anything, yet he made it seem effortless. There were apple orchards, peach trees, cherry trees (my favorite), gooseberry and blackberry bushes, pear and pecan trees. If only my own grandchildren could visit such a wonderland. I never knew how much love and care lived in the rich dirt of my grandfather's garden until now...when the sight of one tiny sprout makes this soggy, cold, wet February day a great one.

Namaste

2008-02-19T17:35:00.002-06:00

I am here but still lacking any substance of which to write. I went to work, then to an off-site event two hours away and am home again. I thought a lot about the event that I attended, and I actually started to write about it but thought better. Work should remain at work.

I haven't been to yoga since December. I get this way...hermitic (is that a word? It should be) at times. I come home from work and immediately put on my sweatshirt and yoga pants. This way, I convince myself there's no chance in leaving since I'd have to put on real clothes to meet society. And let's face it, that's just too much trouble.

Some days, if my daughter is actually at home, I start supper. It's no secret that I like to cook, but cooking for oneself is anticlimactic to say the very least. On the nights that I don't cook and no one's here to witness, I eat gigantic piles of Wheat Thins or half a bag of Baked Lays for supper. Eating something crunchy always makes me feel like I'm getting more bang for my calorie.

Lately I've been sewing. Yes, you read that right. I've taken it up with a vengeance. I have yet to make myself anything presentable, but little Heidi has more dresses than she could ever possibly wear by age 12 months. I've become somewhat obsessed by it, I'll admit.

Well, I have to go now and get back to my latest work in progress. I will update you on how that goes...only if it turns out, that is.

Namaste

2008-02-14T16:42:00.002-06:00

It feels a little weird to be sitting here writing in my blog. I've been a little out of sorts lately...in a "general funk" as my friend Kim used to say. With the holidays gone and the cold and dreary weeks of winter creeping in, I had nary an ounce of blogging fortitude. I'm quietly making my way back, but it's been a bit of a struggle.

First and foremost, Seinfeld was great...much funnier than I'd expected. I've never been one of those die hard Seinfeld fans...the ones who know every word in every episode. The ones who know every scene that features the Soup Nazi or each Kramer idiosyncracy. All in all, I can say that I really like Jerry Seinfeld and were it not for this man, would probably have loved the show. I've never been able to name specifically why I despise him so and have wondered that very question aloud to more than one close friend. Is it his Weeble-ish physique? His whiny demeanor? His smarmy, totally unbelievable aptitude with women?

As usual, someone is circling the computer as I type...anxious, nervous. It has been a full 8 hours since her last IM (texts don't count, you know).

To be continued...

2008-01-09T17:45:00.000-06:00

Finally back from my road trips for the week. They started on Sunday with a five hour trek across Missouri, through the horror of St. Louis construction traffic and back again on Monday. Then Tuesday it was off to Louisville for a meeting early Wednesday morning and back again this afternoon. Spending four and five hour stretches in a car creates a kind of interdependent depressed anxiety a lot like insomnia. The more I think about it, the slower the miles tick by. The slower they tick by, the more I want to scream, etc.

So, although it feels like Friday, it is only Wednesday...however...TOMORROW:

Yes, as a very unexpected and thrilling Christmas gift, and no doubt through some bizarre planet alignment, my brother was able to procure a Seinfeld ticket for yours truly. Aside from the cobalt blue ten-speed I received at age nine, this may be my best Christmas present EVER. I am joining my brother and his girlfriend for dinner tomorrow night at an as yet undisclosed location and then on to The Big Show. This is a very big deal for me since it starts at...

9:30 P.M.!

It might as well be at midnight, as anyone who knows me would agree. Even my brother, as I was marveling at the gift on Christmas Eve, said "The only thing is...it's a little late." But Seinfeld in Paducah is a once in a lifetime, so I am going to get crazy and may even stay up until...who knows...11! Wish me luck.

Namaste

Project Runway is Back!

2008-01-05T06:17:00.000-06:00

Project Runway has returned from its holiday hiatus and not a moment too soon. Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares on BBC America have begun to rerun. This week, the designers were taken to Hershey's Times Square Superstore. They were to create a design of their choosing from only the materials that they could find in the candy store. They had no budget, two sacks, and five minutes to grab and bag their materials.

The results were amazing. The winner of this challenge, Rami, created an incredible halter dress using Twizzler pillow cases and Peppermint Patty papers. The dress was an amazing fit on his model, and the styling he chose was a great match for the fun and funkiness of the dress.

Although I tend to favor halter dresses as a rule, the design by Chris could just as easily have taken top honors this challenge. I especially liked how perfectly the Hershey's logo was woven in and out of the bodice of the piece. The only thing that didn't quite do it for me was the fit. It didn't appear curvy enough. I guess this is one of the hazards of strapless, especially when fitting runway models.

There was quite a bit of crap out there, in my humble opinion, not the least of which was this losing design by Elisa. I'll have to say that I will not miss her other worldly presence or her hand sewn craptastic designs. Her creativity was too much for her skill set, and her taste was usually ten paces behind both. The final straw was this drab brown collection of pillows [bottom left] stuck on a model hailing from the same planet as Elisa. A melted chocolate Barbarella Kiss. How in the world could the model keep a straight face with those silver pillows hanging off her elbows? Good-bye, Elisa. The rest of us are due back on Planet Earth.

One very honorable mention: although I wasn't crazy about Jillian's design, I was awestruck that she brave enough to construct a garment out of actual candy...the only contestant to do so. Check out this incredible edible dress made out of Twizzlers. Wow!

Namaste

2008-01-02T17:04:00.000-06:00

New Year's Day is for marathons...televisions marathons. And this year was no exception. I spent the first day of 2008 watching back-to-back episodes of the Twilight Zone until my eyes bled. Except for the incessant commercials, each episode is perfect...filmed in black and white, thinly veiled slightly leftist message, neat and tidy storyline. Rod Serling smoked right there on television in front of God and everyone while setting up the moral structure of the story. I had started watching the marathon on New Year's Eve when I awoke at 12:30 p.m. after having taken a nice, three hour nap. It just doesn't get any better than that...New Year's Eve or not.

I had spent the previous day watching another marathon...which in the end amounted to my watching the first movie completely and then switching back and forth on the sequels. Planet of the Apes (1968). I embarrassingly admitted this to a friend I'd called during the 17th commercial of the first hour.

"You like that, too?" she asked. "I can never resist the Apes."

We spent a couple of moments considering this and wondering why we were both so mesmerized by the film.

(Charlton Heston in a loin cloth screaming "Keep your hands off me, you damned dirty apes!" HA! - Every time the apes would gag him during the movie, I thought how effective that image would be on a gun control poster.)

It wasn't until today that I learned that screenplay for Planet of the Apes was co-written by none other than our good friend Rod Serling. Who knew?

Namaste

2007-12-28T07:21:00.001-06:00

Good morning! I'm sorry that I've been so out of the loop lately. With the computer going down and the holidays coming soon thereafter, it's been hard for me to get back on track.

Yesterday I had my first ever facial. I have the same recommendation for a facial that I have for visiting New Orleans...everyone should do it at least once. It's a completely self-indulgent, incomparable experience, just like New Orleans. Except that you feel fantastic when it's over...the antithesis of the New Orleans experience.

When I entered Serendipity Day Spa, I was lead to a changing room where I was instructed to take off my shoes and to change from my shirt into a towel that wrapped around me just below my armpits and fastened in the front with velcro. Then I was asked to complete a questionnaire about my skin. While I reclined on a chaise lounge, noting whether I used sunscreen daily or experienced flakiness, soft music played in the background in tandem with the indoor waterfall in the corner of the room. When I'd finished, Amy the facial maestro, entered and asked me to follow her to the next room. Amy appeared to be in her mid-20s. She had a very sweet countenance and one of those really soft voices...like a kindergarten teacher.

Once in the room, she softly suggested I take off my Liz Claiborne slippers and lie down on what looked to be a gurney topped with a three inch thick mattress pad and luxurious down bedding. It was very dimly lit with the same soft music and waterfall sounds from the last room. When I got in and covered up, I noticed that the bed itself seemed very slightly warmed. I laid back and closed my eyes. For the next 90 minutes, my face was cleaned, stripped, massaged and moisturized with nary a word spoken. The soft music, the aroma of the different products, the warmth of the bed, the massage, felt almost like a meditation. It was relaxation deeper than sleep. Strangely, I never felt weird like I often do during a pedicure...where I have to hold back my apologies for coming in and asking the pedicurist to paint my sad little toenails. When we finished, I was escorted to a third room with a huge, Hollywood-like makeup mirror with shelf upon shelf of Bare Escentials and MD facial products. I was treated to a full makeover, the likes of which I'd never experienced. Afterward I looked and felt like I was going to the Academy Awards...all shined and polished and feeling fabulous.

When I returned home, I was all dressed up with nowhere to go. I sat down and folded laundry and thought about Nicole Kidman. I wondered if she ever felt slightly deflated after all the primping and relaxation only to go home and sit around watching Presumed Innocent.

Namaste

Guess who's 'oudt?'

2007-12-14T06:19:00.001-06:00

Poor little Steve with his slow and labored speech and wicked sense of humor. He was great entertainment for the season.

2007-12-13T19:09:00.000-06:00

OMG! I'm BACK! It's been so very long. It's so surreal to actually be typing at home.

I guess it's best to begin at the beginning...three weeks ago. It was early on a Sunday morning, and the computer had been cranking along, acting sorta weird, but generally just being it's geriatric self. I decided to do a little house cleaning by deleting some files...you know, just your usual crap when you're trying to ignore dirty dishes and clean clothes piled to the ceiling on the dryer and pretend you're not actually going to surf the internet...just do a little much needed maintenance...

OPERATING SYSTEM ERROR

These are words you never want to see. I probably shouldn't even be TYPING them. As a matter of fact, stop reading them NOW.

THOSE words flashed around, and the screen went blank.

Remember the Sex and the City episode with the "Sad MAC...Sad MAC?" And then dumba$$ Aiden did the control+alt+delete to wipe out everything on Carrie's hard drive? That's pretty much how it went over here, except I was dumba$$ Aiden AND Carrie (OK, my daughter was an innocent in all this, she might be Carrie).

When it happened, I did all sort of crazy crap...restart, restart, restart. I couldn't actually reBOOT, as Windows wouldn't even give me a wink. I was out in the cold dark world of blank black screen with the occasional hopeful glimmer of blank blue screen. Staring, staring, staring. Thinking, thinking, thinking. More staring.

I scrounged around in the decrepit funeral home computer desk and in some freakish alignment of the stars FOUND the operating system disk. "Damn, I am GOOD," I smirked at the blank black screen.

Insert disk.

Restart.

Random commands.

Then the computer became Hal and started yelling at me to do this and do that and asking me funky questions about where everything was...all in that depressing MS DOS mode, like I wasn't already depressed enough that I have to stare at these no-font lines of crap telling me to type in some crazy prompt.

"If you're so freaking smart, YOU type the damned command you MF-ing #*%^@*# computer!!"

Computers can be such ill-mannered creeps sometimes. They act so proud of themselves with their fancy backslashes and blabbering on about C drives and their evil return key BEEP. Even when they're sick and dying, they're total bitches.

So, what did I do at that point? I went into the bedroom, woke up my daughter, gave her the sad news and...I cannot believe I'm telling you this...cried. Tears started flowing out completely unrestrained. Suddenly, everything that was wrong in my life (my sad love life, depressing finances, the fact that I missed the last episode of Project Runway) all came to settle upon the shoulders of this now expired computer.

We scrambled around and got this 1990s band-aid for a couple of weeks (don't even ask), and then...incredibly...this man came to our rescue. Can you believe it? He's a geologist, yoga teacher AND computer whiz. (I couldn't make this stuff up, people!)

Anyway, I just wanted to give a big shout out to Tim for helping me to get cranked up to posting again. BTW, if you're interested, True North Yoga is sponsoring an Introduction to Power Flow Yoga class Saturday, December 15 starting at 9 a.m. There are just a few openings left for the class. Check out www.truenorthyoga.com for more info.

Namaste!

2007-12-06T19:39:00.000-06:00

One Kentucky Writer has tagged me, and although I am not yet up to full capacity (friends are working on my computer problem), I do have a small window of opportunity to post while out of town. Here's the skinny:

Link to the tagger and post these rules on your blog. Share five facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird. Tag five people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs. Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

Just a few years back, a very good friend of mine called me and then boyfriend "O Canada" to the front lines. To this day it remains one of the most exhilarating jobs I've ever held: running the spotlight for Lou Rawls. We stood on a platform directly behind Lou's sound and light guy who shouted orders at us through some funky 1970s headphones. I had no concept of the light's actual power. Up to that point, I had been impressed by the 100 watt bulb. I completely blinded Lou upon his big stage entrance. As he waved his free, unmicrophoned hand over his eyes in a surrendering motion and the sound/light guy screamed "BACK OFF OF LOU! BACK OFF OF LOU!," I struggled to regain my composure enough to find dim. When I did, without hesitating, Lou launched into "You'll never find..." The rest is Paducah Riverfront history.
In the early 1990s I lived in a funeral home.
Sometimes if I hear an unusual word, I will type the word in my head over and over. I imagine my hands on the keys, the keystrokes, spelling. Sometimes without realizing it, my fingers will be moving. This has been going on since my eighth grade typing class. I guess it serves a purpose as my spelling is slightly above average.
When I was growing up I wanted to be a cowgirl, veterinarian, television journalist (in that order). Then I graduated high school and had no idea.
My life's dream is to visit Alaska.

