A Confederacy of Dunces

3k- the earliest mems: the brown table

2012-01-11T11:35:00.000-06:00

Three-year old kindergarten, I remember was on the first floor of my preschool, right behind the snack machines. We were oftentimes given a snack of Kool-Aid and butter cookies. I suppress my gagging reflex when I think of the smell of the Kool-Aid (too watered down, made with luke-warm water, and always, it seemed, ALWAYS grape flavored), and the cookies (bought in an economy sized package, and having no discernible taste besides for sugar and hardened dough). My classmates and I sat at 4 tables, everyone assigned to a seat and each table identified with a piece of construction paper taped to the center. There was the blue table, the red table, the green table, and the yellow table. That way our teacher could say, "blue table, it is your turn to use the water fountain," or something like that. I sat at the yellow table. I won't make this dull story and longer than need be. I spilled my nasty Kool-Aid on our table, causing everyone to jump up and worse-- spilling all over the yellow construction paper which was our table's bannerman. I sat in my chair mortified and silent as Mrs. Forsythe cleaned the mess and told me that "don't worry, now we'll just have the brown table." Brown instead of yellow because my Kool-Aid ruined it's color. I was stunned that she did not just retrieve a new sheet of construction paper to replace the soiled one. Brown is probably the ugliest color to children. It is the color of dirt, poo, un-stylish furniture, and dog food. My parents love to tell the story of how I, sitting on my high chair, slid my hand across a plate of cut up meat, causing it to crash on the floor. "DOG!" I had said to explain my distaste for the color of the food. "Dog" is how I felt about the color of our table. I couldn't meet my fellow students in the eye. I didn't even share this tale with my mom for fear that I would cry as soon as I opened my mouth. Overly dramatic as I may be, the words, "Don't worry, now we'll just have the brown table" have remained with me.

3K- the Earliest Mems, Spiderweb Shoes

2012-01-10T14:57:00.001-06:00

Continuing on my self-indulgent series of memories from being three years old, is the story in which I engaged in a love hate relationship with a fellow class mate named Abby. Abby and I were both in Mrs. Forsythe's three year old kindergarten class and I really liked the way she dressed. She wore her hair in a fashionable side ponytail which prompted me to demand the same hairstyle from my stylist, Phyllis. "No. I want it [my banded hair] moved over," I said. "Moved over? What, like this?" my mom said as she forced the ponytail to the side of my skull. I nodded. "Oh. A side ponytail," she said, already familiar with the style. It was done. I had my side ponytail like Abby. As opinionated as I am now, my mom still relishes when I give her any tid-bit, any detail, of my tastes or preferences in fashion. For some reason, I find those choices to be very personal and I don't like coming out and declaring that I am fond of [blank] latest fashion and I want to emulate it as soon as possible. I think it is out of fear of being made to look like a fashion victim. You know, quickly investing in some "fashionable" pieces which soon become laughable the next season. What makes this strange is that I am afraid of looking like a fashion victim in front of my least critical fan-- Phyllis-- who loves everything I wear. I say all of this to set the stage for my mom's dedication to finding me the clothes, shoes, jewelry, etc. that I desired for the mere fact that I told her I desired them. Instead of having to guess, when I told her liked something, she would quickly accommodate because those instances were, and still are, so rare. Therefore, when I next told her that I wanted Abby's spiderweb shoes, she was quick to oblige. However, finding the spiderweb shoes, based on my description, was not easy. The had a white base. There was then a sparse design, not too overdone, tasteful, you see, of thin black webbing across the side, and a splash of purple. A spider was on there somewhere. She usually bought all of my shoes from Stride Rite because I had an exceptionally narrow foot. Stride Rite had never heard of such distasteful shoes and she reported back to me that since Stride Rite didn't carry them, I couldn't wear them because of the needs of my slim little foot. I had a Veruca Salt moment and cried. Yes, I cried because I could not have shoes like Abby. My mom caved and she continued her search at all of the local department stores everyday as she dropped me off at three year old kindergarten. Everyday when she picked me up, I was sad to learn she had yet to find shoes like Abby's. My sadness served as fuel for her to continue her search. She then asked me a most practical question, "Why don't you ask Abby where she got her shoes?" GASP-- I hadn't actually ever spoken to Abby, and I was not about to let her know that I was trying to find shoes to match hers. The shoes were going to be my icebreaker. Not able to communicate this to my mom, I just shook my head vigorously. "Sigh." Phyllis eventually took to the phonebook, grabbed a telephone, and called every shoe store in Birmingham. No one had them. She then continued her search into the greater Birmingham vicinity, 50 miles or so outside of Birmingham, and she made her discovery. It was such a drive that I had to accompany her. She didn't even bother making me try them on because she knew I would want them regardless of the fit. She found the shoes, shiny and new, and she still talks about how far she had to drive to find them. I can't remember what city it was because I was a child and all of that seemed entirely indifferent to me. What I am now realizing though, as I write this post, that when we picked up the spiderweb shoes, I was sitting in the front seat, and I was not in a car seat. I wonder if that was normal for those times? My mom laughed and said these were "the cheapest little shoes" but "if that's what you want..." I didn't care what Phyllis considered cheap. I wanted these shoes as I was quite concerned with my appearance and I had found someone's style I wanted to mimic. The next day I couldn't contain my pleasure at having the spiderweb shoes and I ran to Abby to show her."Look I have spiderweb shoes... like you!" I said. "Huh?" Abby said. How could she not know what I was talking about! I looked down at her feet and she walked away distracted by someone else. That day when my mom picked me up, she could hardly wait until I was in the car before she asked if I had showed Abby my spiderweb shoes. It was then that I told her the awful news: Abby, for the first time since she took my notice, wasn't wearing her spiderweb shoes. She was wearing Rainbow Brite shoes. Having a good attitude about the affair, my mom just sighed and said, "Ugh." I reassured her that I had no interest in Rainbow Brite shoes.

3K-- the Earliest Mems: It's Not Cool to Pee in Your Pants

2011-12-02T13:14:00.001-06:00

Continuing on with this indulgent memorilaization of my three year old memories, I move on now to telling about the pee pants incident. Actually, it was a pee skirt incident. The year was 1987 and blue jean skirts were the style baby. I don't know what hooker I saw on tv wearing one, but I had a love for blue jean skirts and it became the only thing I would wear. My family couldn't find enough to keep my appetite satisfied and they were even reduced to buying bigger sizes and safety pinning them on me. I didn't care because I didn't feel right not wearing one. Otherwise, I didn't have my three year old mojo. I couldn't sit in class and feel cool without one. So what did I do? I peed in mine to make it even cooler. Except that it wasn't. Don't think that I was some sort of a freakish child who didn't experience normal emotions; I didn't go parading around the room, going person-to-person, pointing at my skirt and saying, "look what I did?" No no no. I was humiliated. We had been at our school playground which was marvelous if only for its two merry-go-rounds. One was big; One was small. Depending on the amount of people I could gather, I would stay on one of those merry-go-rounds all through recess and spin and spin and then try to walk, taking delight in my incapacitated state. A prelude to the future perhaps. This time I merry-go-rounded too much and waited too long before going to the bathroom. As I entered the stall-- yes I made it that far-- I fumbled with the buttons of my blue jean skirt. Why didn't I just lift it up, you ask? Well, there's no answer to that except that that's a mistake I never repeated. The rest you can garner for yourself. I did the only logical thing you can do in that situation, something that I would, even to this day, repeat: I stayed hidden in the stall. I hid, noiselessly, thinking of my options, and my teacher, an elderly lady named Mrs. Forsythe, use her intuition and knew something was amiss. She found me. She discovered what had happened without making me say a word, and she hugged me, she hugged me even though I had peed in my pants. Now, that's a teacher, I say. She let me remain in my stall, my fortress to protect me from social suicide, and she called my mother. There have been several times in my life when seeing the face of my mom induces a love that could not be anymore purer. This was one of those times. She was smiling and she wasn't disappointed with me. She acted like peeing in your pants in public was like getting the chicken pox, like she had been expecting this and was glad to get it over with-- like there's only one time in your life that it could happen. Not all parents are like that. One of my ex-boyfriends broke one of his permanent front teeth skateboarding as a pre-teen. He went to the dentist to get a partial or a veneer or something like that. He thought he would get the tooth replacement that day, but he didn't. Rather than let him have the day off from school and nurse his wounds, his mother made him return to school with a missing front tooth. She didn't work; this wasn't out of necessity and I am still horrified when I think that she had the power to prevent her son from suffering humilation and she chose not to. It wasn't until I learned that she, the daughter of an Italian immigrant, was not allowed to go to school by her chauvinistic father who withheld his two girls from even a primary education, while he sent his only son to school, that I realized she thought school was this mecca of freedom and pleasure and she would not have her son miss one minute of it.Back to me. The purity of that moment was then tainted by my three year old vanity when I saw what outfit she had brought me wear. It was a hunter green sweat shirt with matching hunter green sweat pants. The sweat shirt, to be worn around Christmas and it was not Christmas, had white lace trim that ran down the middle in a V pattern. It was so ugly. I said, "I don't want to wear that... didn't I have any blue jean skirts clean?" She was not sympathetic any longer, "No April, now put this on." I begrudgingly obliged but I told her that I was not going back into class-- not because everyone would know, but because my outfit was so hideous. She said the magic words that I became addicted to hearing throughout my entire education, "You don't have to go back to school. We can go home." Sweet Jesus life was good.

3 K -- the Earliest Mems: The Goldfish Coloring Assignment

2011-11-08T14:05:00.000-06:00

Lately, I've been trying to think of my earliest memory. It's kind of a parlor room conversation that gets started and I like to impress everyone by admitting that I remember my third birthday. Recently, I had this same conversation with my parents, with each of us stating how far back he or she can remember into his or her childhood. My dad said he can't remember last month. Before my mom could begin with what would undoubtedly be a sad story from childhood because I didn't want to hear it and because was well-equipped with an answer, "I remember my third birthday." My parents repeated my pronouncement, "You remember your third birthday?" "Yes," I said, annoyed at being questioned. "What exactly do you remember?" they continued. "Well, I remember I got a swing set and I remember I got my first Barbie doll from dad's weird friend Donny," I countered. You would remember getting a Barbie doll from Donny too if it had happened to you. It was such an odd gesture of kindness from a man, in his 40's, divorced or single, gruff, always smelling like either alcohol or gasoline and kind of looking like an ugly version of Gerard Butler. I preferred the smell of the latter. Unrelated but equally disturbing, I used to beg my mom to leave the windows down while she pumped gas so I could breathe in the intoxicating fumes. She knew it was wrong to allow me to do such a destructive thing, especially for a young developing brain, but she couldn't say no to me. Mom put my earliest memory achievement to an end. "Nope. That was your fourth birthday." So now, I confess to everyone that I have been a little liar as to remembering my third birthday. But, I can tell you that I have distinct memories from being three years old. So this is the first in a series called "3 K-- the earliest mems." These my mother cannot dispute.The Goldfish Coloring Assignment I remember sitting in three year old Kindergarten and complying with our assignment of coloring some goldfish on a piece of paper. Teachers economically buy one coloring book and then make photo copies of the unused sheets. The image I was supposed to color was just four or five goldfish, falling into a random pattern, and not even in a fish bowl or an aquarium or native habitat to make it interesting. Because of the name-- goldfish-- and the popularity of the snack cracker, everyone used their orange crayon and colored the goldfish orange. I remember being bored with this assignment. I looked at the other kids at our shared table and they were, gasp, scribbling. I knew how to color in the lines. I had the dexterity. While I sit here and lap up the satisfaction of being a dexterious three year old, you won't find me bragging about my dexterity now. Texting is the bane of my exisitence because of my lack of it. In addition, I sometimes suffer from tremors and find myself finding little ways to avoid anyone see my shaking. Using two hands to drink, for example. Sliding money to a cashier rather than handing it over, is another example. However, I didn't want to take the time to consecutively color four or five goldfish with the same orange crayon. So I scribbled and like Forrest Gump in the movie of his namesake, I said, "DONE DRILL SARGENT." That last part is not true of course. This coloring assignment would have played no role in my life nor found a place in my long term memory had not my father reviewed my day's work that evening. Sitting on the right side of the couch, legs crossed at the knee, smoking a cigarette, he said, "A-prul. Come here." "Yes," I said hesitating once I saw him holding a piece of paper with the scribbled goldfish. "Why did you do this?" He put a emphasis on "why" like a family member asking "why" did you betray the family by making a deal with Hymen Roth. In other words, there was a lot of pain, confusion, and wrath in the question. He continued, "You know how to color inside the lines," he asked. Again, he said this like a pained father, Capulet asking his daughter Juliet why does she take for granted her blessing and disappoint him, "Doth she not give us thanks? Is she not proud? Doth she not count her blest? Unworthy as she is..." I said, "IIIIII don't know..." while twisting my feet on the ground as a distraction. I don't recall what was said after that. I know that there was no hugging or laughing or joviality. He was angry. I was at fault. In order to prevent that from happening again, I needed to always perform to the best of my abilities. A vow was made that day-- to never sink lower than my abilities-- and this vow was kept until I entered into the confusing world of junior high.

Today, I Cooked

2011-11-03T14:01:00.003-05:00

Last night I had a phone conversation with my sister which I cut short because "I [had] to put dinner in the oven."

"You cook dinner every night?" she said. "Every night?" Her dismay was evident from her tone.

"Well Meagan, you have a job. I am unemployed and it would be shameful for me to tell Wade to bring home taco bell every night because my day of sitting in front of the computer and tending to the house was EXHAUSTING." Actually, tending to the house is exhausting and when I worked, I sat in front of a computer all day too. So I can't explain the variance in the rigors except that cooking dinner is something that I want to do and do it I will.

So, at the risk of sounding like some pathetic mommy blog where I tell everyone what an awesome person I am because I made my family low fat healthy cake batter brownies and it wasn't enough that my family lauded me for my non-stop culinary endeavors so I use the blog to share them with the public in order to receive more praise. No. This is what I do. Cook. And so I want to share goddammit.

I've acquired new recipes from this delightful online community called Pinterest. Pinterest is where you bookmark little things you come across while surfing the web that you like, you want, you want to try, you wish and so forth. I've grown quite tired with the recipes in Southern Living, Cooking Light, Martha Stewart Living, and Food magazine, because of their highbrow complexity. What really sealed their fate was a Q&A in Cooking Light. The reader asks, "Is it really necessary to use fresh herbs when I only have dried herbs on hand? I work and it's not really an option to have fresh herbs all of the time." Expecting the answer to explain that in a perfect world use fresh, in a imperfect world, use dried or whatever the f you can get your hands on you poor over-worked mother to thanks-less leeches; I was surprised when the answer began, "Yes. It is necessary..." and so forth. So Pinterest recipes are bad for you, contain easy grocery staples, and allow you to do what the f you want with your herbs and spices. Jesus freaking christ who has the time to make their own vanilla extract Martha? Well, I do, but that is not the point. The day gets away from me, you see.

Anyway, my most successful meal has been

Shrimp and Grits, Quick

1/2 c quick grits
2 c water
1/8 t salt
1/8 t pepper
1 c shredded cheddar cheese
2 t butter
5 slices bacon, chopped
3 t minced garlic
4 scallions, chopped
1 lb. large shrimp, steamed, peeled, and deveined.

1. Boil the water and cook the grits with the salt and pepper according to the directions on the box. As soon as the water is absorbed, move off the burner and mix in the butter and cheese.
2. While the grits are cooking, cook the bacon in a large skillet on medium heat until crispy. Remove the bacon, but not the grease.
3. Add the shrimp to the pan and cook until they are a bit brown and heated through.
4. Take the shrimp out of the skillet. Crumble the bacon and put back into the skillet with the chopped scallions and garlic. Saute for about a minute.
5. Spoon the cheesy grits into two bowls and add the bacon-scallion mixture on top. Top with shrimp.

I serve this with half a log of Pepperidge Farm Four Cheese Bread. If you want to make it fancier, use Gouda in the grits instead of cheddar. I find that recipes always call for bacon because it takes the guess work out of figuring out how to make something have flavor. And here comes my one cliche of the ... year? "Everything's better with bacon." It's true.

I Antiqued

2011-10-17T16:07:00.008-05:00

As you know, I am unemployed, preferring however, to label myself as a full-time stay at home girlfriend (at least until employment comes beckoning me into its exclusive little club). As such I am sharpening my domestic skills to a dangerous level. Watch out January Jones- I will put your Mad Men domesticity to shame. Besides for the basic domestic chores, I have to sprinkle in some fun, so as the title of this post suggests, I have been antique shopping.

My first score was this little brass elephant I found at a thrift store for $3.

I have seen the elephant online, at Etsy and One Kings Lane for over $50. What a find. However, before you judge my purchase of a brass object, I want to go on record as saying BRASS IS BACK BABY AND YOU ARE GONNA REGRET NOT SNATCHING IT UP WHILE YOU CAN! It will be a slow transition, yes, but it is back and you can thank me for the heads up. Even the gold-toned hardware found in bathrooms is coming back in style-- not the overly shiny 90's look, but slightly aged and with a patina. Now, this does not mean that your brushed nickel or chrome is out of style, it just means that gold is a credible option now.

Actually, my obsession with brass came out of necessity. Moving into boyfriend's house required the acquisition of a number of furniture pieces. Now, in college I had the sweet-ass dinette set from the 1970's that had a brass bottom, glass top, and black lacquered Chippendale chairs. It was in fine shape but it was soooo out of fashion. So much so that when I moved to Jackson, I let it reside in my parents' basement. I had all but convinced boyfriend that, sigh, unfortunately, we would have to buy a kitchen table and chairs too, until one night at dinner, in the presence of boyfriend, my dad says, "Why April you have that nice nice dining room set in the basement." I acted surprised and thanked dad for his help. From then on, I decided to embrace the brass and in doing so, I discovered its resurgence and designed the entire house around this one-time shameful possession. Below is the table. Sexy isn't it?

After the brass elephant acquisition, I then found this brass magazine holder from the 70's for $8 at an old lady's shop in Bessemer.

I would have challenged that price but I had seen the same one online for $22. After that, at the Gardendale Antique Mall, came the brass entry-way table,

and this brass letter holder

($7 and I've seen the same online for $12) for the day's mail. I also purchased some tea saucers in my favorite pattern-- Blue Willow ($6),

and two trays ($6 and $1).

Finally, I scored some chairs for $75 each.

Mom and dad helped with some of these purchases as recompense for taking Mom along for the outing. Embrace the brass I declare.

Today, I decorated

2011-10-07T15:34:00.008-05:00

Target and its stupid self would come out with a line of Missoni products http://www.target.com/c/Missoni/-/N-5ouwb right when I don't have any discretionary income. Damn you Target for inducing such lust in me. But, to provide a silver lining to this crisis, I've determined that I have way too many patterns going on in my home right now as it is. See the below.

I can't stop. You would think with such patterns that I would tone things down with accesories. Wrong! Haha! Today I was greeted with this little beauty, a gift from mom and dad.

They think I am miserably depressed for some reason and I have been receiving presents as a result. I'm not depressed, but they interpret my denials as further confirmation. Yesterday, while at Sephora, my newly installed "text and drive" application was accidentally still running. This application will read your text message out loud while you are driving so you don't run over school children or something like that. Very loudly, my phone indicates a text message has been received and the next thing I knew, the entire store was looking at me while a computerized man's voice emitting from my phone said "Text Message from: MOM. HEY BABY WHAT ARE YOU DOING TODAY. ME AND DAD SURE DO LOVE YOU." All I could do was gape with everyone else. Sephora is an unusually quiet store when I've been there. There is an incredible worker-to-customer ratio which results in so much customer attention that it makes me squirm as I am an awkward creature. It's like an old wild west saloon; If you don't immediately confess what your business is there, they will stare at you until you do. I always think they think I am a shop lifter. This time, I was determined not to cave and I would find my bronzer myself. Therefore, all eyes where on me when my text to voice app reared its unwanted head.*

It's unusual that it is so quiet in Sephora (a cosmetics purveyor for you unknowing people) because all of the workers are forced to dress in head-to-toe black. It's been my experience that places that enforce such a dress code are loud and they encourage dancing or some sort of crazy eye make-up, like turquoise Hello Kitty face tattoos. One time, at Belk, where many of the cosmetics merchants dress in all black atire, I had the misfortune of needing some make-up while, gasp, Steve Madden himself was at the store signing shoes and autographs and the like. Four observations from this memorable day: First, he is bald, tan, oldish (50's) and appeared to spend a lot of time in the gym. I never knew he was an actual person and just assumed it was a brand name. Just like I never knew Sam and Libby were actual people who have split up, my mother reports. Second, Belk, a conservative store, selling Brighton bags and the like, was BLASTING current top 40 music, in honor of their "current" guest, at an uncomfortable volume. I consider myself to be entering the first stages of deafness, so it was quite loud if my poor haggard eardrums were offended. Plus, Steve Madden isn't so "current." I remember dying for some of his platform Mary Janes when I was like, in the seventh grade (1997). Since then I have not lusted for his footwear not once. Third, Steve Madden, while sitting at a table to sign autographs for the masses, was flanked at all times by two women dancers. They simply shook their hips, clapped, and snapped their fingers all in an effort to look like they were simply enjoying themselves at a party, at eleven a.m., at a conservative department store, in the shoe section, directly across from cosmetics, in full lighting. There were actually three dancers. One extra to allow the girls to rotate into breaks. During break time they would drink from Belk water bottles and they didn't appear to be enjoying a party.** Fourth, observation, and the only relevant one, was the cosmetic workers dressed in all black. Not to be undone by the party loving (for pay, we must establish) dancers flanking Steve Madden, the cosmetic workers dressed in head-to-toe black, were all clapping and shaking and even letting a little "whoooo" escape their overly lined lips every once in a while. It is just an attitude the all black attired cosmetic merchant has. They are fun and they are bold and they are not to be outdone by professional models/dancers/whores.

Cosmetic merchant attire is odd to me anyway. My sister actually had a pretty profitable career selling Clarins make-up at Parisians (God rest its soul). Profitable because their products were expensive and the clientele were return customers. She is an excellent sales woman and actually took a pay cut from her commission at Parisians to began her career in the insurance business. Now she makes more money than most lawyers do because she really is that good. Back to the story-- Clarins specializes in skin care so my sister's uniform was a white lab coat. A white lab coat. As if Clarins wanted the buyers to believe their saleswomen had just emerged from the labs where they were performing clinical test to reduce the signs of aging. "Oh-- excuse me; let me put away my beaker and mortar and pestle; yes, what can I help you with today ma'm?" The Estee Lauder women, which is the counter I prefer, wear navy blue uniforms and gold jewelry. This has not changed since I was a child and visited their counters along side my mother. The navy blue and gold combo just looks old, but I like it. They look like cruise ship captains which is what I have been accused of dressing like on many occasion by my girl friends.*** Well, at the Estee Lauder counter, I found a comrad against the debauchery this Madden fellow had brought into our Belk and we complained of all the noise. "And those girls? Did you see them?" We shook our heads in agreement without having to say anything else.

* On a side note, the Sephora worker who checked me out called me "Madame Walker" as I was taking my receipt and bag, which I loved for some reason. Is that an insult?

**I wonder if Mr. Madden takes his privileges with the dancers?

***I love the nautical look/ sailor attire. Another reason why old age will suite me just fine.

Today, I Planted Things

2011-10-05T14:04:00.009-05:00

As with most everyone, my life is divided into three categories of fulfillment: my professional life, my social life, and my home life. I've sustained some changes to all three of those elements over the past months, changes so radical that I am not prepared to discuss them yet. So for now, I will pretend like everyone knows everything that is going on in my life so I won't be forced to reduce those things to writing causing some discomfort for myself and others. He. He. He.

