The Stone's Colossal Dream

Newest Project

2011-12-23T10:35:00.000-05:00

I Love Alice Friman

2011-11-29T12:50:00.002-05:00

So I wrote a review of Alice Friman's Vinculum for The Chattahoochee Review. Look for it in the next issue. The book is gorgeous, and I wanted to share one of the poems here. It was published in Gettysburg Review:

THE COLOR OF INEFFABLE

Yesterday on my walk, a Polyphemus moth,
dead. All color drained
but for the great dark eyes on her wings.
How could I not bring her home? She was
bleached perfection, the color of faded silk
or a brittle papyrus on which were written
the now unreadable inks and the cocoon’s mystery.

The expert says she died of starvation,
having used up all the fat
from her salad days. But he can’t explain
her lack of color or why she appeared
in the one spot between sunshine and shade
where I’d be sure to find her.

I keep her on the corner of my desk,
marvel at her six-inch spread, the night-
flying veins bursting like moon rays
from the center post of her body—a wonder,
a week’s worth of wonder, for seven days
is all she had. So says Professor Moth,
and he must know. But I like to think
when her allotted time was up,
she in her hour of certitude put aside
all purples and gold, all buzz of sequin
and flutter and whim, and like a queen
facing the wall of inevitable,
laid the white flag of herself down naked:
elect: the devil’s parchment, the angel’s chalk.

The professor says impossible.
But what does he know about epic queens
or poets in white? And what could he understand
about women and starve?

Childhood Development

2011-11-01T13:08:00.000-04:00

We had to write a paper in my Lifespan class, relating our life stories to articles we'd read in psych journals. The references won't mean anything to you, and the paper itself is longer than a Pentecostal sermon, but it was an interesting exercise for me, which allowed me to see my life in context. Just thought I'd share.

My Childhood Development, Part II

Ninety-five percent of childhood sexual abuse victims know their perpetrators and keep the abuse a secret (Darkness to Light, 2001-2005, as cited by Miller, Dove, & Miller, 2007). Moreover, victims who don’t tell anyone, or those who tell but aren’t believed, “are at greater risk for physical, emotional, and psychological problems that can persist throughout adulthood. Consequently, many adult victims describe child sexual abuse as a ‘life sentence’” (NAPSAC, 2008, as cited by Miller, et al., 2007). Though I consider myself out on parole these days, I am serving this life sentence.

Elementary School

I was an A student from the very beginning, an easy kid who did what I was told. Child of an alcoholic, I was a careful observer, a vigilant surveyor of the environment. Sober adults were easy; I was expert at figuring out what they wanted or expected, and I designed to deliver it. They put me in the accelerated program, where I learned about the circulatory and digestive systems; they sent me to the speed-reading lab, where automatic film-strip projectors flashed words in faster and faster sequences before I was tested for comprehension; they gave me my own chalk-holder and blackboard and a small contingent of slower kids to tutor.

Able to memorize anything, I starred in all the school plays. I remember like yesterday my role as the popular Swingy doll. I wore a platinum wig and a pink polka-dotted mini skirt. A dead ringer, I danced her stiff twist. I was spelling bee champion and president of the Chess Club. I won poster contests and science fairs. I won my first writing contest in second grade, with a short treacly Christmas story that was published in the school paper. Eventually, I had my own gossip column, “The Tattle-Tale Tells.” From the time I was seven, I knew I’d be a writer and a teacher.

As Erikson would have it, I was diligently industrious. I was trying my hardest to master knowledge and skills that would minimize my feelings of inferiority (Santrock, 2010). It didn’t work. I couldn’t do enough, achieve enough, or wish enough to make them go away. No matter what I did, as I got bigger my shame also grew. If I forgot for a moment that I was unredeemable, my father made sure to remind me.

From the spring of second grade, I played softball but lacked the hand-eye coordination to hit or catch. On the way home after every game, I endured my father’s loud and heated come-to-jesus about my failure as an athlete. I was 12 when someone discovered I could pitch, and my team took the Regional Championships during my two years on the mound. My father would yell at me from the stands, “GET IN THE GAME, PITCHER!” He prided himself on his objectivity.

Outside the house, my father’s hair was his top priority. His charm was as handy as the Ace comb in his back pocket, as pervasive as the Royal Copenhagen cologne he kept in his glove box. He was a Mason, a Jaycee, a City Councilman. He was the Mayor’s best friend. Inside our house, there was constant shouting, frequent punching, and the occasional slam of the drawer that held my father’s 22. Outside, my father was a social drinker. Inside, he was a drunk.

I felt safer at school, where people were please-able and the punishments were predictable. For a while, school was blue ribbons and smiley faces. It was prizes and certificates. Then, school was where I was molested again: fourth grade, by my social studies teacher, Mr. Massey. I saw no reason to tell anyone. The last time I’d told, nothing had changed. We still went to my grandparents’ every Sunday for pot-roast. My parents would go on vacation and leave me there, my uncle still living in my grandparents’ house. I figured what had happened either didn’t matter, or it was my fault. No one spoke of it.

According to Buchele (in Klein & Schermer, 2000), sexual and physical abuse are unique traumas in that the psychological fear, coupled with physical actions and sensations, leads to disturbances that have physical components, such as eating disorders, sexual dysfunction, and hypochondriasis. In fourth grade, I tried to disappear. I started counting my peas and doing “calisthenics” in the floor. I collected recipe cards in a file box and dreamed of cake. I created elaborate food rules and rituals. I got thinner and thinner, until store-bought wouldn’t fit me and my mother had to make my school clothes. I refused to wear corduroy, because it made me look fat. By fifth grade, at the age of ten, I was diagnosed as anorexic. The doctor was not concerned. Puberty would correct it, he insisted. That said, I held my own.

In spite of a relentless melancholy, I had fun with my friends. We lived by the woods and spent our free time riding our bikes on trails and picking wild strawberries. There were always adventures: abandoned shacks to dare each other into, giant pines to climb and nap in, feral kittens to catch and wish we hadn’t. We liked to walk the dirt road to Mr. Reece’s general store to buy our mothers’ cigarettes. Along the way, we were an animal rescue team, or orphans, or Donnie Osmond’s girlfriends. When we reached our destination, we’d hide in the bushes in back of the old store and spy on the family of midgets (that's what they were called then) who lived in the basement.

The summer after fifth grade, my family moved to a different neighborhood and a bigger house, where I had purple shag carpet and a four-poster bed. My new friends were Ricky, Russ, and Lisa. We played Whiffle Ball and Fumbly-Wumbly. We made cane poles and fished in the creek. There were no little people, but there was a giant turtle that sometimes emerged from the storm drain. He was our Loch Ness Monster.

I was lucky to have good neighbors all through childhood—kids my age with parents who didn’t fight out loud. I was lucky there were chinchillas and Chihuahuas and king snakes. I am fortunate to have these memories today. I believe my ability to play or, more likely, the play itself, went a long way toward mitigating some of my trauma symptoms. According to Snow, Oustz, Martin, and Helm (2005), play is largely metaphorical. Through metaphorical communication children are able to express their desires, concerns, and emotions. They can gain a clearer understanding of their problems and create solutions (2005). The stories I told myself had happy endings. The risks I took were chosen. The monsters I imagined could be slain or conquered.