I'm tagging Joy.

Namaste

2007-11-30T07:28:00.000-06:00

I just thought I should tell you all that, as fate would have it, my computer went down in flames on Sunday. The substitute that I currently have is a poor one (about 7 years old). Internet Explorer strobes every five seconds, and I feel as if I'm on psychadelics when I try to maneuver the internet. A very concerned friend has given me some insider information on a possible solution. Say a prayer.

Namaste

2007-11-24T07:08:00.000-06:00

Sometimes I think about what it would be like to be a bartender. Bartenders are so serious. They don't take crap and they don't joke around with the customers. It would seem to me that they would certainly get more tips if they participated a little more. Don't they care about making more money? Or maybe they should tell jokes. Maybe that would do it. How perfect would that be? A bartender who doubled as a comedian. I for one would pay big money to sit at a bar like that, but it's fruitless to even dream about.

Last night, I met some friends at a local restaurant. We weren't sure who all was showing up for dinner, so we sat at the bar for a few minutes before taking our table. It seemed rude to be within such close proximity (two feet) to someone and not include them in the conversation, so we tried engaging the bartender. When one of us would speak directly to her, she would answer. Otherwise, she just pretended not to hear us. (They must teach you that in bartender school - how to artfully ignore a conversation that's close enough for you to breathe on.) No matter how many funny and clever things we said to her (and we're pretty funny people), the bartender never cracked a smile. She would simply look at us with that Prozac face, make a controlled comment and then wipe down the bar for the seventh time. I've met Wal-mart checkers that were more animated.

I guess bartenders are pretty important. A lot of them know it. I guess they're so high on the restaurant business food chain that they know they don't really have to bend over backwards for the customer like the poor servers do. Talk about your crap job. Servers are the lowest on the totem pole - lower than busboys. They are the Marines of the service industry - meeting customers head-on in the Battle of Wills. They have the torturous job of listening to customers bitch all day and all night as they turn on the Doris Day. They have to know the menu inside and out and give calculated advice on what to order. If the food doesn't live up to the customer's expectation, it's their neck. I feel particularly bad when I order something extra after they've already brought all the food and refilled all the drinks. "Sure, sure! No problem! Be right back with that!" in that strained, happy voice. That sad little cheeful voice always makes me want to cash out and go somewhere else.

I wonder if there's a restaurant workers' secret society - a place where they all meet up after hours or before hours as the case may be and talk about the stuff they see. Somewhere they can all go to talk about who was with who last night, who's a drunk, who's a cheapskate, who's stepping out on their spouse. They have to be chock full of insider information. How great it would be to get inside that secret society even for just a day.

Namaste

AOS

2007-11-20T18:27:00.000-06:00

I have intermittent Adult-Onset Stuttering (AOS). It's not the normal little kid kind, as in "I-I-I wi-wi-wish I had an ice cream cone." My stuttering is more like a revving engine, i.e. "I wish I had a...I wish I had a double martini." I quite literally talk myself into [in this case, 'saying'] something. What I can't quite decide is if it is more akin to a co-pilot or to a dress rehearsal.

Strangely, the magic number is two. I tend to say certain phrases twice ("Hand me that...hand me that Tom Jones CD.") It happens more often when my left brain is hard at work installing a shower head or figuring out which button I touched on the remote that made all of the others quit working ("Why can't I...why can't I turn it back to Star Trek?") It's always the beginning of a sentence or phrase, and it happens more often when someone, usually one of my unsuspecting daughters, asks me a question while I'm in The Mode.

While attempting to hook up the DVD player to my bedroom TV, my daughter struggles to have a conversation...

Daughter: "What are you doing?"

Me: "Trying to get...trying to get this freaking DVD player to work. What is the DEAL with this thing?"

Daughter: "Well, I think I'm going to go over to Taylor's to do some chemistry homework."

Me: "Why won't this...why won't this WORK? %$&#!!!"

Daughter: "OK. Well, I'll see ya later. Be home about 9:30."

[Pause]

Me: "Where did you...where did you say you were going?"

My main brain is focused on this freaking DVD player (that I never did get to work, incidentally), but the co-pilot is still attempting to carry on a conversation unbeknownst to everyone else.

The second type of AOS is what I call my dress rehearsals. I tend to spend a great deal of time with a limited number of people. At work, it's about three. At home, it's two (that's including myself). To make matters worse, I'm a person that tends to live inside my head. I think in words instead of visually, so I'm constantly thinking things out in sentences, paragraphs, novellas. My mind is so bogged down with words sometimes that I can't even think. Just imagine what it's like for someone like me in a disagreement or, God forbid, a heated argument. ("Ernie Fletcher...Ernie Fletcher is a slimeball.! I can't believe you voted for him.") It's pure torture. ("Don't even...don't even get me started on Bill O'Reilly. Fair and balanced, my ass!") I have very strong opinions but by the time they come out I've rehearsed them so many times that the rehearsals crowd into my actual words. When it happens, people tend to get dismissive, tend not to listen, to talk over me. In short, I sound like a dimwit ding dong. So, instead of chiming in with my broken record, a lot of times I'll just listen.

So now you know...so now you know the rest of the story.

Namaste

2007-11-20T05:55:00.000-06:00

I awoke with a start this morning at 5 a.m. and a slightly sick feeling in my stomach. Vacation anxiety. It's only my second day and already I'm experiencing something akin to buyer's remorse: nagging guilt for fear of not spending my vacation days wisely. Why, why, why must I torture myself? How do I stop it? It's not even that I have been unproductive. Yesterday I washed (and wonder of wonders - put away) so many clothes that it came down to the unspeakable drudgery of sorting stray socks.

I am worried that I have missed the trash man. Every holiday week is the same. I wake up and look down the street to survey the numbers to make my decision. Only one lonely trash can sets at the curb. I have learned to trust only the retired neighbors for knowing the trash man's schedule, yet today there is dissension. My most trustworthy and least mobile retiree neighbor is the only one with her garbage at the ready. Do I blindly join her, dragging my already overflowing bin out to rest beside the bags of leaves that the trash man did not retrieve on designated Yard Waste Monday? There have been days when the potential embarrassment factor of dragging a sadly overstuffed bin back up the drive has outweighed the hope of an empty can by the end of the day...way too many days than an adult should have to admit.

Last night after yoga class, I went to eat with Eva and Suzanne at Tokyo Sushi. I was slightly self-conscious when I entered since I was still wearing my yoga garb and my face had that mushy makeup-mixed-with-sweat quality. No one cared.

Every time I order sushi, I forget what I ordered before it arrives and end up spending my entire dinner trying to decide what's in it. All of the sushi rolls have dumb sounding names most of which have no association with their contents. When I look at the sushi menu, I expect to see an exclamation point beside the name. I am not sure why. I guess I just think it would fit the name to have it followed by an !, i.e. Dragon Roll!, California Roll!, Fire Roll!. Italics really work sushi names, too.

I guess I should get off the computer. I have much anxiety to experience today while I hold onto Vacation Day Two like so much running water.

Namaste

Things I Learned This Weekend

2007-11-18T16:44:00.000-06:00

Things I learned this weekend:

The cost of living in Malibu, CA is astronomical.
Some dogs actually prefer Charmin.
It takes roughly two weeks for an eligible bachelor in this town to procure a new girlfriend.
Dolly Partin's ride is a macked out Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows.
If Survivorman planned even a little, he probably wouldn't have to eat grass soup every episode.
Nicholas Cage is highly overrated.
The perfect temperature to cook a pizza is 600 degrees farenheit.
It is physically possible for a person to take out seven gallbladders in one day and entertain guests later that evening.
Man vs. Wild is a sitcom.
A jet-setter can get to any place in the world from Amsterdam (but as one person aptly questioned, "Once in Amsterdam, why leave?").
There are rumblings of a pro-am Bake-Off next spring in Paducah.
Cakebread Cellars cabernet tastes better than your generic $12 bottle of sale wine.
It's almost impossible to find a way to get someone to guess the word "chiffon" if you can't say the words fabric, dress or lemon. Thankfully, one person did.
Snow Prom does, in fact, exist.
It's impossible to karaoke a rap song after 3/4 bottle of wine.
Paducah wants a Coen Brothers film marathon at the Maiden Alley Cinema.
Bar soap works wonders on dreadlocks.
A person can interminably look like "the best friend."
France is sexy.
The mayor believes that Target is Paducah's own personal Jesus.

2007-11-12T17:00:00.000-06:00

My daughter left for a week-long trip to Washington, D.C. Saturday afternoon. All I could think to do about that was to rearrange cabinets and thoroughly clean my kitchen. It was residual guilt from an episode of Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares on BBC America. Gordon Ramsay is my interim obsession post-Top Chef, pre-Project Runway. Like: he bleeps incessantly. Dislike: too much hair gel.

I turned on the self-clean feature on the oven, and the house filled with the smell of burnt popcorn. There's evidently no way to stop a self-cleaning oven once its mind is made up. This oven was on a three hour tour. Burnt popcorn morphed into level 20 flat iron and then finally to broiled nothing smell. When the oven beeped its end, there was no more black caked-on goop, just ghostly remnants of white dust.

There is a new miracle sponge on the market called The Magic Eraser. I'm positive it's straight from Roswell. It erases anything: Sharpie, soap scum, Kool-aid stains. I have even used it to erase paint streaks on a wall. While I was wiping the weird paste of grease-dust off the blades of the ceiling fan, I thought about using it on those rough spots on my feet. Then I moved on to my cellulite. Then I thought how great it would be if it came in Q-tip size, so I could reach into my brain through my ear and erase my first marriage. The possibilities are endless.

I scrubbed the kitchen floor. I had to do it in one foot increments on my hands and knees. It had been awhile. There remains a no-man's land of errant potato peel, chunks of cookie, chopped onion in that one inch wide space between the cabinet and stove. It's like looking down into a cistern. I can barely make it out. From what I can tell, it resembles the caked on goop from my oven topped with the salad of lost chunks. Maybe after a few more years I won't have to worry about going through all the trouble to bring someone over to help me move the stove so that I can get in there and shovel it out. It will just grow and grow until it's the same height as my kitchen cabinet. I would paint it white, of course, so that it matches.

I would love to tell you more about the excitement of moving casserole dishes to their own cabinet space, arranging skillets and mixing bowls, but I suppose I'd better get ready for work. If I could only use the Magic Eraser on my bills...

Namaste

The Storm Cellar

2007-11-05T19:29:00.000-06:00

I am a little out of sorts today. The time change combined with the breezy, unseasonably warm evening brings memories of my grandparents' home. It's odd how clear those memories are, how I can recall the view from the small concrete and brick front stoop, the placement of the gigantic cottonwood on one side of the yard and the wide drooping apple tree on the other. Of all the place I have lived in my lifetime, memories of my grandparents' house are as distinct as those of my own childhood home and much more distinct than any place I've lived as an adult.

Now as my own house creeks against the force of the breeze and the windchimes sing, I think about my grandparents home and have that same slight feeling of anxiety that blows into a soul as a thunderstorm approaches. I can almost smell it, that air, heavy with the threat of rain at the same time faintly sweet, like freshly turned soil. Nights spent observing my grandfather as he paced from front yard to back watching the rolling, angry skies. His mood would grow dark and his gaze would sharpen, and for a time he would cease to speak. Birds would stop singing and the air would be silent except for the pound of an occasional distant thunderclap. He would stand immoble for several minutes in a sort of environmental trance surveying, absorbing the clues, totally silent.

Then just as suddenly as he'd stopped, he would snap into action. He would quickly move inside the house and brief my grandmother. Things would begin to happen. The house would begin to take a frantic pace: crackers and bologna packed in paper bags, nightgowns tossed in on top, lines to the restroom would immediately form. Strangely, I never actually heard the orders directly from my grandfather. It was always my grandmother's voice that announced, "We're going to The Storm Cellar." While Granddaddy made trips back and forth, readying the Storm Cellar for a night's stay, Grandmama would be calling the names of each child, gathering us all on the back porch, soothing us as we grew more and more agitated.

We would all traipse out together amidst the light falling rain, and descend into the cellar with mixed feelings of dread and relief. The cellar was dank and musty. Cobwebs filled the hard to reach corners. Old jars filled with water lined up in odd places. Dust settled throughout. Usually, by the time we arrived there was at least one oil lamp burning thanks to my grandfather. The Storm Cellar was designed and built by my him as a bomb shelter during the Cold War, but it served the family best and most as a refuge from tornadoes.

Inside it was like an army bunker, many beds and very little rambling space. There was always a fight for the top bunk which usually resulted in my two cousins and I sharing it. We would complain of being hungry and incessantly ask when we could go back to the house. Sometimes there were card games to play. Other times, we simply laid in bed listening to the rain pound the tin room of the cellar, trying our hardest to be quiet.

When dawn would finally break, we would ascend to the yard, our nostrils black from the oil lamps. The grass would glisten, the sun would shine and the air would smell like hope. We would all eat breakfast and think but rarely talk about the Storm Cellar. The same is true today.

Namaste

2007-10-20T06:00:00.000-05:00

I forced myself to read The Awakening during my trip to Texas this week. I had picked it up to read so many times before, but the language of the era had always stopped me from getting past page 25. This time I was determined, especially since I was captive for six hours with nothing else but American Airlines magazine and maps of the DFW airport at my disposal. The story made me think a lot. At times while reading I would lose myself in the streets of New Orleans [one of the settings in the novel] wondering what it would be like to spend my days wandering around visiting friends and drinking coffee in outdoor cafes. I wondered what it would be like to have no responsibilities other than those of a wife and mother. In Edna's life even those responsibilities were limited. Her husband was away from home most of the time, and there were servants to help care for the children, cook and clean. What would be left? I can understand the darkness that befell Edna in living this life: the frustration, the loneliness, the absence of purpose.