Well, one thing that I won't keep as a not-so-well-kept-secret, is the fact that I am on the job hunt! My old familiar nemesis, the "Economy" reared its ugly head again but I have a mostly positive outlook on this and I really cannot wait to find a job and start to work again. I derive a lot of self satisfaction from having a job, mastering it, and then reaping the glory associated with such specialized knowledge. I felt like I achieved that at my old job at Reznick, but I had not even scratched the surface at my most recent job. It was like what I discovered in law school-- the more you know, the less you know. But still, that is my professional goal and I'm hoping to still practice bankruptcy law, or perhaps work in government grants again.

In the meantime, I will fill you in on my daily life. Today, I planted things. The above picture is nothing from my "garden." Those are some sweet "cheer up" flowers from Phyllis, my mom. No, what I planted is the following:

Notice the scattered dirt in the third photo. There were pots with pansies and dianthus in them until two dogs ate the pansies off their stems, one by one, like they were in Willy Wonka's magical candy land. Then they knocked over the pots to devour the dianthus whole, roots and all. That was my punishment for leaving the dogs in the backyard while I planted this beauty in the front.

It may not look like much now, but soon it will look like this... hopefully.

It is called Loropetulum, or something like that. It's from China but now it is a southern staple for its purple leaves that add color even in the fall. Can you believe that shit? Hopefully, it is not a tasty dog treat.

A day in the life...

2011-08-18T08:58:00.004-05:00

This is what it's like living with Henry

The Twist

2011-06-06T19:21:00.003-05:00

Last week I had a dream where I was going to a young lawyer's party sponsored by the Birmingham Bar Association. The party was 80's themed and from the waist up, everyone wore their most cliche 80's garb. For example, my hair was crimped and I had a side ponytail on top of a layer of hair I decided not to put in the side ponytail; I was wearing some sort of oversized pink polo reminiscent of the 80's preppy fashions. What made this party interesting was that from the waist down, everyone wore just tall tube socks and boxer shorts-- ala Tom Cruise in Risky Business. This seemed perfectly normal to everyone, including me. I remember feeling nervous about going to this party because I didn't know what to expect, but I was hugely relieved when I opened the door to the gymnasium (yes, it was held at a high school) and saw that everyone was doing my bread-and-butter: The Twist. Oh yes, I can twist. I twist in fact to every song, no matter the genre, no matter the tempo. I call it my "man repellent" dance. Oh there was once a time when I tried to look sexy out there on the dance floor but one too many times people would think that an invitation to come behind and me and thrusts their pelvises in my direction. I have a general aversion to touch so The Twist has been my old faithful dance for years. It allows me to accomplish two things: (i) no boy comes up and puts his hand on your hips when you're doing the twist, because the rapid side movements leave no gap for him to squeeze into; and (ii) I can satisfy my compulsion to wiggle around when I hear a tune I can't resist. Therefore, it is the perfect dance as it allows me to remain untouched on the dance floor and gives an outlet for my inner dancing queen. So when I saw everyone doing The Twist, to the actual song, The Twist, I knew this was a party where I could let my hair down. The Twist played on repeat for as long as I can remember and the next thing I knew I was waking up on the couch at my house, still wearing my outfit from the night before. My mom was nearby telling me that I must have had a good time last night. Then, I wake up (in real life-- stay with me, this is not Inception) and stir a little bit. For the next few milliseconds I forget that it was all a dream and I seriously panic about-- "OMG did I drive home last night?!?!? What does my car look like?!?! God I hope I didn't kill anyone!!! I was so wasted!!!!" And then this huge waive of relief swept over me as I remember that it was only just a dream. "It says something about you that you woke up more worried about where your car was than the fact that you danced with a bunch of pantsless lawyers all nights," says my friend.

I've Lost My Mojo

2011-05-30T09:19:00.002-05:00

I've lost my mojo. NOTHING is fun right now. I don't read anymore; I don't eat that much; I can't think of a single tv show, save The Soup, that I want to watch; there are no movies that interest me right now, except maybe the new X-Men movie; I don't even like shopping; and every little home improvement project I do seems to result in endless frustration. On a side note, the above mentioned details would make for the best anti-depressant commercial ever:

Picture me, sitting my bed holding a book upside down and a voice-over saying, "I don't read anymore..."

Picture me in the backyard at someone's summer cook out, staring at a hot dog like its my nemesis and the voice over says, "I don't eat ..."

Picture me laying on a couch, the lights out and the glare of the tv reflected on my sullen face, and a voice over says, "I can't even think of a single tv show I like." I then pop up, look around for whoever said that and say, "Hey! What about The Soup!?!?" The tv commercial director then cuts quickly to new scene.

Picture me standing in line to buy a movie ticket and the voice over says, "I can't even think of any movies I want to see." I then, look around for the source of the voice over and say, "What are you talking about? I'm in line to watch the X-Men movie! It's gonna be bad ass!"

Picture me attempting to put wallpaper up, missing most of my arm hair from wallpaper sticking to me and its subsequent removal, and the voice over, "Every project I do ends in frustration." I then look at the camera like in those as seen on tv products and shake my head.

I'm not sure what precipitated this decline, but I think I would feel better if -- gasp -- I moved into a place of my own. That's, at least, what I am telling myself to divert my attention from this lack of interest in life. It's very trying to be single and live at home. It's one thing to come home Monday through Thursday, plop down from the exhaustion of the work day, eat a dinner that has been prepared for me, and go to sleep. It's another thing to wake up here on Saturdays and Sundays. When I told my parents that my boyfriend and I recently broke up, I saw some real sadness in my dad's expression for he thinks that I am an old maid, but my mom, on the other hand, showed some relief. Not because she thinks that I could do better or anything, but because she thinks that she and I are going to end up like Hilary Clinton and her mom-- living together at an advanced stage in life. She even told me, "Maybe one day we can live together and I'll do all of your laundry and cooking like I do now." While my dad worries that I'm never going to start a life of my own, my mom worries that I am going to leave her behind. That's not normal. So, the theme of my blog must soon change for I can no longer chronicle the struggles of living cohesively with my mom and dad. Times are-a changin' my friends.

The Best Prank Call in the History of the World

2011-05-23T19:58:00.003-05:00

When I was in the ninth grade I loved going over to my friend Melissa's house for the whole weekend. Besides the fact that her mom had a subscription to the National Enquirer, she also had a bevy of young male visitors who would come and go to visit with her male cousin who was a couple of years older than us, went to the same school, and sometimes lived with Melissa when things weren't going right in his household. We never discouraged their presence and like little queens at court, they would one by one try to entertain us. Making a girl laugh makes a boy feel on top of the world. Being funny for a boy is like being pretty for a girl. So, Melissa and I were all too happy to hold court and allow these boys to make us laugh. We weren't slutty laughers either-- we reserved the laughs for the truly funny.

It was during one of these sessions that I was witness to the greatest prank call ever. You won't believe how this unfolded and all because Chase (one of the court jesters) happened to have sound like one of the unsuspecting lady's acquaintances. On speakerphone, Chase dialed *69, which if you remember prevented people from reading your number on that new fangled "caller id," then dialed a random number, and conjured up his best red neck impersonation.

Woman: Hello. [She was a white lady and sounded like she was in her early 60's. Her voice was gruff. Imagine, "Ma" from "Ma's Roadhouse" if you know the show]

Chase: Well Hey! How you doing?

Woman: Hey... who is this?

Chase: You don't know who this is? I can't believe that.

At this point we thought call would shortly end; the lady would say "no" and he would then say something to embarrass her like-- "Well, I was just callin' to let you know that you left that funny shaped massager at my house." Instead, the lady, a true victim in this, made a mistake and said:

Woman: Is this Bobby?

There was a stunned silence in the room and everyone's smile collapsed as we all realized how precious this was. This phone call could not have been in better hands as Chase had the ability to hold a straight face and not laugh. Normally, Melissa's house was shockingly loud. They always had media going on in every room and with the stage set for court, we usually encouraged boisterous behavior so that we could judge them later when they got out of hand. Give them enough rope, I believe the saying goes. But this time, the house cooperated and as our expressions turned grim, everyone knew not to f this up.

Chase: Yea. Yea this is Bobby.

Woman: Well, how you been Bobby?

Chase: Fine Fine.

Woman: [Genuinely happy Bobby was doing well, she responded] Well good.

Chase: Got me a new car.

Woman: [in a "good for you" tone] You did?

Chase: Yep. Got me a Camero.

Woman: Aww

Chase: Yep. Boy I'm telling you that bitch can fly! Whoa. Yea Boy! Whoa!

At this point I am dying and I can't believe Chase can maintain a straight face.

Woman: [a little shocked by the language] Oh.. well sounds nice.

Chase: Yep. Had to re-mortgage my house but who cares?

Woman: Uh oh, Bobby you shouldn't - a done that

Chase: Yea well. Whoa! It flies! I cut around them corners and over school crossing zones and all the kids walking across the street to school say, "Yay Bobby! Whew!" Anyway, how the kids?

Woman: [pausing] You mean Sarah and Carl?

Chase: [shrugging his shoulders to his audience] Yea yea. How they doin?

Woman: Good good, they's at Cousin Billy's tonight. Gonna go swimming in the morning.

And this is where is gets bad. Please don't judge me for antagonizing this situation. I was 14.

Chase: Cousin Billy, you said?

Woman: Yea, you know over in Pell City

Chase: Hmm. I, I... don't know about him.

Woman: What? Cousin Billy?

Chase: Yea.

And by this time Chase is actually acting out the part by sitting at the kitchen table, looking down at the ground, and nervously putting his hands on his forehead, as if he is breaking some uncomfortable news.

Woman: Why don't you like Cousin Billy?

Chase: Well. [long pause] I hate to say this ... but I think Cousin Billy... I think he might be a child molester.

I ran out of the house so I could bellow into the night air without the Woman hearing me. Some times when I get really tickled, I erupt this laugh that only a few people have seen. It involves an arch of the back and a sound that sounds like I am trying my hand at turkey calling. My sister Denise also does it so when we hear the other one do it, we stop laughing and say, "I don't do that do I?" Therefore, what was said between Chase and the Woman while I was letting out my turkey call I don't know. When I came back Chase was explaining the cause for his suspicions about Cousin Billy's molesting tendencies.

Chase: And when I got back, my swim trunks were no were to be found and he told me that I could just swim without them and that'd be fine. And to tell you the truth, I don't like the way he looked when he said that.

Woman: What?

Chase: Yep, you may wanna go and get the kids...

I ran out of the house to turkey call again. When I returned, Chase had moved on to a more somber subject.

Chase: Well, to tell you the truth, things ain't so great. I'm actually thinking about killing myself.

Too far, I know, but I have to get this story out before it leaves my memory forever.

Woman: Oh Bobby no. You don't wanna go and do that.

Chase: Yep. Yep. This damn car done put me into debt and I can't take it anymore.

Woman: No no, there's no need for that. Oh Bobby NO!!!!

As I ran out of the house to turkey call, Chase's facade fell through and he laughed. He laughed a painful, pent up laugh-- almost like a cry-- eyes closed hands covering his eyes. He told the lady, in his normal teenage voice, "I'm so sorry ma'm" and hung up the phone. There, the entire court laughed for several minutes straight. Chase was on the floor laying sideways, kind of how Saruman made Gandolf spin sideways on the ground in Lord of the Rings, the Fellowship of the Ring. We knew the price for this transgression- that none of us would see heaven- but it was worth it at the time.

The Fighter

2011-05-17T20:10:00.002-05:00

***** out of five stars. Why are boxing movies so good? I've never met one I didn't like. I may be making a rash judgment here, but I'm ready to declare The Fighter as the best boxing movies EVER. This is coming from the girl who, for her 10th birthday, demanded and received the Rocky Balboa boxed set of movies. Those movies are good, but The Fighter is better. This movie could have gone the way of the mellow dramatic in its attempt to mimic "real life." This is a true story, after all, of drug abuse and family disfunction. But, outside of movies "real life," tough as it may be, is replete with funny, light-hearted moments- even during the sad ones. Every time I get upset about something and I spew a big cry, there's usually something that makes me laugh in the process. It's usually a quick realization of what made me cry to begin with. "He got my chair in the library," I remember crying about once during law school when I accidentally kicked caffeine and had a low threshold for stress. "Oww... Henry jumped on my ovaries..." I remember crying about recently when a 110 pound dog jumped on my unsuspecting abdomen as I lay reading on the couch. This is quite a digression from The Fighter, but the general idea is that The Fighter doesn't shy away from any opportunity to make light of a tough situation, in the way that people do in their everyday life. It's a survival technique and it's one that I make a habit to perform.

I loved every character in this movie. Especially the crack heads. I know, you're thinking, "who hasn't met a crack head they didn't like?" but I will tell you that Christian Bale's portrayal of Dickie makes him number one on my adorable crack head list (Sorry you lost your spot Tron of Dave Chappelle). You think I kid, but that Dickie is one charming fellow in this movie. If you ever wanted a crack head for a son or sibling, he would be the one to choose.

Marky Mark does just what he needs to do in this role. He lets others shine. He has the talent and he feels guilty for leaving them all behind-- we get it and thanks for not trying to steal the spotlight from Dickie cause he's the one with all of the personality. Marky Mark is like Kate Middleton and Dickie is like that cute little Pippa. Amy Adams, as the supportive woman, is pretty terrific. In fact, I have a little girl crush on Amy Adams after seeing this movie. She is kinda chunky, but she's got a smart mouth [pronounced "smot-mout"] and she's delightfully trashy.

Finally, this movie makes a good use out of its music. It pipes in at just the right times and it really ups the excitement level. I watched this movie two times in a row it was so good.

Dad's Birthday

2011-05-16T20:28:00.004-05:00

My dad wants to have a birthday party this year for himself. I have yet to discern if this was my mom's idea or my dad's but I'm going with it. Fortunately for everyone involved, my dad has yet to reach the age of incompetence you sometimes see when old people have their birthday "parties." It's a party alright because they don't know where the f they are. They get draped with ridiculous birthday gear-- banners, hats, noisemakers, tiaras-- and they are docile and manageable as you dress them up. While you think everyone's enjoying themselves, the old birthday girl/boy is only being cooperative because he/she likes the attention and wants everyone to stay as long as possible. Nope. Not quite there with my dad. Instead, my dad will antagonize all of our visitors and get a laugh out of making people uncomfortable. He'll then get sentimental and want to take pictures. I'm pretending to not care but I'm actually looking forward to it. What I am not looking forward to is my mom's butter cake with homemade chocolate icing. When I was in high school I wanted to be Martha Stewart and so I cooked and baked her recipes and adopted her snobby attitude toward convenience foods. I remember Martha once saying, "there's never any reason to buy canned frosting," and by "canned" she means the plastic tubs that sit around the cake mixes at the grocery store. I repeated this affirmation to my mother who really took it to heart and she's made her homemade icing ever since. I came out of that phase because my favorite cake and icing combination does not have a delicious homemade counterpart-- Pilsbury Funfetti cake mix and Betty Crocker Rainbow Chip icing. My mom's recipes has somehow drifted from the true Martha Stewart recipe and now her frosting tastes like beaten unsalted butter with cocoa powder. Essentially, that's what frosting consists of, but something goes wrong with my mom's. My dad doesn't know any better and eats anyway. But, he'll also drink spoiled milk and not notice the difference when for me, just a gentle waft of it's smell will send my throat to gag mode.

This year I bought my dad tv amplifier headphones for his present so he can hear the tv. This was a find because it was the only one I've seen that doesn't require my mom to also have a set. Now she can watch it like normal. I wasn't aware that there would be a birthday party so I don't know how he'll react when he opens them in front of people. "I can hear just fine God ****it!" Old men get sensitive about their hearing, you see. Experienced in navigating the egos of elderly men, I shook my head in smug satisfaction last week when one of the clerks at the bankruptcy court offered an old man who was sitting next to me a set of hearing amplifiers so he could hear the proceedings better. "Huh?" he said. In a timid little voice, "Um.. do you want a set of headphones to help you hear better?" I could tell she was regretting her decision to offer her help but she'd come too far by that point. "What?" he bellowed. She repeated and as she got closer he rebuffed her. "NO I DON'T NEED A HEARING AID. I CAN HEAR JUST FINE THANKYOUVERYMUCH-- EXCEPT FOR THOSE [insert type of machine gun] I FIRED IN KOREA (pronounced as two words, "Koe-Rea")." "Oh okay... I was just trying to..." she said as she trailed off. He was ready continue his diatribe but I said, "My dad was in Korea." Distracted, he turned to me and we started to talk. He wanted to know my name. He wanted to know my profession. He wanted to know my employer. He wanted to know why I was there that day. So when the time came for him and his lawyer to go before the judge, it was completely natural that he should expect me there with him. Except that it wasn't. "April you need to be up here too," he said while holding the swinging half door that separates the parties from the audience open for me. "Yes you do. Come on up here." Why do these things happen to me? I shook my head until I heard swooshing in my ears and enticed by the presence of a microphone at the podium before the judge, my elderly friend gave up on forcing me to stand beside him.

However, as one of my co-workers pointed out, "it's not like you're dad's expecting a life size poster of Carmen Electra," which made me think that I've probably purchased the wrong gift. My dad would love a life sized poster of Carmen Electra since his new past time is to stare at the Dancing With the Stars girls (the professionals, not Kirstie Alley). I can just picture our living room walls decorated with those life sized cut outs of the beer models. Yes, he's finally found a program (his word, not mine) he can watch that doesn't involve listening and only involves oggling. In fact, I've found it difficult to eat dinner in front of the tv when my dad insists on watching Dancing With the Stars, every possible night it is on, as we watch the recaps as well. Watching those tiny tummies and slim legs make me think that every bite I take is literally just getting rolled up and pasted onto my body where it will forever remain. I envision a long future of this for my dad and who am I to stand in his way. So, poster it is.

Get off my Lawn!

2011-05-09T19:43:00.003-05:00

Over the past few years I've really cultivated my hatred for teens. People are taken aback by this declaration usually because I look young and because with the rise of The Real Housewives of Orange County, most aging women lust to be teen aged. Not me. I hate them. I really do. I'll be the first to draw concern that if I have these feelings at 27, then in my older age I will definitely be one of those people with a shot-gun firing at trespassers and yelling, "Hey! Get off my lawn!" But this is how I feel and who am I to deny hate when its in my heart.

My first feelings of antipathy towards teens began as I heard their stupid little conversations in passing. "I mean, I think the drinking age should be lowered, to like, fifteen." "Ohmygah! Shut up! She did not just say that!" But, if I am to be completely honest in this declaration of hate, I have to admit that most of this admonition comes from seeing myself in these young hooligans, with their stupid conversations and their stupid little desires mixed with their stupid little opinions. How did my mom put up with my stupid teenage self and not want to go Susan Smith on me every time I shared my thoughts with her? But she did. And what's more is that she did so with a genuine desire to hear the thoughts running through my underdeveloped teenage brain. My dad didn't even put up a pretense. "Ew... hahahaha ... giggle giggle ..." my dad would imitate with one part teasing and one part disgust when he overheard my phone conversations. I can remember literally crying because my mom didn't wash my favorite blue jean skirt and I had to wear jeans instead to school. Teens have no coping skills and they have a warped sense of what is important in life. I wouldn't hug my friends because I remember my dad making fun of me for doing so when I only just saw that person. Maybe that's why I suffer from rigor mortis when someone leans in for a hug.

And pardon me for stating the obvious, but, teens are terrible and reckless drivers. My philosophy when I drive is to avoid car wrecks. A teen's philosophy while driving is to impress as many people as possible. Besides for the permanent deformations that could result from a car wreck, I primarily drive to avoid them for the sheer inconvenience such a wreck poses. You have to stop your car. You have to miss and/or be late for wherever you were headed. You have to actually get out and meet whoever just hit you which poses its own set of uncertainties. You have to bear the elements. You have to call your insurance company. You have to get estimates and repairs and fax documents and my god I am just angry thinking about it. Teenagers, however, they drive to impress. My least favorite time of year are the Fridays that flank spring break. On I-65 as I make my grumpy way to work, these teens pass me in their Ford Rangers with shoe polish writings on the windows so that I know that they come from some god-awful mid-western state and they are passing through to wreak havoc before getting turned away at every bar at the beach and forced to return to the Circle K to buy candy flavored malt beverages. They can't just pass me foolhardily and go on their merry way; no, they have to drive side by side with me and make eyes and wave and yell out their ubiquitous mating call of "Whoooo hooooo!!!!!"

Abercrombie and Fitch used to be a respectable place. They used to clothe the fine boarding schools along the New England coast and even years after that fact, it was my favorite place to find a nice sweater with a plaid button-up shirt to go underneath. I even still wear my 8th grade Easter dress from there because it is madras plaid which never goes out of style. Just ask all of the old ladies who compliment me when I wear it and tell me they had one just like it in the 1940's. We then dance to the Charleston and they share stories about speakeasies and going necking in the woods. Kidding. But then the teens came and they plundered this fine clothier and now Abercrombie is for really tiny people with prepubescent bodies and really tiny brains.

But what really sealed my hatred for the teens is their utter disrespect and narcissistic personalities which prompt them to update the world on their every little action. "Found my check card," those little idiots will post on the facebook, as if that's something to share. "What should I do with my hair? Taking a poll" those morons will ask. "Don't you hate it when you thought you could trust someone and then they just stab you in the back?" they ask to garner the follow up questions and comments from their friends. In my defense, I'm not really friends with many teens on the facebook, only people who act like teens. I was confronted with this constant updating when Ray and I went to see a scary movie one Saturday night several weeks ago. These children cannot put their cell phones away for three minutes without having to turn them on and gaze at the screen. It is the screen that bothers me the most. In a dark movie your eye is trained to naturally go to any source of light which is what I did every time those little oafs checked their phones. Not only that, they have to talk to each other during the movie to share their theories of its outcome. They've been primed to be little smarties from birth, encouraged to raise their hands in class and told there are no dumb questions. Well, this translates into their free time as they can't wait to show how smart they think they are. To cement my intellectual and social superiority I found it necessary to kick the little girl's chair in front of me every time she spoke.

Down with teens. The sooner you admit to yourself that you hate them too, you'll feel better.

HEY

2011-04-29T17:23:00.003-05:00

Blog followers, or follower, please do not despair. I have not made a post in some time because I got a promotion! Yes, now I get to be a bathroom attendant and squeeze little amounts of lotion into people's palms after they wash their hands. No. Just kidding. I am employed as a lawyer now.

"But April," you ask, "you must be so busy now with having your own place and living it up in the city?" And let me stop you right there. No, I still live with my mom and dad. I've grown quite comfortable in my habitat and like Silas Marner I plan to become a hermit, sitting in my parents house night after night counting my accumulating wealth. I'm just not ready to have living expenses as a single dweller with my dog as my only dependent.

That's all for now. Like the homeless addict, turned overnight radio voice sensation, Ted Williams said on his way to re-hab, I just feel the need to say "Please America Please Please Please America, don't forget about me. I'll be back." Like him, I seem to derive a lot of my own personal satisfaction from the attention of strangers. So, please don't forget about me while I adjust to the rigors of working.

Brunch Review

2011-02-21T09:18:00.003-06:00

I really like this Groupon and Living Social thing. If you don't know what it is, it is a daily email offer to purchase a gift certificate to a restaurant, salon, or tickets to some event at a reduced rate. You sign up for free but the offers are limited. My main reason for liking it is that it helps make decisions for me. I don't have to ponder over where to eat when I have a Groupon to the Fish Market. It also encourages you to try new things-- like the Sunday brunch at Black Market Bar. Except that the Black Market Bar doesn't offer brunch on Sundays right now.