Middle School

Because of my low weight, I didn’t go through puberty until I was 15. Middle School was a time of breast- and boyfriend-envy. Even as I subconsciously staved off my physical development, I wanted to be “foxy” and make out in a closet. Among my many deals with God, I had promised I wouldn’t even kiss a boy until I was 12. Long past that, my prospects were nil. Boys wanted someone like the new girl, April, whose long legs and B cups set the gold standard. I was average and angular. I wore a quilted training bra.

The teachers loved me, though. I edited the school literary magazine, wrote for the paper, joined the band and the science club, and played intramural sports. It turned out, I was good at gymnastics, so fearless when it came to double stunts that the male coaches always picked me as their partner. They would flip me onto their shoulders or hold me upside down high above them, their arms locking with mine. When I look back now, I wonder where my faith came from.

Men were not the problem in middle school. It was my P.E. teacher. After an initial grooming period, during which she always made me captain, she struck. She never touched me but would call me into her office, lock the door and bar it with her body, then proceed to ask inappropriate, mortifying questions. I was incredibly naïve, and in spite of my history and the immediate discomfort, it took me a couple of times to understand that she really was doing something creepy. When I graduated middle school, I was first-chair flute; I knew all about blind fish and stalactites; I was voted Most Athletic. I felt more ashamed and more unanchored. Even women were not to be trusted.

Buchele (in Klein & Schermenr, 2000) says that when another human being inflicts the trauma, “the helplessness is accompanied by the terror of becoming the focus of intentional and mobilized evil.” (170) She maintains that such trauma, inflicted by a trusted caretaker or authority figure, is worse than the trauma associated with a natural disaster. The abuse of power alters forever the survivor’s view of and coexistence with power (2000). Because I was sexually abused, repeatedly, and because I had no one to turn to for comfort or absolution, I concluded that I must be evil to have attracted so much evil attention. I was in the midst of what Erikson would have deemed identity confusion (Santrock, 2010). I would struggle with it well into middle age.

I joined the First Baptist Church of Powder Springs and started reading the Living Bible from cover to cover, a new nightly ritual. I wore a long, flannel nightgown and fancied myself some kind of religious novice. Every once in a while, my father would get home late, drunk, stumble into my room where I was in bed reading the self-inflicted penance of verses, and throw his body over my legs. He would cry a blubbery, incomprehensible confession. “You’re such a good girl,” he would mumble before he crawled away. I didn’t believe him.

After the move, my father was seldom home during the week. He left for work extra early and came home late in the evening. On the weekends, however, he woke us up with Songs of the Pioneers playing full blast on the stereo. He’d fix breakfast--either giant, oozy Velveeta cheese omelets or soggy French toast--and we had to eat it, suppress the gagging, and pretend it was delicious. I think that under different circumstances, with a different man, that memory would be funny and endearing.

High School

I finally hit puberty my freshman year, though it was not much to speak of. I was slim and muscular, with little to show up top. I was an uber-nerd: marching band, Beta club, office aid. I was even a nerd in sports, running the mile and two mile back when no one else would. I didn’t have to run fast; I simply had to cross the finish. Still, high school was a string of attempted seductions by middle-aged men: a friend’s father, a couple of coaches, my boss at the mall. The hair stylist I thought was gay felt me up, and he still charged me for the cut. I had become a perv-magnet.

At fifteen, I started binging and purging. I could eat an entire box of Life cereal (ironic, yes) in one sitting. The milk would still be cold when it came back up. At night, when everyone was asleep, I’d make and devour huge stacks of pancakes or Bisquick biscuits, then flush them down the toilet.

Dayton (2000) writes that trauma and addiction go hand-in-hand, that a person in deep and intolerable pain is likely to seek relief from alcohol, drugs, sugar, or sex. At sixteen, I started drinking. My friends and I would go to the Bamboo House, a Chinese restaurant that didn’t card. I’d order almond fried chicken and Mai Tai’s, eat until puking was inevitable. Since what goes down doesn’t always come up, my weight began to creep higher, and with it the self-hatred of being out of control. I stole my mother’s Dexatrim, existed on diet pills and diet soda. Junior year, I was promoted to drum major in the marching band. In the middle of the half-time show, I had to rip off my baby-blue-satin-lined circle skirt and dance in hot pants. I could not be a fatty.

That was the year I worked with my friend whose stepfather turn-keyed apartments. It was a dream job for two teen girls: her “Dad” supplied the liquor and left us to our own devices. We did everything that needed to be done to an apartment between tenants. We cleaned ovens and made bathtubs sparkle. We hauled out the stacks of porn in the closets. Totally trashed on Bacardi, we painted, wallpapered, stippled ceilings, and steamed carpets. For this, we each made about $16 an hour, a considerable fortune in 1979. There is much more to the story about this job, and about this man who raised my friend from the time she was two. It is a sordid, gothic tale, seeped in dark humor. It’s Flannery O’Conner mixed with the Coen Brothers. But, alas, we haven’t the space for it here.

During my senior year, things got worse at home. My sister, who was two years younger than I, and not nearly as compliant or as adept at staying under his radar, became the target of my father’s wrath. A tall, blue-eyed, blonde bombshell, she was famous for crawling out of her window at night to meet her admirers. She hung out with a bad crowd, the kids from the alternative school. Because she refused to give my father any respect, he drew blood instead. My sister moved in with family friends.

Constantly searching for order, I liked the discipline of marching, the demands of distance running, and the hard work of dirty jobs. I often ran on the trails near Dobbins AFB, and the recruiters were always flagging me down. I almost joined up just to get away. One night, I watched a movie on television about the first female cadets at West Point and mentioned to my father that a military academy might be cool. Before I knew it, I had a senator’s recommendation and was facing 12 officers, all men, in a boardroom. I wore a dress, the appropriate attire, and they commented on my legs. They asked a lot of questions, mostly about my boyfriend.

The next round of screening was the physical ability test. That morning, I had my worst hangover to date, rough-seas-in-a-dinghy bad. Try doing the eraser shuttle run after a night of 151. Try doing the flex arm hang. I ended up being an alternate for Annapolis. I can’t say I’m sorry that happened.

Today, with four kids, a messy house, and a poetry degree, I’ve swung as far in the other direction as a person could swing. It has been a long and treacherous journey, with lovely and wondrous stops along the way. Things got worse before they got better—the drinking, the eating disorders, the depression, the domestic violence, the death of my wild, gorgeous sister. I see a therapist for complex PTSD. I haven’t spoken to my father in almost 18 years.

I’ve written poems about all of it, two books’ worth. Writing, my first calling, has helped me heal. One of my favorite poets, Gregory Orr, accidentally shot and killed his younger brother in a hunting accident when they were children. For four years after his brother’s death, Orr, says, he was hopeless. He could find no relief from his grief and despair. Then he found poetry. He claims it saved his life (2002).

In Poetry as Survival (2002), Orr writes about how disclosure and the ordering of the chaotic material of traumatic experiences can heal the self. He suggests that the elaborate and intense patterns of poetry can make people feel safe: “It’s possible to say that the enormous disordering power of trauma demands an equally powerful ordering to contain it, and poetry offers such order.” (92)

All my life I have searched for meaning. I’ve tried to contribute, chosen creation over destruction. Poetry has provided the order I needed, too. It has given my life meaning, even the worst parts of it, and it has told the meaning of my life. I hope when someone with similar experiences reads my poems, that person feels less alone.

