Friday Nostalgia

Smoke: 1982

Best. T-shirt. Ever.

Courtesy of Minus-Five.

Let's Go Shopping!

Tagged Again

Tracie tagged me this time. The rules are self explanatory. Elaborate on the word(s) below.

Accent – A cross between Scarlett O'Hara and Roseanne.

I Don't Drink - anything with calories. Why would I want to drink my calories?

Chore I Hate – Unloading the dishwasher. I hate it once or twice a day.

Pets – Biggy, Sadie, Georgia, Jack, Lola, Daisy, Stella, Fay, Pepa, Timmy, and Roxy

Essential Electronic – I once disowned a friend for dropping my laptop.

Perfume/Cologne – classic retro: Chanel no. 5, White Shoulders, Shalimar

Gold or silver – The best of both worlds: white gold

Insomnia – My biggest fear

Job Title – Writer, Teacher, Moooooooooooommm!!!!

My Most Admired Trait – I can actually listen.

Kids – having them is like being pecked by chickens. (I read that on a sign once. Truest thing I ever heard.)

Religion – A good way to avoid God.

Siblings – one sister, in rock-n-roll heaven.

Time I wake up -6:30 a.m. I'd be a lot nicer if I could sleep till 7.

Unusual talent/skill – I can nurse a baby and buy groceries at the same time. Well, usetocould.

Vegetable I refuse to eat – I'd rather be chopped up and put in the guacamole myself than eat an onion.

Worst habit –stacking stuff into little piles and calling that 'cleaning up.'

X-rays – Child's play. Try having a mammogram.

My favorite meal – Pizza. No onions.



Let the tagging continue. I tag A/OK and Jennifer.

Bizarro Tania

Remember this episode of Seinfeld, The Bizarro Jerry, where Elaine meets a group of friends who are the polite version of the Seinfeld crew?

Well, on a recent Saturday morning, upon returning home from picking Jack up from a friend's house, I found myself in my own alternate universe:







**Turned out, the kids were my neighbors' niece and nephew. I still have no idea how they charmed my dogs.

Michael Vick

Maybe the thing I can't stand most in the world is when people are sorry as a last resort--when they do what they do, and lie and lie, and then do it some more--when they admit their misdeeds, confess to their crimes, only when there's no way out, when they've been caught and can't escape.

That's not sorry. It's damage control. Add a little Jesus for good measure.

Michael Vick says he was "immature." He "used poor judgment." Well, TP'ing your neighbor's house is "immature." Getting a blowjob from your secretary is "poor judgment" (unless you're married, in which case it's adultery).

Stronger words are in order here: criminal, sadistic, corrupt, monstrous, despicable.

Those are just a start.




Click here to see Michael Vick's definition of "immature." Warning: extremely graphic.

I'm Watching St. Elmo's Fire on Oxygen

Billy, Billy, Billy...

Happy Birthday Sadie Blue!

Hey, What's That Fay's Chewing On?!

The Power of Suggestion

Everyone knows I love to talk. And I especially enjoy hearing the intimate details of your lives that you might not share with your mothers. So tell me anything. Tell me everything.

Except.

Those of you over 35, spare me, please, the little aging-related gems whose mere suggestions seem to trigger my own physical degeneration.

Honestly. My friend Josie is the biggest culprit. When we were just days into thirty, she casually asked if I'd noticed my heels cracking, because hers were cracking and bleeding like her mom's. According to Josie, this was a normal part of leaving your twenties, and she was prepared to inform me all about pumices and foot creams.

My own heels were, until that very moment, as smooth as Bill Clinton. By the next morning, though, I could feel the thickening of skin, along with the tug and sting of the first crack. So when a couple of years later, Josie asked me if I was having trouble reading the small print on things like Tylenol bottles, I feared it would only be a matter of hours before I'd be shopping for DebSpecs, and it was true. Now I remind my friend to think before she speaks.

Unfortunately, it sounds rude to tell co-workers and newer friends to watch what they say regarding gray hair, irregularity, varicose veins, and liver spots. So I have Dianna to thank for the early-onset hot flashes, Claire for the skin tags, and Regenia for the sudden thickening of my middle that's making me feel like a soup can with legs.

Everyone, my mother included, needs to stop "preparing" me for what's to come (Thanks to Mamoo's observations about older men, I'm really looking forward to sex in my fifties--NOT). We don't talk to our young daughters about stretch marks, cystitis or vibrators until they already have them or feel the need to ask. I beg for the same courtesy; let me rock on in my blissful ignorance to discover these things in their natural course.