As aforementioned, I purchased a Groupon for the Black Market Bar. They serve mostly drinks and they have a menu for dinner consisting of mostly typical bar food fair. Their brunch menu, however, is kind of extra ordinary with promises of banana oatmeal pancakes and the like. They also reportedly offer mimosa for $1.50 during their purported brunch time of Sundays beginning at 11:00 am. My first attempt to use my Groupon was the offspring of a vicious hangover that I was planning to suppress with $6 worth of mimosas and a smorgasboard of breakfast delights. At 11:30 am Ray and I pulled into the empty parking lot. At 11:31 am I attempted to open the locked door. At 11:32 am I pressed my face against the weather stained glass windows and observed all of the chairs turned up-side down on the tables. At 11:33, 11:34, 11:35, and 11:37 am I called the telephone number posted on the front door, just below the days and hours which read "Sunday, 11am - 4pm." "We're sorry, but the number you have dialed is not available. Please try again." Oh I tried again alright. I peered into a City Scene magazine where a 1/8 of a page advertisement read "Black Market Bar come try our Sunday Brunch-- Live music-- $1.50 mimosas." Since I waited until 11:30 to eat breakfast, I was hungry and the other establishments, save Cracker Barrel, stopped serving breakfast at 10:30. Cracker Barrel takes too long and we had a dog in the car. I slammed my head against the passenger side window in the agony of defeat and remained silent except to burst out with an occasional comment about poor business tactics, "what if's?," or possible explanations for the locked bar. Ray appeased my appetite with food from an establishment called Dram Whiskey Bar in Mountain Brook. Dram claims to open at 4pm on Sundays so I really felt like I was living in anarchy as they were open and thriving with business that Sunday morn. There I ate something called Kentucky Hash... not quite sure the name actually, but it was just what the hangover demon craved-- fried potatoes with peppers and onions and a soft fried egg laying on the top. I normally prefer my yolks to be firm but these runny yolks were just perfect as they seeped into the potato mixture once I punctured the egg. Ray got something that was simple-- little biscuits with pats of cold butter, 2 eggs, and some thick sliced bacon. Dram's portions were moderate for a manly man such as Ray, so he ate some of mine and he declared that my dish was the best of the two. Dram's mimosas were $9 each, so I decided to let the hangover run its course which was probably the best thing. I don't think Groupon envisioned someone using the Black Market coupon to drink their weight in mimosas. Dram also served coffee in a french press which was a first for Ray and me. The french pressed coffee was nice and light-- not too strong and surprisingly, the extra water and less coffee brought out the taste of the coffee that much more. As we were sitting there, some of the staff were carrying centerpieces off the tables from upstairs so I presume they are also available for private parties as well.

Again, Ray and I tried to go to Black Market for Sunday brunch but they wouldn't answer the phone. I called them so much that TMobile has mistakenly listed "Black Market" as one of "my favs." We drove by and they were closed so we decided to go to Cracker Barrel where we played checkers with some dirty checker pieces and that mind bender game which was also filthy from the other diners'-- children in particular-- grubby, hungry little fingers. Don't fear; we sanitized our selves. But I do love the Cracker Barrel-- Uncle Herschel's breakfast in particular-- so screw you Black Market and your unfulfilled promises of banana oatmeal pancakes.

*An update, I finally called the Black Market and spoke to someone who informed me that they were not doing Sunday brunch right now. I believe this wasn't as profitable as they expected it to be and they are holding off until the Summer where they have an expansive deck for outdoor seating. Actually, I confirmed none of that. I simply asked when they open for brunch on Sundays and he said, "Not having it this Sunday." I made the rest up but I am certain that I am correct.

Movie Reviews

2011-02-07T11:12:00.003-06:00

True Grit: ***** out of *****. The Coen brothers are on a western themed roll with True Grit following the critical success of No Country for Old Men. True Grit, as pointed out by critics, is unusual for the Coens as they follow the original quite closely and it is a simple western tale with no incidental psychological portraits. As you surely know by now, the movie stars Jeff Bridges, reprising the role once played by John Wayne. The real star of the movie is Haleigh Stansfield who plays Mattie Cross. She was only 13 when this movie was filmed and she pulls off the loquacious dialog without skipping a beat. She deserves her Oscar nomination and I hope she wins. All of the characters in this movie are so likeable because, despite their best efforts, their true nature is revealed. Jeff Bridges shows his true grit despite trying to appear ineffectual and washed-up. Mattie shows her strength but she can't hide the fact that she is only 14 (as played in the character). Matt Damon cannot hide his vanity but he does prove useful. Ned Pepper, despite being a villain, is in some ways a hero. And Josh Brolin's character, although the central villain, is shown to be quite introspective and sensitive to criticism. On a side note, I find it highly unusual that none of the characters used contractions in their speech. "I do not like this" they would say instead of "I don't like this." Not sure what was up with that.

The Black Swan: ** out of *****. Call me unsophisticated but I thought this movie was laughable. This movie, while being praised as a story of obsession and the blurring lines of insanity it induces, was far to literal for me to appreciate. SPOILER ALERT: did she have to literally turn into a black swan? The audience laughed when I saw this in the theaters. However, I'm sure all men will be satisfied with the lesbian love scene in the movie. This director seems to like risky sex scenes in movies if you will remember the know famed scene in Requiem for a Dream starring Jennifer Connelly and a bevy of men. While, in Requiem that sex scene only contributed to an understanding of the sordid crossing of moral boundaries which was induced by the characters' hyperbolic obsession with drugs, this sex scene seemed to compete with the rest of the movie and, although it was clearly building up to it, it was kind of out of place.

The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo: **** out of ***** stars. I watched the Swedish dubbed version which has been released for some time. This movie was better than the book. It used everything that I loved from the novel and threw out the garbage that distorted the narrator's veracity. For example, the movie did not explore Mikhail Blomvist's sexual irresistibility and, instead, he was portrayed as sensitive, slightly insecure but deeply honest. Further, the actress who played Lisbeth nailed the character. She was very tough but somehow, was so incredibly cute and likable. Of course, the scenes involving the guardian attorney were very disturbing and they didn't leave much to the imagination. In fact, I watched this movie on my computer with my head phones on and I was terrified that I wouldn't hear my mom knock, she would peer over my shoulder to see what I was watching, and then report back to my dad that I was watching some sort of sordid sex movie. It would be the nature of my parents never to ask me about it and they would go on wondering where they went wrong and with the mistaken assumption that they now knew how I got a virus on my computer. The joys of living at home.

In Defense of Split Infinitives

2011-02-07T09:30:00.002-06:00

It has been said that no other grammatical issue has divided English speakers more than the split infinitive. A split infinitive is when you insert an adverb in between a compound verb such as "to go." For example, "to boldly go" would be improper in the camp of English speakers who claim the split infinitive is poor grammar usage. English speakers should say, they argue, "to go boldly" or "boldly to go." To do so, I argue, is awkward, and since there is no compelling argument against the use of split infinitives, I say use them with reckless abandon. However, there is one segment of society who adheres to this archaic usage and this segment is slow to change. They are, of course, lawyers.

This was initially brought to my attention during my Antitrust class in law school. Our professor asked us to look up the difference between an act in its originality and in its amended form. The difference was the use of a split infinitive. It was the only amendment for that session. Congress took the time to make propose an amendment, take a vote, and make whatever other changes such amendments take, to change the word placement of a single word which was, debate-ably, not incorrect in its original form.

Most recently, this was brought to the attention of the public during Chief Justice John Robert's administration of the swearing-in of President Obama. He fumbled with the words and instead of saying, as required, "I solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of president of the United States," he couldn't suppress his inner editor and said, "I solemnly swear that I will execute faithfully the office of president of the United States." This, of course, stimulated the birthers and their brethren to take this morsel of hope and exclaim for joy that the President was not sworn in as constitutionally mandated and, therefore, he wasn't actually the President! To their dismay, taking all precautions, Justice John Roberts administered the oath properly in the Oval Office on the day following the official inauguration. Now why would Chief Justice Roberts make such an elementary fumble? Well, because he, like most legal scholars and most common practitioners, avoid using split infinitives like they are contaminated with the black death because to use one would perhaps reveal they were-- gasp-- not as smart as everyone else. The New York Times wrote an op-ed column shortly after the inauguration proclaiming the strict followers of this "urban legend" are either members of the "Gotcha!" group who love to point out the perceived folly of others or they are simply insecure writers, afraid of being exposed. Unfortunately, The New York Times point out, these followers have been given written authority on their view, as the Texas Law Review Manual on Style, which is widely followed in the country, decided to follow this bogus rule. There is an inner fear of exposure, I believe, with most lawyers, and I think that these old-fashioned rules and old-fashioned terms are strictly followed in legal writings because, if they made sense to everyone, why would anyone want to hire a lawyer. There is the need to preserve the exclusivity of the profession and I'm not entirely opposed to making sure people understand why its important to have a lawyer; I just don't like it coming at the expense of common sense and practicality. In short, I will always use split infinitives. Silence your inner editor (if you have one) from thinking, "-- ahem-- I always will use split infinitives. The New York Times article is linked below.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/22/opinion/22pinker.html?ref=inaugurations

I Play the Sticks

2011-01-06T08:53:00.002-06:00

I hear these self-serving commercials on VH-1 pontificating about "Saving the Music." I believe it was Sheryl Crow, having taken time away from her rigorous body-building, who initiated this charity in which successful musicians advertise so that non-successful people can will give their hard-earned dollars to VH-1 to "save" public education music programs. These programs have been on the decline for many years, as have tons of other former necessities of the public education school system, and they truly show no signs of improving. I often hear things on the news about this type of decline and I just breathe a quick sigh of relief that I got out of public schools not a moment too soon and that, hopefully, I will be able to send my un-conceived children to private schools. When I think of what public education music programs did for me, man, I just don't think I'd be here where I am today (and by that I mean living at home with my parents and complaining about the lack of Capri Suns in the fridge).

In my public education music program, we were taught by a morbidly obese woman who was, in hindsight, probably also suffering through menopause given the frequency with which she would cry for no reason. Our class consisted of playing with musical instruments, and since I went to a public school for poor people/ kids who can't read good, the children outnumbered the musical instruments. Therefore, those of us without instruments were instructed to whistle. I can't whistle and the public education music program failed me in that respect. I will never know how to whistle and I really could care less now, but, when there is no musical instrument to play and you get a "zero" for class participation, I had to pretend to whistle by humming through my pursed lips. This fools no one, you see, so my teacher, not wanting to strip one of the other students of their prized musical instrument, came up with a musical instrument for me: the sticks. Public education music class taught me to play the sticks. High from finding an instrument just for me, my then best friend Brandon and I came up with a tune. Brandon came from a long line of high-pitched male singers, plus his dad had an earring and played the guitar which only further his credentials. So, Brandon sang while I provided the backdrop with my best sticks-playing. The "cha-cha-cha" is the sound I made with the sticks.

I play the sticks [cha-cha-cha]

I am bett-ah than you [cha]

'Cause I play the sticks [cha-cha-cha]

We became quite popular with this song as everyone began to envy my sticks. So popular that we couldn't stop with just one song. This next song, developed after another public education music class, was inspired by the constant flux of children to the school clinic to receive their afternoon dosage of attention deficit disorder medicine. It was a sweet success if you could convince your teacher to let you go to the clinic for non-ADD related medications, such as pain relievers. And you had really hit the jackpot if you could convince your teacher that you needed to use your inhaler for some asthma-related drama. Brandon and I both had the inhalers that were kept safely in the school nurse's keep to prevent huffing and puncturing of the aerosol albuteral can. On our way to the clinic for a quick huff of the inhaler, we made up this song. Sung by Brandon, and performed by me, "The Clinic Dance" was a dance that resembled the "The Safety Dance" from the 80's music video for song of the same name. The clinic dance was symbolic of the charade one had to perform to get a pass to take some meds.

I am doing the clinic dance, for med-i-cine, med-i-cine

Will it be asprinnnnn, or Ty-le-nollll, or maybe even Rit-a-Lin

I am doing the clinic dance for med-i-cine...med-i-cine

That was one of our most successful and after performing it for my mom, she somehow grew concerned of this "dance" we had to perform to get access to our inhalers and she arranged it so that Brandon and I could keep ours at our desks. We took advantage of that and would use them quite frequently. Each time we took a puff, we pretended like we were getting high off of this non-narcotic drug. We had seen enough tv to know that you made your eyes look real heavy and acted slow and confused if you wanted people to think you were high.

Brandon and I were in RLC class together which was a class for gifted kids that received state funding under "Special Education" so we were taunted by the jealous kids as being "re-tards" but we didn't care because RLC was a haven from the rigors of regular class. In RLC it was anarchy. Every thought was given consideration; to my future demise, spelling was never checked so as not to discourage us from using big words; there was no discipline; Oregon Trail was an actual learning exercise; we played Risk every Friday afternoon; we had chess tournaments; and, most importantly, it was a time for Brandon and I to continue our song writing craft. This next song was inspired by one of our RLC classmates named, Michael. Michael was quite a controversial kid in that he announced that he didn't believe in God. In a normal environment this kid would have become fool for folly, taunted at every turn, but RLC was everyone's "safe place" and we prided ourselves on taking care of each other and tolerating our individuality. This was not because of some advancement on Maslow's hierarchy of needs-- no there was no "self-actualization"-- It was because we knew that we were all kind of weird and we should just let our freak flags fly. Michael was skinny, and little and he was easily the smartest of all of us because he constantly challenged authority and he wore Marilyn Manson t-shirts. He reminded Brandon and me of Marilyn Manson because he wasn't afraid of anything and he was kind of feminine. So much so, that our next song, was the ballad of Michael. We called it, "Michael the Queen of Africa." Michael was skilled at Risk and he was always the black figures. (I was always green, if you must know, such a tree-hugger). Africa, next to Russia, was the most expansive of the territories, but unlike Russia, Africa was easy to defend because once you fortified the outlining countries of Africa, you were secure from invasion even if you occupied the inner countries with just one man. Michael always had the habit of securing Africa. One day, he demonstrated his mastery of the continent by donning a turban. As we were quick to say, "Nah-uh the Middle East is where they wore turbans!" our RLC teacher informed us that, "actually, Michael is correct, as Africa took most of its culture from the Middle East before the colonialization by the Europeans." Silenced once again by his intelligence, we came up with this ballad, sung in a tune similar to something from Aladdin:

Michael the Queeeeen of Afriiiiica

We were treaded on thin ice calling a boy a queen, so we paused there to see his reaction. I will never forget his look of satisfaction as he was quite pleased. He even encouraged us by doing a belly-dance with his turban tee-tolling on top of his head. We continued:

He rules his countries faiiir

Yet, he wears ribbons in his haiiir

Michael the Queeeeen of Afriiiiica....

Well, thanks to you public school music class, I was introduced to the sticks which facilitated those greatest hits. I was also introduced to my first menopausal obese woman and I was able to gain access to my inhaler which led to such stints and Brandon and me trying to sniff the Pine Sol at our RLC Christmas party. Save the Music VH-1... Save the Music

In Defense of the Emoticon

2010-12-10T09:16:00.005-06:00

Lately there my attention has been drawn to media criticism of the "emoticon." An emoticon is a facial expression represented in the form of punctuation and letter. For example, :) or ;) or :(. The criticisms of this written jargon are generally centered on two arguments: 1) the emoticon is childish patois and should not be used by any self-respecting adult, and 2) the emoticon is just another example of how text communications are destroying communication skills. I won't even address the snobbery associated with the second criticism because I think people should adapt and stop weeping over the perils that non-personal communication will bring on society.

Firstly, my defense of the emoticon is a practical one. You can use the emoticon as a great defense mechanism against miscommunications and snarky comments. Sometimes you cannot convey tone in a text message. This is why exclamation point (!), ellipses (...), and "caps lock" are used so frequently in casual text messages, emails, instant messages, etc. In the traditional school of English writing and usage, one was to reserve the exclamation point for matters of extreme excitement or urgency. For example, "Tonya Harding's crony just bashed my ice skating leg in with a crow bar!" Instead, in a text, the exclamation point is used as a security to prevent the recipient from detecting any sarcasm. Imagine someone texting, "my mongoloid sister is going to come to the movies with us." The response, "can't wait." could impart a note of sarcasm. However, the response, "can't wait!!!" is a defense from the accidental revelation of sarcasm. The use of the emoticon is a similar defense. You cannot tell someone that "I wish you were able to go with us." and leave ambiguity as to the level of your sadness. If you write, "I wish you were able to go with us :( " you have made the statement less pitiful. More importantly, the use of a smiley face can also provide the sender with a shield from accountability from jokes at the recipient's expense. You can't get mad at someone for telling them "Yea you would know all about the all you can eat buffets :)" because the smiley face is your shield.

I used to try and be writing purist in that I would always spell "you" or "your" instead of "u" and "ur" but as texting became more and more frequent I find myself using the quickest of terms so I can get back to what I was doing before the text interrupted me. However, I do feel left behind with the use of acronyms. I understand the basic ones: "WTF" for "what the f***"; "LOL" for "laughing out loud"; "LMFAO" for "laughing my f'ing ass off"; "OMG" for "oh my God"; "NP" for "no problem"; "RTR" for "roll tide roll," but any further than that, I do get annoyed.

Yankee Sayings-- and the Annoying Habits of Ex Boyfriends

2010-12-08T09:12:00.005-06:00

Yankees are odd. Lately Ray (new bf) and I have been taking Henry and his giant chocolate lab named Gunner to the dog park in Mt. Laurel. Mt. Laurel is a planned community where the builders have hoped to disguise its urban sprawl by interspersing some businesses (soda fountains, general stores, salons, restaurants, dentists) and municipal essentials (fire, library, school) into the neighborhood. They try and make these businesses appear to have organically arisen into this thriving community, even aging the homes in appearance and careful not to remove any of the old trees. The effect is that everything appears to have been there for generations. (Imagine Grandpa Simpson's voice) "I remember the first time Mt. Laurel had a tornado... Naturally, we blamed the Irish... We hung more than a few that day..." This really fools no one except the Mt. Laureleans, everyone else recognizing that these people have simply paid an fine price to have this small town experience, nestled off one of the corridors of Alabama's most treacherous highways. In truth, don't mistake my tone for resentment. It's jealously, plain and simple. I want to live there and I want to go to a general store for my daily needs.

One thing that Ray and I have noticed at the Mt. Laurel dog park (for Mt. Laurel residents and their accompanied guests only) is the abundance of yankees who live in the community. I presume they are snow birds and the price of Florida real estate is too high or perhaps in the snow bird community they want something different since "You know the Ecklesteins and Rothmeyers have all taken over Boca Raton..." Whatever their reasons, I believe they see Mt. Laurel as a pricey retirement village and the idealistic genteel life is their idea of southern living. Everyone does drive golf carts so maybe it is a retirement village in disguise. While their yankee children are trying to send them away to some upstate Shelter Island-type old person home, the yankee elderly present their children with a brochure about Mt. Laurel. Not knowing anything about the place, the yankee children see their parents' eyes glisten at the prospect. "I don't know dad, it doesn't actually say its a retirement community... I don't see any medical staff or hospitals listed." "Oh yes yes it is. You see, they don't want to advertise that its a retirement home because they don't think of themselves that way... and how better to fool us my dear..." Once the ruse is over the yankee children leave their yankee parents in Mt. Laurel. As their cars pull out of the driveway, the yankee parents high-five each other and they take their new golf cart out for a spin all the while yelling, "You may take our lives, but you'll never take our freedom!!!!!!!!" So, that's how I believe Mt. Laurel has become a haven for the yankee elderly.

Which brings me to what I really wanted to discuss: yankee sayings. They say "mow the lawn" instead of "cut the grass" hehehe, how ridiculous. They say "shopping cart" instead of "buggy" hehehe, how absurd. They say "hose" instead of "hose pipe" hehehe, what utter nonsense. In my most recent failed relationship, I can't seem to shake my annoyance that this fellow had this pedestrian presumption that everything southern was wrong and everything yankee was correct. You see, his mother was a second generation Italian immigrant for NYC. There is nothing wrong with that for the record. What was problematic, and how I would describe him to people was that "his mother's an Italian from New York and he identifies with them culturally and ethnically which is strange because he was born and raised in Alabama." I asked him once whether he said "mow the lawn" or "cut the grass." He didn't know and he wanted to know why I was asking, "Because yankees say 'mow the lawn' and we say 'cut the grass.'" His answer was suddenly clear to him, "I say 'mow the lawn'... yea I would never, never say 'cut the grass' no." He would also coach me on my diction, my pronunciations, and the one time he read my blog he only commented on sentence structure he said didn't make sense. (And here I go about to make profess my only one-upper in the world of the scholarly academia), um, I was an English major. "April, it's pronounced 'Irock' (the country Iraq) not 'Irack'" he once proudly told me while shaking his head at something I had learned watching the news. This one I couldn't let slide because I had seen something on Bill Mauer rather recently that made fun of Americans who felt the need to pronounce Iraq as Irock. "No it isn't pronounced Irock. We are Americans and we can give it an American pronunciation. You don't say 'Paree' when you pronounce 'Paris' do you? Nope didn't think so thankyouverymuch." The worst and the most annoying of all his uppity-wannabe pronunciations was his constant correction of the way I pronounce the word "on." I pronounce it "own" and not "ahn." Not every southerner adheres to this archaic pronunciation, but very few feel the need to correct someone when they do. This fellow correcting me with commitment hoping that one day I would say "ahn" and his work would have paid off. Finally, I told him that "I'm from the south, and so are you so act accordingly." This was the beginning of the end of my little relationship as mouthy-magee April had mouthed off one too many times and he began to seek comfort in the form of a more complacent, less-pushy little blond. But, it was all for the better as I need to let my freak flag fly without hindrance from an uppity wannabe yankee. I do what I want!

The Iron Bowl Party: Custer's Last Stand

2010-11-30T12:58:00.005-06:00

This year's Iron Bowl Party was celebrated with restraint since we were all certain that Alabama would suffer a loss, and for that, we were all entering the first stage of grief. First, there were no bagged lunches from Full Moon but, instead, a buffet lunch from Jim N' Nicks which I enjoyed. There was a debate about who had the better cookies-- Jim N' Nicks or Full Moon-- with the Sr. Partner from last year reaffirming his love for the half-dipped Full Moon cookies.

This year, as expected, the Auburn faithful were out in their full regale, boasting and laying claim to a victory that had not yet been fought. It made me long for the days when the Auburn fans yelled "We need a coach! Not a loser!" and I literally shake my head in wonderment of the difference a single year can make.

Since there was little to celebrate in the way of a slide show of Alabama's undefeated season, the entertainment was a bean bag toss tournament which the Alabama team, in which I was a member, failed to keep the game competitive. The Auburn side, filled with hubris from their season of barely-there victories accomplished on the shoulders of an ineligible player, took the bean bag toss game with ease and forced the Alabama team to drown their sorrows in the consolation prize of four bottles of wine. We drank not from victory, not from glee, not for celebration, but from the source of all the best drinking expeditions: fear and shame. The corner of shame consisted of a number of employees and the topics that arose were a mixed bag of sorts: strange declarations of love for certain bands, the mystery of the missing lobby phone, chewing gum that has been purposely laced with laxative, the mysterious Korean cleaning staff, strange voicemails left by fellow employees, movies, and celebrity gossip. Like General Custer's last stand, no one was going to retreat, and we drank the loser's wine from "discreet" cups (or "street" cups as some people believed they were called) and went down in a blaze of glory.

On to the real Iron Bowl. I watched the game with my new dude and his friends who are now also my friends, all of which, save one, are Auburn fans. I call it, "The House of Auburn's Greatest Fans." The House was filled with TVs and being the comfort-seeker that I am, I sought out and staked out the most comfortable seat in the house with the sole HD-TV. As Alabama dominated in the first half, the other Alabama fan became "painfully aware of the situation" we were in and he retreated to another house. Being a member of General Custer's Last Stand at the office Iron Bowl party, I stood firm and held my ranks at the House of Auburn's Greatest Fans. I kept my celebrations to a minimum but when the lead slipped from our hands my little heart began to shatter and I, like a wild-cornered dog, began to turn on the House of Auburn's Greatest Fans. It was when Greg McKleroy's little skinny body crumpled on the field and he didn't get up that I lost my cool. The House of Auburn's Greatest Fans had become vicious and were laughing as they wished he would suffer serious bodily injury. "OMIGOD WHY WOULD THAT BE FUNNY!!!!??????" I yelled and exited the House in a fury. While standing in the drive way I seriously considered calling my mommy to come pick me up:

"Mom [sniffle sniffle] its April. You know how you said I could call you at any time to pick me up from a party I was uncomfortable at?"