“Ever since the Romantics,” Orr writes, “the personal lyric has been reclaiming territory from the silence of the family or social oppression: speaking what is taboo.” (2002, 101) As a child, I was taught that a little girl should be seen and not heard. This woman, however, will not be silent.

On Keeping My Mouth Shut

2011-05-05T19:26:00.003-04:00

During the past two years of my clinical counseling education, I've had it pointed out to me more than once that I have a propensity to rescue--that I somehow feel it is my job to jump in and defend the downtrodden and insulted, even when my "help" might be unnecessary and/or unwanted. I've given this a lot of thought and know it comes from the feeling that, as a child, I was not protected, that people stayed silent when they should have spoken up. I understand my impulse but also, now, realize that it's not always my job to step in it (with adults), that people should be allowed to handle their own problems in their own ways, that not everyone welcomes my assistance. So.

Last night, as a reward for another semester down and all my new new-found enlightenment, I went to get my nails did. Mani/pedi, as it were. I arrived at the salon around 7, and they close at 8, so it was pretty dead. Just me and another lady, getting her toes done in the chair beside me. She was around my age, unremarkable, leaning back with her eyes closed. I treated myself to the deluxe edition and was enjoying my third round of leg massage, feeling like the Queen of Cobb County.

I was a happy camper, reading about Steven Tyler in People, watching my neighbors come and go for take-out Chinese next door, when the tiny, young probably-owner of the shop asked me to go ahead and pay before I got polished, which is the usual MO. While she was at it, she collected payment from the other lady (let's call her Miss Trunchbull*) too. I gave her cash and Trunchbull gave her a debit card.

A few minutes later, the probably-proprietress returned with Trunchbull's card and receipt. Upon examining it, Trunchbull announced, "This is INCORRECT! It says $33 and my pedicure was only $19!" Then I said, "Oh, she mixed ours up," to which Trunchbull replied, "UN-AC-CEPTABLE!" I was afraid she'd call the magistrate.

The wrong-doer, with her beautiful little face, began apologizing profusely in broken English, which would have disarmed a normal person, but Miss Trunchbull, as it turned out, was no normal person: "In your HASTE to clear the tab," said she, "you made a CUSTOMER very unhappy!" It was clear this customer had never gotten a birthday present or had her name called in the Magic Mirror, as it was such a short trip from unhappy to very.

By now, the criminal-manicurist was on the phone, speaking in her native tongue to someone about correcting the grievous error. It took more than a minute, as even I could make out that she was flustered and having to repeat herself. When she came back over, she explained to TB, "14 dollars will be refunded to your account, but it takes one to two days. I'm so sorry." TB took the volume up a couple of notches: "I am not PLEASED! I realize 14 dollars might not seem like a lot of money, but it is MY MONEY, money that I will not have access to for ONE OR TWO DAYS! ALL BECAUSE YOU WERE RUSHING!"

By now, I was eyeing my purse, wondering how much cash I had left. I would just give her all of it to shut the fukup. I had one woman working on my hands and one on my feet, and they kept their eyes cast down except to give me an occasional wide-eyed look that means what-the-hell in every language. No one interfered. We were waiting it out. But TB wasn't finished; she had to practice her condescension: "I am not ANG-GREE at you. I just want you to THINK about this in the future and don't be in such a hurry! Then these things will not happen!"

Somewhere in the middle of all this, I noticed the teddy-bear-rainbow clip-on badge hanging from her collar that indicated she was a school teacher. Inside my heart, I wept for her students. And I don't even like kids. I imagined the poor elfin creatures banished to the broom closet for sneezing or breaking their pencil lead. She'd make them chew on their hair and drink their spit during snack time.

Tirade over, finally, she leaned down to the woman holding her feet, who'd been steadily working during the outburst. "You always do such a good job," she told her, in a sweet-as-pie voice that proved she gives to charity and brakes for squirrels.

Through it all, I held my tongue, but silently I cursed her: In the next week or two, you're going to do something incredibly stupid, because you're in a hurry, or on your period, or thinking about why your husband left you. You're going to lose your car keys and find them in the refrigerator, or roll your Ford Tempo into the car in front of you at a stop light, or knock over the Entenmann's display at BiLo. And someone is going to be royally inconvenienced because you missed their parent conference, or they've gotta go to Ding King, or they have to mop up the powdered sugar. But they're going to tell you it's ok, no big deal, could happen to anyone, and you will have to live with that.

* Other Ideas:
Cruella
Ursula
Maleficent
Nelly Olsen
Almira Gulch

The Reason Lola is Grounded Indefinitely

2011-04-23T11:57:00.000-04:00

Found on our desktop:

Sometimes I Amaze Myself

2011-04-18T16:08:00.001-04:00

I've worked at Portfolio Center for almost 13 years. One day last week daughter Georgia and I were in the school's ladies' room at the same time. I gave her first choice for a stall, and she chose the unit on the right (Picture #1).

"Ugh! Why would you want that one?!" says I, "You have to back up against the wall and squeeze yourself between the paper roller and the door to get out of it." Then I proceeded to demonstrate, as I've reenacted for you below...

whereupon my daughter, currently a student here, gave the door a little push OUT with her finger.

A Lesson in Contrasts

2011-02-02T07:39:00.000-05:00

Can you guess which part of the history belongs to whom?

The Jacklo Laziness Inventory

2011-01-27T09:26:00.003-05:00

This semester, I'm taking a testing & assessment class, which teaches us about the various psychological test instruments and how to use them. I decided to create one myself, inspired by my two youngest children. It is short but reliable.

Directions: Imagine what you'd do in each of the following scenarios and choose the most likely answer:

The JLI

1. When you wake up in the morning, the first thing you do is:

a. take your dog, which you begged for and promised to care for, out to pee before quietly making yourself a bowl of cereal.

b. swaddle your dog tightly in the blanket, rendering him immobile, and go back to sleep

c. throw your dog in your mother's bed, ask her to fix you pancakes, and go back to sleep until breakfast is ready

2. You are on the couch, watching TV. Your mother is upstairs painting nesting dolls and listening to BeeGee's radio on Pandora. You need the remote, which is on the chair across from the couch, out of reach. You:

a. get up to get the remote and, while you are up, gather your candy wrappers and little pile of toenail clippings and put them in the trash.

b. just go ahead and watch 'Fishing With Roland Martin'

c. call your mother on your cell phone and ask her to come downstairs and hand you the remote

3. You are doing your math homework when your pencil lead breaks. You:

a. get up and find the pencil sharpener

b. use the crayon that the dog is chewing on at your feet

c. figure you really didn't need to learn fractions anyway

4. You are home from college for the weekend. You'd like to hang out with someone around your own age. Most of your friends, who are also home from school, live in a neighborhood less than half a mile away. You:

a. ride your bike over to Dennis's house

b. call your friends and tell them to come pick you up and take you to Applebee's

c. ask your 21-year-old sister to watch you play Bioshock II

5. You are getting ready to work out at the Y and you want an energy drink before you go. You:

a. mix yourself a smoothie, adding fresh fruit and yogurt

b. just eat a banana; the smoothie is too much trouble

c. stare at the jar of protein powder until your mother offers to pour the milk and get the spoon

Scoring: Give yourself 1 point for each a answer, 2 points for each b answer, and 3 points for each c answer.