As Edna's behavior began to change within the story, I went down a mental sidestreet. I sat on the plane staring into space for some 30 minutes plus wondering why it is so difficult for us as humans to allow our loved ones to change. Why do so many of us insist that relationships stay exactly the same forever? We seem to accept only inconsequential changes and tend to allow only terrible tragedy as a mode of true growth. Is it easier to believe that our friends are exactly the same people that they were when they were 12 than to try to understand where they are, how they are, who they are now? It's almost as if our minds won't let go of that very first picture we had of someone, like it doesn't know how to categorize and catalog the growth that happens from years of living. Why?

Let me know what you think of The Awakening. How does a human being become a possession and who/what is at fault?

Namaste

Still Here

2007-10-17T18:59:00.000-05:00

I just got back from dinner...this time at Jimmy Corino's. It was ok. The bread was good. The service was excellent. That's one thing I've noticed about the people here...they are all friendly. So far I've had pretty great service everywhere I've been. Even the airport employees are nice here.

A friend of mine just called from Myrtle Beach. I felt embarrassed that I was already in my room, already in my pajamas, so I didn't mention it when he asked what I was doing. It's 7:20 p.m. The sun has yet to even set here. That's another weird thing about Texas. It doesn't get dark here until about 8 or 8:30 p.m. It's deceiving...well, to other people I would think it is deceiving. I am the kind of person who gets in bed at 7 p.m. when they're out of town for fear of missing their flight the next day. I'm pathetic. Last night I fell asleep at 8 p.m. watching a PBS special on Oprah's family tree. What is wrong with me?!

I always eat too much when I'm out of town. I eat because I have nothing else to do. I hate going to the movies when I'm out of town. It's just too unfamiliar. I already shopped and had to stop myself before it was too late. At least the wind stopped whistling violently. My face is actually windburned this afternoon. Well, I'll go now. My ramblings are beginning to get on my own nerves. Tune in tomorrow.

Namaste

2007-10-17T15:51:00.000-05:00

Still in Texas. Just finished with work and am listening to the wind whistling outside. It never stops. This is one place where it pays to have a really great haircut...as in a hairdresser who knows what they're doing. No hairspray on earth (even Freeze Dry, Suz) could hold up against this. It feels like a twister is going to blow up any minute ALL THE TIME. Granted, last night there was hail, but this is crazed. It sounds like 75 fifth graders warming up their recorders.

Today we went to lunch at a fabulous Mexican restaurant. This place has nearly as many restaurants as residents. On one side of this block alone there is Logan's, Carino's, Lin Buffet, Country Buffet, Joe's Crab Shack, Arby's and Kabuki. Across the street is Hooter's, Outback, Blue Star...I don't even know. Every city block is the same. The Mexican taco shops alone could fill all of Lone Oak. Last night I ate at Kabuki. It's new and elaborate with interior sound effects of thunderstorms that gear up about every 30 minutes complete with rain that falls into a mote that encircles all the hibachi grills. While eating my much too well done tuna steak, I noticed that they have a roped off (and clearly marked) "VIP Area" with red carpet and the whole 9 yards that leads to a loft for private dining. I wonder who qualifies as a VIP in this town.

Namaste

DFW

2007-10-16T19:18:00.000-05:00

I’m at DFW now, and it’s a whole new ballgame. It’s like a busy mall here with all types of people, all ages, all types of stores and restaurants. I am sitting at my gate. There is a drama queen in a wheelchair right behind me. She is yelling at her attendant. “I SHOULD BE MOVED OVER IN ORDER TO KEEP OUT OF THE WAY OF THE ONCOMING PASSENGERS.” He is quite young and a different color from her. She assumes much from this.

I am waiting at B9. It just emptied out and is slowly beginning to fill up again. People stroll through the open hallway with their rolling luggage. Almost everyone has something that rolls. I think about how proud I would be if rolling luggage were my invention. It has changed a lot about travel. People love it and they also seem oddly proud of it.

I spoke to an older Blythe Danner look-alike in the restroom wearing a pink cardigan sweater set a few moments ago. She said she was headed to Palm Springs. She is a native of Michigan, and when I told her that I’d just come from there a few days prior, she indicated that she hailed from a golf club community near the area I visited. I’m not sure why she felt compelled to say golf club community. I guess I hadn’t responded appropriately when she told me the name of the town. She asked me what I was doing in Michigan and where I was headed now. When I told her, she said “Hmmm. OK.” and left without saying anything else. Afterward, I thought that maybe I should have said, “Have fun in Palm Springs.” But then I thought I didn’t really want her to have fun or at the very least didn’t really care if she had fun or not.

It is humid here, much more humid than it was in Nashville. It is also warmer by some 15 degrees outside and at least ten degrees inside. There is a thing called the Skylink at DFW that is comparable to the monorail at Disneyworld. It connects all of the terminals. The older people appear to be a little scared of the Skylink. The hesitantly step on and off it and never seem quite sure of where they should get off.

I am seated in plain view of one of the security checkpoints at the airport. I like watching people take off and put on their shoes. It’s such a personal offense. It was only when I took off my shoes at BNA that I noticed how dirty they were on the inside, how worn. For some reason I suddenly wished I’d worn another pair, a more expensive pair. Right now there is a guy putting on a belt in front of me. He is looking around aimlessly trying to pretend he is not doing what he is doing. He is hiking up his pants and checking his watch. I feel for him; it’s incredibly demeaning. Boarding call. Talk to you soon.

Namaste

BNA

2007-10-16T19:14:00.000-05:00

I’m sitting in the Nashville airport. It’s 8:15 a.m. I have 45 minutes to go until boarding. As usual, I couldn’t sleep last night. I have both an unconscious and conscious fear of missing a flight. I woke up five times last night finally giving up and rolling out of bed at 4.

Sitting in airports is interesting. Most people try to be inconspicuous, and if you look at them, they will look away as if startled. Looking around right now, about 45% are reading newspapers, magazines, books. There is one guy talking on his cell phone in his outside voice. It’s one of those tiny ear phones which makes him look a little effeminate and makes his head look huge. His significantly heavy significant other is sipping her coffee and rubbing his back as he shouts in the air careful to avoid any oncoming glances. They both just finished gigantic honey buns.

There is a man two rows away wearing a straw cowboy hat with leather trim who is traveling with a guitar. He looks like a cross between Woody Harrelson and Steve Ervin with a George Hamilton tan. His son, who appears to be about seven years old, is wearing a huge black sombrero with silver trim. The son is five seats away from him, bored and fidgety. The guitar is leaning on the dad's leg. He occasionally moves the guitar around, leaning it this way and that, making sure it is close within his grasp. Meanwhile, the son is doing a backbend over the edge of the last chair in the row with the neck strap from the sombrero bunched up and stuck completely in his mouth.

There aren’t many kids or young people headed to Dallas. Mostly they are my age and 20 years older. The 20 years older crowd travel in pairs – husband and wife teams. The 40 somethings appear to travel alone except for the cowboy and son. It’s funny the number of people who read business books when they travel. I wonder if it could possibly be for pleasure or if they’re scared of losing their jobs.

The significantly heavy significant other can’t seem to stop touching her loud talking man. As I sit here I wonder if I’ve ever felt that way about someone. Surely I have, yet I can’t remember.

The rain is easing up outside on the runway and the sun is beginning to peek out. The Nashville airport is a pretty nice airport. When I think about the Memphis airport, I feel that BNA is pristine. They are calling for boarding. Off to DFW.

Namaste

2007-10-14T14:57:00.000-05:00

Not sure why I'm posting this. I just thought it was a little hilarious, I guess.

I just finished watching Me Without You and feel like stabbing myself to death with a KFC spork. This movie takes the concept of codependency to a new level. I can't say anymore. I'm too exhausted from watching this movie.

Namaste

2007-10-12T08:25:00.000-05:00

Still in Michigan. Shhh. Testing is underway. I am on campus now. There was a big mix up with the test location today, and I ended up in a classroom. We have five minutes to go until the next test. The students look finished andthey should be "checking their work," but they're not. They're staring at me.

This campus is like a maze and is the largest thing in town. It's like a small city driving around in it with twisting/turning lanes which track back over and on top of each other over and over again. It is smack dab in the middle of the town...almost like a town within a town, and its perimeter is dotted with fast food restaurants, banks and pharmacies. From what I understand, the townspeople don't care for the college even though it's the life's blood of the town. If it weren't for the college, most of the residents would be working at the boot factory, but I guess the townspeople don't really think about that.

There is a Wal-mart and a Meijer, an Applebee's and a Ruby Tuesday. When I asked some of the residents what there is to do other than eat, they told me about a brand new bowling alley. Sad. I was surprised to see that the restaurants still have smoking sections here, and lots of the clientele take advantage of it. I've been wondering if the state of the economy keeps people so depressed that they continue to smoke regardless of the screams of the surgeon general. Nine out of ten students that I spoke with yesterday are looking to get out of not only this area but the state altogether. Michigan's unemployment rate is currently at 7.4%. This must be a very bleak statistic for a college graduate that has just spent over $300 per credit hour (per one recent grad) on his or her education.

We are now on the last test, and the students have a scant 11 minutes to complete it. I hope they ace it. I hope the stars align and they ace the interviews, too. I hope they can somehow scratch and claw their way out of this tiny town in this cold, sad state. Please say a prayer for them. Man cannot live by SuperBowl alone.

Namaste

2007-10-10T19:12:00.000-05:00

Nine hours. We're here...Michigan. Wow, it's freaking FREEZING up here. I think it was 50 degrees F when we arrived this afternoon, and it's supposed to be 30 degrees F tonight. It was in the 80s yesterday in KY. The trip was somewhat uneventful except for a 30 minute wait outside Grand Rapids. We ate lunch at Panera Bread. Why in hell can't we get one of those near us? Delicious homemade bread, unique sandwich combinations. I had a terrific salad today with dried cherries, gorganzola and pears. Fabulous. We had dinner at the restaurant here in the hotel, Bennigan's. There aren't very many options here for food. As a matter of fact, I would say that the size of the town is about like Murray, yet it probably has half the number of restaurants. Do people not care about food up north?

Well, that's my short update. More tomorrow.

Namaste

2007-10-09T18:37:00.000-05:00

Getting ready for a breakaway. Heading up to the mitten state beginning tomorrow. More to come on that in the next couple of days.

I just finished watching Pie in the Sky: The Brigid Berlin Story. What can I say? I'm enamored with The Factory. I just can't seem to get enough information about the famous comings and goings and mass chaos. I'm envious of anyone and everyone (including Valerie Solanas) who ever visted it. I'm cuckoo for Andy and his friends and really want to just go back and watch everything at The Factory unfold like a campy 3D movie. It's intriguing to watch these people, now in their 60s, talk about the days at 33 Union Square West. I think about all they've seen and experienced in their lives and wonder what it must feel like to be Paul Morrissey or Brigid Berlin now. I wonder what they think about when they're having coffee or key lime pies. Do they think about mutual funds? Medicare? Or when they have that very first early morning moment of peace do they sip and think about parties and The Velvet Underground and Candy Darling and Interview magazine?

What will I think about sitting on the porch sipping coffee at retirement? What will you?

Namaste

2007-10-07T17:25:00.000-05:00

Flourescent lights are spawned from the devil. I've never seen one person become more appealing after stepping into their freakish wash. I for one can become so disheartened after trying on clothes in a flourescent lit dressing room that I will often leave the store immediately following the trauma. And God forbid if I try on a swimsuit under flourescent light. That's enough to make a person forget the beach all together possibly forever. Flourescent lights have the power to make me feel like I'm in middle school again...and have just started my period...and everyone knows it. Flourescent lights cackle mercilessly when I inadvertently try on the wrong size. It's like they have tiny spotlights at the ready for every single flaw. Today the lights belly laughed at even the eye shadow I had on. They're demonic.
***

I just finished watching Superstar in a Housedress: The Life and Legend of Jackie Curtis. It was interesting. Jackie was one of the primary characters at The Factory during the 70s and starred in Warhol's films Women in Revolt and Flesh. But Jackie was also a playwright and poet that received considerable critical acclaim on his own, as well. The story was both hopeful and hopeless. Jackie was a brilliant writer and performer addicted to drugs who scratched his way out of the lower East side and took gender bending to another level. He committed to neither a male or female persona. The incredible part about it is that people just went with it. Lou Reed even memorialized Jackie in his song "Walk on the Wild Side." All through the documentary, people would say, "But that was just Jackie." like it was an everyday thing. Anyway, during the film, I was taken aback by Joe Dallesandro. I have read so much about Joe Dallesandro and Paul Morrisey and that whole group from the 70s, but I seriously had no idea exactly how hot Joe was during that time until I saw this film. No wonder he was in so many of Warhol's films. What I didn't realize is that he was also in Cry-Baby and The Limey. Go figure.