"Yea... I said that when you were 15, but why? What's up?"

"Can you come and get me?"

"Why? Are people doing ellicit drugs?"

"No."

"Why? Are you too drunk to drive or something?"

"NO-- well, yes actually, but that's not why."

"Well what is it then April?"

"[sniffle sniffle] I'm at a house with all Auburn fans and they are wishing serious bodily injury on G-Mac."

"You had be at 'I'm at a house with all Auburn fans.' I'll be right there."

Instead, I decided against that course of action as the new bf came out to console me and allowed me to weep while wailing "He's just a skinny red-headed boy...." I re-entered the lion's den with resolve to just take the beating and I did. For the rest of the night the House of Auburn's Greatest Fans, high from their victory, kept assuring me that I handled this very well. "Um...I cried," I responded. Cried, I may have, but like General Custer, I stood my ground and will soon become a legend in Alabama folk-lore: "April's Last Stand in the House of Auburn's Greatest Fans."

T.M.I.

2010-11-30T12:31:00.004-06:00

It's been so long since I have written. My loyal readers have been begging me to write another post to satisfy their appetites for fine literature, but as I tell them, artistry must not be rushed. This post is dedicated to an update on my life. Below you will find Too Much Information-- or T.M.I. if you like colloquialisms.

Too Much Information:

1) I have more work tasks so blogging has become a thing of leisure instead of dedication as it once was. Contrary to what you might think, this is a good thing as I was once concerned my brain was entering a stage of muscular dystrophy. I am actually still concerned with that as I struggle to find the right words on a daily basis.

2) I have a new boyfriend. He lets me indulge my hedonistic tendencies by eating more, drinking more, socializing more, reading more, watching movies more, playing with my dog more, and generally engaging in sloth-like behavior which has resulted in minor weight gain but more a happier disposition in life.

3) My mother is still on a mission to resume our roles of yester-year by making my breakfast, lunch and dinner every work day. I sometimes sense her dedication is wavering when I get unusual things in my lunch box such as: a single roll, a piece of cheese, a handful of cookies, and some sort of off-brand fun sized candy bar, and nothing to drink. Usually though, she gives me some leftovers from the previous night's dinner, tons of cookies, and a capri-sun which I merrily drink while spreading good cheer around the office.

4) We sadly learned my dad has prostate cancer, but we have every reason to believe that it is a small amount and not life threatening so rest assured loyal readers.

5) My friend, the woman partner at work, introduced me to a historical fiction writer named Phillippa Gregory and since then I have spent Monday - Thursday night tearing through page after page of these novels. Most of the books are on my favorite subject, Tudor England with a few of them being about the War of the Roses and Elizabethan England. So far I've read: The Other Boleyn Girl, The Virgin's Lover, The Boleyn Inheritance, The Queen's Fool, The Other Queen, The White Queen, and the Constant Princess. Simply put, I cannot stop reading these books.

6) I've gone to see lots of movies, the most recent being the new Harry Potter. It was quite satisfying. I cannot wait to see True Grit when it comes out next month. It's directed by the Coen brothers and is a remake of a John Wayne movie.

7) I got bangs.

Movie Reviews

2010-11-09T21:32:00.003-06:00

I've been going to a lot of movies lately and I don't have time to give them all a lengthy review so here are a few thoughts on these new releases:

1. Jack-Ass 3d * out of ***** stars. I'm so glad my first 3d movie experience involved the flinging of feces and the flapping of male genitals. I've come to decide that the "dare-devils" in Jack-Ass are no better than crack addicted hookers. They will do anything, and I mean anything, to make a buck and feed their addictions. As always, I am distracted in movies, and this time I could only think about what particular drug each of these men are taking to make them withstand the pain, the anxiety, and the humiliation each of these stunts was sure to induce.

2. Paranormal Activity 2 *** out of ***** stars. I liked this movie because I like to be scared. It's as simple as that. Unless you have seen the movie before, you will jump out of your skin and that was worth it for me. I found myself being distracted, however, by the furnishings and home decor of the house in which the demon spirit is tormenting the main characters of the film. If you see the movie, you will note the wonderful white sectional couch they have in their den. It was the perfect shape and yet it looked deep enough to actually be comfortable.

3. The Social Network **** out of ***** stars. This movie is pretty flawless and it strokes the egos of an entire generation who can roll their eyes when older folks just don't get it. I don't understand, for the life of me, how 50-something year old Aaron Sorkin, the famed writer of the West Wing, was able to sink himself into this world and write a screen play that comes across as so authentic. There wasn't a scene where I though, "Yea right..." Interestingly, the screen play was so long because of the long scenes of dialog that the movie was going to be over 4 hours long-- hence the accelerated pace of the conversations. They wouldn't cut the screen play down, so they just made the actors talk faster-- brilliant. I've mentioned this before in reviews, but it takes some skill to make a mundane scene, into a nail biter. You could not get anymore boring than computer programming, yet when Zuckerberg asks Eduardo for the algorithm he needs in order to complete his predecessor to Facebook, "Face Mash," there is a tense moment because you can see that at that moment Eduardo holds the key yet he hesitates because he knows that it will unleash something he has no control over, and the audience knows that this couple of seconds changed the world.

4. Due Date ** out of **** stars. This is the first movie by Todd Phillips since his Hangover directorial debut and I suspect audience members will be left wanting a little more. This movie is just missing a few things. First of all, let me just say, Galfiniakas is funny. Everything he says is funny. It just is. He is playing the same type of character as he did in Hangover-- the socially inept, awkward, yet innocent outsider who longs to fit in-- and this role suits him. I think he will have a career like Vince Vaugn, where movie-goers expect a type of performance and they get what they want despite the supporting characters or screenplay being a little weak, as this one was. Everyone in this movie is just a little too much for me to believe. Robert Downey Jr is just too much of a dick for me to believe he gets away with this behavior. Galfinakas is too much of a weirdo for me to believe he doesn't have a caretaker. Moynahan is too much of a cool wife for me to believe she didn't freak out when her husband questions the legitimacy of their baby. This movie also may have been the victim of a over-zealous editing room as some scenes did not make sense. Why did they confuse us with Jaime Foxx's intimacy with Moynahan? Why did they say she was having a boy but then she had a girl as a surprise? That makes sense when the characters express some kind of desire to have a boy and then surprise-- like gives you lemons and you make lemonade-- but we really don't known enough about Downey to know what this means to him. This movie was a nice appetizer but, hopefully, Hangover 2 will be a far more satisfying watch.

Practice for the Chopping Block

2010-10-13T13:19:00.007-05:00

Yesterday was one of my most awkward days to date. Every where I turned there was an awkward opportunity and I sunk right in. I think it is because of the book I just finished reading. I read an article about literature that said when you've spent the morning reading Chekov, you find that by afternoon, your world has turned Chekovian, meaning that when you have a convincing narration, you cannot help but let it take over your own inner dialog so that you are either viewing your world as the main character would or you narrate the happenings in your life as if it was a story. This happens to me every time I read a book. I just finished reading The Boleyn Inheritance, which is about the aftermath of the beheading of Henry VIII's second wife Anne Boleyn and the death of his third wife, Jane Seymour. The book is from the perspective of Jane Boleyn, (Anne's brother's widow), Anne of Cleves (Henry VIII fourth wife) and little Katherine Howard (Anne Boleyn's young cousin and Henry VIII's fifth wife). Katherine Howard's narrative is to blame for my awkwardness as I keep finding myself being patronized and escaping the awkwardness with a series of giggles.

The first one involved an office dweller, or someone who comes to the office quite often and makes themselves at home-- and doesn't work here. One of the sr partners has a couple of office dwellers who usually travel in two's as they are a tandem duo. But, on this day, he was missing his other half so, in an odd attempt at conversation, he told me, "Hey, you better be careful... Your hair's gonna get dark." What an odd statement and I was genuinely perplexed so I asked the most obvious question ever: "Why?" He giggled, looked at me like I was a hopeless case for casual banter, and he trotted up the stairs to enter the sr partner's office, unannounced, as he prefers to make his visits. I thought long and hard about what this fool was talking about, and I finally realized he was surmising that I am a bottle blond and that my roots are in need of a touch up. First, I was confused about the words he put together to convey this thought. Second, I was confused as to why a critical discussion of my hair is fair game for this office. Since he frequents the establishment, I have had a few minor interactions with him, but certainly nothing jovial in nature to justify this. Furthermore, what if I was hyper sensitive to this kind of remark and he had sent me into a tailspin about my hair? Which, I guess, judging by this post, I kind of am, and he kind of did.

What was even more awkward, however, was the responses I elicited from people in my defense, when I just wanted to express wonderment at his odd use of the English language. I wanted to come up with other ways of saying what he was trying to say, but much more eloquent, such as, "Hey woman- you better find some more yella to put in ur hair or I might not thinka you in the same way." I re-told this story to one of my co-workers (who on a side note, has announced that in the same vein as "Just call be Ron" Ron Sparks and "Doctor" DR. Bentley, she wants to be called "Crepe Suzette, to which I will oblige) and Crepe responded with, "Well did you tell him he better watch out because next time he looks in a mirror he's gonna scare himself?" I told it to one of the partners and she said, "---gasp--! Well, I don't see any roots at all. No none. Your hair looks just fine." I then told the story to one of the senior partners who said, "Well did you tell him he better watch out because he forgot his Abu Ghraib mask at home and he's gonna scare everyone?" I haven't had a good giggle at the expense of the prisoner at Abu Ghraib in a while, so that emptied my mind of the random office dweller.

Next in this day of awkwardness was the relationship advice I was given by one of the sr partners. This sr partner and I chat about my personal life quite regularly and I have no explanation beyond the fact that he asks a question and I volunteer too much information. He asked about my boyfriend and I told him we broke up. I was prepared to volunteer way too much information about why, but he stopped himself from asking because I think he was fearful of my reaction. I was having a bad day at work and it was unrelated to my personal life but I think he mistook it for sadness. "Well April, have you been on any dates with any other fellows?" Again, I volunteer way too much information as I tell him that indeed I have gone out with "a dude" (my words) and that it was going quite nicely. He responded loudly by telling me, "APRIL you do NOT need to get involved with anyone else right now! You are on the REBOUND! No need to rush into anything!" I said, "I know I know," but in truth, I had yet to consider that and I left feeling a little dejected

As I left his office, I made my way past the office of another sr partner when he casually asked me, "Okay are you ready to go?" I had forgotten my field trip to family court for a client the sr partner is allowing me to handle. "OH yes, of course I am ready." As we left in a hurry, the client's file sat on my desk. Inside the file, was our earth shattering evidence (a gross exaggeration). This isn't such a big deal, but having only one client and everything being new, I like to over prepare and really pour over the details related to any upcoming court appearances on her behalf. S,o for me to be thrown off, was earth shattering in my little world. It was here that I was reminded of little Katherine Howard from my book. In the book she practiced every public appearance over and over, even her eventual trip to the chopping block. She simply explained that she did this because the worst thing in the world is being somewhere and looking like you don't know what to do. Unable to try the case, we got what I have discovered to be my new favorite legal tool-- a continuation.

Once I returned to the office, I settled in to do some work and I was besieged with the urge to go #1. As I turned the corner to get into the ladies restroom, there were people lined against the hallway, like some sort of soul train conga line which lead into the restroom. In this line was the District Attorney who I later learned was here to campaign and to see a law school buddy who is a partner at the office. Upon seeing this pathway of people, laughing and chatting amongst their introductions, I kicked my leg up to slow down my momentum and to appear more casual. This, of course, was the opposite of appearing casual. This drew more attention to me so I said, "Halllooooo!" Now that I had everyone's attention, I felt the need to make sense of my interruption by saying, "Just going to the bathroooooom!" in a sing-songy voice that is not my natural octave. Hoping that my crashing would cause everyone to disperse ("Haha, what are we doing lining the hallway to the bathroom? Let's move this conversation to the adjoining hallway...") I was disappointed to learn that after my flush, my hand washing and drying, my audience was still in place, ready to cheer me on as I passed through. I could tell that almost everyone in that crew, a rousing bunch of smarties, were individually suppressing something funny to say about my bathroom visit. Given the distinguished company, they all wisely bit their tongues and I carried on with my day. In different times, I would have insisted upon shaking everyone's hands so they all could have wondered "did she wash her hands?" but having suffered awkwardness at every turn that day, I figured I should really end the day on a positive note and I marched through the bathroom conga line to my little office.

By the way sirs...

2010-10-08T12:01:00.004-05:00

this does not happen, and if it did, it would not be an attractive lady but a woman who was reeling from gastric bypass surgery and is still wearing her old undies. Perhaps that is the case here. She has been shopping all day for underwear that has an elastic band rather than a loin cloth. What a weird little fantasy and I feel like berating all of the men in the world for dreaming up this nonsense. Oh to return to simpler times, when the women let their panties drop out of pure innocence and not from carnality...

Rite Aid

2010-10-07T14:39:00.005-05:00

My mom has a new friend, who she calls her "best friend." They are really into referring to each other as best friends. It's weird seeing my mom interact with other people. Each time she speaks, I raise my eyes and expect her listening audience to be just as annoyed as I am, but I am always jolted when I see them paying her attention and letting her freak flag fly. Her freak flag soured a couple of days ago at the Rite Aid. Let me just say, that I love love love the Rite Aid by my house. I have had some difficulty with pharmacists in my day. Mainly because I am picky about certain brands of medication. Some generics simply do not work. I don't care how many pharmacists tell me that they have the same chemical compound, I know that some generics don't work. Therefore, the pharmacies I've frequented have often grown tired of stocking and ordering name brands or lesser known generics for me based on my non-medically supported reasons. They usually charge me extra for the lesser known generics. The usually forget that I am special and they won't keep my brand in stock. (my brand) They usually think I will tire of my demands. They won't allow me to make returns. Not at this Rite Aid. Oh sure, they think I am crazy and neurotic and they speak slowly to me as if I am about to come unhinged, but they don't charge me extra for the generic brands I like, they keep the brands in stock, they allowed me to return when they used the wrong brand, and they even write my name on the bottles saying, "April Walker only" so that my special brand is not doled out to the non-complaining masses. Plus, even more importantly, three of the male pharmacists who work on a rotating shift, are young and cute. They, and the women and older man pharmacists all say "hey" to me like they know me when I walk in. It's kind of how people get psyched when they develop a rapport with a bar tender at their favorite bar: "You know what I'm having haha" [wink wink]. I walk in and they say, "Howdy Ms. Walker. Will it be your usual? Hey we've also got some gum on sale-- I know how you like your gum."

Therefore, I was a little unnerved when my mom, who goes to another pharmacy, told me she transferred her prescriptions there. I have worked hard to develop a relationship with these people and I can't have my mom crashing into my little safe spot. But, she reported that she transferred them temporarily to obtain two $25 gift cards for free. She promised to buy me something from the card and I had my flonase to get so I chauffeured us. Every time I go somewhere with my mom, I get guilted into walking at the same slow pace as she does since her ankle never healed properly. But, by the time I make into any store, I get so over-stimulated by the sight to products, that I forget myself and leave my mom in my dust. This time however, it was pre-meditated abandonment as I wanted to hurry and get my flonase before my mom made it to the pharmacy counter, so I could interact with my favorite pharmacists without intrusion from my mom. But, whenever I abandon her, she uses this trick to cause me to reel backwards: She continues to talk to me as if I am still walking side to side with her. To an outsider, she looks like a nut who is talking to herself. "Oooo I gotta remember to get Nanny a card.... Oh and I can't forget to buy some cokes. Oh that's so pretty..." Other patrons just look in her direction and with a self-righteous glare, think to themselves, "At least I'll never be that crazy." To me, that is worse than having my mom invade my sphere of pharmacy security so I retreat, and walk with her once more. I used to just turn around yell in her direction, "Mom please stop talking to me I am way over here," but that just made me look like an angst-ridden teen who is trying to shake her mom for fear of looking uncool. I'm no teen, so when my mom pulls this stunt, I give in, stop walking, wait for her to catch up and say, "You don't need any cokes now hurry up."

Once I get to the pharmacy counter, I am relieved that the on-duty pharmacist is a young girl who I have yet to develop a relationship with. None of my cute pharmacist crushes are working that night, which is a relief because several months earlier, after a brow-beating from my mom as to why I don't use the same pharmacist as she and dad use, I let her know that the pharmacist are cute at the Rite Aid by my house. "Oh," she said simply. "Well, is he married?" she asked to my horror. So, with the young girl working, there was no chance that my mom would not so discreetly ask the pharmacist if he was married and/or looking to take a girlfriend in me, her live-in 26 year old daughter who, [gasp] is a lawyer. This young girl pharmacist is chatty, however, and as my mom eavesdrops on our banter as to what a busy day it has been, I can see my mom perk up at the chance for a conversation. As I get my meds, I tell my mom, who is still wearing her sunglasses, that I am going to look around for what I want her to buy me for my reward. To my immediate relief, she does not protest, but I later discover that was because she didn't want me to interfere with her plans to chat the pharmacist. My mom asked her why it had been such a long day and my mom added the gem of information, presuming of course that since she was a woman, in her twenties, that she was going to have to immediately go home and cook for her husband, that "AND, you have to go home after work and cook dinner for you husband." WHAT? I am thinking. I move closer, completely hidden from my mom's line of vision in the walkers, bedpans, and inconstancy products, and hear the pharmacist, who I assume will be annoyed by my mom's presumption, give my mom a rousing, "I KNOW." There, she has struck a chord with the pharmacist and now there is nothing that will stop these two chatty cathys. "Tell me," my mom asks having already paid for her meds, "what do you like to cook?" At this point I am cringing uncontrollably in disbelief, but I was even more surprised by the pharmacist's response, as if this was the most natural medical related question of her day, "Casseroles." My mom interrupts to exclaim, "MMMMmmm I LOVE casseroles." The pharmacist is still talking, but my mom, undeterred because we had yet to eat dinner, says, "What kind of casseroles?" I can't hear the soft-spoken pharmacist's response, but I hear my mother, who is all but yelling after years of trying to be heard by her deaf daughter and husband, says, "What about chicken casserole? Do you do one of those?" The excitement with which this girl responds unnerves me: "YES I LOVE CHICKEN CASSEROLE." My mom is nodding fervently, "Mmm hum... I do too. But, my husband and my daughter don't like casseroles." "They don't?" the pharmacist says disbelievingly, as if casseroles were like candies or rainbows. For a moment there, I believe the pharmacist and my mom are going to make plans to eat casserole's together, or that my mom is going to offer to bring her some of her chicken casserole. "Nope." This, of course, is a complete fabrication. I happen to love casseroles, but my dad does not. He likes to see all of the elements of the meal: meat, starch and vegetable, separated and deconstructed. He does not need someone else to assemble his meal and add cream of mushroom on top. I see my mom pause before she speaks, and I know she is deciding whether it would be weird to exchange numbers with this girl to share in casserole loving joy, but thank god, she decides against it and moves on to another topic: "Well, do you use the crock pots?" Again, I look down in shame and peak up only when the pharmacist stuns me with her enthusiasm: "I LOOOOVVVVEEE MY SLOW COOKER." Mom starts nodding again and says, "Yep Yep," like she is saying, "I knew it!" I start to then try and get my mom's attention from the row of toilet paper, "Ma," I whisper. "Ma," I repeat. She doesn't hear and she says to the pharmacist, "Well I gotta go now," and I then decide to reveal to her that I have been listening all along, and creepily I say, "I'm over here mother." Startled, she says, "Oh there you are. What did you find?" I can't tell her that I have found nothing because I have been listening in horror to her conversation with my friends-- the pharmacist-- so I tell her, "Let's look at stuff on our own some more and I'll come and find you." We decided on using the gifts cards to buy nail polish for me, toilet paper for the house, a card for her new best friend, razors for my mom, shaving cream for me, and the bulk of the money was spent on two "stuff-less" dog toys for Henry and Pretty Boy. I couldn't stay annoyed with my mom because the entire ride back I catch her looking at the dog toys and smiling with the joy that she should reserve for the birth of her first grandchild. She forgets about the toys for a second, and then she sees them again and she smiles that same warm smile. I know she is thinking of the dogs and I find that very sweet. As we pulled into the house, she told me that her new best friend said the sweetest thing to her: "Phyllis, every night when I pray I thank God for bringing you into my life." Part of me finds this unhealthy and the other part of me is reminded at how my mom does have a unique personality which makes her a lot of fun to be around when she's in the right mood. I want to tell my mom, "Well don't mess this up," but instead I tell her something worse, but that I thought was nice, "Well, she probably gets a kick out of you." "Hay!" my mom said. I want to tell her that, in my eyes, it's a good thing to let your freak flag fly, but I decide against it and distract her by telling her she can be the one to give the dogs their toys.

An Ode to Bubba Watson

2010-10-05T09:59:00.004-05:00

I watch professional golf now. Previously I would watch it if I could find someone to root for and then I would create some fictitious tension among the players to keep me interested. But now, now I have a new reason for watching professional golf, and that reason is Bubba Watson. Bubba hails from Florida and he attended Alabama's own Faulkner State Community College before being recruited by the University of Georgia's golf team, where he graduated and eventually made it to the professional golf circuit.

Obviously, Bubba caught my attention with his name. When I discovered that his name was no error or nickname, my interest really perked. Professional golf is so stuck up and Bubba's presence lends an air of commonality to the proceedings. I especially enjoyed how the announcers in this year's PGA Championship tried to say his name as quickly and as exotically as possible: "Bobbbba" they would pronounce it, as if they were saying some Arab name like "Ali-babba," as if that is more acceptable. What is best, however, is how Bubba's presence induces the crowds to really cut loose as they stammer, "Gowe Bubbbaaa!!!" ala Forrest Gump style, in between shots. As if this was written for a movie, I've also been told that Bubba's real bread and butter is his ability to really hammer the ball-- farther than anyone else on the tour. This only adds to his uncouth and crass demeanor as I am reminded of a fictional character who shared in his ability to drive the ball-- Happy Gilmore.

Bubba really sealed his fate with the red-neck faithful, though, when he decided to grow out his hair and sport the visors. The visors, like all red neck hats, are badly un-shapen and sit on top of his head like a Burger King paper crown. He also buttons the very top button on all of his polos (which may be course regulation attire, for all I know) but on him it makes him look like he's never worn a shirt with buttons and he doesn't know what to do with them except to button them all. Of course, this as entirely a fiction I made up based on his name, but I like my characterization and, for now, I pull for Bubba. Gowe Bubbbbaaa!!!!!!!