Results:

5-8: Congratulations! You have a pulse and measurable brain waves.

9-12: You are slothful but resourceful.

13-15: Someone needs to make sure you're breathing and that you don't drown in your own drool.

So Far

2011-01-24T08:02:00.000-05:00

Stella's Happy New Year

2011-01-01T14:42:00.000-05:00

I'm on a Roll

2010-12-26T11:57:00.000-05:00

These are for Georgia.

For the Ultimate WizOz Fan

2010-12-25T14:36:00.000-05:00

I made these for Sadie.

The horror...the horror...

2010-12-16T16:09:00.000-05:00

I had to go to Lo's class holiday party today.

Life with Dogs

2010-12-15T08:07:00.000-05:00

Last night when Georgia and I left to go work out at the Y, Biggy was grilling dinner. He was supposed to save Georgia's until we got home. When she and I returned, everyone in the house had gone shopping.

Mark Knopfler & Emmylou Harris - Why Worry

2010-12-09T09:04:00.000-05:00

There's Still Time to Order Books for Christmas

2010-12-04T11:56:00.000-05:00

Bookstore: Snake Nation Press

MARGARITAS

Beri is the funniest girl in the world.

Kathy’s been a little depressed.

Josie’s just gotten off work

counseling rapists and pedophiles,

and because it is still the March

of my thirty-third birthday,

we’re sitting on the patio of El Toro,

drinking grande margaritas on a Tuesday night,

discussing the elusive concept of sober sex

while our waiter runs the chips-and-salsa

relay so he doesn’t miss a word.

For Josie and me, newly single after a decade,

like planets slung off our axis,

and Kathy, of ruler-strict Catholic upbringing,

sex intrigues us like a foreign language.

But Beri, married for more than four years,

is having a hard time remembering sex at all,

its permutation of limbs, its wet rock and slide,

though she pretends and doesn’t know I see

she’s counting on her fingers under the table–

best I can figure, it was Christmas,

Charles’s tired stocking stuffer

offered up like a diamond necklace.

Josie says it takes three martinis

to forget the day’s fun accounts

of rodents and rectal thermometers.

Kathy needs five beers on an empty stomach

to get past god, his son, and the holy ghost,

and I’m thinking half a bottle

of a decent dry white, I’ll relax a little

about the popped balloons of my breasts,

the post-caesarian belly battle zone

my husband traded in for a twenty-year-old

with a moon-pie face and perky ta-tas.

The waiter smiles a young Spanish smile

that tells us he understands this English perfectly,

understands our need for extra sour cream,

and suddenly we’re appreciating the fit of his apron

over tight black jeans, the neon sombrero

glow washing over our enchiladas,

the low night rumble of practical sedans

burrowing back to the suburbs

like guilty fathers, and the clear constant moon,

with its gathering of all things oozing and flowing,

that keeps us glued together. We’ve fallen

silent as the empty fishbowls

in which swim our dreams of love

in dregs of salt and citrus when Kathy says,

You have to really trust a man to have sober sex.

MY BEST FRIEND MOVED 2000 MILES AWAY

Even my dogs hate me today,

that weasel-eyed Chihuahua

and the prissy Jack Russell,

their thick middle-aged growls

when I sat too close on the sofa.

And my three-year-old socked

me, smack in the nose. I almost

slapped her back, except it was my fault

she didn’t get her nap,

what with me lugging the vacuum

from room to room,

like something that couldn’t wait.

I don’t recognize myself anymore,

the magpie shrill of my voice,

the way the corners of my mouth

mop the floor. I can’t spare

the energy to smile, something

my husband just doesn’t get,

crooning Smile, like our sadistic

high school track coach. Apparently,

he doesn’t like me much either,

my spouse, and neither

do the two teenaged daughters,

who brandish unfeasible schedules

as I shoot daggers

at their renegade belly buttons.

It’s a civil war, alright:

Who will empty the dishwasher;

who should buy the K-Y?

And all the while, they’re,

all of them, tossing dead herrings

of socks and panties into a pile

that blocks the sun.

Evolution of Hallow's Eve Eve

2010-10-31T17:22:00.001-04:00

I committed to attend an event on the 30th long before the neighborhood changed Halloween to Saturday, so I had to leave during the neighborhood cul-de-sac party.

This is the condition of Biggy and Lola when I left. They planned a long night of trick-or-treating after the party.

I arrived home around 11 pm, and this is how I found them.

And this is the final phase, Saturday morning.

Like the Back of Her Hand

2010-10-07T12:16:00.001-04:00

So Biggy and I have a long-standing "issue" regarding Lo's diet. Part of the reason he's doing the grocery shopping now is that he believes he is more conscientious about buying healthy snacks and preparing wholesome meals (The other reason, of course, is that I spend too much). According to Georgia, all the two of them ever eat is steak. Yeah, just that. Nothing with. Unless you buy Reagan's ketchup-is-a-vegetable thing... But when I make the child's lunch in the morning, it's supposed to be half a lean turkey sandwich, a carrot stick, and an apple slice. Water to drink. She's supposed to have grapes for snack, 8-10. It's good if I can use the same baggie a few days in a row.

Anyway, this morning, while she was eating her cinnamon toast (He was sleeping) and I was making her lunch, she yelled at me from the sunroom:

Lo: Hey, those cheddar and sour cream potato chips on the counter are for my snack.

TR: Really?

Lo: Yeah.

TR: You must have caught your dad in a really good mood.

Lo: Buy one, get one.

New Refrain

2010-09-30T08:56:00.003-04:00

In the grad program I'm in, we 're required to take part in group counseling. Last week, we were asked to come in with a self-affirmation to share. Very 90's-Stuart-Smalley, I know. But it can't hurt.

The Lieutenant's Alter Ego

2010-08-30T09:19:00.000-04:00

What I Gave Myself

2010-08-23T17:18:00.000-04:00

What I Want to Give Jack for Christmas

2010-08-19T16:26:00.000-04:00

Alas, Ginger Williams's nesting dolls are not for sale.

90 Minutes I Will Never Get Back

2010-08-15T12:34:00.000-04:00

Every once in a while, Biggy will talk me into watching a movie with him against my better judgment--either a high-number sequel to a good movie (Saw) that was never equalled the second time, much less the sixth, or a terrible movie (Jackass) whose sequels cannot even be ranked against the original, or a movie that was so bad (The Waterboy, Team America: World Police), a sequel was never considered. I watch to be a good sport, to be his buddy, so he knows he can count on me even when things get unpleasant. And does he return the favor? No, he doesn't. He wouldn't go with me to watch Sex and the City, one or two; he refuses to watch Heartburn on TV, and he fell asleep during The Deer Hunter, which isn't even a chick flick.

So why did I let him talk me into THIS last night? Showers don't help; prayers don't work. My soul has been permanently damaged.