Namaste

The Galt House

2007-10-06T07:23:00.000-05:00

I returned from Louisville yesterday after a short three-day conference. It was held at the recently renovated Galt House hotel downtown. The last time I stayed at the Galt House was during the renovation when I'd had the misfortune to be put in East Tower (The Dark Side). At that time the room decor was straight out of the 1970s complete with the garish early American furnishings. The hallways were dimly lit and humidity and gnats seemed to seep through the walls. The room itself smelled like a mixture of mold and outerware of a seasoned smoker, and there was a light film of unknown origin covering the windows and furniture. So when I arrived Wednesday for the conference, I was shocked at the changes. The hotel lobby was lovely with large open area seating and windows everywhere showcasing the gorgeous river view. My room was also expansive and beautifully decorated (aside from the bedding). The only glitch in the whole check-in experience was the front desk staff. It reminded me a lot of the service I consistently receive from Northwest Airlines. As I patiently waited in the check-in line, I watched each clerk's flat expressionless face as they processed their customers. They were rude and unpleasant and seemed more interested in watching the bell hops lugging suitcases in and out the entrance than in the customer immediately in front of them and actually appeared incensed that we were checking in at all. As the days progressed, I realized that this disgusted, unpleasant attitude was like a virus which had spread to all departments. Everywhere I turned for service at the hotel I was met with the same flat expression and disinterest. The one tiny glimmer of hope for the hotel was the catering staff. They were both attentive and friendly with at least a slight understanding of how this whole service provider/customer relationship works. It really made me wonder about the owners of the hotel. If I'd spent millions upon millions of dollars on renovations, I would be absolutely furious to find that the hotel value perception was being undermined by a poor quality staff. They might as well have kept the early American furniture and gnats.

Namaste

Hung, you are Top Chef

2007-10-05T18:07:00.000-05:00

2007-10-01T21:31:00.000-05:00

I can go no longer go without blogging about the upcoming finale of Top Chef set to air Wednesday at 9 p.m. I am so enamored with the season that I have gotten in the habit of watching and watching and rewatching episodes until my eyes bleed. I have fallen deeply in lust with Tom Collichio. I am researching tuition costs for the Culinary Institute of America. Today at lunch, I came home and watched the episode in which the contestants visit the French Culinary Institute for the SIXTH time. It's that serious.
Things have heated up in the Top Chef kitchen with only three chefs left to contend for the coveted title of Top Chef....
Dale
Dale is an out of work chef with more daring and creativity than the other two finalists combined, so daring in fact that he shamelessly used instant mashed potatoes during one challenge. While Hung and Casey play it safe with classic dishes, Dale kicks it up a notch cooking things like poussin with mint gnocchi, mustard seared alligator tail, and veggie yogurt puffs. Granted, he's a little high strung much to his own detriment, but he has game and he brings it. The way he talks about food, you'd think it was his own personal Jesus (and said almost as much last week at Judges Table). I have my doubts that he can be this season's Top Chef chiefly due to his disorganization in the kitchen. He cooks a lot off the cuff and tends to lack a degree of control. If the competition was strictly based on passion for food, he would win hands down. The guy is seriously fired up about some vittles and it shows.
Casey
Casey is executive chef at the Shinsei in Dallas, TX but hasn't always been so high on the food chain. Casey was not classically trained but worked her way to the top on sheer hard work and good instinct. There have been rumblings amongst the bloggers that Casey has gotten several breaks based on her looks, but you can't win three quick fires and three elimination challenges on looks alone. Or maybe you can, not sure. She does tend to cook more conservatively than the other two, but her pairings work well [yawn]. I believe Casey may have the goods to take her game pretty far, but she needs to get seriously creative to make it happen. People are tired of eating the same old coq au vin. Mushroom crusted loin of elk? Mushroom crusted?! Sounds like a crock pot recipe. Come on. This is Top Chef. We are down to the wire. Get with it, woman!

Hung
This guy preps and cooks like he has a liquid cocaine drip. I have never in the history of Top Chef seen anyone with these kinds of knife skills. In one episode I watched him cut up a raw chicken in three minutes...gross but impressive. He is incredibly meticulous at plating, as well. His presentations are orderly and well designed. (His butter poached chicken was gorgeous.) As far as technique, his is better than any I've seen on the show in all three seasons. It's absolutely amazing and fun to watch. His only downfall is that while Dale is all over the place (throwing out side dishes at the drop of a hat if they don't work), Hung is too controlled. Although beautiful, his dishes lack any kind of signature style. As with Casey, I wonder if he sees the world in color. He's a food geek of the highest order...all brain and no heart. Regardless, Hung is clearly the front runner in this competition. It will be fun to "watch what happens" this Wednesday at 9 p.m. (Live!)
Namaste

2007-09-30T09:15:00.000-05:00

Nothing gets a party started quite like the smell of seared flesh, so it was a given that I'd fall prey to the mass hypnosis that was BBQ on the River over the weekend. First item on the agenda Friday night was a stop at Jeremy's office where he and wife Sue Ellen had arranged a little pre-pork action. The conference room table was chock full of all manner of sushi and various and sundry other delectible appetizers. Brad and I sampled the food, and Sue Ellen proceeded to mix it up by serving up some pomegranate cosmopolitans. Then it was on to tent city en masse.

The throng of people was incredible, and everybody who's anybody was sidled up somewhere near a smoky pit. While the Cruisers played on, we managed to make our way through the crowd after about an hour to the beer jail. The beer jail was double fenced and dark which kicked up the creepy factor quite a bit. The only light was that of the beer trailers, and I kept thinking that (all things considered) it would be quite easy for anyone to pick up my purse and take off with my identity but more importantly with my camera. After about an hour the cosmos kicked in full-force, and I decided that it would be best for all involved if I made my way out of the jail and headed home.

The next day I suffered a mild case of the cocktail flu but pressed on to kick it up with some karaoke at the Talibarn. Jeremy and Sue Ellen grilled up some tasty dogs and brats and even pulled out some brand new karaoke CDs to add to their already sizeable collection. While Brad and Estrelia got friendly, the rest of us sang every single song ever recorded during the 1970s...my favorite decade for music. We had to pack it in a little early but not before Brad sang for his supper.

Namaste

2007-09-25T20:02:00.000-05:00

I have been such a poor correspondent lately (again). In my own defense, yoga has been kicking my down dog lately, and I have been simply too exhausted to move. Note the lovely pose in the photo. It's not my own, of course. You can tell by the way her heels touch the ground. Mine usually look like I'm wearing some kind of weird Wonder Woman invisible boots. I can't get my heels even close to the mat. Plus, this yogi has a real live matching yoga ensemble. Not my style...or more to the point...not in my budget.

Before I started doing yoga for the first time, I thought it was probably a lot like bowling...a fringe sport, something anyone could pick up within a couple of practice frames. Little did I know that there is form involved (which could possibly apply to real bowlers), as well as lots and lots of sore muscles and practice. Yoga is a mind/body experience. Bringing focus to each pose is part of the practice itself. Tim is always telling us to "be aware" during our practice and to bring awareness to the parts of our bodies with the most resistance. This, for me, is not difficult as each pose feels excruciatingly painful to two or more muscle groups. Drishdi is impossible with the likes of me around groaning and giggling and talking in my outside voice about being a yoga flunky. Yogis are by nature very tolerant people, however, so they keep letting me come back regardless.

To all you wonderful, beautiful, patient, accepting yogis in my Monday/Thursday classes...this Namaste is for you!

2007-09-22T05:43:00.000-05:00

It's 5:45 a.m. on Saturday, and I'm listening to the soundtrack from La Vie en Rose. Brad and I took the movie in last Sunday at the Maiden Alley Cinema. I loved the film and became infected by Edith Piaf. The depth of her voice is amazing. It reminds me a lot of Judy Garland's due in part to her musical style. Edith's story is tragic, and I never even tired of reading the subtitles (rare for me) or watching Marion Cotillard's brilliant performance.

On Monday I went to see Robin at Pauley's and got most all of my hair cut off. It's so funny to see people's reactions when you go for a big change. Most people are really nice about it. Many of those who don't like it simply ignore it or act like they didn't notice that half of your hair is gone. One person went so far as to say, "Wow. You got your hair cut. You look like William Sledd. Ha ha." An odd comparison, but I can think of worse things she could have said, I guess.

I recently started going back to yoga class thanks to a very Bizzy friend of mine. The first class went fairly well, and although I was a little sore in my upper body the next day, I vigorously patted myself on the back imagining beautiful twisted triangles and headstands within 7 days. Then this past Thursday Tim got hold of me. All during class I lamented being a yoga flunky remembering my former flexibility. I had no idea how much I would pay for being a yoga dropout. Today is Saturday, and so many muscles still hurt that I feel like I have the flu.

Last night I spent some time with my friends Sue Ellen and Jeremy. Sue Ellen fixed a delicious low-cal pizza, and we sat around catching up.

Today I am headed to Carlisle County to enjoy yet another delicious dinner with my family. I am looking forward to getting out of the city and spending time with my parents. Sorry about the short, boring post, but I think I need to take some Tylenol and lie back down. Anyone have any chicken soup?

Namaste

2007-09-12T18:03:00.000-05:00

Oh, and one more thing...

Be sure to check out my friend Brad's feature on the iList.

Mary is right...he is cute, cute, cute. But he's also hilarious and intelligent and big fun to be around in general. He often plays a prominent role in this very blog.

So, Brad, where's your blog? We're waiting....

Namaste

Your Presidential Match

2007-09-12T17:48:00.000-05:00

A friend from work sent me this little gem of a web link that tests how your own personal views match up with some of the hottest issues facing the presidential candidates. Talk about your Presidential Love Connection. I am on fire with John Edwards, but I must admit that Hillary ranked up there as a relatively close second.

The internet is a beautiful thing.

Namaste

Kid Pebble

2007-09-12T17:33:00.000-05:00

As usual, I am the last to know...

I nearly busted my spleen laughing when I read this little news tidbit.

United Press International

Tommy Lee says he was just minding his own business watching Alicia Keys perform at the MTV Video Music Awards in Las Vegas when Kid Rock came up and punched him the face, TMZ.com said.

In a posting on his Web site, TommyLee.tv, the rocker said he was in the front row of the show hanging out with magician Criss Angel when his ex-wife, Pamela Anderson, "who I love and adore," approached and sat on his lap.

"I get a tap on the shoulder from Kid Pebble," he said of Anderson's other ex-husband. "I stand up and embrace him with a semi-hug and say: 'Hey, dude. What up?' He punches me in the face... Well, if you wanna call it that! More like a b**** slap!"

Lee said that before he could knock "this jealous, no-career-havin' country bumpkin out," security guards for the Palms casino and hotel separated them.
"So, I'm fine and, of course, leave to my room with police and owner George Maloof. The rest is paper work and (crap.) Anyway, I would like to apologize to Alicia (Keys) and George and MTV for the disrespectful (crap) caused by a piece of (crap) called Kid Pebble."

Namaste (or something)

2007-09-11T18:33:00.000-05:00

First, let me start by saying Vote for William Sledd to win the Rachael Ray YouTube Stars competition. Come on, people...who in their right mind would want to make a purse out of some old boxer shorts anyway? Who has time to sit around bedazzling old t-shirts or to go skulking around Goodwill for grab bag items to glue on their tennis shoes? William deserves your vote! William is concerned about the American public. He is the Superhero of the Mall, spending his invaluable superhero time fighting fashion crimes and exposing fashion villains for their mockery of good taste. He cares about the American shopper. He cares that crocs look absolutely ridiculous. He cares about the possibility of bloodborne pathogens lurking in the fibers of the surgical scrubs that people dare to shop in. He is the only person brave enough to take up arms against windsuits and carpenter jeans! He cares about me, the fashionista wanna-but-nevergonnahavethecashto-be. William cares!

So VOTE NOW!

Namaste

2007-09-07T20:21:00.000-05:00

I couldn't wait to see Tim's show last night. When questioned today at work about what made it different than the others, I paused to ponder. Tim and his crew provide a much more positive, respectful attitude toward the subjects, and it's greatly appreciated and felt by the viewers. I for one am exhausted by the negativity found in other makeover shows. I'm tired of snooty stylists making fashion scapegoats out of fans and viewers. It's refreshing to see someone who actually wants you "to succeed."

Thank you, Tim, for not perpetuating the fashion divide between those who wish to be stylish and those who are. So far, so good!

Namaste

2007-09-05T18:45:00.000-05:00

A friend of mine told me about Miss Denise Hewitt and her YouTube posts the other day, and I've spent the last two nights trying to figure out how to get her added to my blog. After hours of researching, I realized that posting the video is much easier than I'd ever imagined. Anyway, I wanted to say that I believe that Denise may be one of the bravest people I've ever seen. Denise reports for work daily as a man but in her off time performs beautiful piano pieces while dressed as a woman, videotapes the performances and uploads them to YouTube here.

The thought of someone like Denise, with the guts to go the distance both creatively and personally makes me feel like a total phony with my rinky-dink fluff and fold posts. I hope that one day I can become half the woman that Denise is. Here's to you, Denise!

Namaste

2007-09-03T15:16:00.000-05:00

According to the Urban Dictionary:

murse
A man-purse. Very fashion-forward right now, seen on many hipster guys. The line between a messenger bag and murse is very fluid - typically a murse is a bit smaller than a traditional messenger and may have a slightly more stylized look to it. A murse can also be used to carry a laptop computer - one of the reasons it is so popular right now.

"Wow, Mark's new laptop fits perfectly into that small bag he carries"

"Yeah, that's a great murse. It matches his american apparel shirt."

I am fascinated by the murse. I carry a purse every single day of the year. It is both a curse and a godsend. Most women have collections of purses stacked high inside their closets. They pull different ones out to match their shoes or their ensemble or their mood. I am of the other variety. I am one of those women who carries the exact same purse with every outfit until its seams begin to rip or an essential strap breaks. I despise changing purses. The thought of pulling everything out of my purse to place into another purse serving the exact same purpose is enough to send me 'round the bend. Plus, inevitably when I do change purses, I lose either my keys or my lipstick. In any one of my old purses you will likely find old receipts, at least one pink hue of lipstick, an ink pen that no longer works, a stray earring, a tattered tampon and countless pennies and nickels.