If I'm lucky, I'll be sixty before I get my first bunion.

Vote For Fay

Tracie has opened up voting for next Friday's rap request. Fay has her own guard dog. Michael Vick never will.

Saturday Things You Might Not Know

Add this to the list of diseases and conditions you pray you'll never get:

From www.medterms.com:

Alien hand syndrome: The feeling that one's hand is possessed by a force outside of ones control. The syndrome typically arises after trauma to the brain, after brain surgery or after a stroke or an infection of the brain. A person with the alien hand syndrome can feel sensation in the affected hand but thinks that the hand is not part of their body and that they have no control over its movement, that it belongs to an alien.

Different types of brain injuries cause different subtypes alien hand syndrome. For example, take an injury to the corpus callosum (the area of the brain which connects the two cerebral hemispheres, the two halves of the brain). Such an injury in a right-handed person can give rise to purposeful movements of the left hand, while injury to the brain's frontal lobe of the brain can trigger grasping and other purposeful movements in the dominant right hand. More complex hand movements such as unbuttoning or tearing of clothes are usually associated with brain tumors, aneurysms or strokes.

There is currently no treatment for alien hand. All a patient can do to control the problem is to keep the hand busy by having it hold an object.

Here is an interesting article about it.

Just For Fun

For seminar yesterday at school, we had Matt Smith, an Associate Creative Director for Tribal DDB. This was one of their projects:

Friday Nostalgia

This 1932 classic, Freaks, filled my childhood nights with 'mares.

West Cherry

George's move-in:
Where IS that Xanax?


That's her roomie's side, on the left. The company she ordered her loft from was supposed to have it assembled and ready before she arrived, but they sent an email saying the order got held up until next week. Now they'll have to build it while she's there. Big Mistake, Guys..


Group hug.


Biggy's trying not to look too happy that her dorm, West Mary, is called Chastity Castle.


Is that Christian Rock I hear?



Of course, Lo got swag.

Perhaps It's Time To Call Dr. Judy

I'm trying to cut myself some slack--what with all the emotional transitions that come with children leaving home--but this morning, when Fay started finding and eating all the rock candy Lo spilled on the bathroom floor and didn't clean up, and I shut the puppy out, at which time she began whimpering and clawing relentlessly at the bathroom door, I actually caught myself saying,

"I know you think you're entitled to be in here, but you're not..."

Two Down

Sadie left for Costa Rica on Saturday; Georgia left for college this morning. And, yes, I am a mess.



CHILDREN IN A FIELD
by Angela Shaw

They don’t wade in so much as they are taken.
Deep in the day, in the deep of the field,
every current in the grasses whispers hurry
hurry, every yellow spreads its perfume
like a rumor, impelling them further on.
It is the way of girls. It is the sway
of their dresses in the summer trance-
light, their bare calves already far-gone
in green. What songs will they follow?
Whatever the wood warbles, whatever storm
or harm the border promises, whatever
calm. Let them go. Let them go traceless
through the high grass and into the willow-
blur, traceless across the lean blue glint
of the river, to the long dark bodies
of the conifers, and over the welcoming
threshold of nightfall.

Thank God For Small Favors (0.5 mg)

Tomorrow, Georgia has to go back to the dermatologist to remove more of the area where her biopsy was. Turns out, she had some “atypical” cells-- something that could possibly turn bad in ten years, so they wanted to be safe and get it now. I’ve already had to cancel the procedure once, because George pussed out, and when I told her I’d rescheduled, she swore she was going to cancel it again.

I tried everything to change her mind. I guilted her, explaining how I’d have to spend the last dwindling days of my youthful middle age worrying about it constantly, how I’d be reminded every time I saw the letter C or ate a raisin. I warned her she could lose her leg, and reminded her she’s far too clumsy to jog with a prosthetic. No matter what I said, though, I got the same answer: NOT going.

When I finally gave up and called to say I was canceling again, she said very casually, “Yeah, I’m going.”

So today, I called the doctor’s office anyway:

TR: Hello. My daughter Georgia has a 10 o’clock appointment in the morning for minor surgery. I don’t know if y’all keep notes or anything, but Laurel can tell you that this girl is the biggest crybaby that ever had a freckle. This is the second time the surgery has been scheduled, and I’m only about six percent sure she’ll actually show up.

If she does show, it would be best not to keep her in the waiting room with the other patients and to make sure she’s in the most remote part of the building when they cut her—unless your rooms are sound proof. Also, I suggest removing all surgical instruments and syringes—especially syringes--from view until she’s safely tied down.