Never Goin' Back

2010-08-08T12:16:00.000-04:00

Six years sober today, this from Karaoke Funeral:

THE NEW LOVER

I’m sitting on him in my living room chair,

his lap like a table where my bills pile up,

his lap a glossy stage I dance across,

and from it rises his big carpenter’s hand,

then down and into my shirt, he’s asking

if I’d have his child. Fat fucking chance,

I’m thinking. “I know all I need to know,”

he soothes as we’re watching PBS on the widespread

use of antidepressants; I’d rather pay a shrink

the hundred-plus dollars to whine about

my father’s floating penis, about that straw

perched on the lip of that tall drink, that olive

trembling in the bottom of a glass, and zombie dreams

starring my dead sister, grave-tight until twilight

when she appears, post-autopsy, offering up

odd pieces of herself. Here’s what Big Guy Lover

doesn’t know: Alcoholics take hostages.

He pulls my face up to his, his eyes deep

as disco, says, “Sweetie, I know you could never

be depressed, you smile too much.” I just grin

and shimmy over the hardwood, an unransomed

history aimed at his head.

...the sense god gave a chihuahua...

2010-08-06T10:42:00.002-04:00

Do click.

First Day, Fifth Grade

2010-08-05T13:51:00.000-04:00

Biggy, pretty much boohooing about how this was the last first day of elementary school, the first day of fifth grade, the first day of the last grade before middle school...got up extra early to make the instant pancakes, as always, which were not appreciated as much as they once were. Nor were the perfunctory snapshots for our cranky youngest child. The dogs, however, were as excited as ever to get to the bus stop.

New Sheriff in Town

2010-08-04T07:48:00.001-04:00

So Lola spent yesterday afternoon at her Safety Patrol training session and came home sporting her new flair--cap, belt, giant binder (she's been upgraded from last year's clipboard). That's not all, though; they'll be getting their rain ponchos next week. Bright orange. She was just an ordinary patrol officer in fourth grade, but for fifth she's been promoted to Lieutenant; hence the binder.

Now she can issue warnings, citations, and detention hall slips, and she needs the larger ledger to keep track of the offending masses. She also has command over the lower officers, of course, and MUST hand out demerits if they forget any part of uniform or badge. She watched every episode of Mall Cops this summer, taking notes. School starts tomorrow, and we can all feel a little safer.

Convo with Georgia

2010-08-03T08:28:00.006-04:00

Miss George is back in school, in Photography, let's just say VERY close to where I work, so she has occasion to pop into my office here and there to share what's on her mind. Yesterday, for instance:

Georgia: I really wish I didn't have to work tonight. I still have to shoot fruit--I'm thinking pomegranate, cut open all sloppy and gross looking, like awful lips-- sometime between when I get off tonight and six in the morning, when I'm meeting A to get sunrise shots.

TR: Rough schedule.

George (Brightening a bit): I did have time to get a Fit Shake, though.

TR(Obligatory question): How was it?

George: That GIRL made it. She's SUCH a bitch. They were out of big straws, only had little ones, which, of course, would sink down and get as lost as I am in Photoshop, and what good would that do me, so I asked if they had any more of the big ones, and she gave me a look like I was asking her to be my Maid of Honor. PLUS, she didn't fill the cup up. Terrible customer service. She should NOT be working with the public. I mean, neither should I, but if I'm not nice to people, I don't get tipped, and she's probably making about eight dollars an hour whether she's nice or not, and that inch in my cup that she didn't fill is the biggest part of the cup and that's significant. Fit Shakes cost over six bucks, and it should be mashed up against the lid. Oozing out even. It's not like she buys the acai herself.

TR: It's better when the guys make it. They usually blend too much and put the leftovers in a little cup for you to take with.

George: Exactly! And then I got out to my car and took a sip, and it wasn't even a Fit Shake. I don't know what it was, but I wasn't going to drink it. So I had to go BACK in and tell her. Then she screamed at the guy taking orders that he had PUT IT IN WRONG and glared at me while she made it again. NOW I have to go work the patio, and it's a hundred and twenty degrees out, so I'll be sweating like Fat Elvis.

TR: Come get a hug.

Welcome To My World Some More

2010-07-16T20:16:00.005-04:00

Welcome to My World

2010-07-13T16:38:00.002-04:00

We're down to two kids in the house--Lola and her father. And somehow I find myself constantly trapped between them, ricocheting off one's shoulder into the other's hip, being stepped on--and, oh, the noise! The crying and whining, the questions, the bad rapping and fake accents. All weekend it was Biggy going, "WHOOP-WHOOP" and Lola responding, "THAT'S THE SOUND OF THE POLICE!"--at dinner, in the car, in the Apple Store. Imagine this a thousand times.

Biggy's Secret Stash

2010-07-02T22:50:00.000-04:00

4 containers cocoa roasted almonds, in the back of the cabinet with the dinnerware.

2 bags M&M's and a Zone bar hidden in the cabinet above the stove, where we keep the dog meds.

1 more package of almonds (just in case), squirreled in the top of the coffee mugs cabinet.

It's Official

2010-07-02T13:57:00.003-04:00

I'm a hoarder.

Super

2010-06-29T09:08:00.003-04:00

One of the required courses for the degree I'm currently working on is Career Counseling. Only one of us in the class actually wants to specialize in that area, but we must all suffer the course. I'm not really, really complaining, because I understand the value in being better able to help a client who's been laid off or who is unhappy or unfulfilled in their current job. It's just that in the summer, we're cramming 16 weeks of learnin' into 8, and there are a shitton of theories in this particular area. There are theories for everything in life, of course--why babies look like their fathers, why dogs roll in crap...They give scientists something to do while the rest of us are watching Jersey Shore.

Last week, we were discussing Super's Life Span, Life Space Theory of career development, wherein he explains that during the exploratory--or fantasy--stage, which happens during childhood and which some people never advance past, our career goals center on such things as cowboy, rock star, astronaut, pilot. About those who don't grow out of this phase, our book says, "Often, the understanding of themselves or of the world of work needed to make more effective choices is either missing or disregarded." Hence, I guess, we have John Wayne, Mick Jagger, Buzz Aldrin (astronaut AND ballroom dancer--hello), and Frank Abagnale Jr.

Between the ages of 9 and 12, I used to stand in front of the bathroom mirror with a towel, preferably solid white, over my head, covering my hair, towel and hair tucked behind my ears, and imagine I was a nun or--even better--a saint. Ever since watching Song of Bernadette, I'd felt the calling. I believe I could have risen to the ranks of incorruptible, too, if it hadn't been for puberty, when I switched to poet.

Bogus theory.

Groceries

2010-06-26T14:10:00.005-04:00

About three months ago, Biggy agreed to take over the cooking and food shopping responsibilities. Before you get all 'Wow--what a great guy' about it, you should know that he never liked my buying the groceries, feeling that it was unnecessary to have both Raisin Bran AND shredded wheat in the house and that the cheaper canned fruit is just as good as fresh.

As I tried to stick to the same budget I'd had since Ginger left the Spice Girls, the complaints piled up against Tuna Helper and weekly Gorditas. Everyone wanted more variety, meal-wise, but if I purchased more than one kind of salad dressing, I was being excessive. And if I even THOUGHT about, say, a can of artichoke hearts, I was Zsa Zsa Gabor. Add my husband's list of random rules: cheese should be yellow...and the fact that I'd be sitting in class after a full day of work, thinking, What can I fix for dinner? Well, I was more than happy to relinquish those duties. I handed in my Amex (groceries quickly add up to frequent flier miles)and let the chips fall.