So, I've been thinking about the murse. Exactly what would a man carry around in one? Thanks to a very dear and clever friend of mine, now we know...

Namaste

2007-09-03T06:10:00.000-05:00

Where do I begin? The weekend has been chock full. You are looking at a mother-in-law. My daughter and her boyfriend were joined in matrimony on Friday during a very small private ceremony. When I'm in the middle of some really big thing, an important event like my daughter getting married, I tend to think about this quote by Andy Warhol that sorta explains how I feel:

"People sometimes say that the way things happen in the movies is unreal, but actually it's the way things happen to you in life that's unreal. The movies make emotions look so strong and real, whereas when things really do happen to you, it's like watching television."

I don't know how to explain it except for that. It's like whatever it is that's happening is so big that my brain can't process it. It gets suspended until I get some private time to really consider it. I'm not one of those people that generally cries at funerals or weddings. I can only cry when something sad catches me totally off-guard...like seeing my daughter try on a wedding gown. Either that or I save up my crying for some incredibly stupid and inappropriate thing like a Lifetime movie.

So, after the matrimonial exchange I kept the baby most of the evening. Nothing makes you more nostalgiac than babysitting your granddaughter. Kids grow up way too fast. It's funny, because they are babies and toddlers for just a little while, then they're age 9 and 10 forever and then they're teenagers for a couple of seconds and they're gone. I'm not sure why that is.

Saturday I spent most of the day cleaning my house. I got the Nick Drake CD Pink Moon from Amazon, so I listened to it about 19 times while I cleaned. Music is the only thing that seems to motivate me to housework. Actually, I guess it's more like a resignation, and I need music to help me forget about the resentment of cleaning's necessity. On Sunday I met up with my friend Brad and we ventured down to the MAC to see To Kill a Mockingbird. It was so fun seeing it on the big screen. All of the characters in the movie said "churren" for the word children which cracked me up. Then afterward Brad accompanied me to Bizzy and Tom's for pad thai. I cannot impress upon you, dear readers, of the magnitude of the dinner's deliciousness. I have had pad thai before and have always been somewhat underwhelmed. This changed my whole attitude. To top it all off, there was a gorgeous strawberry pie for dessert!

By the way, at some point during the weekend, I watched The Painted Veil. There were a couple of predictable points in the movie, but all in all it was quite good. More importantly, Ed Norton was incredibly hot...much hotter than Liev Schreiber who also starred.

Namaste

2007-08-28T20:00:00.000-05:00

It's been a strange few days. I spent most of Saturday just lounging around the house cooking this and that and doing a little housework. Once I'd created my very own version of an Italian meatloaf and whipped up some risotto, I decided to settle in and finally watch the Netflix movie that had been laying around my house for several days, Sylvia. I had been putting it off, because a person has to be in just the right mood to enjoy what promises to be at least a slight downer. I was also a little anxious because much lesser things (like being out of freezer pops) often have the power to drop kick my mood into blackness. The movie itself was ok...not great...but on the ok-plus side, and it was good enough to make me do something I thought I'd never do...re-read The Bell Jar.

I was a late comer to the book, being somewhere around the age of 21 before picking it up for the first time. The timing couldn't have been worse. I was probably my most self-absorbed, self-pitying, all-about-my-self self at that point in my former life. I plunged into it so empathetically at the time that I could feel the character of Esther deftly creeping into my pores like second-hand smoke. I began to worry incessantly about everything...normal things like my future, my daughter, my farce of a marriage...and not so normal things like the possibility of having an inoperable brain tumor or wondering who would love me if I suddenly got both legs severed during a head-on collision. Hence, the idea of reading The Bell Jar again was a difficult decision regardless of the fact that I'd just bought a backup copy of it. But read it, I did, and although it held my interest, the depressive effects of it seemed to have faded like so many hot water washings. I was able to look upon Esther not as a sister trudging through societal misery but as a daughter grasping for hope.

As I finished it last night, I coincidentally flipped on the TV to find the documentary The Bridge. Although I've not stopped thinking about the movie since I finished it, I have yet to find the words to describe it. Simply put, it is the story of the Golden Gate Bridge, this nation's most popular suicide destination.

Since it was erected in 1937 the Golden Gate Bridge has assisted in the deaths of over 1,000 people.
The first, 47-year-old Harold Wobber, plunged to his death a scant three months after its opening.
It is estimated that there is a jumper roughly every two weeks.
Chances for surviving the four-second fall from the bridge are slim. Most of the deaths are caused by multiple blunt force injuries from hitting the water at roughly 75 mph.
Bones snap like twigs and ribs and back bones compressed with such force that they grind internal organs into guacamole.

The difficult thing to take about this movie is that the director caught 19 of the 24 jumps of 2004 on film. And between snippets of the victims pacing back and forth along the bridge's walkway, their families and friends speak of the interminable depression suffered by their loved ones. It is one of the most difficult films I've ever watched, and I warn you that it is not one to be entered into lightly. It will affect you, and like me you may wonder if watching it was really in your best interest. But it might make you wonder if a kind word here and there is really that expensive a gift to give someone poised on the edge of the end.

Namaste

2007-08-24T20:58:00.000-05:00

First off...CONGRATULATIONS to Bizzy on her blog print debut! Check out the details here. Thank God people around here are finally recognizing that a) there is this thing called the internet where people do stuff, and b) Bizzy rocks it.

Just returned from another delicious and fun filled dinner with my friends Sue Ellen and Jeremy. It's always so fun visiting with them. It's one of the few places where I can be guaranteed at the very least five belly laughs PLUS a phenomenal meal. Good stuff. Miracle of miracles, I actually took a peanut butter pie over there this time (thanks for the recipe, B!). It did a little triple somersault out of the freezer at its presentation. The dismount was perfect, so it didn't get kicked off the squad...although it did fail the Jerm Cream Cheese/Avocado Taste-o-lator.

As sometimes happens, we digressed into something totally off-base...myspace. First, let me say that I'm a little confused by myspace. Is it a blog or a new age chain letter? It's exhausting linking to this person and then that person and then someone you totally forgot you graduated with. Before you know it, you've spent hours looking through links and learning absolutely nothing except that someone you knew in 1993 has a kid now and is living in another state.

Namaste

2007-08-20T19:53:00.000-05:00

I had to submit a quick note to tell you that while volunteering for the River's Edge Film Festival over the weekend, my friend Brad was stunned to come face-to-face with Dorothy Lyman. Some of you clever readers may know her as Naomi from the 80s sitcom, Mama's Family. Ms. Lyman directed an entry in this year's festival called Northern Kingdom. The film is based on a play by Andes, Delhi resident Nancy Sayles Garrett and follows three interconnected families in an agricultural town and their interaction with an injured Iraq-conflict veteran who upon his return befriends a troubled boy who is building a bomb. The play was developed into a screenplay after Lyman saw a staged reading in New York City.

After Brad related the sighting, I kept wondering things like...

"Did she stay at the new Residence Inn or at The Big E (and if so, did she meet Essie)?"

"Did she eat at Di Fratelli's or Doe's or did she just hang out at O'Charley's like Robert Downey, Jr. did during his stay?"

"Did she visit any of the Lowertown galleries or did she just go to JC Penney like Demi Moore?"

I wondered if she went in the Groundfloor (my favorite downtown store) and what she thought about that white dusted angel/statue-guy posed on Broadway on Saturday night. What did she think about the people line dancing in the street to the musical stylings of sweaty country karaoke man? I wondered if she had any clue just how many episodes of Mama's Family everyone around here has seen.

I wish I could have asked her what it was like to work with Vicki Lawrence and Fran Drescher and if the staff at the MAC was friendly to her or knew who she was or gave her a free REFF coffee mug.

Why didn't I volunteer again this year??!!

Namaste

2007-08-17T18:23:00.000-05:00

I just had to post the fact that I received an email from my friends Jeremy and Sue Ellen today that while travelling they just happened to run into this baseball legend somewhereabouts Nashville, Tennessee. Personally, I wouldn't have known him from my high school gym teacher, but Jerm is quite the baseball officianado. Or maybe it's just because they know everyone everywhere. No kidding. I don't know how they do it. If you have ever been out with them, you know exactly what I mean. It's like going out with Bizzy and Tom. If you go out to dinner with them, or Sam's Club or the Minit Mart...someone will shout out. It's pure craziness.
Namaste

Pretty Scary Stuff

2007-08-15T19:35:00.000-05:00

War Czar' Concerned over Stress of War on Troops

Namaste

2007-08-15T19:01:00.000-05:00

Update: Jerry's sink is currently going for $16,100.00. His water spigot is only going for $92.05. Bargain.

What is it about a stamp machine at the USPS that keeps it out of order 90% of the time? Our Coke machine at work is NEVER out of order, although it is out of Diet Coke a lot. Today, I left for work early with no cash when I realized that I needed to mail an envelope (a.k.a. bill). Even though I only needed a dollar to buy the stamp, I drove to the bank machine and had to withdraw $20 since that is the smallest denomination available for withdrawal anymore (?!). As I was driving back toward the post office it dawned on me that I would have to get change for a $20, because the stamp machine only takes $5 and $1. And, BTW, who would want $19 in freaking Sacajawea doubloons if it did take $20? The weight of your purse would equal that of the stamp machine. So I turned around and headed toward Hardee's to buy the breakfast to break the $20 to buy the stamp to mail the bill that I didn't want to pay in the first place. So, after waiting in line for 15 minutes to get the breakfast, I race back toward the USPS, and what to my wondering eyes should appear? A sign reading COINS ONLY.

Namaste

2007-08-14T17:33:00.000-05:00

Celebrity Death Matches I'd like to see...

Pat Sajak
vs.
Alex Trebek

(what's up w/this naked Alex picture?)

Tom Sizemore
vs.
Danny Bonaduce

Emeril Lagasse
vs.
Paula Dean

Stephen King
vs.
J.K. Rowling

Bob Hoskins
vs.
Danny Devito

Vern Troyer
vs.
Matt Roloff

Mayor Paxton
vs.
Judge Newberry

Circuit City
vs.
Bestbuy

And last but not least...

and

vs.

Namaste!

2007-08-13T18:33:00.000-05:00

This is disgusting. As I type there are 37 bids. Highest bidder is $5,000.

Following is a section of the description:

"All items were working when removed and are now sold “as is” with no express or implied warranty of operability or fitness for use or purpose.
To authenticate the fixtures and cabinets, successful bidders will receive a copy of the deeds of sale to Jerry Garcia and from the Garcia Estate along with a signed declaration by the former owner of the house verifying the items were removed from the house. By the sale of these items, no disrespect is intended towards the memory of Jerry [note the use of the familiar "Jerry" here, is if they had some personal association]. This auction and the Sophia Foundation are not affiliated with nor endorsed by either the Jerry Garcia Estate or the Grateful Dead."

No disrespect? It's on eBay.

Shout out to Michael for drawing my attention to this classic display of American capitalism. Which is the greater evil: selling the kitchen sink of Jerry Garcia at auction on eBay or buying the kitchen sink of Jerry Garcia at auction on eBay?

Namaste

2007-08-12T20:18:00.000-05:00

Last night I was treated to dinner at the home of friends Jeremy and Sue Ellen. The meal was delicious: veal piccata, grilled vegetables and gnocchi. Sue Ellen tried to teach me the art of making gnocchi, but I'm not sure it really took since I'd finished at least 1/2 bottle of red wine by that time. The more wine, the more conversation, and a question was posed that caused quite a bit of discussion: if a person is sexy, does that generally equate to that person's being a good lover? There was no general concensus. What do you guys think?

After dinner we went out on the deck with the last of our wine and watched the meteor showers. It was a perfect night. The sky was crystal clear. The temperature was just right. We saw several falling stars, but I never wished on one. I am not sure if that means I'm cynical or hopeless.

Namaste

The Tao of Steve

2007-08-12T09:58:00.000-05:00

The weekend began innocently enough. Adam, Brad's fraternity brother (left), came in for a long weekend. He was on hiatus from his residency in pediatric oncology in Houston. Brad thought it would be fun to show Adam around downtown Paducah, so several of us met after work on Thursday at Doe's. We spent time sampling the mixological specialties of Paul and Travis and discussing the alcohol content of the various Budweiser products on tap. From there it was on to Ristorante Di Fratelli for dinner. Since I'd already eaten once, I ordered the tuna tare tare (sp?) which was absolutely delicious. It was also at this point that we were schooled on the smoothness of Level vodka by Justin. To drive home his point, he ordered a vodka tonic for Adam who had been playing devil's advocate to Justin's professions of perfection in Level. After dinner the real craziness ensued when we asked the inevitable question: What tour of downtown Paducah would be complete without a visit to the legendary Silver Bullet?

You can't really see into the bar from the street, so we had no idea what we were getting into until it was too late. Karaoke night at The Bullet. A distorted "Hit Me with Your Best Shot" blared as we entered to blank, drunken stares. We strolled as nonchalantly as possible to the very back of the bar and sidled up at the end right beside (marvel of marvels) an ATM machine. The bartender was very welcoming and attentive, but the same could not be said for the clientele. Their suspicious looks were unsettling and progressed to a state of alarm when I decided that I simply could not let the opportunity to document our presence go by. The idea was to get a shot of several of us sitting at the bar with the karaoke madness in the background. But when the flash went off, things took a turn for the worse. Immediately, this man...