OR you guys could just prescribe some Xanax or Ativan, and save us all a lot of trouble.

Nurse Dottie: Oh, I don’t think you understand. This is a very minor procedure. We’ll numb the area and put a little ice on it; I promise, she won’t feel a thing.

TR: No, Ma’am, I don’t think you understand. This is a big girl, 18, who acts like a three-year-old at naptime. Can you imagine chasing and holding down a hundred-and-twenty-pound toddler? Go ask Laurel, the PA who worked on her before.

Nurse Dottie: Hold for just a moment, please.

(James Taylor)

(Botox commercial)

(Dionne Warwick)

Nurse Dottie: Ma’am?

TR: I'm here.

Nurse Dottie: We’ve called in Xanax. Have her take one tonight, another tablet two hours before arriving in the morning, and there’ll be a couple of extra if she’s still upset tomorrow afternoon.

TR: That's what I figured.

Getting Tracie Up To Speed

Dear Tracie,

These are my four children, L-R: Jack-15, Georgia-18, Lola-7, and Sadie (20 on the 27th) on the far right. The photo was taken this past April, in Costa Rica.

Love,
Tania

A Gift To Me

Tonight, Biggy and I were driving aimlessly, trying to decide which gastrointestinal distress we'd rather deal with--Moe's or Ted's, when I thought I'd run an idea by him:

TR: I was thinking about emailing Mr. Jackson at the middle school and asking if he has any students who'd like to be in band but can't afford an instrument. We could donate JackMan's starter drums and bells. Whaddaya think?

Biggy: What?! Charity begins at home, Sweetheart. I'm gonna put those suckers on Craigslist.

TR: I think we were asking $75 at the garage sale. We paid over $500 for them. We might as well give them away.

Biggy: The only way I'd donate something like that is if they put up a plaque in my honor. Or named a wing of the school after me.

Saturday Things You Might Not Know

John Robinson, the first online dating serial killer.

Let this be a warning, girls.

A Typical Conversation with my Husband

This morning, on his way to work, Biggy called to make sure I'd put Lo's homework in her bookbag. Then the conversation drifted to other mundane topics:

Biggy: Did you know your mom had to buy three window units because her central air is broken?

TR: Yeah, it's gonna cost around $4000 to replace it, so she's waiting until next year. Can you believe PeeWee's Playhouse was 20 years ago?

Biggy: Weird....NO, I'M NOT LETTING YOU IN, MUTHAFUKKA. Sonofabitch!!!! I HATE taxis.

TR: Yup, 1986...

Biggy: OH, NO YOU DIDN'T, DICKMEAT. UUUUGH!!!! That taxi just cut me off. One day, I'm going to get a big-ass piece o' shit truck, strap bumpers all around it, and just start going to town. Ooooh, I'm sorry, Officer, but he cut me off, and I couldn't stop...

TR: I think you need to join a support group.

Biggy: This Dave Matthews cd is awesome, listen. (Turns it up. He knows I can't stand Dave Matthews.)

TR: I've gotta go see what the dogs are barking at.

Biggy: WHAT? I CAN'T HEAR YOU.

TR: Bye.

Friday Nostalgia

I used to set my alarm on Saturday mornings.

Biggy's Iron Fist

So yesterday evening, as I was in my room, gathering up my guitar and music to head to my lessons, I could hear this exchange going on down in the kitchen:

Lo: Dad, PLEASE!!! Take me to the sports store.

Biggy: Lola, you don't need a mouthguard. If you play softball, I'll get you one.

Lo: I'm not playing softball this year.

Biggy: Well, there you go. Like I said, you don't need a mouthguard. I need to go to Target; let's go there.

Lo: I don't want to go to Target. I NEED a mouthguard.

(When I was halfway out the front door, sneaking out so's not to get dragged into it, I heard)
Biggy: For the last time, I'm not getting you a mouth guard.



When I got home, Lo was already in bed, waiting for her kiss goodnight.

Rest in Peace

In Doggie Cage Fighting, There Are No Rules

They do their training underneath me while I drink my coffee in the morning. Note Daisy's awesome drag-'em-by-the-collar maneuver around 2:40. Skip to the last ten seconds to see it better executed.

By Request

Spence wanted me to write about my first time on the mountain bike, which I've already done. She also asked if I've considered getting a road bike or doing a triathlon. I used to have a road bike, when I was at school in Athens, where knocking off bikers isn't a sport. Here in Atlanta, you have to enjoy the competition of bike vs. SUV, and I do not. As I mentioned before, I ran a few marathons in my youth, so it follows that I thought about doing a triathlon.