Only, now there are no chips. You want a sandwich? You get a sandwich--a couple of slices of Publix brand turkey and a 'cheese single' on white bread, no lettuce or tomato, no sides. Rather than Hamburger Helper, it's simply hamburgers, three times a week, on two-week old buns ("Just pinch off the mold"). Rather than Gorditas, Biggy fixes his own tacos concoction, blindly pulling several bottles of spices out of the pantry to season the meat. I've seen him use Allspice, Greek seasoning, and seafood rub. No need for the Old El Paso dinner kit; those things cost $2 on sale!

This morning, I had oatmeal for breakfast, which was my only option, and when lunchtime rolled around, all I could find was a three-year-old pack of Cup-O-Soup. The dogs are also out of food, since I fed the last few kibbles to the turtle, who is also OUT OF FOOD. I'd have settled for a flour-tortilla-and-cheese-product quesadilla, but I ate the last tortilla Wednesday night, and he doesn't shop till Sunday.

So, famished, I crawled upstairs to find my husband:

TR: Can I go to the store and get some food?

Biggy: There's food. I just had a turkey sandwich.

TR: C'mon. You only left one slice, and it's not even real meat.

Biggy: We'll go to the store together. After the soccer game.

TR: I'm starving. Give me the freaking credit card! I need to get some tortillas, or maybe a piece of fried chicken. I had cereal for dinner last night!

Biggy: OK, fine. But only if you'll take the scooter. You can't carry much on the scooter.

Mamoo's Magical Garden 2010

2010-06-24T08:22:00.005-04:00

or How My Mother Got Poison Ivy; or Why All the Garden Stores Are Out of Statuary; or Yes, Every Woman Over 60 has a Doxie in the Yard

Allergic to What?

2010-05-31T20:42:00.001-04:00

Another trip to the Emergency Vet. Yeah, she's fine now.

Has Anyone Seen This Boy?

2010-05-27T15:14:00.000-04:00

He pretty much disappeared after graduation.

Figure Study

2010-05-21T12:14:00.000-04:00

Olive.

Snake-Bit

2010-05-16T20:55:00.001-04:00

Poor Charlie. Antibiotics, IV fluids, and there might be some facial disfigurement.

Good Sunday Song

2010-05-16T09:16:00.002-04:00

I heart Joshua James.

Real Country

2010-05-11T08:43:00.008-04:00

Maybe it's the sweet lyrics and the fact I want to write a country song. Or maybe it's because of my bad habit of going backward, retracing my steps, trying to figure out where I went wrong. Whatever, I love this.

Overheard in the Hall This Morning

2010-05-03T11:40:00.000-04:00

Lola: Did we win the lottery?

Biggy: If you wake up one morning, and I'm not here, you'll know.

Happy 18th, Jack. First-Batch Kids Are All Grown Up.

2010-04-29T10:45:00.000-04:00

This morning:

TR: Happy Birthday, Jack! Welcome to your adulthood.

Biggy: Remember, if you get arrested, they throw you in real jail now, not juvie.

TR: Your draft registration papers are on the kitchen counter.

PMS

2010-04-15T16:40:00.001-04:00

April Is, After All, National Poetry Month

2010-04-14T11:05:00.003-04:00

If only all men were as honest.

Oatmeal Deluxe
--by Stephen Dobyns

This morning because the snow swirled deep
around my house, I made oatmeal for breakfast.
At first it was runny so I added more oatmeal,
then it grew too thick so I added water.
Soon I had a lot of oatmeal. The radio
was playing Spanish music and I became
passionate: soon I had four pots of oatmeal.
I put them aside and started a new batch.
Soon I had eight pots. When the oatmeal cooled,
I began to roll it with my hands, making
small shapes: pigs and souvenir ashtrays. Then
I made a foot, then another, then a leg. Soon
I’d made a woman out of oatmeal with freckles
and a cute nose and hair made from brown sugar
and naked except for a necklace of raisins.
She was five feet long and when she grew harder
I could move her arms and legs without them
falling off. But I didn’t touch her much—
she lay on the table—sometimes I’d touch her
with a spoon, sometimes I’d lick her in places
it wouldn’t show. She looks like you, although
your hair is darker, but the smile is like yours,
and the eyes, although hers are closed. You say:
But what has this to do with me? And I should say:
I want to make more women out of Cream of Wheat.
But enough of such fantasy. You ask me
why I don’t love you, why you can’t
live with me. What can I tell you? If I
can make a woman out of oatmeal, my friend,
what trouble could I make for you, a woman?

Says So Much

2010-04-13T11:05:00.000-04:00

New T-shirt design from Threadless.com.

My Sister Would Have Been 45 Today

2010-04-05T14:04:00.001-04:00

From Karaoke Funeral

MAIL

At the mailbox I’m disappointed,
only a postcard of a missing child.
If I recognized her, had to alert
the authorities, tell them,
She stands behind my daughter
in the third grade chorus,
maybe I wouldn’t feel this
strange compulsion to steal
my neighbors’ mail, wander
up the street as gray and vacant
as my ex-husband’s flannel pajamas,
slip all the envelopes into my pocket
like a fistful of gold chains.
Last night’s dream reminds me
I’d never be suspected:
Two a.m. on Fennel Street,
waiting for the red light to change,
I saw reassembled Kelly
in my rear-view mirror,
sprawled out in the back seat,
drinking a Budweiser, blonde curls
grown back like a Miracle Mop,
chiding, Run it, Goody Two-shoes
—not another car for miles!
Like when we were children,
raised on rules strict as metal flags,
she always breaking them, and me,
older, afflicted with Compliance.
And no cars passing now
on Parsley Lane, as I thumb through
the Owens’ J. Crew, a Visa bill,
an invitation to Chuck E. Cheese.
Suddenly, it’s not enough, stealing mail.
I want to cut class, smoke dope,
fail Personal Hygiene and Driver’s Ed,
I want to go down on the boy with the biggest
mouth in school, then cruise around the suburbs
and smash my mailbox with a baseball bat.

For Georgia

2010-04-03T08:03:00.001-04:00

Happy 21st!

Family in Crisis

2010-04-01T07:45:00.000-04:00

After I got home from school Monday night and crawled into bed, my husband wanted to tell me a story about something that happened earlier in the evening:

Biggy: While Jack and Lola and I were watching 'Say Yes to the Dress'..........

Yeah, it doesn't really matter what he said after that.

Oldie but Oh-So-Goodie

2010-03-30T09:05:00.001-04:00

Jack Talks Some More

2010-03-27T21:22:00.000-04:00

Jack: Do you think it's possible that using Chapstick can make your lips MORE chapped?

TR: What do you mean?

Jack: My lips have gotten so bad that I have to use Chapstick every two hours. After I use it, my lips get drier and drier--more than before I used it, and then I have to reapply.

TR: Maybe you're allergic to it--like Lola.

Jack: I'm NOT allergic. I think it's like using steroids, you know? When you're putting steroids in your body from the outside, you stop producing testosterone naturally. So when you quit using the steroids, suddenly you have no testosterone and you lose all your male stuff.