Pancakes in Exchange for Your Soul

2010-09-30T16:02:00.004-05:00

As much as I complain about my mother, I think it is only fair to comment on the nice things she has done for me lately. For the past month or so, my mom wakes up before I do to make sure I don't over sleep. Once I wake up, she takes the dogs out and she feeds them. While I am showering she knocks on the door to ask me what I want for breakfast-- and she actually means it. She will cook anything I want. It has essentially become my reason for getting out of bed in the morning and, with the promise of a delicious meal waiting like a light at the end of a tunnel, it has helped me to pick up the pace in the shower instead of taking my usual 30 minutes. Pancakes and bacon, bagels with cream cheese, scrambled eggs with cheddar cheese and toast with honey butter, biscuits and gravy, frosted mini wheats with cold milk and an under-ripe banana, cheesy grits, french toast with powdered sugar... She even takes it upon herself to not only make the coffee, she pours my cup and adds my preferred dosage of cream and sugar. As I eat my breakfast, she asks me what I want for lunch and she makes that too. I have showered her with appreciation for her help because it saves me 45 minutes in the morning and she cooks better than I can. When I get home, she asks, "Are you hungry?" and she prepares some sort of satisfying home-cooked meal. Sometimes she even puts a sticker in my lunch box that says something along the lines of "believe in yourself." hahahahaha. That is probably taking it too far but I love all of the attention and for once I am not shouldering off her efforts because I see that it's given her some sort of purpose in life once again. "I am April's mommy and that's a full-time job." But, this is not the natural order of things and I feel a rip in the time-space continuum will affect my life somehow. It's just not natural and somewhere, somehow, my indulgence into elementary school age safety is taking a toll on the world. It is like the "Butterfly Affect" where the simple flapping of a butterfly's wings will cause a ripple of events. Every time I accept this generosity and play along, I feel like I am selling a little portion of my soul until years from now, when I still haven't left home, I will be a soul-less little mongoloid dreaming of the day that I become a grown up. So, I will resolve to become more independent and escape this shameful cycle I have given into. I am doing this to restore order in the universe, and because, more importantly, I have gained 5 pounds.

A Movie Review: The Town

2010-09-27T09:38:00.004-05:00

**** out of five stars. Ben Affleck, as a director and writer, never strays too far from his upbringing when he's behind the camera. "The Town," like "Good Will Hunting" and "Gone Baby Gone" before it, is a gritty, yet sympathetic story of young Irish Bostonians, existing as a product of their environment, until one of them gets a taste of life of life on the other side. Ben Affleck is the one who gets a taste of life on the other side when he falls for a woman (Claire) who he and his crew took hostage in a successful bank robbery. They wore masks and she doesn't know it was him. This movie straddles the fence on whether it is going to be a journey of self exploration, ala "Good Will Hunting," or if it is just going to be a crime thriller ala "Heat," albeit a very good crime thriller. Overall, this movie is more "Heat" than "Good Will Hunting" but, unlike "Heat," the movie is good but not great. It could have been great if it had just committed itself to being a fine crime thriller.

One member of the crew, who is also the most interesting character in the movie is Jem played by Jeremy Renner from "The Hurt Locker." He is unpredictable and reckless and he's pretty convincing in his role. I was so glad, more than anything, that Affleck didn't cast his whiney little brother Casey in the movie. Blake Lively, of "Gossip Girl" fame, plays Affleck's former girlfriend and Renner's sister and I guess this is her most serious role to date. She is supposed to represent the wasteland of good beauty lost to hard living and oxycontin. She doesn't quite nail it, as I am sure any "Towny" Boston broad could attest, but she must have done something right to land this role since the cast was pretty elite. Jon Hamm from tv's "Mad Men" is the FBI agent in charge of the investigation and I'm not sure if it was the director's intent for him to be so unlikeable, but he was. As with any good crime movie, we root for the bad guys to win. But, unlike some crime movies, we really had no reason to do so. The criminals are bad. They don't have any other motivation besides for greed. More than anything, the criminals were just likeable and the FBI agents were not.

I would be remiss if I didn't mention the back drop of the movie: Charlestown, a subdivision in Boston. We are told at the beginning of the movie, that Charlestown has more bank robbers in one square mile than in the entire country. Robbing banks is a family business to which the robbers are quite dedicated as you can see from the forensic efforts they expend. This movie is so similar to "Heat" in the precision and care the bank robbers take (plus the masks) and in a memorable scene towards the end where the damsel warns the criminal to stay away because the FBI cometh. More prominent in this culture of crime is the use of violence. Unlike in "Heat," the characters are more organic and less contrived. Whereas "Heat" seems to have begun in the writer's mind by thinking up a bank robber (DeNiro) and building the story around him, "The Town," seems to have begun in the mind of the writer by thinking first of Charlestown and the type of offenders such a culture would create. Nature versus nurture, and so forth. Violence is the only way this culture seems to be able to communicate. Affleck, confused by his feelings for Claire shows his love in the only way he knows how-- he beats up some neighborhood vagrants who were mean to Claire. Renner, who is Affleck's brother for all intensive purposes, was popped and served 9 years for killing a man. What did that man do to deserve death a Renner's hand? He simply said he was going to kill Affleck.

I think Ben Affleck is going to be a better director than he is an actor, and that's not meant to be a stab at his acting. This movie is definitely worth seeing if you like crime movies and still worth seeing if you like seeing Irish-American culture at its worst. More than anything, it is a thriller and a scene as simple as a lunch-date was reeking with tension so that I was literally wringing my hands.

The Barefoot Contessa

2010-09-24T09:06:00.005-05:00

Last night on 30 Rock I was delighted to hear Ina Garten as the butt of a few jokes. I am not the only one who finds her feral breathing while reciting the day's meals a little too similar to some pre-coital seduction. Except that, with all of that heavy breathing, it is apparent that she is not the seductress-- she is the person who is being seduced. What's worse is that the feral breathing is not a result of some legitimate, albeit inappropriate, love making. No. It is the result of her fantasizing about what she's going to eat for the day! God help us.

Her show always begins with her pretending to be carrying on with her day as if the camera were not filming her. She films in her own house-- a palatial mansion in the Hamptons-- and the scenes of her home and surrounding community are pretty heavy handed. I'm sure to induce envy in her followers. She eventually turns to speak to the camera, but her tone conveys enough to let you know that she's doing you a favor by speaking to you-- a commoner. Just as she's not convincing in her desire to film the show, she's not convincing in her ability to conceal her lust for the food is about to prepare-- hence-- the beginning of the heavy breathing and gasps for air as she breaks between a description of the courses. "[umhah...umhah] Um... [licking her teeth] today... [umhah] we're going to make a [umhah] some easy asparagus and grilled corn [oh] and then [oooohhhh] we're going to top it off with some easy easy roasted pork with blackberry glaze. Mmmm..." What is also strange is that in the midst of preparing her dinner, she takes out enough meat and vegetables from the main course to make her an impromptu lunch while she waits. I think this is all in an effort to appear so skilled that she can come up with a meal on the fly, but instead, it just makes her look unjustifiably hungry. As if we are supposed to believe that the only meals she consumes throughout the day are the ones she eats on camera. That's just not the way meal preparation goes for most people. No one, while thinking of the night's meal sets aside a "small" portion of the ingredients to make themselves a separate meal to be eaten before the dinner guests arrive. No, this is not the result of impromptu skill, but a result of years of worry that she won't get enough to eat at dinner. As she eats her first dinner, she flares her nostrils, raises her eyebrows suggestively and says, "Oh that's good..." But, the orgasmic noises she makes while describing and devouring the day's meals are nothing compared to the nostril flaring breathing induced by mention of her husband Jeffrey.

Oh Jeffrey. Jeffrey is some sort of business man who leaves town quite often but returns almost every episode just in time to dine with Ina. Unlike Ina, Jeffrey never looks at the camera and his attention always seems to be on something else, although, also unlike Ina, he is fairly good at hiding his inattention. Jeffrey is always mentioned in Ina's breathy discussion of what meal she is going to cook because Jeffrey's likes and dislikes are always at the forefront of Ina's mind. Who cares that she has dozens of followers who are waiting for her version of beef wellington. If Jeffrey doesn't like beef wellington, then her viewers will quite simply never see it prepared. Ina always says Jeffrey's name by first inhaling a big breath through her mouth. It is as if she knows the thought of Jeffrey will leave her breathless and she better stock up on some unfiltered oxygen or risk letting out a little moan that she won't be able to disguise as her lust for fresh berries. After the initial gasp for extra air, Ina then says his name with her teeth clenched together, most of the sound erupting deep from her diaphragm and from her flared nostrils. It all seems so inappropriate, as if she could easily slip in something like, "And after dinner [heavy breathe in.... and out] Jjjefffreeey [ahhh] is going to have his favorite hot [oohh] chocolate syrup drizzled on..." I am seriously waiting for the show to end with the two of them in a bath tub surrounded by bubbles. candles, and champagne, arms linked together in a toast as the credits roll.

It would seem that Ina and Jeffrey's love life would be enough to keep Ina satisfied during Jeffrey's moments away from their McHampton McMansion, but, as we see when Ina indulges her gay boy following, she appears the furthest thing from satisfied. While Jeffrey is away, [ooohhh, umhah,....] the cat will play, so to speak. Ina, on television, never dines alone. Instead, when Jeffrey "works" she invites her gay boyfriends over to feast on the meal she prepared with hedonistic lust. While she is cold, calculating, and laden with a desire to contain her lust while preparing her meal for the at-home audience, as soon as a man, hetero or not, appears on screen, her pelvis is connected his as if they are in a magnetic tractor beam. It is amazing that she is able to cut her vegetables with one arm as the other arm is always petting the arm or shoulder of some unsuspecting man trapped in her kitchen. Squeezes of the shoulder, pats on the hand, and flirtatious eye contact run abound as Ina is unable to contain the pheromones she unleashes as her highly trained culinary sniffer smells out some testosterone. Her mail counterpart, in my mind, would be Mario Batali-- in size, stature, coldness, and snobbery. But Mario, is able to be uniformly cold to his viewing audience and the people filming the show. How unfair is the world where if Mario Batali stood on camera breathing heavily and being driven wild with lust at the sight of a grilled pork tenderloin, he would become the world's biggest pervy chef. Ina does it and everyone just kind of feels sorry for her. I think it is the food that gets her so worked up so by the time a man comes into her vicinity she is ready to tear his clothes off- after eating, of course.

Teeeveee

2010-09-22T11:09:00.006-05:00

As I write this, I am saying, "Tv, Tv, Teevee! Tv, Tv, Teevee!" in my head, over and over, to the tune of "Cha, Cha, Cha, Cha, Cha, Chaaa!" Fall tv is back and I cannot contain myself. Exaggeration, perhaps, but the Walker household is quite uneventful. Let me now share some of my favorite tv shows of the moment.

1) Modern Family on ABC: This is the story of an extended family, consisting of three separate households. This is a comedy for smart people as there is no laugh track prompting you to laugh. It is shot in a faux mockumentary as the cast sometimes looks at the camera and there are cast interviews. Even the set is more realistic as each family's household is a house that you can actually envision a family you know living in. The front doors do not open directly onto a couch and there is not a kitchen immediately following a horizontal floor plan, ala "King of Queens" style. My favorite is Phil, who is one of those parents who find it essential to try and stay current yet without relinquishing the things he treasures from his own generation. "OMIGOD! You look like you're from 'Dance Fever!" his wife says horrified before they stand to take a family picture, everyone entirely clad in white. Phil thinks for a moment, wondering if this was a compliment before resolving that it was and he bashfully says, "Thank you!" "My dad says the greatest singer who ever lived is Peabo Bryson," his son tells his grandfather. There is also a gay couple who are my mom's favorite and one of whom won the Emmy for best comedic performance this year.

Cameron: It would be like Lewis telling Clark that he didn't like to walk. Sidenote: We're very good friends with a couple named Lewis and Clark. Clark bought a big sparkly belt in New Orleans that he calls his Louisiana Purchase

hehehehe. The new season starts tonight at 8pm on ABC

2) Cougar Town: Immediately following "Modern Family" is a show starring Courtney Cox about middle aged privileged people who are all neighbors and all interfere with each other in most charming way. They call themselves, "the Culdesac Crew." I resisted watching this show at first because the title implies it would be like "Lipstick Jungle" or "Desperate Housewives," both of which I find deplorable. But, it turns out, and the show's creator admits, that they just couldn't think of anything else to call it and they've even considered changing the title. The show's creator is the guy who used to play the baby on Mad Tv if that's any clue to the type of inappropriateness of the dialog. Regardless, it is funny, quick, and I cannot convey how well the writers have their finger on the everyday vernacular of people who never take anything seriously in life.

"Travis: I'm about to bring Kylie [his girlfriend] in so I need you all to act like normal human beings. I know it's going to be hard but I can help. Mrs. Torres, Kylie doesn't have an eating disorder, she runs cross country, so think of a new opening question. Mr. Torres, I don't care how much you eat, let's keep our pants buttoned. Laurie, your breasts are bigger than hers. There I said it, you don't need to tell her. Neighbor guy, I see you brought your fruity little guitar, let's keep that holstered. Mom, you have multiple problem areas so when it doubt just say to yourself that's a bad idea. Dad, I think we both know it's best if you don't say anything."

I guess I like this show so much because everyone is so terribly inappropriate. Season 2 of Cougar Town begins tonight at 8:30 on ABC.

3) It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia: This show has been on several seasons and I am never not disgusted, yet I cannot turn away. These people are vile and it is wonderful.

Frank (played by Danny Devito): Look, I didn't go to Vietnam just to have pansies like you take my freedom away from me.

Dee: You went to Vietnam in 1993 to open up a sweatshop!
Frank: ...and a lot of good men died in that sweatshop!

Charlie (my favorite character, in the episode 'Charlie Goes America All Over Everybody's Ass'): I'm gonna rise up, I'm gonna to kick a little ass, I'm gonna to kick some ass in the U.S.A., gonna climb a mountain, gonna sew a flag, gonna fly on an eagle. I'm gonna kick some butt, I'm gonna drive a big truck, I'm gonna rule this world, I'm gonna kick some ass, I'm gonna rise up, I'm gonna kick a little ass. ROCK, FLAG, and EAGLE!

It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia is on every Thursday at 9pm on FX.

No new television dramas have caught my attention yet although I am envious of all of you HBO patrons who get to watch Martin Scorcese's "Boardwalk Empire."

April Learns a Lesson in Sharing

2010-09-13T20:00:00.004-05:00

When my alarm clock goes off at 6am during the work week, I coax myself into waking up by engaging in a morning ritual of playing with apps on my phone, all the while still tucked in the bed. That way my bod doesn't endure the shock from slumber to standing and I can leisurely peruse through my phone. It's as if I'm telling myself, "No no, you don't actually have to wake up and start the day, you just have to wake up enough to play on your phone." I check my day planner, I check various lists I have saved, I read a daily comic strip from Calvin and Hobbes, I check the Weather Channel app, I check the facebook, I check my email, and finally, I check my horoscope. I am a Taurus and usually my horoscope centers on me exercising some patience because "good things are on the horizon." But today's was much more pointed: "someone you know wants to have a closer relationship with you." Without giving much thought to this, I think that person is my dad. His mood is so elevated after we do something together or even just talk. This past Thursday, he and my mom were at odds over what to watch on television. He wanted to watch the Mississippi State/ Auburn game and she wanted to watch some crime show. Dad decided to just watch the game with me in my room. Actually, I had muted the tv and was reading in the adjacent bedroom, and he entered my room without knocking, and started shaking the tv changer while yelling, "How do you turn it up?!" I really didn't want to watch the game because I was into my book, but I got up, un-muted the tv and sat on the day bed and watched tv with my dad. We each had our own blankets and pillows to prop up on and we had a good 'ole time laughing at Auburn and yelling at MS State. Dad was in good spirits for days afterwards. It would seem to be no-brainer that doing something that costs me nothing and means so much to my dad should something I want to do. However, it's not that simple.

I have maintained a huge barrier of privacy between me and my parents my entire life. I am more reserved in front of my parents than I am in front of anyone else that has ever been in my life-- teachers, bosses, co-workers, boyfriend's parents, strangers at the grocery store... So much so that when I find myself becoming animated while telling a story, or talking to my parents the way I would talk to someone else, I see them exchange gleeful glances as they wonder how long this will go on before I punish them with more of my reserved persona. When I see them exchange glances I know that I have forgotten myself and quickly resume the status quo while silently berating myself for dropping my guard. I'm sure there are plenty of possible explanations for why I've always done this, but I'm not concerned with that because this is how I am and that's that. But, every once in a while, I feel tremendously guilty when I do give them a little bit of my personality and share with them my thoughts, because I see how it improves their mood. Last night especially, it was incredibly adorable, yet odd, when my dad came home from work and peeked his head in my room. I recently moved my computer desk behind my front bedroom door and my dad, not immediately seeing me sitting on the day bed watching tv, he craned his neck to peer into the adjacent bedroom where I keep my big bed and sometimes read. The look on his face was that of a child on the precipice of receiving some great gift. His mouth was slightly opened in a smile as he was searching my usual resting spots in my lair. Eventually, I said, "Hi Dad!" and he was startled to see me behind the door but he quickly returned to his smile and said, "Hey Baby!" We smiled at each other for a second or two and then he returned to the living room to wait for my mom to cook dinner. Instead of returning to my computer screen, the guilt creeped in on me and I sighed, pushed myself out of my computer chair and chatted in the living room with my dad while we waited on dinner. I've learned that I can still maintain a thick insulation of privacy by only sharing with them little facts from my day, relayed in a light which is funny, without sharing my feelings or opinions on the subject. Also, I discovered that throughout the day, my parents, debate with one another about my preferences on certain topics. For example, my mom, recorded a Kenny Chesney music video called "The Boys of Fall" for me to watch. I patiently sat through the duration of this video, not because I like Kenny Chesney, but because the video included highlights from NCAA Football and NFL great moments (except for this incredibly inappropriate cameo by Les Miles which really sank the credibility of the video). "Thanks Mom. That's was kewl," I generously told my mom. Gleefully, she said, "Really? You liked it? Ha. Daddy said 'I can't believe you are recording this for her; you know she hates Kenny Chesney.' And Ha. You liked it--" before I could interrupt with a correction that I like the video and not the music, she continued "--I know I know just the video. Ha. I'm gonna call daddy and tell him." Yesterday evening, when I came home from work, my mom asked me if I would prefer rice or macaroni and cheese as an accompaniment to our dinner. I told her rice and she said, "Ha. That's what daddy said you'd want. I said you'd want macaroni and he said you'd want rice. Hmp." So long as I keep giving them a little bit of my personality and not satisfying my natural urge to become a recluse, I think my parents and I are going to be alright, for now.

Number People

2010-09-13T12:31:00.003-05:00

It seemed like elementary school progressed at a snail's pace when I was younger. There were such lofty goals that my teachers had to meet-- 1) learn to read by year's end, 2) learn cursive writing in one school year, 3) learn how to construct a paragraph in one year, 4) learn the multiplication table in one year. English came easy and math wasn't so hard either except that my dad committed the cardinal sin, the worst of the worst, thing you can do when you are raising a little girl. He indoctrinated me into the world of gender stereotypes in education-- "You April, are not very good at math, are you? You just can't seem to get it. Hehe. That's okay. You're good at everything else. hehe; you're just not ever gonna get math." I heard this every year until I graduated college. I never once objected because I felt like that's what he expected me to do. He was expecting me to confirm my gender inequality by crying or over reacting. Nor did I seek to prove him wrong. I just coasted along in math, knowing that in that area of academia, I really couldn't do anything to disappoint my dad. With my imminent failure on the horizon, and the slow pace of elementary school, I approached the multiplication tables with an unusual approach that has stuck with me for the rest of my life. I call them "Number People."

Each number, one through ten, had its own persona, based on the shape of its physique and I don't know what else. Each number also had a color and a sex. Three, for example, with his chubby rolls, was a just happy to be a part of the group, no snobbery or airs about him. Three was my favorite and I always prefer to count in groups of threes even to this day. Three was always yellow. Nine, with her top heavy physique was a popular lady among the Number People. The Number men would whistle when she walked by. Nine was also very matter-of-fact. Her involvement was when the number being multiplied was on the precipice of becoming of leaving the one through ten group and on to becoming a number that ended with a zero. 20...30...40... Therefore, nine was the last gatekeeper before entering a new realm and so she was tough. Seven was a popular, somewhat successful dude. Everyone loved seven. This I deduced from the fact that seven was a lucky number and people fought to have the number seven jersey when they were allowed to choose. Seven was such a jock that he never wanted to work at school. I could never remember the multiples of seven. Seven was light purple. Five, with his round belly, was an outgoing guy, jovial and popular. Five was liked because he was essential to the workings of every day life. This is because of the five dollar bill. Five was dark blue. Six was a woman who was shy although admired by the Number People for her quietness. She was also kind of slothful I decided. This is because she could only be multiplied by one to create a number that would stay in the 1-10 family. She never wanted to move, you see. I felt like her close relative three took up her slack and whenever something involved a six, I would just use three two-times instead. Six was red. Eight was kind of a-sexual, or a manly woman if I had to guess. Eight was dark purple. She was the kind of women who would punch you in the shoulder if she had arms. Eight, although a higher number like six, was more of a worker, I decided. This is because I pictured two and four coming from eight. Two and four were workers so eight was also a worker by association. Six, although a multiple of two, was more closely related to three and nine. Therefore, she wasn't as useful. One was an incredibly boring women who no one wanted to be around. One was yellow. This I deduced from the fact that any equation involving one, was easily solvable so that the other number involved in the equation, could make a hasty exit. Two was a slave-driver/ work-a-holic. I deduced this characterization because two was involved in more equations, in and outside the classroom, than any other number. Two was blue. So, while I was churning away at tedious addition, subtraction, and multiplication problems, I would maintain some focus if I assigned some arbitrary personality to the number and create some sort of unnecessary tension or camaraderie between the two numbers involved in the simple equation.

As I always feared, if I reduced this practice to writing or explained it to others, I would be forced to realize how bizarre this actually was. I told my boyfriend from law school about this and all he said was, "Really? hmm.... Do you think you might be a touch autistic?" Maybe Number People aren't as uncommon as I'm thinking, but I do have a feeling that my children one day are going to be the strangest little creatures to ever graze the earth: "Yes, that's right my young child, just remember than no one likes that mean 'ole number two; he makes everyone work too much... Um let's keep this between us, okay?"

A Book Review: The Girl Who Played with Fire

2010-09-12T11:10:00.004-05:00

I ruined this series for myself. After reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, I read up on the writer and discovered that he seemed to have based Mikael Blomvist on his own fantasy version of himself. Every time some element of his personality was conveyed, I couldn't help but think, "Oh, so this what he wishes he was like in real life." That made his character depiction of Blomvist as being a man-whore, a vigilante, and a moralist, a little too contrived. Also, this book features some awkward lesbian love sessions and all I could picture was a creepy old man, sitting at his computer, writing this book while thinking, "Yea... yea... then she lifting her shirt... yea- that's what lesbian do-- they love boobs!" Also, after reading a review on a website called "The Millions" which pointed out that the writer engages in a plot summary in every chapter, I found myself growing incredibly frustrated when I noticed it myself. It's like when you watched "The Hills" or "Laguna Beach" when they would say things like, "Who are you inviting to the Sadie Hawkins dance? You know, the dance where the girls are supposed to ask the boys." People don't speak in plot summaries and they don't speak in complete sentences with a subject, verb, and proper noun always in the most basic order. The review I read also lodged a complaint at Larsson's inability to shed his journalistic roots as he over-describes every scene. That's not so much of a problem for me because I like seeing certain mundane details in print, but I can see how that would grow irritating for those who are more accustomed to subtle writings. And finally, there is the dialogue. It is strained and unnatural at best. At worst, it is pedestrian. Even so, like the first book, there was a mystery that was peeled away and that is what kept me reading the book.

The character of Lisbeth Salander is just as interesting as she was in the first and while the other characters have never met a cliche they didn't like, she is one that I don't think I have seen in other literature or movies. Perhaps she is like SALT from the new Angelina Jolie movie, but I haven't seen it so I will abstain from that comparison. I realize that the writer is really on the side of women and, he himself is a feminist, but he does nothing to avoid the fact that every male in the book is either paternalistic or wants to kill her. There is no in between in Larsson's world of "Men who Hate Women."