...turned toward me with a sinister stare and began pointing and shaking his head mouthing the word "no." I ducked behind Michael and carefully placed my camera back in my purse. "Holy smokes, that guy is MAD!" He then proceeded to carefully ease off his bar stool and move toward us.

"Don't you take my picture no more. You hear me?"

Adam spoke up, "She wasn't taking a picture of you. She was taking a picture of her friends sitting here at the bar."

The man didn't turn but continued to glare intently at me. "You hear me? Don't you take my picture no more."

Seeing that I was clearly terrified, Adam then tried to divert the conversation and reiterated, "She wasn't trying to take your picture. She was taking a picture of her friends here." As if in slow motion, the man turned toward Adam. "What's your name?"

Adam replied, "Steve. What's your name?"

The man stood speechless for a couple of seconds. "That's MY name!" And then it was on. A potential barroom brawl averted and a new lifelong (or maybe hour-long) friendship was born. Steve never did stop telling me not to take his picture and oddly enough began calling me Gwen.

The bar got happier and people began Texas two-stepping up the aisle behind us. The lady in the foreground above asked Brad to dance, but when Brad pointed to Adam and said that he would be a better candidate, she huffed and went to the end of the bar to sit and stare at us. When she got over it in about 15 minutes, she came up to Adam and asked him why he was wearing a shirt. (!)

When we couldn't decide on a song to sing for karaoke, we decided to give Steve and the rest of our new friends a break and move on to Jeremiah's. It was at that point I decided that the Steve Incident had worn me out and I needed to head back to the house.

Before I left, Adam threw down the gauntlet. "I vow to visit any bar seedier than The Silver Bullet at any point during my stay. If you can think of one, I will go." Seedier than the Bullet? I am still studying on that one.

Namaste

Anna vs. Barry

2007-08-08T19:11:00.000-05:00

After work today I spent some time with my friends Ed, Adam and Doogs. (I can't really count the other guy Mike since this was our first actual hang out session.) Every time I see them, I always think about how much I miss them. It's hard to come across people who are who they say they are. They are them. It's so refreshing to be able to listen and laugh and interact and not have to worry about whether or not they "get" you. If they don't, they let you know. They ask questions. They trust. They believe that you are also who you say you are. (Wouldn't it be wonderful it the whole world was that way?) We spent time talking about everything from interpersonal dynamics to politics. While covering this plethora of subjects, I posed the following to the lone Catholic in the group: "When I was growing up, I always thought that Catholics, by and large, were Democrats. Is that true?" This sparked some in-depth discussion, and I came away still not knowing for sure. Mr. Catholic asserted that there was a shift in the Catholic political affiliations during the Reagan administration and that the Catholic vote has been much more diverse since that time. I had assumed that the split was due to Roe vs. Wade. I wondered what the Pope would say. The only general agreement throughout the entire conversation was that gee dubya is a total dumb a$$.

Another thing that raised the decibel level slightly tonight was the Barry Bondsimonium. Mr. Negative said he was sick to death of the Slam Watch and that he would have thrown pitches in the dirt in front of home plate before allowing yet another HR for BB. I thought the whole thing was pretty amazing and claimed that I would have lobbed a meatball right down the middle just to see him hit the big one. Mr. Cynical said that he just wished Anna Nicole was still around.

Namaste

2007-08-07T21:35:00.000-05:00

Short post.

Just finished As Simple as Snow by Gregory Galloway. Interesting stuff. Difficult to get into initially, but the writing seemed to get richer as the plot thickened. Lots of puzzles and obscure references. Don't read it if you like your books tied up in a neat little bow at the end. It ends on a minor note leaving you wanting more but with enough for a little introspection.

It reminded me of how much I need to buy some Nick Drake.

Namaste

2007-08-06T18:24:00.000-05:00

Congratulations to Allison and Ian on the birth of their new baby boy, Isaac. I love this picture of Justin holding him.

From what I can gather, all is well with Allison. It's crazy how you can just sorta schedule a baby these days. The whole time she was pregnant, Allison knew her due date. "Area" doctors have come a long way. In the days of Fred and Barney when my kids were born, health care professionals had to consult the I Ching and Magic 8 Ball before venturing a guess as to the birth date of a child. In addition, there were labor rooms and then there were delivery rooms. There was absolutely NO mixing of the two. And no one, NO ONE was allowed in delivery aside from the doctor, five nurses, seven surgical techs, three residency students and the father. What if someone other than a health care professional breathed on the baby? There are health standards to think about, you know.

All that said, I have to send out a big hug to Allison. She has been a real trooper through this whole thing and even worked up until practically the last possible moment. (The girl is tough, I'm telling you.) Congratulations. He's adorable.

I know you're wondering, so I will go ahead and tell you: I am reading As Simple As Snow by Gregory Galloway right now. So far, it's pretty interesting. I will keep you posted.

There's some kind of wild rumor that a trip to Current River is in the making a couple of weeks from now. I have never been, but they tell me it is the ultimate redneck adventure. Current River Officianados even say there are things called "cooler tubes" that you can rent just for your beer! Could an outdoor adventure be more convenient?

Namaste

Pining for a Tropical Infusion

2007-08-04T16:58:00.000-05:00

Whew! Just finished a whirlwind tour of the east end of KY Oaks Mall and properties within close proximity. I have never been so exhausted in my life. I had forgotten how many things one has to tote when a baby is involved. Purses, diaper bags, strollers. It's a workout just getting in and out of the car. We shopped at JC Penney for a little while then The Children's Place, and then on to Elder Beerman in desperate search of Michael Kors Hawaii. I just bought this alluring "new" cologne this spring, and already it's off the shelves...permanently from what I can gather. I am incredibly loyal to my colognes, so to bring a new one in to sit beside Lauren is rare. Now, when I realize how in love I am with Michael Kors, it's too late. Story of my life.

This weekend actually began on Thursday when I found out that my friend Brad had passed his CISA exam. (Hooray for Brad!!) Straight away that night we met at Max's with Justin and The Gang to celebrate. It was somewhat of a low key gathering replete with imports, brie and giggling in the garden. The fact that Justin is a VIP by the bartender's own admission meant that the rest of us were ad hoc VIPs that night, as well. It was a fun night while it lasted, but I had to run my tab early and get to bed. As you all know, good times past 9 p.m. can send my sensitive sleep patterns into disarray for weeks.

On Friday night I was treated to dinner by my friends Sue Ellen and Jeremy. Jeremy grilled the most delicious 2 1/2 inch thick pork chops. I marveled for some time afterward at how he'd gotten them adequately cooked without drying them out...always my downfall. It was nice to get to visit with them. Although I'd seen them a few times over the past several weeks, the opportunity to sit and talk just hadn't been there. You know how that goes.

Now it's almost 6 p.m. on Saturday, and I'm whining about where to go and what to do...always the same, tired routine. If only I had my Michael Kors Hawaii cologne. Then at least I'd feel tropically enhanced while doing the same old same old...nothing.

Namaste

2007-08-01T19:36:00.001-05:00

Forgive me, dear readers, for I have sinned. I have not posted in weeks...primarily due to the fact that I've become obsessed with goodreads.com and, hence, can't stop reading even long enough to type these few short words.

I just this evening finished the Jennifer Belle book "Little Stalker." I got there, innocently enough, by way of "Going Down." I liked her style of writing, so when I noticed that "Little Stalker" was a thinly veiled story of the author's obssession with Woody Allen, I knew I had to run out and get it THIS MINUTE. I even went so far as to call Borders (with my timely 20% off e-coupon) and reserve the one copy in the store. Trouble is, I was just coming off the Friends of the Library Manna From Heaven Super Sale with a lingering case of yard-sale-itis and experienced severe sticker shock at the $21 total (this included my 20% off e-coupon!) price for Jennifer Belle's newest novel. Just this past weekend I'd hauled away upwards of 14 books for a total sale price of around $7. [SEVEN DOLLARS!] And two days later I'm shelling out $21 (inc. the coupon!) for a book whose cover was amateurish and a little spooky (but, I guess that was the point). I was much too embarrassed to ask for the book by name from the husky Borders bookman. I mean, think about it. I'd RESERVED it. Such a dope.

So the book itself was pretty good, and I couldn't help but feel a kinship with the main character. I myself have defended Woody Allen on many an occasion, regardless of his quasi-incestuous marriage and marginally good recent movies (except for Match Point, of course). "You just can't argue genius," I'd say. My personal life is a shambles most of the time, too. Who am I to judge?

Other than that, I read "The Secret Life of Bees" over the weekend. I'm pretty sure that I'm the last woman in the contiguous 50 to read that one. I couldn't really relate to any of the characters although they all seemed charming and wonderful from far away.

You see what happens to me? I get stuck in a groove and can't seem to scratch my way out. Don't get me wrong, there are worse things to be compulsive about than reading. It's just that while I'm in this psychological holding pattern, I kinda let a lot of other things like maybe laundry or vacuuming fall by the wayside.

A strange thing happened to me today while at a work function. A lady came up to me and said she'd seen me on Bizzyville. We had a really nice conversation about the Greatness of Bizzy, about her hilarious writing style and super cool personal style. It was an odd feeling though to be recognized and I wondered if that was how Kathy Griffin's personal assistant Jessica felt when people recognized her from the show. Of course, there's a big difference in being recognized in New York City and being recognized in Paducah, but maybe not that big a difference if you consider the statistics per capita. It's possible...don't you think? ...Possibly?

Namaste

Good Reads

2007-07-21T10:05:00.001-05:00

I warn you that once you visit goodreads, you may be there for hours. Many thanks to my friend Audrey for turning me onto this addictive website.

Namaste!

2007-07-18T18:23:00.001-05:00

Let me preface this post by saying that I'm exhausted...more exhausted than probably this guy here who has been acetoned and polymered and holding this pose for months. I had to go out of town for a couple of days on business, but it provided an opportunity for enlightenment that I would never have had otherwise. The Bodies Exhibition.

If you haven't heard about it...

"Bodies... The Exhibition examines the intricacies and complexities that lie beneath your skin through the use of a unique polymer preservation process applied to real human bodies."

It was absolutely amazing. When I returned home and attempted to relate this amazement to my daughter, I kept saying "They were real live dead people!". The simple word "cadavers" just couldn't quite impart the weight of the situation like that ridiculously improper statement could.

The exhibit begins with the skeletal system and builds (literally) with each turn of the corner, packing on more anatomical systems and more incredible body facts until it ends in a huge encased pile of skin at the end of the tour. This, incidentally, was the one thing that gave my digestive system a whirl. Strangely enough, although I was looking at cadavers and seeing "live dead" organs, I was so intrigued that it simply didn't register until...

Me to the tiny white coated bouncer-lady with the conspicuous lapel pin 'Ask Me About BODIES' : "Where did all of these cadavers come from, anyway?"

Bouncer/lady: "If you'll notice, all of these cadavers are Asian. [Chinese Dr.] gathered all of them in China. You see, China has the same law that we have. If remains are not claimed within two years of death, they become state property and are used for research. (dramatic pause) Believe it or not, [Chinese Dr.] began this project almost 30 years ago!"

First, I knew these models (may I call them that?) were small, but I simply didn't get the Asian thing. Obviously I should have.

Secondly...unclaimed remains?? UNCLAIMED REMAINS??!! I thought about unclaimed remains for hours after the tour and, frankly, I am still thinking about it. Could anything be more dismal, more disparaging than being the cadaver that time (and blood relations) forgot?

Yes, because not only were these cadavers unclaimed, but they all appeared to be unbelievably heavy smokers up to their timely (yes, all natural causes) deaths. Model after model sported perfect muscles, trim bodies, and black as coal lungs. With each turn of the corner, more dark gray lungs until it became almost comical. Were these models plucked from cancer wards? Was this an unfortunate anatomical coincidence? Did they somehow know that they would eventually be models? Or do ALL Chinese chainsmoke?

Lastly...the cardiovascular system. Walking into the room with the hearts made me sadder than anything I could ever have imagined. There they were...little hearts in their little glass encasements, shamelessly posed and paraded, the color of pre-packaged grocery store tripe. They were separated, each in its own singular side-by-side case. No other organs within three feet. I don't know how to explain the sadness of the hearts. All I can say is that you must see it yourself. There's more to discover at the BODIES exhibit than the simple truths of anatomy.

Namaste

Paris Je T'Aime

2007-07-07T06:29:00.000-05:00

Last night my friends Brad, Justin and I took in Paris Je T'Aime at the MAC. The film was pretty cool and perfect for moviegoers with ADD since it was actually 18 movies in one. Being fluent in French, Brad kept me updated on the subtitle failures and provided a guided tour of the city through each of the vignettes. The last installment provided us with insight as to what quilters might feel in our own City of Murals. (So much to see, so little time.) It was hilarious, but Brad, Justin and I seemed to be the only people giggling. I think we were supposed to be feeling her loneliness, but I guess we're way too cynical for that sort of thing.

I need to take a moment here to tell you about my infatuation with Gerard Depardieu. He played a tiny part in one of the vignettes, but during the entire five minutes I just wanted more Gerard. What the...? Brad says it's just that I have a thing for big, round bellies, but it's more than that. It goes beyond his basketball-sized waist, enormous nose and unintelligible French accent. Something about his on-screen diffidence makes him incredibly endearing and quite sexy. I also can't get enough of Rufus Sewell (who also starred), despite his propensity to wall-eye on occasion. But that's much easier to see (no pun intended). Gerard seems to have a commanding presence that most actors do not have, something mysterious. Is this what is meant by je nais se qua?