TR: What in the world does THAT have to do with Chapstick?

Jack: Well, in this case, Chapstick is the steroids and my lips are the testicles.

TR: That's quite a metaphor.

Jack: It makes perfect sense.

Back Door Mat

2010-03-20T14:28:00.001-04:00

Jack: Mom, I HATE this rug. Can you get a new one?

TR: What's wrong with it?!

Jack: Um, it has Dachshunds on it. It looks like something Mamoo would have in her house.

TR: Do you understand that I'm turning 47 tomorrow? That's almost 50. It's perfectly natural for me to have a rug with dogs on it.

Jack: You could try to change that stereotype.

TR: OR, I could just enjoy it, like all the women who've come before me.

Childhood Memories

2010-03-17T15:42:00.003-04:00

This has been a bad couple of late-night days for me--getting home around 11 pm.

So I was telling my friend Claire at work about my conversation with Lo this morning:

TR: Lola told me she HATES it when I'm not home at night, because her dad is the "worst putter-to-bedder ever." She said he just THROWS the covers on top of her in a big pile. You know, I carefully spread each of the five blankets in the particular order she likes them stacked. You'd think he could handle something so simple…

Claire: I used to LOVE when my dad tucked me in. He always read to me--Rudyard Kipling--in voice: …till at last he came to the banks of the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever-trees…It was great.

TR: Really, Claire?! That's so sweet. My dad used to come into my room trashed, throw himself on my feet, and cry.

Claire: ... ... ...

TR: My work here is done.

Small Dog

2010-03-16T11:55:00.002-04:00

served up with cream of death.

Women Like This Make Me Ashamed to Have a Vagina

2010-03-15T07:48:00.002-04:00

What the heck are we supposed to make of these GQ photos, anyway? One seems to say, "Come #$^% me on my daughter's toys," and I'll not speculate on the other... (I've decided not to exploit that child by posting it.) For once, couldn't she have kept her pants on? Gross, gross, gross. I get that sex sells, but must we stoop to the sex/child combo?

Friday Nostalgia

2010-03-12T09:10:00.001-05:00

Jack's The Bomb at Prom

2010-03-08T09:24:00.000-05:00

My Mean Son

2010-03-06T12:57:00.000-05:00

TR: What's that on TV?

Jack: Holes.

TR: You wanna go run with me at the river?

Jack: This movie's not gonna watch itself.

Friday Nostalgia

2010-03-05T08:27:00.002-05:00

Takes me right back to the late-night/early-mornings in 1992, when I was up with Jack, rocking him and watching infomercials with my friends Susan and Victoria.

He Nails It

2010-02-27T11:22:00.002-05:00

Friday Nostalgia

2010-02-26T08:10:00.001-05:00

This from Poetry Daily

2010-02-25T08:36:00.000-05:00

Lullaby
So you're home. Key to the lock, your clutter
and doubt through the door, hang your coat on its claw,
your palm in bloom, your shadow half-opened.
Any wonders under the bed, in the bend
of your knee? Any new or made new or nomads who
make songs into houses? It's humid,
humming in the locust trees, with eleven rings
on the telephone. Lift that crescent to your ear
and dust off your laughter, some dissonant love;
there's one with a brick house, and one who loves
to break. Where is a calm as is?
Half asleep, bottled in with the breeze,
one world yawning, another burning
too far from your door.
Where's here, or our? Where rivers
branch in your fist, and your errors
stand by you, won't blame you for
the rigid outlines you unloosed through the door.
Enough. And half, then another
paper clip, a clapping thunder,
book in your lap, feet on a chair,
when some haggard cherub
says you're neither particle nor wave
nor even disquiet tonight—has the weave
of kisses come undone again?
Are you too stubborn again? But then your brain
unbuttons, drifts to the floor, and pure
as the past, you start over.

Joanie Mackowski

View from a Temporary Window
University of Pittsburgh Press

Did I Mention What I Got For Christmas?

2010-02-22T15:21:00.001-05:00

I so deserved it.

One of These Things is Not Like the Others

2010-02-22T08:56:00.002-05:00

Hair

2010-02-21T12:10:00.002-05:00

Preparing for His Journey Into Adulthood

2010-02-19T15:02:00.002-05:00

So Jack's car is in the shop again, which puts him in a really crabby mood. My usually easy-going son is frustrated and huffy. Needing to let off a little steam, he went with his girlfriend Dan, with whom he spends three hours a night at the Y, to Suburban Tap after their workout. Did not get home until 2 in the morning. Five hours later, he was dragging around in the kitchen, watching the coffee drip, when I asked him what he was thinking--staying out so late:

Jack: I dunno.

TR: Seriously, Jack. What could have been so fascinating?

Jack: Well, Dan was there, and Vickie, and B.T...

TR: Oh, B.T.'s mom lets him stay out till 2?

Jack: Yeah, she realizes he's pretty much 18, and there's not much she can say about it.

TR: I see. And does B.T. ask his mother to make him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to take to school every day?

Jack: Are you going to give me a ride or what?

Smash JP Moon Walk

2010-02-18T21:21:00.001-05:00

has his own website.

Best in Snow

2010-02-17T10:15:00.001-05:00

Lola's Charlie Monster of Marietta

The Poodle was ROBBED!

2010-02-17T09:47:00.001-05:00

Finally!!!

2010-02-10T15:44:00.003-05:00

Now available from Snake Nation Press.

Sample poem:

NUDE BOWLING AT THE GOODTIME BOOGIE

Ananaya of the Brown Nipples

is trying to sweep up a spare,

my mate in line behind her.

Others chat in the darklight

of candles and campfires,

but I’m too queasy for small-talk;

I’ve been over-served again.

I’m overwhelmed of the senses--

preponderance of flesh,

reek of patchouli and cannabis,

competing beats of drum circles.

Open-air showers, a communal

kitchen: I’m tired of dirty

fingernails, greasy scalps,

unchecked pheromonal ooze;

tired of this weekend

of musical gender-bending

and letting-it-all-hang-

out-ness; and tired, too,

of this game they’ve made

of paneling, pins,

and bales of hay, played

sans sarong. It brings to mind

my father’s famous costume soirees--

any excuse to don a diaper

or a hula skirt, scant enough between

his particular urges

and any woman not my mother.

Well, who but I would drag out

the rags of her childhood

during naked competition?

Who, but I, wearing a mere scrap

of fabric, knotted at the hip.

~

Lola's Food Journal

2010-02-09T09:18:00.001-05:00

While oldest sis Sadie was in town this weekend, she bought Lola a blank book in which to record her daily food intake. This is part of Sadie's attempt to counter what she and the first-batch kids think is my master plan to sabotage their figures by eating vicariously through them. Their legend has it that since I am a recovering anorexic/bulimic I load my young offspring up on donut pudding. The way I see it, I've just misguidedly gone to the other side of the spectrum, trying NOT to obsess over their diets OR limit their autonomy. I've always said they can be the boss of their hair and their food. Give them that. Also, pink hair goes nicely with love handles. In any event, while my children might have taken a little while to shed their baby fat, all three older kids have learned from my awesome personal practices and--as adults--eat healthy and exercise, as I trusted they would.