Unlike last time, I am not going to rush to Books-A-Million to get the next book in the series. I think it is time to move on. I've had enough of Sweden for a while. Don't let my experience prevent you from reading this book because, in the grand scheme of things, this book is far better than a Nicholas Sparks sob story. I just have a tendency to over-think and ruin things for myself. For example, when I was in the second grade and reading about the American colony of Jamestown and how they starved and ate rats and dogs, I happened to have been eating a turkey sandwich. I let the thought creep into my head that, "What if turkey meat and rat meat taste the same. How would I even know? What if this actually is rat meat? How would we even know [spitting out sandwich now] ?" I didn't eat turkey for two years after that.

A Book Review: Wolf Hall, by Hilary Mantel

2010-09-10T09:15:00.003-05:00

Ah... the joys of being a single girl... my life consists of treating myself to a night out, overindulging, swearing to never again go out, and sinking myself into the world of literature, my eyes peering up from my books only to bestow adoration on my darling little puppy. At work we are having a book drive for underprivileged children. I usually forget to participate in such things but the email containing the book drive information had a stinging sentence that I haven't been able to shake: "For many children who receive prize books from Better Basics, it's the first book they have ever owned." Ouch. So this morning I examined the book cases at my house and came up with a disappointing five books. My mom had already given away the child hood books we could bear to part with and the others we reserved for when I have children. I reached to grab a hard back copy of Peter Pan from the book case when I heard my mom say, "Un-ah," prompting me to immediately drop my hand from the shelf. I opened the book anyway and there was a message in my mom's handwriting on the top right hand corner of the book, dated 8/17/1989: "To my darling April, I hope you always enjoy reading, Love Mom." This coupled with my new awareness that some children have never even owned a book, made me have a grateful moment that my mom kept my book cases filled so that I was never without a new book if I wanted it.

My newest read is a book called Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel. This book won the Booker Prize, which initially caught my attention, but when the plot summary included Henry VIII, Thomas Cromwell, and Anne Boyelyn, I knew I had to read it. After reading the book, Six Wives and watching the television series "The Tudors," I have become a Henry VIII junkie. I enjoy learning about the Protestant revolution, the changing role of women, the emergence of the Renaissance, and the materialization of the middle class. Wolf Hall is a fictional biography of Thomas Cromwell, who was an advisor to Henry VIII during his marriage to Anne Boyelyn. Cromwell is a reformer and he is shrewd to the point of being one of the most feared men in all of Europe during this time. He came from nothing and it offended the aristocracy that he held such power without a title, so much so that Henry VIII invented a title for him. What most critics and historians have focused on, however, is the relationship Cromwell has with Thomas More. Cromwell is the Yin to More's Yang and this is one of few portrayals which show Cromwell in a more positive light than More. Both are lawyers and both serve Henry VIII in the highest advisor role possible. More, however, is unwavering in his loyalty to Rome and Cromwell is more practical in his approach to life. More has been painted as a martyr and a staunch humanitarian by some who chose to ignore the burnings at the stake commissioned by More during his time as councilor to Henry VIII. As one critic notes, "More wants Utopia, and Cromwell fits snugly into the world just as it is." A man after my own heart with his harsh practicality-- this book is a satisfying read, start to finish.

I have heard that Mantel is writing a sequel to this book to show the decline of Cromwell. This book ends on a happy note, before the beheading of Boyelyn and the subsequent decline of Cromwell.

A Book Review: The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

2010-09-07T12:41:00.003-05:00

This book lives up to the hype and has made its author, Stieg Larsson the second highest selling author in the world. The original title, "Men Who Hate Women," is a fitting theme for this murder mystery set in the very hygienic Sweden.

The plot centers around Mikail Blomvist, a Swedish journalist who has just been convicted of libel against a well-known financier Wennerstrom. Sent packing to lick his wounds, Blomvist gets an unusual offer from Henrik Vanger, an 82 year old industrialist giant. Vanger hires Blomvist to investigate the suspected murder of Vanger's great-niece, Harriett, who was last seen in 1966. Opposite Blomvist is the girl for who the book takes its namesake, Lisbeth Salander. A goth who is a very gifted private investigator who deals with her own demons, past and present. The two of them uncover Vanger family secrets which happen to coincide with what the author would call an epidemic of violence against women in Sweden. Geesh. I had no idea they were such an angry society, nor did I realize their close association with Nazism. I believe Mel Gibson has found his mother-land.

There are some parallels between the author and Blomvist. The author was editor of his own anti-corruption financial magazine and he was very active in prevention of violence against women and the rise of Neo-Nazism in Sweden. He also had a long standing relationship with a woman whom he never married as Blomvist does in the novel with Berger. He died an untimely death in 2004 and his manuscripts were then published. There are two sequels to this book-- The Girl Who Played with Fire, and The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest.

Adventures in Babysitting

2010-09-04T15:38:00.003-05:00

I don't allow myself to indulge in the fantasy of what my life would be like if my parents were self-sufficient. They are not self-sufficient. They rely on me too much. And, in spite of myself, I feel the sting of wondering what it would be like to have the roles in the correct order. But, I've come to really understand myself in that I get a great sense of peace from realism. Some people need to remain hopelessly optimistic in order to function. They paint my view of the world as "negative." I don't consider it negativity; Instead of hoping for a Utopia, I chose to fit into the world just as it is. This means accepting people's true nature instead of unfairly holding them up to expectations that I conjure. It is for that reason that the following story made me laugh instead of cry.

One day this past week Sue and I decided to go out to lunch, but before our plans could materialize, my mom called me and said, "April, I am broken down on the side of the road." That morning, my parents woke before me which is unusual and I learned that my mom was going to the doctor and my dad was going to start working again. I drive my mom's car which she gladly released control of in favor of me making her car payments which are at an interest rate that would make Shilock blush. Therefore, my mom was going to drop my dad off at his office with his car so she could go to her doctor appointment. My dad was without a car at his office in Inverness, and my mom was on the side of the rode. Therefore, I was her only hope. Upon picking her up I told her I need to get gas because I had ridden 30 miles with the gaslight on. Always twitching to fulfill her own needs, she said, "No no no. Take me to Mack's Garage so I can tell them where the car is." I said, "I want to get gas here though because its cheaper." "No, come on now." I pulled into the Garage and my mom spoke some words to the owner. I had already passed my gas station so then I knew I would have to get the more expensive gas down the road, on my way to the house to drop off my mom. Upon re-entering my car, my mom, breathing heavily said, "Okay, now I need to go to the pharmacy." This was too much for my temper to grapple with and I belted out, "NO I am not taking you to the pharmacy. SOME PEOPLE have to work!" Hurt, she said, "Oookaay. Sorry." I pulled into another gas station and paid more for my gas.

Then I took my mom home, eager to return to work and be relinquished from further responsibility. Upon pulling into the drive-way, my mom, who had been on the phone with my dad, said to him, "Omigod. BJ did you give me the house key?" This is another strange disposition my family has which is to never have enough house keys for each member of the family. Perhaps, once every decade, we make enough for everyone, only to have my mom or dad lose their's within weeks. They then demand the extras, or mine, to replace their lost keys and they never replenish the stock. At that point in time, we had two house keys. My parents shared one and I had one, which was sitting in a purse I had used the day before, on the floor in my bedroom, locked in the house. Realizing what was going on, I just sighed heavily pictured my mom, sitting in the heat on the front porch of the house, counting down the hours until I, with the only operating car, picked my dad up from work at 7 pm. I could then here my dad screaming into the phone, "Phyllis. Don't break the window [to get into the house]-- DON'T BREAK THE GOD-DAMNED WINDOW!!!" As I noted, we never have enough keys to the house, so my mom has on over 20 occasions, broken the small window on the back door and stuck her hand inside to let herself in. Last time she did it, my parents used a piece of card board to replace the broken window which only encouraged negligent key forgetting because my mom always knew she could push open the card board to let herself in without anyone being the wiser. Finally accepting the fact that this was going to take longer than my one hour lunch break, I called the receptionist at work to notify her that this was going to take a lot longer than I anticipated. My mom then climbed up the stairs to the front porch and said, "Go on. I'll be alright." "Get in," I said, laughing. "I'll take you to Daddy's to get the key." "Okay," she said, not wanting to show gratitude yet because my dad yelled at her, "I have to go to the bathroom." At this, I laughed openly because then I really did feel like a babysitter. Upon learning that we were coming to get the key, my dad then felt he should also take advantage of this courier service and he called to ask me if I would deposit a check my mom had in her purse into his bank account before we came, which I obliged. I then took my mom to Chick-fil-A where I let her go to the restroom and pick out a lunch treat, on me. We then drove "the back-way" to my dad's office which took almost 45 minutes.

Once I reached my dad's office he gave me our only remaining, non-locked up, house key. Seeing the end in sight to this horrible day, my spirits rose and we finally made it back to my house at 2:30. As we turned onto our street I heard a "clink-clank" noise and I knew my mom, who had been strangely holding the key in her fingertips, had let the key slip out of her hands. She does an un-godly number of time. She is constantly dropping the tv changer, which makes a loud clank on our hardwood floors and it really gets on my nerves because, I am in control of my own faculties and I expect the same from others. I chose not to start grabbing around for the key because we were almost home and I knew we would get it once we pulled in. One hour later, my mom and I are sitting in the driveway, me covered in dirt, and my mom's hand in little blood filled scratches. We could not find the key which she dropped in between the car seat and the console of my car. Under no circumstances was this key going to emerge. I felt frustrated that my car was little Bermuda triangle and that it could claim tiny items I cherish and I could do nothing about it. I pulled a ladder to my bedroom window because I am the only person foolish enough to leave it open, but I couldn't overcome my fear of climbing the ladder. As I wobbled down the ladder, my mom was waiting for me with open arms to say, "There, there, you don't have to climb the ladder. You might hurt yourself," she said as I nodded in agreement. Her kindness spurned a new thought and I came down the ladder with the determination to pull off a little sting operation on my dad.

I called work and notified them what had happened and that I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone. I then told my mom to break the window she was so vehemently instructed not to break. In the meantime, I was to distract the dogs who were going crazy with fear and excitement that we had been outside for one hour without coming inside. I was worried the dogs, excited to see my mom in the window, would crowd around as she broke the glass and they would be peppered with tiny little shards of glass. So I knocked on the front door and struggled with the front door like an intruder so they would be distracted from my mom. This plan worked and my mom let me inside where we hurried to clean up the glass mess. I grabbed my key which was in my bedroom and we hurried to Ace Hardware where we could get a piece of glass cut and several copies of the keys made before they closed at 5pm. Luckily, my measurements were perfect and we came home to glue the glass into the window with Elmer's wood glue. We then hid the remaining evidence and rested until it was time to get my dad from work. Now, the only fear I have is if our shoddly installed window comes crashing to the ground after a sturn slamming by my dad. However, if it does, we will just say, "Dad, you ought to be more careful."

After picking my dad up we went to Cracker Barrel to eat dinner and we had several laughs. We made it home at 9pm and I felt like we bonded in some way. My mom and me, by pulling a sting on my dad, and my dad and me by shaking our heads in frustration at my mom.

Antoine Dodson-- Street Justice

2010-08-30T11:21:00.001-05:00

Antoine Dodson, is the brother of an attempted rape victim in Huntsville. This is from a real news cast and has since been re-mixed into one of the greatest songs of all time.

"Hide yo husbendz too cause-- they rapin' everbody up in here..."

The Castle Doctrine

2010-08-27T13:44:00.004-05:00

When I lived in Jackson with my roommate Mo, I went through a strange lazy period of not locking our doors. I just found it so convenient to not have to fumble with keys or even remember keys and with unfounded confidence, I just knew no one would ever break into our house. My roommate did not appreciate my carelessness, but she never mentioned it as we both found it best to engage in passive-aggressive behavior lest we have an awkward confrontation. One night, the same as any other, I retired to my room with my puppy Henry and Mo retired to her own room. The next morning I awoke rested and prepared to face the school day. As I passed the couch in the den, I noticed a dirty fork was laying on the floor. I thought this was Mo's because we were both incredibly messy at the time and I knew it wasn't mine. I scoffed at the fork and refused to pick it up. A battle of the wills. A week or so later, the fork was still there and Mo and I ran into each other at the bar. She and I hadn't been spending much time together because our schedules were so different and I was attempting to work during this law school semester. She then casually mentioned the following, "You know we had an intruder the other night, don't you?" I confessed I did not and she told me the following story:

The night in question, Henry and I had retired to my room and Mo to her's. Mo woke up in the middle of the night and had to use the bathroom which was across the hall. When she passed by the den she noticed a person laying on the couch. She said she thought that I had offered up our home as a resting spot because we sometimes would do that but since I hadn't been going out much lately, it dawned on her that this was likely no friend of mine. She inched closer and she saw that he had an empty container of macaroni salad on top of his torso which rose and fell with his belabored breathing. She then went to her room and called her boyfriend who was out at the bars, who then told an off-duty cop who was out at the bars, who then called the police to come and shew away this intruder. In the meantime, she decided to wake the intruder. He was a young white guy who was wearing normal looking clothes. "Who are you?" she asked. Startled, the guy said, "Huh?" and a big whiff of alcohol erupted from his breath. "Get out of here!!" she told him. Now struggling to sit up, he asked, "Is this April's house?" Mo, taken aback, looked in the direction of my room and wondered why I hadn't woken up. "You're looking for April?" she asked, immediately regretting getting the police involved. Through garbled slurs, she heard him say, "yea April Baker said I could sleep here tonight." "Get out of here! You have the wrong house!" As he stumbled away, Mo said she kind of felt sorry for him because he was so visibly drunk and he could have likely been hit by a car. After that, the police arrived, got a description from Mo and confirmed that they had just picked this guy up stumbling down the street. The found contraband in his pockets and he was going to go sleep it off in the county jail. Mo was irrationally annoyed that this was my fault for being named April and was rationally annoyed that I had left the front door open and even more annoyed that I slept through the entire episode.

I never saw this dude, nor did I witness any of these events, but I've laughed at this so many times that I can literally see it as if I was watching the whole time. The dude, likely an Ole Miss student, had been partying it up at Old Venice, a bar relatively close by where people go to look snobby. He, having had too much to drink, called his friend April to see if she minded if he slept over at her house. She was already out herself but she told him to just walk over there and there would be a key under the mat. Worn out from the walk, every step seeming like an eternity, he coached himself the entire way. "Come on ass hole, just put one foot in front of the other... Was that a gunshot? Ahhh!!! [now running up our driveway, opening the door with ease and slamming it behind him]." You see, for some reason, our neighborhood sounded constantly of gunshots. There was no mistaking the sound. I had rationalized that one of our neighbors had guns and enjoyed shooting them in the veil of darkness because it happened rather regularly. He confused our house with another rental that was two houses down and similar in appearance. Having the munchies, he helped himself to our refrigerator where he only found capri suns and macaroni salad. On the refrigerator he confirmed he was at the right house where he saw monogrammed stationary with "April," embossed on top. After attempting to stab the capri sun with no luck, ["Damn you Fortuna!" he thought] he helped himself to the macaroni salad, but needed a fork. He found one and collapsed on the couch, macaroni salad and fork spilling everywhere. The next thing he knew, he was being confronted by an angry woman demanding he leave. Stumbling away, he found a gutter outside our house that wasn't so bad to lay in once you got settled in. Then, just as he was about to doze, the police pulled in behind him and started harassing him. "Have you been drinking tonight boy? Have you been breaking in to little girls house's? Huh? Whatcha got there in your pockets boy? Un huh... just as I suspected-- weed. Alright you're coming with me." What a night for that fellow.

The day after Mo told me about it she and I were sitting on the couch when I noticed the fork, which by this time had become tangled in the fibers of the carpet. "LOOK!," I yelled, "that's probably the fork he used!" "Ewwww" we both said and laughed. The fork stayed there longer than I would like to admit and I don't even remember who picked it up. I was never again so cavalier with my home safety.

The above pic is of our friend Ben, Mo, and me.

Putcho Hands Up

2010-08-23T13:45:00.003-05:00

Well, blog followers, I am single.

Team Building Exercise Gone Wrong: Part 2 of 2

2010-08-18T09:44:00.003-05:00

As we both came to the epiphany that the new runner was the source of the leak, I was not surprised but my accomplice was shocked. As she went upstairs to ask him what happened, I sat at my desk and pondered how this took place. I predicted that as he climbed the stairs, teetering on disaster as he could not see over the six boxes of cupcakes he had stacked in his arms, that he grew anxious at the sight of the senior partner who was waiting at the head of the stairs. You see, on his third week at this job, the new boy was sent to retrieve the Jared Special for one of the senior partners, and Chick-Fil-A for another. Having given him simple directions consisting of a single right turn and a single left turn, I was surprised when he called me asking if the Chick-Fil-A was in Southside. "No," I explained. The senior partner who wanted the Chick-Fil-A called me to ask what happened to his lunch. "He got lost," I explained. Upon entering the office with a sack of Chick-Fil-A and a sack of Quiznos, the new runner was startled beyond words when the senior partner requesting the Chick-Fil-A greeted him at the top of the stairs, his voice echoing in the hollow chambers of the atrium, "WHERE. Have. YOU. Been?" Having heard that tone many times myself, I knew that the worst thing you could possibly do is to show fear or annoyance. I also, couldn't quit grinning. Sometimes I smile inappropriately, like that train wreck "Teflon Tim" from American Idol this past year. He smiled as the judges derailed his sad little attempt at show business and they called into question his sanity. I, like others, smile inappropriately. So, as he confronted with this question, the new runner turned to me for solace. Seeing a morbid little grin on my face, he realized he, like a little lamb before a lion, was going to be prey. His response, however, startled me. Not addressing the lateness of the food, he simply deflected the question by raising the sack of Chick-Fil-A, pointing to it like he was instructed a child, and said in a sarcastic tone, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, "Uh, I was getting your salad." My eyes were bulging at this point and the sr partner was thrown off his game. Before he could reply the new runner then added, "and the Subway was closed." This distraction worked as the sr partner said, "What?! Closed?! What happened." "I don't know," he said, still in the exasperated "duh"-like tone, "I just went by there and it was closed." The sr partner then made me laugh out loud when he said like a drill sargent, "What's the matter with you? You having a bad day or something?" Mistaking his question for one filled with sincerity, the new runner then relaxed a little and started to unload his troubles to the sr partner, "(deeply exhaling) Well, yea... I'm tired." Now walking up the stairs with his bounty, the sr partner responded, "tired? [pause] ha!"

Now the new runner was walking up the stairs with late cupcakes and the same sr partner was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. Remembering that deflection and distraction worked last time, he threw out the jewel of information that we had unloaded a box of cupcakes for the downstairs staff members. Feeling as though he had dodged a bullet, he was startled when there were three women who wanted an explanation for his tattling. The first was the accomplice. She asked him, "Why did you tell on us?" gave him a stare, and left him to think about what he had done. The second woman, called him and asked him why he would mention our names in association with such thievery. The third woman (me), then sauntered up the stairs to the mail room. As soon as I opened the door, he pushed his chair away from the computer, raised his hands in disbelief and said, "UHH Apparently, everyone in the office hates me!" Again, the inappropriate smile crept across my face and I couldn't help but laugh. At this point, I was concerned that he may have actually been an innocent party so I asked him, "what happened exactly." He responded, "Well, I came up the stairs and they said 'were'd you come from? You must have come in the side entrance.' And I said, "Yea, [receptionist name] and them were waiting for me and they grabbed them a box..." Now confirming his own guilt I started to laugh and said, "[new runner] why did you say that hahaha?" His hands were now on his head and he said, "I don't know I don't know!" Seeing that his coping skills have diminished, I made sure he knew this was not a big deal and everyone is just messing with him. He only half-believed me though. So, in what was supposed to be a motivational cupcake binge, we only really experienced a hyperbolic display of our innermost "survival of the fittest" instinct. It is a dog eat dog world, right?

Products I Am Excited To Waste My Money Buying!

2010-08-12T08:40:00.003-05:00

Behold-- the greatest invention ever to grace the earth-- the clear toaster! I discovered this product while reading product reviews in some technology magazine. The heading of the article was, "The Biggest Wastes of Money in 2009." The domestic whiz's at some technology magazine really have a handle on what is needed in the kitchen-- I think not. Their reasoning behind it's wastefulness is the mistaken presumption that the only purpose for a clear toaster is for entertainment value. Having nothing else to be doing on a busy morning, women can finally just stare at the toaster to watch the magical process of soft bread forming into a crunchy delicacy. No. This toaster is a gift because you no longer have to waste bagels, waffles and toast that the toaster has charred a little too long. You can observe the process to know just the right time to take it out. You can stop pressing the lever down and checking it every few seconds. You can have perfect toast. This Magimix toaster retails for $299 and it sold at stores such as Williams-Sonoma.

A Product Review: Primer by Carmindy for Sallie Hansen

2010-08-12T08:11:00.004-05:00

** Warning** Do not read if you do not wear make-up. This may seriously be the most boring blog post I have ever written, but I don't care! It's my blog and I can blog if I want to.

A few years ago I started to wear primer under my make-up. This began as I watched my best friend Anna Belle get her make-up done for her wedding. The make-up artist used primer and extolled it's benefits. I went back to Jackson and I saw some primer at the drugstore made by Sallie Hansen, called "Primer, make-up by Carmindy." Carmindy is the make-up artist on the TLC program, "What Not To Wear" and she has teamed up with Sallie Hansen for her own line of products. Sallie Hansen is about as valued on the quality scale as Wet 'N Wild make-up, but I bought the primer because having had the seed of need planted in my mind on Anna Belle's wedding day, I had to know what it was like. After using this primer, I have never gone a day without using primer under my make-up. I put it on immediately after putting on face lotion and before putting on base. It smooths the skin and absorbs evenly so that when you put your base on, it is an even swipe. You have to exert little, to no effort blending and it gives a nice air brushed look. Supposedly, it also helps to make your make-up last longer, although I have seen no evidence of it myself. The little bottle was only $9 and ounce. After using that particular brand, I thought that if the worst brand possible made a good primer, there's no telling what I was missing from the expensive brands. Hence, I used the world's most popular primer "Smashbox Photo Finish primer" up until I lost my job last year. It was $38 for one ounce and it needed two pumps to get a satisfyingly smooth finish. Unable to afford $38 every three months, I tried to find my Sallie Hansen primer but to no avail. I saw that Revlon was making a primer now and I tried it only to find it gloopy and had no smoothing powers. I then turned to the 2nd most popular primer in the world-- "Prime Time" by Bare Essentials. My mother is a mineral make-up convert and like every fanatic in the world, she can see no other way but her way. She had some of this primer as a part of the set she ordered from an infomercial and I stole it. This product retails for $18 and while it is not as dense as the Smashbox version, it lasts longer and it is a better value for your money and it made me forget all about Sallie Hansen. I was a convert until last week I spotted my old love nestled between the nail polishes in Rite Aid. There, with only 2 bottles in stock, stood my old primer, by Carmindy. Having used it every day since then, I feel like shouting from the roof-tops about what a good deal this is and how it is better than the world's most popular-- Smashbox Photo Finish and better than its runner-up, Prime Time.

Revlon, Age Defying Primer: * don't waste your money on this garbage. Go back to the lab Revlon.

Bare Essentials, Prime Time: *** good value for the money. Quality is good and it is all natural supposedly.

Smashbox, Photo Finish Primer:**** the world's most popular for a reason, it is dense and lends to a smooth finish. It is also over-priced and you need more than you do with other brands.

Carmindy, for Sallie Hansen Primer: ***** the best results, even without considering price. They definitely cut corners with the packaging as the pump stops working while there's still plenty of product left, but that can be remedied by using a q-tip.