Namaste

Tom Colicchio Rocks

2007-07-01T09:11:00.000-05:00

Got it, in case you were wondering. Good stuff, in case you were wondering.

Tom covers roasting, braising blanching, stock-making and sauce-making, explaining the hows and whys of each technique in depth. From there he explains how to use these techniques as tools for creating your own culinary masterpieces. He also provides tips on how to choose ingredients, the best salt to use for cooking, use and storage of herbs, and how to "listen" to the food as it cooks.

Don't forget that the new season of Top Chef is now off and running. Catch Tom each Wednesday night at 9 p.m. CST on Bravo giving those punk chefs what for.

Namaste

Nickel Creek

2007-07-01T08:19:00.000-05:00

Nickel Creek is coming to The Carson Center! My friend Brad just sent me this link that I think you will enjoy. I especially liked the clip of Nick Thile as a kid (even younger than now). Their music is hard to describe. (Is there such thing as bluegrass jazz?) A lot of their music is free form, with long musical diversions highlighting the talent each has with his or her preferred instrument (The Smoothie Song). But they also dance along the folk genre as in the songs Green and Gray and The Lighthouse's Tale.

Tickets are on sale now (and are cheap, cheap, cheap) for the event in Paducah on July 13. I believe that you will not be disappointed in what promises to be a phenomenal show.

See you there!

Namaste

BeliefNet

2007-06-11T19:48:00.000-05:00

If you've ever questioned whether what you believe spiritually is actually what you believe spiritually (you who ask yourself these questions will know exactly what I mean), take a trip over to BeliefNet for a little quiz. Come to find out, my Southern Baptist roots don't even rate in the Top 20 of my current beliefs. As a matter of fact, I've never even heard of some of the religions that my beliefs appear to fit.
Namaste!

The County

2007-06-11T18:09:00.000-05:00

After work on Friday, I drove down to say goodbye to one of my long-time neighbors and distant relatives. It was sad to think that although I'd driven by her house countless times through the years, I don't believe we'd ever really spoken. I'd often admired her little place on the curve going out to my mother's. It was surrounded by fields and trees with no close neighbors unless you counted her son and his family who lived roughly 1/4 mile away (as the crow flies). Her grandson rode my school bus from my eighth grade year on, and he and his sister were sometimes the only two on the bus when my brother and I boarded it on pitch black fall mornings. Thinking about it now, I can still remember where he sat every day...halfway toward the front on the right, close to the window, never slouching, sometimes reading. It's funny the things I can remember from childhood compared to the detail I recall during life as an adult. It's both sad and odd, like this picture of Front Street that I took while driving with my mother and grandmother after the funeral on Friday night:

Look at all the empty buildings. I don't believe that there is one left that is home to an actual business, nor is there one that is fit to do so. While I was taking this picture my grandmother remarked that there was a time when every single building housed a successful business and that a person could barely drive down the street on weekends for being so packed. She mentioned the grocery stores, clothing stores, the theater. Even when I was a kid, most of those things were distant memories to county residents. I have to admit though that there are still times when I dream of being inside Webb's grocery. I am always on my way to the back to get a bottle of Pepsi out of the machine. I don't know how that particular store managed to creep into my dreams as an adult, but it has done so on more than a couple of occasions. I remember the store vividly, even now. There were two long aisles going the length of the store and many short aisles in between so that shopping there was like walking a railroad track. Bud or Bill was always back behind the meat counter waiting on a customer. I often marveled at how they seemed to know instinctively how wide to open their hand to grab exactly one pound of ground beef or how many slices equaled two pounds of bacon. Annette stood ready at the checkout in the front of the store. Her post was strategic so that during the inevitable slow hours she could stare out the plate glass window watching the comings and goings of the county. Sometimes I could tell that Annette would grow a little perturbed when I spent too much time loitering in front of the candy stand trying to choose between a Marathon bar and a Sugar Daddy. She never neglected to thank me for my business though. I am so sad yearning for my lost days of youth, that I am forced to post this picture in order to bring things back to present day reality:

This is now The Nicest Thing on Front Street. I wish that I could have gotten a better picture of it. I should have gotten out and stood beside it so that you could see that it is a miniature chapel. It even has a tiny gate (midget-sized) which I can only assume is used to keep the (miniature) riff-raff out. It's itty bitty, this gate...but not just only that....there's a teensy fence running the perimeter of the entire miniature thing. Words just cannot do justice to the magnitude of its petiteness nor the sadness of its immaculate grounds. How can the county keep such a pristine midget park while less than 50 yards away big people buildings are crumbling before their eyes?!

Namaste

Alzheimer's vs. Dementia

2007-06-07T18:01:00.000-05:00

I should have known it was going to be "that kinda day" when my eyeballs popped open at 5:15 without cause. I was undeniably wide awake, but there was no movement at all. I just laid there like a quadraplegic staring at the ceiling...straight up Star Trek sick bay pose. None of the usual rolling around, closing my eyes and drifting back to (pretend) sleep.

Let me interject something here, something you should probably know about me. I am one of those people who is way too jumpy to ever hit snooze or doze off as I might actually FALL asleep...the real thing...as in deep rest. I could sleep for seconds, possibly minutes! This is a chance I could never take. Hell, no. No way. God forbid I should ever wake up late (6 a.m.). The trade off is much too steep. It would absolutely ruin me, possibly forever.

Hmmm...I wonder if this has some connection to my Saturday morning insomnia. Good question. Is there such thing as oversleep-aphobia?

So...I laid there frozen for a full 20 minutes before dragging my feet onto the floor and heading for the coffee maker. May I say, I hate making coffee. Despise it. It's one of those generic things like buying paper towels that spurs hypertension without cause. I especially hate making coffee when I've bought some crappy flavored Folger's because I'd shot the wad earlier in the week buying 1/2 wines at World Market. Anyway, I'd gotten up to make the foul Folger's and moved onto the shower. Got in, washed my hair, was poised to move to phase II with the washing of the self when I looked down and "slam." I'd actually moved through ten minutes of shower time without noticing that I was wearing my BRA. Yep, there I was getting ready to soak up my harness with a little Caress Daily Silkening cleanser. WTF? "I must be losing my ever loving mind!" I marveled aloud to No One [sad frown]. And that's the way it all began. Thank God I have you guys to talk to about this, because I need your help.

Would you say Alzheimer's or straight up dementia? I'm truly torn.

Namaste

Top Chef Season 3

2007-06-04T19:23:00.000-05:00

I am so excited about the new season of Top Chef starting June 13 that I've spent the last hour browsing Tom Colicchio's cooking (as opposed to cook) books on Amazon.com. I am especially lusting after Think Like a Chef. I have always admired Tom's straightforward comments about the dishes prepared on the show. He doesn't mince words when it comes to criticism, but he will also give credit where credit is due. He's not one of these egomaniacs who believes that up-and-comers could never hold a candle to what he himself did in the kitchen last week. Tom is always incredibly professional, which makes me think I need at least one of his books for my very small collection.

To get me even more wound up about Season 3 of Top Chef, there's a Celebrity Chef Death Match [beware - video link] scheduled for Wednesday night, June 6 which pits Season 1 Chefs against Season 2. Can you even imagine? That means at least one more look at Chef Sam Talbot. Good Lord. Talk about bringing the heat in a kitchen. Whew!
Namaste

Aisle 19 Lady

2007-06-02T06:11:00.000-05:00

It's 6 a.m. on Saturday morning. 6 a.m., people. Why? Why, even though I crave a long, luxurious 12 hour siesta must I arise at the crack of dawn even on non-chain gang days? Thing is, it's actually worse than it seems, because I've been awake since 5:15. Most Saturdays I'd be at Wal-mart right now in my New Orleans baseball cap selecting groceries for the week and ducking down alternate aisles to avoid the colossol floor buffer. If you've ever had weekend insomnia and taken to the city's only open venue at an ungodly hour, you might agree that it's actually a somewhat pleasant experience compared to visiting somewhere around 2 p.m. The third shift employees seem much more relaxed than their day shift counterparts. They are smiling and helpful even whilst artfully arranging boxes of Ritz crackers. The butchers gather in front of the ground beef freezer talking about sports or late deliveries. Ladies stand with carts of emptied boxes chatting in front of the vitamins. The only stressed workers appear to be those in the produce department and the sad lady on aisle 19. Poor Aisle 19 Lady. While the other night workers spend the last moments of their shift gathered around the service desk telling jokes, Aisle 19 Lady methodically drags items across the bar scanner, red-eyed and scowling. Third-shifters picking up their wares before heading home attempt small talk with Aisle 19 Lady while we all wait in the only open lane. She gives one-syllable answers to their questions and steals sidelong glances at the slackers at the service desk. I can imagine that Aisle 19 must have the highest burnout rate of any other post, and I feel for Aisle 19 Lady. I think about my own job and breathe a sigh of relief. Even on my worst days when employees are fuming or I've totally screwed something up, it must be better than the resentment inherent behind Aisle 19. As I push my cart away and step out of the automatic doors toward my car, I hope and pray that Aisle 19 Lady will one day be promoted to Aisle 20, or better yet to the podium at the end of the self-check stations. Although she is doing us insomniacs a great service standing at the ready into the wee hours of the morning, I believe that there must be a better life. Maybe one day she will be on the other side making small talk herself and wondering why 6 a.m. is her inevitable waking hour.
Namaste

Teensy Shorts and World Market

2007-05-24T16:37:00.000-05:00

Today has been one of those days wherein I have run around all day long doing things that I had much rather not be doing. "What happened to work?" you ask. Well, my office was being dismantled and resurrected in another part of the building today. My cell mate and I had planned on coming in at noon, but when I arrived to survey the new digs, no go. It appeared that [Unmentionable Local Office Supply Co.] had the same hours as me. Strangely enough, they ran somewhat of a parallel course with me throughout the day. When I left the office, they left for lunch. When I came back, they were just getting back to business, and so on. I have attempted to catch up on correspondence here from home, but I gave up after my third attempt to go into work and went shorts shopping instead.

Which leads me to this...

Why is it that NONE of the cute, quasi-conservative shorts on the Old Navy website reside in an actual store? When I showed up at our local ON, all I found were these:

And while I WISH I could sport these somewhere other than inside the confines of the local ON dressing room, I'd rather not buy the additional butt bra to do so. Everywhere I looked were these teensy shorts strategically placed beside just as teensy tanks. What about us regular old Non-teensys? We're the ones with the disposable (or at least budgetable) incomes. Why are there no shorts for us? Are we supposed to only care about shoes and handbags? Do we HAVE to wear those stupid (and I own some) cropped pants regardless of the unbearable heat and humidity? I have to interject here that Old Navy is not alone. I went to three separate and distinct area clothing stores with the same miserable results. I was so sad and dejected, in fact, that as I was leaving Kohl's I suddenly remembered the Wine Sale at World Market. What can I say? Instead of spending countless more depressing hours rifling through mini-shorts, I chose to spend my somewhat short shorts budget on 1/2 price wines. I must admit that being Non-teensy does have its advantages, i.e. 50% off a bottle of Toasted Head Merlot and the driver's license with which to buy it.

Namaste

Just one more thing...

2007-05-16T19:47:00.000-05:00

Sorry, but I just had to post this photo I took of Carson in action at Saturday's game. (She will be peeved if she finds out). I was surprised that I was able to catch something (anything) in action with that little Kodak digital. Digital cameras are such an adjustment for me. It's taking me so long to really get the hang of using them. Hopefully, one day, I can upgrade to one of those really nice $700-$800 jobs. In the meantime, I'll just keep practicing NOT looking through a viewfinder.
Namaste!

Scenes From a Wedding

2007-05-14T19:14:00.000-05:00

My cousin Bethany and her fiance Todd married on Saturday evening. The event couldn't have been more perfect. I was lucky enough to get a photo of Bethany during the ceremony with G-mama looking on, although it was a bit tricky. The church was dimly lit, but the setting sun shown lightly through the stained glass giving the entire ceremony a dreamlike effect. Bethany looked as if she'd just walked off the pages of Bride's magazine, the gown an ideal match for her features: elegant, classic, stunning. My favorite part of the ceremony was a touching reading by the mother of the bride.

I kept thinking back to my teenage years of the summer spent babysitting the bride and her sister. Bethany was such a happy, active toddler and her sister the cutest, sweetest and most helpful little girl. It was one of the most memorable summers of my youth: days filled with hide-and-seek, coloring, puzzles and nights of listening to music with the windows wide open.

I am bound to digress even further unless I stop myself now. My main objective was to post some photos from the reception.

Mona BB and Tony enjoying the band
Tyler and Toby - The Prom Pose

G-mama and The Gang

I took lots more pictures with the old-fashioned Canon 35 mm, but those will take days to be developed. I apologize for the short post, but I just finished hosting a dinner for my parents and brother. I'm dragging just a bit.

Namaste

X and My Shrink

2007-05-11T18:44:00.000-05:00

Good afternoon, beautiful reader. I have missed you so. Today is the first day in weeks that I have had the house to myself. I know that it won't last long, so I'm savoring every moment.

BizBlog is fabulous today. I have been so behind on her life that reading it was like having a chocolate cake with chocolate icing for breakfast. It's so hilariously honest. Her truth is so refreshing. It's more than refreshing, it's LIBERATING. Thanks for the post, Bizzy. It dug me out of a real funk. What's really odd about it is that I've been muddling through my own little parallel mini dramas.