I did, in fact, train for the one in Callaway Gardens. This was back in '83. I was running about 50 miles a week, riding my bike, and working out with weights. This, in addition to classes and the two or three restaurant jobs I always juggled. My weakness was swimming, since the only swimming I'd ever done was during Marco Polo. Oh, I could keep myself afloat; I could swim over to the poolside tiki bar, but I'd never swum for sport or exercise.

So I started going to Stegman, UGA's big athletic facility, in the evenings to swim laps. And I was pretty pleased with myself that from the get-go I could swim a mile with no problems. I set a goal to work up to a relaxed two miles and then start working on speed. I showed up at the same time every night, all by my lonely, did my laps, and went on my way, satisfied with my progress.

After a couple of weeks, I started noticing the other "regulars" at the pool. These included some members of the UGA swim team, of course, all shoulders and thighs, and their coach, a middle-aged man I'd catch pacing over me at the end of my lane, a man who apparently wanted to say something but couldn't.

I assumed he was impressed with my endurance. Maybe he wanted me on the team. He didn't have a lecherous look in his eye, so I didn't suspect he was like most of the thirty-to-sixty-year-old men I encountered in that candy store of a college town. Eventually, his expression changed from restraint to a combination of worried, frustrated, and slightly appalled. One night, he finally broke down:

"Hey, what are you doing?" he asked me.

"I'm training for a triathlon. I'm up to two miles." I was bragging, about to launch into my weekly regimen, etc., but he was on a roll.

"Well, you look like a tractor in the water," he said, "and I can't stand it anymore."

I was a tiny pillar of fitness. I weighed all of 104 and prided myself on being able to fit into a girls' 14 Speedo. Tractor?!

He offered, "Let me give you swimming lessons. It won't cost you anything. It will spare me the agony of watching you do what you're doing."

Wow. That really smarted. I mean, I didn't have many illusions about myself. I knew I had no coordination. I was clumsy--not cut out for tennis, or basketball, or golf. Which is why I chose sports like distance running and biking, where I relied more on strenth of will, my ability to hang in there. I figured it was the same with swimming--just do the distance. But here I was, offending someone with my lack of grace. I was suddenly sure everyone in the facility had been laughing at me all along, joking about buying me some floaties.

I met him for only one lesson. I felt like a four-year-old. I imagined everyone was watching us. The likelihood of my synchronizing my strokes, kicks, and breathing was the same as my sinking a three-pointer. He had taken all the fun out of my training. After, I thanked him, dried off, and went to change. I left my suit hanging in the locker room.

I never went back. I never did the triathlon. My kids always ask me why I won't get in the water.

Isn't that a sad story?

Oh Yeah, It Was Also Jack's First Day of School

This morning:

Georgia: Who's Jack's homeroom teacher?

TR: Um...I dunno.

George: If you were involved in his school work, you'd know these things.

TR: Who do you think printed out the Sparknotes this weekend for his summer reading?

First Day, Second Grade

September, The First Day Of School
by Howard Nemerov

I

My child and I hold hands on the way to school,
And when I leave him at the first-grade door
He cries a little but is brave; he does
Let go. My selfish tears remind me how
I cried before that door a life ago.
I may have had a hard time letting go.

Each fall the children must endure together
What every child also endures alone:
Learning the alphabet, the integers,
Three dozen bits and pieces of a stuff
So arbitrary, so peremptory,
That worlds invisible and visible

Bow down before it, as in Joseph's dream
The sheaves bowed down and then the stars bowed down
Before the dreaming of a little boy.
That dream got him such hatred of his brothers
As cost the greater part of life to mend,
And yet great kindness came of it in the end.

II

A school is where they grind the grain of thought,
And grind the children who must mind the thought.
It may be those two grindings are but one,
As from the alphabet come Shakespeare's Plays,
As from the integers comes Euler's Law,
As from the whole, inseperably, the lives,

The shrunken lives that have not been set free
By law or by poetic phantasy.
But may they be. My child has disappeared
Behind the schoolroom door. And should I live
To see his coming forth, a life away,
I know my hope, but do not know its form

Nor hope to know it. May the fathers he finds
Among his teachers have a care of him
More than his father could. How that will look
I do not know, I do not need to know.
Even our tears belong to ritual.
But may great kindness come of it in the end.

We Can Do Anything

For the past couple of years, since I first heard about it/saw it, I've been fascinated by parkour. Really, I'm fascinated by all extreme sports and what they say about us. They prove again and again that our limitations are all in our minds.

Doppelgangers

Honesty