Team Building Gone Wrong, Part 1 of 2

2010-08-01T23:04:00.003-05:00

Sometimes work places are in need of a good morale building and congeniality exercise to help them through the work week. Perhaps its a big deadline or a change in the rules that makes a workplace seethe with anxiety and distress, but it happens anywhere you work. Some people are oblivious to the needs of a workplace, and they poke their heads out from their office to ask, "What's the big commotion?" Other people seem to have their pulse on the needs of the workplace. Like a bunch of hormonal roommates all who have their menstruation cycles in sync, our workplace is one that you can literally wring the collective moods of your co-workers from your clothes. Everyone is cranky at the same time as it remains unspoken that you should sit at your desk and remain quiet. Everyone is gleeful at the same time and it is like a fairy has been skipping through the halls sprinkling glitter and sugar plums in her path. Everyone is overworked at the same time as the sound of intermittent sighs fill the usually library-like quiet of the place.

At my old job in Jackson, we worked on government contracts for the State of Mississippi. The contract between my company and the state had a provision that stated that we would not get paid if a certain deadline was not met. My company and the state agency in charge of the contract came to butt heads late in the contract about some trivial matter and as punishment the state threatened to not pay out the terms of the contract unless all applicants (the victims of Hurricane Katrina who applied for a grant to rebuild their homes) were approved or unapproved by the deadline. This was an impossible task because by that time we had thousands of applicants who were in limbo while trying to get their property ownership in order to gain approval. This left us the tough choice of telling applicants they could not be approved without affording them the opportunity to correct or remedy any information that was in the way of their approval. Equipped with the power of an "us against them" mentality, we all went to work like it was our job. Sixty to seventy hour work weeks were the norm for several months. People tearing up for no reason became commonplace. They were not normal working conditions by far. Young work horses from Bethesda were shipped in and out on two week terms to help us reach our goals. To keep our spirits high, our boss sent some of the Bethesda workers to Sonic to get one hundred milkshakes of all flavors for us. At the beginning of the line I was one of the first to get one and by the time I drank it up I made it to the back of the line to get another. It kept us going and made us feel like we each had a gold star on our shirts. The night before the state's deadline, we completed our end of the bargain by approving over 60% of the remaining applicants and sending letters of unapproval to the ones who didn't have all of their information in on time. The next day we were told to go downstairs to the cafeteria at 3pm. I was the first person who made it down the stairs and around the corner and what I saw made me gasp and say, "NO!!!???" There, our boss and our crazy un-hinged Vietnam vet mail guy were standing in front of a keg and a table lined with boxed wine and pre-made mixed drinks. I then said a quick prayer of thanks, closed my eyes, made a fist and pulled it in toward my side and said, "yeeesss!" We all celebrated and it was just the sort of "thanks" we needed. It was such a fond memory until a disgruntled former employee caught wind and told the state that we were drinking on state property and on state time while we should have been helping the victims of Hurricane Katrina (our contract purpose). The state then decided that we didn't fulfill our contract obligations after all and they still held out on paying the company millions of dollars on the contract. On that day, I saw my boss, a grown man, cry. This deadline came to mean nothing because, as predicted by our legal department, a well-known civil rights law firm threatened to sue the state agency for not allowing all of the applicants the same opportunity to remedy their property ownership. We then had to send letters telling them, "I've know you've already been through the worst time in your life and we just gave you terrible news that you were not approved for a grant, but we were just kidding!!! You still have time to remedy the situation! Haha! Lighten Up!" That's how the government induces team-building exercises.

On the private sector, at my current job one co-worker who seems to have this place figured out decided, with the permission of our boss, to get cupcakes for everyone from DreamCakes in Homewood. The occasion was-- just because-- as in, just because we made it to Wednesday. What should have been a team-building exercise quickly became an exercise in self-indulgence as one sr partner hovered over the stair case to have his pick at the spoils. Fearing for our own needs, we cut off the new runner at the door so we could assure that those who could not make it up the stairs to the break room [the receptionist who must manage the phones at all costs (ask about the catheter we had installed), the elderly (the last named partner), the crippled (the payroll guy who has a bum leg like Tiny Tim), the over worked (one junior partner who couldn't even look up from his desk if the fire alarm exploded, much less if cupcakes were in the office), and the entitled (me and my sidekick)] so we would get a cupcake before they had been picked and licked. The new runner, who had gotten lost on his way to this cupcake emporium, was sweating bullets as I helped him carry the boxes inside. I told him, "Everyone is waiting for you," meaning that everyone is anxiously awaiting the cupcakes. He, as usual, interpreted this to mean, "Everyone is waiting on you and they said if you were one minute late we were gonna have to line you up out back and shoot you like a lame dog." "Really?" he said, fear lurking in his eyes. I quickly retracted to explain that, "No you are not in trouble; I meant the cupcakes, not you." But, as usual he wasn't listening to me as I could see the fear creep over his entire face. Not able to waste time consoling him, I saw the receptionist beckon me from the depths of a hidden staircase and I grabbed a box of cupcakes and ran over to the corner for my other culprits to make their selections. It was as if I had found the golden ticket in Willy Wonka: "I've got it Gran-pa Joe! I got it I got a Golden Ticket!" We then broke into song singing, "I've got a golden tickettttt...." while holding hands and dancing in circles like woodland fairies. While we were celebrating our team-building exercise gone wrong, the new runner was having the following conversation:

Coworkers: Where did you come from? You must have come in the side entrance! [suspicion arousing for his unusual pathway]

New Runner: Well, [Receptionist's name] and them were waiting on me and they got them a box and--

Coworker: They kept a whole box to themselves?

While this was taking place, I ate my cupcake in a corner, facing the wall so no one would see me. Chunks of thick frosting, the consistency of ice cream, fell to the ground and my jaw popped trying to squeeze a bite in my mouth that contained both frosting and cake. After we ate our cupcake in shame, we returned to the box of cupcakes and realized we had taken too many for us alone. Still high from the sugar of our cupcake we then spent the next few minutes deciding who should get the remaining three cupcakes: it came down to the cripple, the elderly, and the overworked. This was no longer a team-building exercise but an exercise in personal indulgence as we were preparing to deliver these goods to our selected beneficiaries and saying, "look what we got for you..." but we were then caught red-handed as the co-worker in charge of the team-building came downstairs to reclaim the stolen goods. "But we had to get one for [the cripple]. But we had to get one for [the over-worked]... But we were only thinking of the elderly..." we claimed. Now coming down from the sugar high, and feeling heavy from he 1/2 pound brick of a cupcake, we sat and pondered the source of the leaked information. Simultaneously, we looked up and said, "[the new runner]." To be continued...

Mole Holes

2010-07-29T13:48:00.002-05:00

I sound like a broken record, but I am the moliest person in the world. There are 23 on my face, 28 on my left arm, 31 on my right arm; 14 on my tummy, and countless others. A few weeks ago I went to the dermatologist to have her slice and dice me for signs of the skin cancer. The last time I went to this dermatologist's office was in 2005 and she and her band of thug nurses cornered me in a circle of shame for my tanning transgressions. She let me go in exchange for my assurance that I would never enter the tanning beds again and I would apply sunscreen under my make-up every morning. She then offered her unsolicited advice about skin care. I left feeling shamed and I haven't returned until a few weeks ago. I was certain that I had the skin cancer because it was just something to burden my moments of carefree thinking. I made an appointment with the doctor's newest protege because she was the first available appointment and because that is who discovered my dad's skin cancer (not melanoma fyi). Having given up the tanning beds from the emergence of a dozen or so moles on my tummy, chest and face, I felt prepared to handle the peppering of questions regarding my current skin-care habits. Once in the examining room I awkwardly positioned myself under a paper towel-like cloth and waited for the doctor. I expected her to see me and gasp at my chocolate chip bod, but instead, this young protege in comparison to her fiercely dominant mentor, was timid. Rather than say, "April! Why in God's name have you not been to see us in five years!" She simply asked, "what brings you in today?" Not really believing I had to explain this, I said, "I have moles I need to get checked out."

Sounding like Prissy from Gone With the Wind, she said, "Oh. Ok. Let's see,"while opening my file. "It looks like we've removed quite a few in the past; hmm okay let's take a look." I pointed to her the ones I was concerned with and to my dismay, she argued with me about their danger. "Well, it looks like its the same in color as all of these others... Well, it's not abnormally shaped..." She then asked this mind bending riddle, "Have you ever been to one of those tanning beds?" Having my statement prepared from the last verbal beating I endured, I quickly said, "Yes, but I have since stopped visiting tanning beds and I now practice healthy skin care habits. You treat my father B.J. Walker for Basal Cell Carcinoma and I am now a health disciple of sun hating. In fact, all of these on my tummy appeared when I was going to the tanning bed regularly." She looked as if she was pondering something and said, "Hmm, I've heard that from other people before." After the negotiating of mole removals wrapped up, we had decided on one I demanded to be removed on my tummy, and two others that I was indifferent towards but had caught her eye.

As she prepared for their removal, she injected each spot with numbing liquid and I suddenly noticed that my nostrils were obstructed by something. As I flared them to get more oxygen, I fully formed the thought in my head-- "I'm not breathing"-- and I knew it was all over. Sitting there as she scraped away the one on my tummy, I tried to get a grip on myself. In an effort to justify my sudden anxiety, I snuck a glimpse and saw the tiniest bit of blood. The sight of the blood was enough to burden my already belabored breathing and the following thoughts went through my head, "You're not breathing. Are you seriously not breathing? [now getting nauseated and faint] I can't believe this is actually happening. Please don't pass out. Oh I don't feel so good." The next thing I remember is the nurse wiping my forehead with cool rags fashioned from the brown paper towels from the bathroom. The doctor was perplexed but she tried to make me not feel like such a freak by saying, "Sometimes, this happens, I guess... Especially when we're doing... a big procedure..." She wanted to say "like this" but she caught herself and realized that this was no big procedure. I laid down for the remaining removals and left the dermatologist's office in shame for my mental and physical breakdown. As I walked to my car, my breakdown weighed heavily on my mind. Moments like that make me feel helpless in the world. I don't like to rely on people; I don't like to ask others for help, but in that situation, I had to submit to the help of others and I couldn't help but wonder if that had happened in the grocery store, what sweaty beast of a man would have been patting my forehead with a soaked paper grocery sacked, ripped into shreds and folded to fit on my face? I consoled myself with the knowledge that I quickly rebounded from the incident and like a narcoleptic, I could just fade in out of consciousness without skipping a beat or missing anything.

One week later the nurse called to tell my the biopsy on my moles showed no evidence of cancer, but I am still a disciple of sun-hate.

Movie Reviews

2010-07-26T14:30:00.003-05:00

I've grown tired of writing movie reviews because I feel like I am constantly repeating myself. But, I can't just sit here with un-reviewed movies in my mind. So, here is a condensed version of some movies I have seen in the theaters and on DVD lately:

Get Him to the Greek: ***** out of five stars. Oh yes a five star review. Blame this on my crush on Russell Brand. He is such a convincing character and he adds intelligent insights to his roles, especially this one. In Get Him to the Greek, he plays a washed up British rock and roll star-- kind of mix between Liam Gallagher and Pete Doreghty-- who finds himself being escorted to the Greek theatre by a stiff record company button man, for a ten year anniversary concert that marked the beginning of his success as a musician. As a kid, I really loved rock music and I found myself idolizing those front men with the unsavory reputations and habits. Watching this movie, I re-connected to that feeling of giddy-adulation competing with disgust and moral indignation. In short, I felt like a kid who had Beatle mania when I was watching this movie. Sitting on my feet in the movie theater I found myself goggling at him during his Today Show performance and batting my eyes at him when he showed any sign of humanity and kindness while thinking, "He's just so misunderstood...he really is a nice guy under that hard partying, man whoring, heroin addicting shell..." hahahaha. The above pic is of my love.

Robin Hood: **** out of five stars. I was disappointed by the reviews of this film which complained that there was "no joy" in Ridley Scott's version of this timeless tale. Ridley Scott doesn't make "joyful" movies. He makes over-the-top period dramas and I love him for what he does. The movie has a unique perspective on the tale-- it begins with the loveable King Richard the Lion-hearted who dies heir-less during his costly Crusades. Behind the scenes, the last surviving brother to Richard is the runt of the litter, Prince (now King) John. In what I later confirmed to be a true story on Wikipedia, Prince John has an affair with the niece of the King of France and he kidnaps her to be his wife. She obliges and becomes instrumental in King John's decisions as a King. We also get to see the factors leading to the over-taxation of England's feudal class. The Crusades cost a fortune, and the treasury was wiped-out when the then King Richard was kidnapped and ransomed. The only resolution was to tax, which opened the door for a figure like Robin Hood to become a champion of the people. One complaint of this movie that does ring true for me is that Russell Crowe was too old to play Robin Hood and Cate Blanchett was too old to play Maid Marian. Sienna Miller was supposed to have had the role and she would have been breath of fresh air. Plus, in the middle ages life expectancy was 40. Crowe and Blanchett would have been the oldest people in the village!

Bruno: ** out of five stars. I get really sick of crude humor, because of the crudeness, but mostly because if you are offended, you are the butt of the joke. The trick with my generation is to never get offended and you will show your wordliness. Well, call me a hillbilly because I was offended. I would find myself trying to recover from graphic scenes and thus not able to enjoy the parts that I would have found hilarious. For example, I cannot quit saying the following italicized quotes:

(while training to become an army private at Fort Bragg)

Army Officer: WHAT'S THAT ON YOUR BELT?! WE DIDN'T TELL YOU TO WEAR THAT!

Bruno: It's D&G

Army Officer: WHAT?!!!

Bruno: Dolce and Gabanna Halloooo?

(while facilitating peace talks between a Palestinian and Jew)

Bruno: I don't understand why everyone is against Hammas, when Pita Bread is 'ze real enemy

(while trying to act heterosexual around some red-necks)

Bruno: Do you prefer 'ze mammory glands or the va-geen?

(After being shunned from Austrian television)

Bruno: And so, I left, as the second Austrian in the past century who was persecuted from trying something different.

A Scanner Darkly: *** out of five stars. This movie, made in '06 is a science fiction thriller starring Keanu Reeves, Winona Ryder, Robert Downey Jr., and Woody Harrelson. A mysterious new drug is flooding Orange County and its street name is "Substance D." Substance D is highly addictive and the users can't quit as it causes permanent brain damage. "Thriller" is a term I use with reservation because the movie consisted of mostly drug induced conversations centering around paranoia and delusion. *** spoiler alert*** because I am sure no one will see this movie, I will divulge the plot twist is that Substance D is manufactured by a company who is in the business of rehabilitating the users of Substance D. Suffering from brain damage because of excessive use, the rehab patients are actually used to farm the product from poppy-like flowers. It is a conspiracy theory movie for all of those drug victims in the world to latch onto. The movie was written as a metaphor for the director's own experiences and loss of loved ones due to drug addiction.

Pandorum: ** This movie is Sci-Fi garbage and really quite scary. When I took a bathroom break from this movie, Chris hid in a closet and startled me as I was coming out of the bathroom. I was so scared that I actually screamed, hit the floor, and curled into fetal position. He felt bad.

Moon:**** See this movie. You won't regret it. Sam Rockwell plays a scientist who is stationed on a space station for a three-year gig to harvest energy from the moon. He is all alone except for his faithful robot friend Gordy. His three-year contract is set to expire but strange things start to happen. I'll leave the plot summary at that. Sam Rockwell is the only actor in this movie, save except Kevin Spacey who lends his voice to Gordy, and he is an excellent actor. He plays the character with conviction so that you can really appreciate the dimensions of the character and the toll that isolation has on someone.

Eclipse** out of five stars. Why can't I quit hating on these movies? They are so bad and I think I am disappointed that no director can sufficiently capture all of the subtleties in this book series. Talking to my friend Selena, with both decided that we like these books so much because the writer really taps into what it feels like when you first start dating boys in high school. The part where they drive to school together for the first time, sitting by each other in the lunch room, and doing all sorts of little public declarations of love which, for an inexperienced young girl, can seem all too good to be true and yet unnerving as you know that publicly, you can fall just as hard as you came up.

The Passion of Mel

2010-07-26T12:57:00.004-05:00

Well, well, well... What has happened to our old movie star Mel Gibson? He has really drifted into the world of never-never land and is probably being recruited right now by Fox News for a prime-time talk show. Just a few years ago, Gibson was a champion of conservative Christianity for his slightly tilted depiction of the Crucifixion via his movie, "The Passion." He then went on a racist rant where he called a police officer "sweet tits" and blamed the Jewish monopoly of Hollywood for all of his troubles. He was still defended and we watched a resurrection of his career. Then he divorced his wife and moved in with his mistress who gave birth to their daughter. Okay. Not so moral after-all but everyone makes mistakes, right? THEN these tapes are released showing a man who is unhinged, racist, and a big fat bully. But given his previous dallying into anti-semantism, racism, and sexism, we can't really feign surprise.

Before we all hate on his woman Oksana for recording their private phone conversations, I would like to say a few words in her defense. First, who would believe her if she hadn't recorded them? "Um, did you say Mel Gibson told you that you were dressed like a whore and you deserve to get raped by a group of black men? Um... do you have any proof of this?" Well played Oksana. Furthermore, I would not take too much value in Mel's ex-wife's comments that she stands behind Mel and he wouldn't be capable of such abuse. The ex-wife has a vested interest in the preservation of Mel's acting career as he pays her child and spousal support. The emergence of the older, faithful ex-wife who stands by her man regardless of what he has done is a message in and of itself: Don't leave the mother of your six children for a younger woman. Second, if Oksana was actually a victim of abuse, and worse, her baby was a victim of abuse, she was acting in her and her child's best interest in recording these messages. Was it, however, moral to release those tapes to Access Hollywood? No, probably not. Sure, this girl is trouble, but I believe he weighed his options and decided that getting to sleep with and claim a young beautiful hottie was worth the trouble she may stir up for him. Reveal the secret of your strength and she will cut your hair in the middle of the night just like Delilah. Is Delilah to blame for this? Or is it Samson's weakness to blame?

Regardless, Mel, go back to Nazi Germany, and tell them that America is free!

Blog Anniversary

2010-07-21T09:31:00.004-05:00

Tomorrow will be my one year blog anniversary. Since making a chronicle of my life, I've found some solace in expressing my awkward tendencies and I've also found some comfort in venting my frustrations about my parents and the strange lifestyle they lead. In this one year's time, I've started a new job where I get an obscene amount of satisfaction from performing my duties well; I've met my buoy-fren who keeps me oh-so happy; my sister got engaged which has opened a door to the horrors of wedding planning; my dad has officially retired; I passed the bar; and, alas, I still live with my parents... Today, however, is a day for celebration.

So today, I will answer my most frequent blog questions:

Q: "April, do your parents read your blog?"

A: F*** no! If they read my blog, the blog as we know it, would not exist. They do know of the blog, but its contents, they are not concerned over. I have wondered if they have read it and decided not to let me know, but that would not be their style. My mom could never bite her tongue over some perceived injustice and she would immediately let me know that, "Sniff, sniff, I didn't know you felt that way." I justify their unflattering portrayal with the knowledge that, for me, the best coping mechanism I have is to write. I can sort out my thoughts and I can express myself far better than talking and in order for me to make it living with my parents, I need an outlet.

Q: "Do you worry that you might one day regret what you've written?"

A: I've sometimes written something that I feared I may one day regret, but I reasoned that in order to be honest with myself, I need to give my thoughts the integrity they deserve, so I won't water them down and I won't erase anything either. There is a great amount of freedom in being able to admit to yourself and to others your greatest worries and embarrassments. As for sharing a memory at the expense of others, I take solace in knowing that my blog has a limited audience, and furthermore, if someone objects to their portrayal, I feel confident I can respond by saying, "Well, that is what happened wasn't it?"

Q: "April, do the people at your work read your blog?"

A: Yes. And don't think for one second I haven't thought how to use this for evil. For example, casually writing about being extolled as one of the great legal minds of the 21st Century by my peers, or dropping hints that my mother's maiden name is Cardoza, or explaining how I was to be Rehnquist's clerk, but his untimely death spoiled my future plans. But, in the end, I found it best to write as if no one reads. I did sweat for a period of a few days over whether I should engage in a fine editing process over my previous posts (for example, the post titled "Fancy" where I talk about getting all "whored up" to take the bar) but, with the resolution of a boat captain on a sinking ship, I decided not to edit and let the posts stand as they are.

Q: "How do you determine what to write?"

A: If am writing about my parents, I just write one sentence and the rest of it comes out before I can even look up from what I am doing. Oh the power of oppressed feelings. If I am writing about some item from current events, I usually get inspired from reading the articles in the New York Times. If I write about some past event in my life, I usually experience a memory and then write it down as a reminder to flesh it out later.

Q: "Is everything totally accurate on your blog?"

A: No. I do not always fact check my wild accusations but I usually do have a source. As far as the dialog and memories, this was a subject that was often debated in my English classes at BSC. There are some writers who are of the thinking that if a writer is relating a memory, he should exclusively write about his exact memory and not take any sort of license when filling in the gaps. Others, feel that the important thing is to convey the feeling surrounding a particular moment as the writer remembers it. I agree with the latter. You should not be bound to sharing details that you can recite word-for-word and describe the scene with journalistic accuracy. The important thing is to communicate the idea; if you have to fill in some gray areas in order to do that then you should. Otherwise, our shared experiences would be severely limited.

That's is all for now. Carry on blog readers.

Go Ask Alice

2010-07-20T16:03:00.005-05:00

"--Gasp-- this elevator doesn't have it's certification posted!" I exclaimed to Chris as we stood in an elevator about to go 2 floors up. "Its against state law!" I said, hoping to bolster my concerns. Looking at me as if I had just licked the elevator wall, looked over to him and said, "you should try it. It tastes like pickles!" he said, "Hm, I've never noticed before," nervously dismissing my observation. He was nervous because the elevator we were on was the one in his office building and the 2 floors we were going up were to his office. This was the first time I had ever been to Chris's office and I could tell his instincts were telling him to not leave me unattended for fear that I would do something inappropriate. I sometimes get those looks from him. The looks that tell me, "April, I do care about you, and I think the world of you, but sometimes the things that come out of your mouth are wildly unpredictable at best." As the elevator made its way up, I could tell he was still ruminating and he mumbled, staring at the ground, "You...are the only person who would notice that." Although it was after 8 pm and we were just going to his office to quickly grab some flight information he forgot, I could tell he was afraid he would find me socializing with the janitorial staff, giving time my best Clayton Bigsby impersonation.

In my defense, the only reason I noticed the missing elevator certification is because I read them every time I am in an elevator. I read them every time I am in an elevator for two reasons: 1) I have a tick that makes my read whatever I see no matter how distracted I am or how many times I've read it before. Therefore, I know that this missing certification was in violation of Title 25-13-4 of the Alabama Code. Each certification lists the name of the Elevator inspector, sometimes one person, sometimes two. This brings me to my second reason 2) The elevator in the Social Sciences building at Birmingham-Southern was curiously inspected by the following two men: William Williamson and Danny Denny. Every time I set foot in that elevator I re-read those names hoping that some explanation for their absurdity would manifest in my mind. Instead, I determined that this was some sort of a joke, that no elevator in the world could have been inspected by two men whose first names hailed in origin from their surnames. The theories ran abound in my mind. Sometimes I believed that the certification was produced under duress and that the person simply came up with a name that was not very believable. Other times, I had the theory that Birmingham-Southern was to blame, thinking that perhaps the elevator was not up to code and the school didn't have the resources for its repair. They instead created a forgery and under the extreme pressure of violating state law, they came up with the first two names off the top of their head-- William...Williamson and, uh, Danny... Denny...Yes, that's right." My final theory was that the true elevator inspectors had been smoking weed the day they inspected the elevator in the Social Sciences building of BSC, and, as they sat in the confines of a small elevator, the euphoria really took over their common sense as they giggled about how funny it would be if those were their actual names. "Hehe --cough cough-- let's put that on the certificate-- let's sign it William Williamson and Danny Denny! hahahaha! --cough cough--"

Now, when ever I enter an elevator, my eyes immediately find the certification to see if our own Rosencratz and Guildenstern (William and Danny) have ever appeared together again for an inspection. No, they have not. The absence of these names only fuels my conspiracy theory. Like the little white rabbit in Alice in Wonderland, to find them would mean entry into another world...