What is it about people that inspires them to attempt puppet mastery? It's so incredibly fruitless. Even if they manipulate someone into doing exactly what they want, what follows is barren and hollow and they're left with a nagging suspicion that won't go away. Then the suspicion feeds upon itself and there's more manipulation and more barrenness and more suspicion...and, well, you get the picture. It's exhausting for everyone involved. Case in point, conversation with The X. My Shrink calls his tactic The Relationship Triangle...

"Well, I guess you know what [Daughter] is doing tonight."

"Mmm. Hmmm."

"Well, what do you think about it?" And without even breathing, launches into "I think [blah, blah, blah, ad nauseum]." This is X's first attempt to lure me into The Relationship Triangle.

I respond with [my first attempt to bypass TRT] "If you feel that way, maybe you should talk to her about that. I'm sure she'd appreciate hearing your thoughts." By proposing that X speak directly to [Daughter], TRT is momentarily avoided, but...

"Well, don't you think she ought to [blah, blah, blah]? I mean, if she does this, [so and so] is going to happen."

Again, I try to divert TRT by saying "Well, I think we've raised her relatively well. It's her life, after all. She is free to make decisions about things like that."

Through the telephone I can hear X's blood pressure rising exponentially by the nanosecond. "Well, I'm just trying to say that we need to tell her that [blah, blah, blah] and if she does this, then she's going to end up doing [blah, blah]."

And here is where I pull one out of left field...the rusty but trusty Broken Record tactic. "If you feel that way, maybe you should talk to her about that. I'm sure she'd appreciate hearing your thoughts."

X increases the volume as if I've spontaneously developed club disease, "I'M JUST TRYING TO SAY THAT WE NEED TO TELL HER THAT [more blah, blah, blah]."

This goes on for some time with more and more desperate attempts to pull me into TRT. When the call finally ends, I'm absolutely exhausted but NOT guilt-ridden (my normal reaction). It feels so good that I vow to practice staying out of The Relationship Triangle over and over again until it's habit. Speaking of TRT, note the repeated use of "we" by X in conversation. He uses "we" as if there were one. This is a syndrome I've termed the Armchair Dad, cousin to Armchair Quarterback. X thinks that by saying "we" a lot in conversation that I'll forget that no one in this house has seen his face in some time. He thinks that I'll forget that WE haven't been around everyday for ballgames and chemistry projects and crying babies and visitors. WE haven't taken daughters to get their driver's license or fed infants or cooked supper every night. It's funny. Sometimes I wonder if that we-business he uses works with other people. I guess it must.

I'm hoping that today's exercise has drawn me closer to good mental health, but I'm not sure. I am spilling my guts about this to ones and twos of people. What does that say about me? Maybe I should just send a link to this post to My Shrink. It would sure save some cash and maybe then I wouldn't lose sleep wondering where My Shrink gets all of her cute shoes.

Oh, brother

2007-05-08T19:37:00.000-05:00

I came home today to the most spectacular sight. It was a miracle. Care to venture a guess? Don't even bother, because you'd never believe it was my BROTHER mowing my lawn. Can you even stand it? What a nice guy he turned out to be! My mom had been over all day helping B with the baby. I couldn't say for sure, but I have a sneaking suspicion she might have coaxed him a little. The thing is, she knows about my street. My street is a street wherein your lawn is more important than your car, your house or your kids. You could live in a silver bullet travel trailer hooked to a rusty, rotting El Camino with no complaints as long as you keep a lush, dandelion-free outdoor space. On this street, your lawn is an extension not of your home but of your soul. I come home for lunch nearly every day of the week, and nearly every day of the week someone is working in their yard here. They're either mowing or raking or planting or edging or bagging grass clippings. I'm telling you it's the third reich of lawn care over here, and I'm the enemy of the state. See, I'm the only non-Scott's-Lawn-Care-touting lot in the 'hood. I'm the the pitiful neighbor sneaking around at 7 a.m. on Sunday mornings frantically digging up wild onions and pulling at milk weeds. I'm the neighbor whose yard has so many weeds that some are yet to even be named within the Southern Living Gardening Encyclopedia. The good thing is, when the grass (or weeds, as the case may be) is cut this short, it's hard to tell where grass ends and weeds begin.

I'm also the kind of neighbor who has the loudest and brashest of flowers growing in the backyard. These little sirens (a.k.a. Blanket Flowers) came up voluntarily in a totally different area than the ones I had last year. Crazy!

Namaste

Five Generations

2007-05-06T06:33:00.000-05:00

Heidi has had more visitors in five short days than I've had in the entire four years I've lived here combined. The girl is popular, I'm telling ya.

On Friday Heidi's great-grandmother and great-great-grandmother lunched with her. Great-Granny brought a delectible chicken divan in for the occasion, but Heidi stuck with her Nestle Good Start formula. I covered for Heidi by taking on an extra helping myself.

During lunch, Heidi's third cousin Mary and son Jaron (would he be Heidi's fourth cousin or second cousin once removed? It's so confusing.) stopped by to "sneak a little peek-a-loo." I was so excited to hear that Mary and Jaron were getting settled back here in Paducah after a few weeks of visiting in Illinois.

During the visit Mary was gracious enough to take this five generations photo:

Namaste to all you beautiful mothers out there!

Hello, Heidi!

2007-05-03T05:41:00.000-05:00

Heidi arrived on May 1, 2007 at 11:56 a.m. She was 7 lbs. 15 oz. and measured 18 1/2 inches long. Both she and B are doing wonderfully. I will post a full report once I slow down for a few minutes. (This grandparent business is FANTASTIC!)

Namaste!!!!!

Braids

2007-04-27T19:57:00.000-05:00

I wanted to post this for a couple of reasons. First, we are VERY close to welcoming yet another little lady into our Estrogen Den. A false alarm to the hospital this morning proved frustrating for some yet spelled short reprieve for others (mainly to continue my much overdue spring cleaning spree). Second, I wanted to show you my French braiding handiwork. Yes, dear reader, French braids are possible for non-(Mayfield)-beauty-shop-professionals. Even lowly HR personnel can pull them off!

Go Big Blue!

2007-04-27T19:17:00.000-05:00

In a Friday night nail-biting scrap, Carlisle batted in one run to break a 4-4 tie in the bottom of the 7th, stealing victory from the PTHS Lady Tornadoes. Although Brittany pumped a one-run homer and Amanda pushed an RBI over home plate, the Lady Comets pushed their singles with stolen bases to pull runs from the Lady Ts. Both teams played tight defense, and the Lady Ts held it together with some of the best teamwork I've seen all season. Even though the team lost by one, they played like true professionals.

With slighly overcast skies, this was a great night for photos. Following is one I snapped of Brittany (left) and Alexis (right) in the dugout.

As always, PTHS Lady Tornado Softball Fans held their own against the throngs of home Comets. With hoots and cheers, these two PTHS fans in particular kept momentum strong and hopes high throughout the tense evening game. Regardless of their home team affiliations and/or residential zip code (as the case may be), they held true to Big Blue!

Namaste!

Time

2007-04-14T22:50:00.000-05:00

Good evening, wonderful you. I just wanted to write a short update to tell you that the shower was nice. It was so great to see everyone and to meet a few new people, too.

I entered into a conversation with my aunt during the shower by making an observation that as I age, time seems to gain momentum. It all started earlier in the day when I asked my cousin how her new job was going. Her response was, "Good. I will have been there a year next month." My mouth fell open. I honestly felt that time had passed differently for the two of us. To me, it seemed as if she'd only been at her "new" job for two or three months, but she said that she felt the opposite. It felt completely like 12 months to her. I went over and over this in my mind for some time that day until eventually entering into the conversation about time gaining momentum; when in actuality the theory of time dilation may fit the bill more precisely. But how does that explain what happens when you see an old friend from years or decades earlier? When you speak with them, it is as if no time has passed since your last meeting. All the while, your mind is processing physical clues to justify the time passage. Even when you do notice the wrinkles or gray hair or extra weight, the actual connection between the two of you exists free of any constraints of time. Why, for example, hasn't your personality aged or your spirit or your interpersonal connection?

If you have thoughts on this, let me know. This is the kind of thing that will keep me up nights until I get some kind of reasonable explanation.

Well, per instruction from Suz, I am going to take a hot bath and de-stress. This time thing is killing my brain.

Namaste

2007-04-14T06:19:00.000-05:00

Today I am preparing for a bridal shower in honor of my cousin. Last night I came home and made Mexican wedding cakes and Curtis Grace praline cookies for the occasion. If you have an opportunity, pick up this cookbook. It includes all of his best recipes. My daughter Barclay bought a copy for me one Christmas and had it signed by Curtis shortly before he passed away. In it he wrote "To Christa - good food and good friends are life's greatest pleasures!" I cherish it and use it constantly (thanks, Haley!). Following is his incredibly easy recipe for these heavenly treats:

Praline Cookies

24 graham cracker squares

1 1/2 cup pecans, chopped finely

1 cup light brown sugar, packed

1 cup butter

Place graham crackers close together on 12x15 cookie sheet or jelly roll pan; sprinkle pecans over crackers. Boil sugar and butter 4 minutes. Pour hot syrup over nuts. Bake at 325 degrees for 8 to 10 minutes.

That's all there is to it!

I heard tell that Project Runway is gearing up for another season, but I can't find anything about it on BravoTV.com. Ugh! We want more Tim Gunn! Oh how I wish he would come down for a visit. I think he would enjoy the Lowertown Festival, don't you?

Also, if you haven't tuned into Bravo lately, Six Feet Under has begun its cycle anew. If you've never seen it, I beg you to give it a try. It's the best television show I've seen in years. The writing is fabulous. You will not be disappointed.

Well, I guess I'd better get back to cooking. I have a few more things to make for the shower. See you soon!

Namaste

Home from LOO-uh-vull

2007-04-12T19:30:00.000-05:00

That's how you say it, people...LOO-uh-vull...not LOO-ee-vill or (God forbid) LOO-is-vill. The idiots who say LOO-ee-vill are the same ones who say noo-or-LEENS. It makes me crazy! Anyway, I just returned from the big city and couldn't be happier if I'd gained TWO hours coming back. Don't get me wrong, the UofL staff was phenomenal. (I kid you not, these people know how to kick it.) I am just happy to be able to sleep in my own bed again and not have to pay $6 to move my car out of the driveway.

The luncheon today was really nice, and I think other than their hospitality, it was UofL's best feature. The food was good, but the service was great. I go to so many of these things, and rarely are we treated as well as we were today. Kudos to UofL for their event. You guys rock!

Other than talking to a bunch of kids and bored corporate types, I drove home. When I got here, I was excited to find "Children of Men" patiently awaiting my return. I'm so excited. I LURV Clive Owen, and I've heard the movie's pretty cool, too. That said, I guess I'd better get to it.

You are BEAUTIFUL! Thanks for stopping by.

Namaste

Wasted away again in Derbyville

2007-04-11T20:06:00.000-05:00

Eastern time...I am confused. Should I be tired right now? I guess regardless if it's Eastern or Central time, I should probably be a little wasted either way. I am here in fabulous downtown Louisville, KY. When I arrived at around 5 p.m. (CST or EST, I'm not sure), I came in the room, worked through some emails and then went 'round the block to The Spaghetti Factory...a SUPREME disappointment. I must have been on heavy drugs last time I ate at one of these places, because I came away very nearly disgusted. The waitress was bitchy, the food was gross, and the crying babies were everywhere. The only thing good about this experience was the chianti.

Unfortunately for me, after dinner I decided to do a walk through of my Courtyard by Marriott's "amenities." That's when I ran into the Dredging Convention. No, I'm not kidding. It's "all dredging all the time" at least once a year in the Midwest according to my new friends. Lord knows at this point I couldn't tell you anything other than the fact that Kevin works for the Corps of Engineers and Dan works for "some place that recently bid on work at Westlake Chemicals." The real demons of the night were a bunch of drunk guys who live in Louisville that just got back from Mardi Gras (how is that possible when Mardi Gras was in February?). Anyway, a drunk (and evidently rich guy) Todd took it upon himself to purchase a bottomless glass of Merlot for me. The bottom was capped at two, but talk of partying beyond the Courtyard was imminent, and I was already having trouble separating Kevin from Dan and bowed out to be with you...you...you!

I'm really sorry, but I can't keep this up. U of L recruiting is looming very heavily, and two glasses of Merlot = Ambien for days to me.

I love YOU. Thanks for visiting.

Namaste

And away we go...

2007-04-10T20:22:00.000-05:00

The primary purpose of this blog was to post a comment about a funny little book for my favorite blogger, Suz. And then all of the sudden, I'm totally outside my comfort zone (and quite possibly my area code) blabbing about what a long, strange trip it's been.

If you have watched as much Discovery Science Channel as I have tonight, you might continue reading this blog out of sheer boredom lest you experience yet another rerun of Cosmic Cosmos. Personally, it was a shock discovering that Jupiter's size was equal to that of 1300 Earths, but then the graphics got a little hokey and I lost interest. Before I knew it, my ass had covertly eased over to my circa 1982 rolling chair and [abracadabra] here you are. You...you...you!

So, Burkhead's head was, indeed, the deed doer. Did he not know that his mug would be plastered all over the web AND hell's half acre? If so, why not go ahead, push the envelope and wash that nappy hair? What gives? Dreadlock prep? Please, Lar, we expect more from an ex-photographer ex-lover of an ex-living ex-billionairess ex-playboy centerfold. At least with this daddy news, maybe he'll be able to afford a little Pantene or even...hell...Biolage. Maybe he will also now have enough money to go back to court and drop a couple of names off that kid (Dannielynn Hope Marshall Stern).

Namaste