But back to the point: Sadie and Lo have agreed to write down what they consume each day and call each other in the evenings to discuss. So I had this exchange with Lola before school this morning:

Lo: Did you put brownies in my book bag for snack like I asked you to?

TR: I did. Sadie's not going to like that.

Lo: I know. Hey, I promised her I'd try a new food every week.

TR: What are you thinking about trying first?

Lo: Well, I've never had the mint Three Musketeers.

Cheapskate's Anthem

2010-02-05T16:12:00.002-05:00

That's what I think every time I hear this song. I mean, there she's been, looking forward to going out...she has the dress and the perfect shoes....But hey, just leave the t-shirt on and cancel the reservations. Maybe she can fry him up some chicken.

Friday Nostalgia

2010-02-05T08:47:00.001-05:00

Garbage In, Garbage Out

2010-02-03T09:23:00.000-05:00

Separated at birth.

Tenth Circle

2010-02-02T07:47:00.001-05:00

I heard a radio spot for this last night on my way home from class. The only way it could get closer to my own personal hell on earth is if the clowns came into the audience and fondled me.

Biggy Flooring

2010-02-01T10:44:00.001-05:00

This has been going on since before Thanksgiving--the noise, the mess, the terrible lyrics...

Weekend Group Nap

2010-01-26T15:45:00.000-05:00

And Fay is under there, somewhere.

Friday Nostalgia

2010-01-22T08:52:00.002-05:00

One of the greatest shows ever.

My Gift To You

2010-01-21T14:45:00.003-05:00

Streaming live video by Ustream

Poor Jack

2010-01-19T07:03:00.000-05:00

Help Me

2010-01-17T21:17:00.000-05:00

I need something like this for my yard, but I don't know where to find one.

I Heart Jon Stewart All Day Long

2010-01-16T09:29:00.000-05:00

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart

Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c

Crazy Like a Contributor

www.thedailyshow.com

Daily Show
Full Episodes

Political Humor

Health Care Crisis

So. Not. Funny.

2010-01-14T11:47:00.000-05:00

Right there, in the space between the Time magazine and the bath mat, is where my scales are supposed to be.

Blogger Fail

2010-01-13T08:42:00.001-05:00

So I was sure I could post every day in January--hence, the cute little NaBloPoMo button in the sidebar, indicating the theme, BEST. How hard can it be, really, to think of the best of something every 24 hours? And yet, and yet, I have already missed three days! I'm a loser, Baby. At the very least, I could throw up a picture of the Christmas tree that is still in full regalia, dehydrating in the corner of our sunroom. Or Jack's New Year's resolution grocery list that makes me feel like I'm shopping for Cobb County's next Junior Miss (Fresca, lo-fat yogurt...). Maybe it's just that I have so many balls in the air right now--the new book, work, school, Twitter. And there's the cold weather like a slow bleed, draining my sparkle.

In any case, I'll try to do better.

Don't Know Where She Gets It

2010-01-11T15:57:00.003-05:00

Georgia calls me this afternoon from her car. I'm sitting in the college cafeteria, waiting for my 5:00 class to start.

George: Ugh! I hate going straight from work to the gym and having to change clothes there!

TR: Why don't you go home, decompress, change, and THEN go to the gym?

George: No, then Manny will get all excited I'm home and I'll feel bad for leaving him again.

(Sound of her parking, turning off the ignition)

George: Oh my god, it's so crowded! It's ridiculous! All these people I've never seen before--In three weeks they'll be at home, sitting on their asses, watching The Biggest Loser, and eating Pringles--so much for their resolutions. In the meantime, I can't get on the treadmill.

TR: I know. It's the same at the Y. I hate it. They should have special hours for people who join in January. An initiation....So I have two back-to-back classes tonight and they're across campus from each other. I don't know if I can hoof it in 15 minutes.

George: Can't you drive?

TR: It would take me longer to drive and find another parking space.

George: But you wouldn't be walking in the cold. Hey, I gotta go.

TR: OK. Love you. Have a great day.

George: You too.

Friday Nostalgia

2010-01-08T10:18:00.001-05:00

Happy Birthday.

Been Thinking About John Prine

2010-01-07T23:07:00.002-05:00

From Monday's Poetry Daily, a poem by Mark Jarman

2010-01-06T21:32:00.001-05:00

Good God

Instead of casting them out of paradise,
Instead of making them labor in pain and sweat,
Instead of instilling tristesse after coitus,
Instead of giving them fire to burn their house down

And light their way into the outer world,

He could have split them, each with a memory of the other,
And put them each into a separate world.

I Can't WAIT to Pick Lola Up From School Today!

2010-01-05T10:50:00.000-05:00

Best Thing To Do On A Tuesday Night

2010-01-05T08:42:00.001-05:00

NEXT Tuesday, January 12 @ 7:30 p.m., Tara Betts, Travis Denton, and I will be reading at the Decatur Library. More info here or here.

Best New Year's Email

2010-01-04T14:08:00.000-05:00

Best Late-Night Freakiness

2010-01-03T12:24:00.000-05:00

I woke up around 2 a.m. to discover my husband was not in bed. Naturally, like any good wife, I was worried about him, so I went directly to the computer room to assure myself that he was safe. He was there, all right, immersed in Google Sketch-Up, an activity that involves little risk, so I went back to sleep.

When he finally got up around noon today, he was very excited to show me the mausoleum he designed for himself and Daisy.

Serpas

2010-01-02T22:48:00.000-05:00

Biggie and I celebrated New Year's Eve at Serpas, which was named one of the country's "ten best new restaurants" in one of my husband's lame metrosexual magazines. GQ, I think--the one with Rihanna's boobs on the front. That's Ree-onna, by the way, so don't make the mistake of calling her Ree-anna. At least not in front of anyone in my family. All you'll hear is Reee-yann-naaa, along with references to Powder Springs, for the next three months.

Anyway, the restaurant was lovely, lots of glass and twinkly lights, and the food was excellent. I had a New York strip with french horn mushrooms(!), tiny eggplants, and tinier potatoes. Biggy had the pork shoulder with smoked cheese grits and sauteed greens. I had to eat his greens, of course, because, well, they're green.

The room was full of beautiful young people wearing expensive shoes and bustiers. More and more, I feel out of place in public. I've always felt like an outside observer, but the condition is getting worse. I guess I'll start wearing purple and all of that.

Day One of the New Year

2010-01-01T21:51:00.001-05:00

Just so you know, I've been lying on the couch since 5:30, eating sugar-free ice cream and watching TLC's line-up of shows about super-obesity. Best way to start 2010.

Christmas in Lola's World

2009-12-27T10:29:00.002-05:00

Lola's letter to Santa:

Santa's response:

Christmas Day:
:
:
:
:
:
:
:

My co-worker Christine

2009-12-23T14:56:00.002-05:00

lives my alternate reality, the superior version.

Because It's That Time of Year

2009-12-23T08:46:00.001-05:00

Best. Christmas movie. Ever.

Friday Nostalgia

2009-12-18T10:57:00.001-05:00

The Partee

2009-12-14T09:42:00.000-05:00

Happy Birthday, Lola!

2009-12-13T08:52:00.000-05:00

Double digits.