*** An update, Danny Denny lives! He is the elevator inspector for one of the elevators at the Health Department! What was I doing at the health department, you ask? Getting tested for syphilis, what else? (God I am not brave enough not to qualify that last statement with, "just kidding.")

My Weekend... this may be boring to you

2010-07-08T10:54:00.004-05:00

Since you are all wondering, I had a great Fourth of July weekend. On Friday, we were able to leave work early so I made it to Chris's house in time to watch the World Cup game-- Ghana (those villains!) versus Uruguay. I never thought these words would form in my brain, but I can't wait until the next World Cup. I've learned with my gaining age and wisdom, to never underestimate anything that could possibly entertain me. However, life can also be long and boring, so be sure to find things to pacify yourself before you go insane. Soccer, I have learned, entertains me. Sure, it is trendy these days to denunciate television, movies, sports, mindless lawn games, mindless bar games, mindless video games, magazine reading, and so forth, because it attacks people's premise that "life is fleeting... make the most of your time on earth..." This is especially true, I believe, for recent college graduates who are finding the metamorphosis from college life to working life to be a drag. It is easy to think while you are in college, where your friends were at your fingertips and everyone had aligned goals, mindsets, and schedules, that life would always be this fun. In reality, you realize that you really aren't that special. You are not exempt from experiencing the same cycles that your parents and your older siblings go through of working, coming home, placating themselves on mindless entertainment, only to do it all over again. What I am trying to say is that in order to survive, you must make constant adjustments. One of the most important adjustments is to deflate your sense of importance and realize that life really is just about finding your little corner in the world, staking claim, working so that you can enjoy some time off, and trying to have the best little life you possibly can by reaching your full potential. Therefore, the simple joys of watching television, reading magazines, watching movies, following sports, and playing games should not be a shameful indulgence into zoning out or rotting your brain, but they should be celebrated as your way of making it through the week.

So, I have discovered that Soccer placates me, as I have also discovered the same thing about the NBA.

Friday night, Chris and I ate pizza and watched my favorite tv show, "The Soup" before heading out to throw a couple of drinks back. We went to a place atop the Redmont Hotel which is aptly called, "Above." There we looked out onto Birmingham's city scene of the courthouse and parking lots and the section 8 housing. All kidding aside, it was a fun bar and I really enjoyed the view and the music provided by two DJ's who play on a nightly basis. On Saturday morning, we went to a place that has a grammatical error in its name and makes my skin crawl to repeat: "The Egg and I." This grammatical error is an epidemic. When in doubt as to whether you should say, "April and I" or "April and me," remove the other person and see if the sentence stands alone without them. You would never say, "This is a picture of I on Easter," so you should never say, "This is a picture of April and I on Easter." The real source of my content with this error is that it is a result of high school English teachers beating it into students heads that only hillbillys ever use "me" after another person. Now people, trying to sound refined, use "I" after everything and it makes my skin crawl. That aside, The Egg and I is my new favorite breakfast spot and I recommend the breakfast quesadilla. Afterwards, I looked longingly in the direction of Hobby Lobby, and like a mind reader, Chris asked me if I wanted to go there. There, jacked up on an entire carafe of coffee, I constructed centerpieces for my sister's "Around the House" shower I am co-hosting. Afterwards, we watched more soccer.

I did not make a flag cake for the 4th of July. Instead, I made a death by chocolate trifle. This is because Chris and I went to his friend's Brian and Staci's for burgers and beer, and I asked if I could bring a sweet treat. Thinking that Staci would respond, "Sure bring whatever you want," I was confident a Flag Cake would make its way into my Fourth of July. Instead, Staci responded, "Yes something chocolatey," to which I obliged. The trifle was just made of Ghiradelli brownies with chocolate chunks, cook and serve chocolate pudding with instant espresso powder mixed in, and plain cool whip. Chris was my personal Don King for my dessert as he made everyone at their party eat some and then eyed them while he said, "I think this is the best dessert, don't you?" This is because I've become sensitive about my fleeting cooking skills. There was once a time when I could confidently cook anything in Martha Stewart's cook book collection, but now, after years of law school widdled down my culinary repertoire to rice-a-roni and zattarins, my latest cooking attempts for Chris have failed. This one, however, was a success and it didn't hurt that I had my boyfriend in my corner promoting its finer qualities. "It has such depth of flavor," he said.

On Monday, Independence Day Observed, we went to another couple's house, Kevin and Selena, where we sat in a baby pool and soaked in some rays. Their two year old boy lifted up my shirt to see if I had a belly button, they said, but I think he just wanted to see what I was working with before he decided to flirt or not. One day it won't be that simple little boy, as wonder bras have made this an encryption you can only decipher after a few dates. After pool time, we ate some delicious food while we watched a re-run of the Today Show where, another party goer, David, was featured on "The Today Show Throws a Concert" series as he is the drummer for R&B crooner Maxwell. He told stories from life on the road and we ate push-pops to conclude the meal and the Fourth of July celebrations. Next year, nothing will stop me in my mission to create the masterpiece of flag cake.

Mrs. O

2010-07-08T09:35:00.006-05:00

I just love First Lady Michelle Obama. She is pretty. She is smart. She is a lawyer. She is fit. She grows her own vegetables. She has her mother assist her in caring for her children rather than a nanny. She may or may not have failed the bar on her first attempt. And, most importantly to the credentials of a First Lady, she sure has an expansive wardrobe.

My friend Anna Belle got me interested in the website http://mrs-o.org/ which follows the day to day fashions of Michelle Obama as she executes her duties as First Lady. Most of her fashion choices are incredibly unusual for an American First Lady. I like unusual, plus I feel like her sleeve-less, bare-legged, ballet flat wearing designs give credence to my hopes that the working world is conforming to a more comfortable atmosphere for women's fashions. I too wear ballet flats every day of the week because I would have tears in my eyes, begging God for a quick death if I wore heels every day. For the same reason, I have forgone any pretense of putting cardigan sweaters over my sleeveless dresses because after walking to the Subway in the blazing heat, I found myself needing alone time in front of the air conditioner vents. Lucky for all women, gone are the days of the "Power Suit" wear women felt they needed to dress like a man to gain respect in the work place. Instead, the shoulder-padded suit has been replaced with a slimmer, more flattering design, and most work places allow a cardigan sweater in lieu of a suit if sleeveless is not permitted. However, while it is one thing for young lady upstarts in the working world to test the boundaries of appropriateness, it is another for the First Lady to do so. Some people are insulted by Mrs. Obama's fashion choices-- especially when she chose to pose for her official First Lady portrait wearing a sleeveless sheath dress. But, to quote Adam Sandler in my favorite childhood movie, Happy Gilmore: "Gold jacket, green jacket... who gives a shit."

Mrs. Obama's fashion choices, if unexpected, are at least exciting, not to mention, she can hold her own against the former super model looking First Ladies of France and Spain (Carla Brunini and Princess Letizia, pictured above).

Spies Like Us

2010-07-07T14:03:00.004-05:00

I have a feeling the Russian spies, all of varying sexiness, wish they could return to life in suburbia. I feel like the entire plot was a money hole for the Russian government and all in an effort to infiltrate our "policy making circles." In short, the Russians (the gold standard as far as nepotism and government corruption) wanted to know how bureaucracy works. Well, its simple really. Bureaucracy is where you get as many people involved as possible so that their competing interests effectively paralyze the ability to get anything accomplished. The real goal in bureaucracy is to make no changes, thus securing the status quo.

Russian government: Go young lady. Do your country proud. Assimilate into American life; live an ordinary existence; become fat; become materialistic... become American

Spy: But commissar, I don't want to get fat. I want to continue to live in Russia wearing blue eyeshadow and acid washed jeans. I just got my first Bruce Springsteen audio cassette tape.

Russian government: Come now. You must do this for your country. With the money you will make, you can redo your home in the latest fashions-- wood paneling, wall-to-wall shag carpet, gold bathroom fixtures, avocado green appliances... the world will be at your fingertips. All you have to do is bring back the secret formula for American Policy Making Circles.

Spy: Yes commissar.

We are now only missing the part where the young Russian hottie falls in love-- but wait -- her lover doesn't know she's a spy. She then has a choice between her country and true love. She then grows to love her American life, when, suddenly, Moscow comes calling wanting information about "policy making circles."

"Shit," she thinks. "I've got to get into some policy making circles." She then asks the neighbors if they know of any good policy making circles, to which they reply, "No hun. Fraid not." She then begins by entering her child's PTA. There, she feels at home where the place is run like a dictatorship. Feeling like this will not satisfy the Kremlin, she then enters into the world of local politics. Here at City Hall, she realizes that this is not policy making as it reflects her native country's tendency toward being a plutocracy. She reports back to Moscow for the time being the following gem of information: "I have learned-- the Golden Rule." Moscow, now on the edge of their seats, gasps and they beg for more. She responds, "The ones with the gold, make the rules." Moscow, nods and claps, "Yes! Yes! But how do they get the little people to go along with it?" "That is for another briefing," she tells them.

"Now," she thinks, "I have to find out why policy making circles get away with their overt disregard for the taxpayers and the poor." Feeling her mission has come to a halt, she once again immerses herself in American life. Sitting on the couch, day after day, she becomes engrossed in the most popular of the American soap operas-- Fox News. There she learns the secret to American policy making-- culture wars. She dons her acid washed jeans and prepares to notify Moscow, but then the FBI comes knocking on her door. She was snitched by the neighbors for asking about any good policy making circles; and for not having an American flag on the back of her SUV. Now she will never be able to report the top secret formula for American policy making. Upon learning she may be traded for a real American spy-- Igor, she begs the American government to allow her to stay--

"I can't go back there. Not now. I only have blow dryers that use 1800 watts and I just got 'the Rachel' haircut."

Flag Cake is a Demigod

2010-06-30T13:26:00.005-05:00

I sometimes wish I had big elaborate Fourth of July plans. Instead, my social calendar is always at the whim of someone who adopts me for the time being. When I was growing up, my friend Jessica and I usually spent the 4th together because her family always had get-togethers at her grandparent's beach house or the lake. Before then, my family would buy a bevy of fireworks and we'd shoot them in the back yard after enjoying a special meal of ribs, baked beans, and flag cake decorated by me. In high school, my then boyfriend's family would have a bbq and they would pack up and make us go watch the fire works on Red Mountain. While that seemed to have all of the elements for a successful Fourth of July experience, it always seemed a little forced to me. During college, I was always a reluctant house guest of my parents during this time and I would usually do whatever they wanted which meant eating lots of food and then me seething with resentment that I didn't have better plans. During law school, my then boyfriend was a member of a a country club and we would spend the holiday (and every holiday for that matter) there because there was a special feast. In Jackson, country clubs are nothing to get excited about because everyone is a member somewhere. I think this is because none of the houses in Jackson have swimming pools, which no one has yet to be able to furnish a satisfactory explanation to me. Most of the country clubs there are fairly lowbrow, which I like because of the out-dated decor which made me feel at ease and at home amongst some of the Brady Bunch's greatest design hits. And, given the reluctance of Jackson to succumb to --gasp-- segregation, I was always pleasantly surprised that the country clubs were equal opportunists as far as race. But, here, back in Alabama, the Fourth of July is a holiday where I can't seem to find myself at peace with with it comes to celebrating.

First of all, I decorate for every single holiday, yet I never decorate for the Fourth of July. I decorate for St. Patrick's Day; I decorate for the oncoming winter season by putting snowflakes in the windows; I decorate for Halloween more than I decorate for Christmas; I decorate for Valentines Day and I decorate for Easter-- but nothing on the Fourth of July. I even try to celebrate Cinco de Mayo and I've even made an effort to have French toast and crepes on Batsille Day, but I can't nail down a proper way to celebrate the Fourth. It's this duality within me that is to blame. Part of me wants to be laid-back, casual, effortless, doing whatever I like and laughing when others exert too much effort for something that yields worthless results. The other part of me, which I believe is my true nature, is a miniature Martha Stewart who wants everything to be perfect all of the time. This includes doing the "right" things on holidays to celebrate. Yet, the slacker inside me wants to call it like it is-- just another day, and it if I wake up wanting to shout "God Bless America!!!" from the rooftops while sporting a stars and stripes bikini, while funneling a Natural Light, the American way-- then I'll do it. Otherwise, I think I will just enjoy the day off and flick anyone off who says, "You didn't do anything on the Fourth???"

My ideal Fourth of July, and the Fourth of July that I believe I will embrace because it satisfies both parameters of my personality, involves me making a Flag Cake and doing nothing else. I can't describe the joy that I get from making this simple, cliche, little treat. Flag Cake does not taste particularly good. It is plain white cake with plain white icing or cool whip and then slices of strawberries and blueberries for the stripes and stars respectively. I just really enjoy the look of the final product and the satisfaction I get from it is shameful. The problem has always been me finding justification for making the Flag Cake. With no scheduled parties and no family bursting at the seams with people young and old to enjoy this treat, I usually don't make one because I feel wasteful doing so. The only other option is for me to attend a party I don't really want to go to, just for the sole excuse of making a Flag Cake to bring. Instead, I will just make the Flag Cake and then not worry about finding a party. Flag Cake for me and me alone. By doing so, I will satisfy the Martha Stewart grimiln inside of me and I will satisfy the anti-social slacker inside of me as well. Happy Fourth of July to ME!

Sudden Onslaught Sweatiness

2010-06-28T10:35:00.003-05:00

I've sweat more in the past 72 hours than in my entire life. It is cliche to even mention it at this point, but it is so freaking hot! On Friday, I took my car to get some work done on the brakes and the front end alignment. While I waited for my car, I was horrified to realize that the waiting room was not enriched with this modern invention called air conditioning. I preferred to stand outside in the 99 degree heat because, at least outside there was a chance that a small breeze would waft in my direction. It was in this waiting room that I realized my aversion to getting hot and sweaty was forcing me to enter the five stages of grief. The five stages of grief have long been identified as a common feeling by those who have suffered a death of a loved one, or who have suffered some severe consequences in their life-- denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. At first, while I sat sweltering in the waiting room, I denied to myself that it was really that hot. "Mind over matter," I sat thinking, as if I could will myself to not feel any heat. As that line of thinking failed, I then entered the anger stage where I was indignant that this place would be so callous to its customers. "This is America," I believe I thought to myself. "How can they expect anyone to survive in here?" I then entered the bargaining stage, "Just get me through the next fifteen minutes." Then, acceptance finally weighed its heavy hand on my sweaty, sticky shoulder and I had the following line of thought, "Just embrace it. You can't fight the sweat. This is your body's natural response to such an environment. Just let it soak your clothes and deal with it." Around that time, the mechanic came out to tell me

"Miss April, is there anything else I can do for you today?"

"NO!!! Just give me my key! My key, I said!" I never recovered for the rest of the day.

On Saturday, Chris and I went to his little brother's rugby tournament where we sat basting in the sun for an hour or so. I spent the hour trying to prevent the inevitable sweating because we had plans to meet some friends to watch the soccer game immediately after. I know that once your sweat glands start to open up, there is no turning back and you've entered a stage of uncomfortability until you are able to shower again. For that reason, I've spent my life trying to avoid getting hot to prevent the tragedy of sudden onslaught sweatiness. Again, facing denial, I begged Chris to drive me to the quicky mart where we could "quickly get a cool drink and hang out in the air conditioning." Once at the quicky mart I tried to pro-long our "quick" shopping experience by filling up an icee and telling Chris a boring story about how the Icee man (a man dressed as a white polar bear in a red and blue striped Icee shirt) would visit out college campus to promote their product to college aged kids. I have always found that indicative that Birmingham-Southern was a strange little carnival cruise line of a school, but this time it fell on deaf ears as Chris herded us back to the Rugby game. However, not before his eyes were drawn to a small soccer shop. Inside the soccer shop, they were pretty frugal with the a/c but I was distracted by all of the world cup t-shirts. I told Chris that he and I should buy matching USA t-shirts to wear to meet his friends to watch the game. I find things like that to be hilarious because sometimes its far better to embrace your not cool side. Chris is never keen on these ideas of mine because, strangely, he tries to forgo potential embarrassing situations. "Hey guys! We're here! USA! USA! USA! America! F*** Yea!" My plan only could have been better had we also had matching hats and face painting. Back at the Rugby game, anger set in as I sat thinking about how, with all of the advances of modern technology, are we still victims to the every whim and desire of mother nature. Can't we show that bitch who's boss yet? Acceptance this time took the form of the following line of thought, "Pretend you are in a sauna, yes get those toxins out of your body." After the game, on the way back to car, I almost started to dry heave from the heat and the movement of walking. "No, you go on," I told Chris. "I'm just waiting for all of the hot air to get out of the car," I lied. Once inside the car I hogged the air conditioning vents-- first with my face, then my arm pits, then the inside of my shirt, then my waist band. After that refreshing experience, we were off to see the world cup game in the sweet confines of an air conditioned bar. Once at the bar, I was quite glad that Chris shot down my idea of his and hers matching America world cup t-shirts because everyone else, having not spent the day losing 3 lbs of body weight, was dressed nicely.

On Sunday, Chris and I vacuumed my car and then jumped in the pool to cool off. I tried to race Chris swimming and I used muscles that I had neglected for 10 years now, which produced its own set of sweat. A much needed shower finally afforded me the comfortability I had been so long without at this point, and I've resumed my fast and steady determination to prevent the medical malady of Sudden Onslaught Sweating.

My dad and the Spanish "Ho"

2010-06-24T12:48:00.005-05:00

Sometimes, a line of thought will repeat if prompted by some trigger. I repeatedly have the following line of thought when I see a dark green, 2000 Honda Accord.

"Honda Accord--> just like the one my high school Spanish teacher drove--> ew... I remember this only because she told a story of how she threw up in her car on the way home from school. I was perplexed by this story because it was nothing to share and I couldn't understand why she didn't pull over or roll down the windows. It wasn't until eight years later when I experienced a sudden nauseous experience while behind the wheel of a car that I realized it really is impossible to roll down your window or gain control of your vehicle enough to pull over during such an incident. --> (thoughts then returning to high school Spanish teacher) Man, she sure was odd."

My high school Spanish teacher came to my school when I was in the eighth grade. She had just graduated from the University of Alabama and she was also going to be our junior high volleyball coach. Her credentials supporting her coaching position was that she was "a big 'ole six foot tall red head." During practices, we learned that she was not very skilled, but proficient, in the game and that her true knack was in modifying her speech and diction to match whomever she was speaking. In essence, although she was a white red-head, born and raised in the North, she tried to sound like a black girl from the South, which I found odd. More odd, was her coaching technique which involved girls sweating to death on the court rather than make appropriate substitutions. Our first game, my dad watched from the bleachers and I watched from the bench. After the half, my dad instructed me to get into the car because we were leaving. "Ok," I remember saying without asking any questions. His complaint was that he couldn't understand why "this woman" was letting her starters sweat to death on the court while we [I] were rested, healthy, and capable (sort of). This was my first year ever to play volleyball and capable, I was not. I have no arm strength so that serving was a constant struggle for me. In junior high volleyball, if you make a substitution for a player, the sub has to serve. My dad wasn't familiar with my lack of talent because, prior to the sport of volleyball, I was generally able to perform any extra-curricular well (oh to be a high school student again, before the big stain of failure has ever entered your world). Dad, therefore, assumed that I was a skilled volleyball player and that my coach was failing in her coaching abilities. Rather than teach me a lesson in team work, dad, instead, walked with me as we left in the middle of the game, my coach's mouth gaping, and we went to Krystal to eat breakfast. Several years later, my dad would again intervene on my behalf on the volleyball court as I engaged in a scrap with one of my teammates. As the fight was broken up and she yelled across the court, "Bitch!" my dad came down from the bleachers and said, "Bitch? You're the only bitch I see! Now get outta our way!" For some reason, volleyball brought out some of my dad's best parenting moments.

I remember this breakfast like it was yesterday because I was shocked that Krystal had a breakfast, and even more shocked that the breakfast was good. Also because this was on a Saturday morning and I felt like my dad had just bailed me out of detention. Plus, I got kind of a thrill from being my dad's accomplice in what we both knew to be bad parenting. I had a similar feeling once when dad and I were Christmas shopping at Walmart. We had a lot of small purchases in dad's buggy and I carried a TV in my buggy behind dad. When we pulled in to check out, I stood in line behind my dad while the Walmart worker checked us out. Dad paid the bill and we both left, he carrying his bags and me pushing the buggy with the tv. When we reached the parking lot, my dad stopped walking as he checked the receipt. I knew immediately what had happened and I said, "Did they forget to ring up the tv?" Dad nodded and locked eyes with me. In those few seconds I knew he was debating whether to set a good example by returning to Walmart, bringing their mistake to their attention, paying for the tv, and going about our merry little way. He knew what he should do, I stood there secretly hoping he wouldn't make us return it-- just for the sake of doing something we weren't supposed to do. Dad, staying true to his persona, said, "Ahh to hell with it!" and we marched to the car to load out stolen goods. When we got home I opened the door and immediately told my mom, "We stole a tv!" Mom interrupted her regularly scheduled programming to say, "WHAT?!" and I gleefully told her the tale. As dad trotted in my mom said, "BJ, you know you should have gone back in there," but she was smiling while she was saying it because she wanted to join in on the fun. It was kind of like in Willy Wonka where Gramps and Charlie are singing the timeless classic, "I've got a golden ticket...."

So, here I sat in Krystal eating a breakfast special that I did not know even existed, in my volleyball uniform on a Saturday morning, because being the renegades that we were, my dad pulled me from the middle of a game. I had to paint the locker room for that little stunt but it was worth it at the time and on top of everything, it put the new Spanish teacher on my dad's radar for the remainder of my time in high school.

The Spanish teacher and I eventually reconciled our differences. Not because of my increased skill on the volleyball court, but because of my proficiency in Spanish class. It was in Spanish class that I met my high school boyfriend and I was tortured heart and soul as I had to watch the Spanish teacher continually flirt with him and give him special treatment because she had a thing for the cute boys. As I complained about my own private hell to my dad, he then determined that my Spanish teacher was a "Ho" and we shared another private joke that reflected another instance of bad parenting. The Spanish teacher's infatuation with the cute young boys changed when she became pregnant unexpectedly. The father was the owner of a bar so it was no stretch to call this unplanned, but nonetheless, she changed her flirtatious ways into being more angry and bitter, characteristics I was most comfortable seeing teachers exhibit. Order had been established in the Universe and dad took pleasure in confirming what he had expected: "Your Spanish teacher sounds like a Ho."

The Miracle of Saint Phyllis

2010-06-22T15:21:00.008-05:00

Last night, as I sat down in the living room to eat pizza with my mom, she told me that,

"The church may stop by and come and see me."

"Why?!" I said.

"WHAT FOR?!" my dad yelled.

"I guess ... just to pray."

*** silence ***

As I have reported in the past, my mom goes to a church in our neighborhood. It probably has 30 members. I've gone to it in the past and I've been uncomfortable but mom is not choosy with the company she keeps so she still attends. She still attends this church even though they have a new preacher who is significantly tilted on the side of religious fundamentalism. Last night she confided in me that during their Wednesday night fellowship sessions, the preacher opened the night by saying that "all homosexuals are going straight to hell." Well, that's a fine way to start a Wednesday evening. "Good evening, how are you? The leg any better? ALL HOMOSEXUALS ARE GOING STRAIGHT TO HELL!" When I say my mom confided in me, I mean she engaged in conversation with me, while my dad sat on the computer playing internet poker while he listened and chimed in every few seconds.

"Tell them 'bullshit' Phyllis," was his main contribution.

"Well that's not all; one Wednesday the conversation centered on how women should be subservient to men at all times and that you can have no women preachers," my mom confessed.

"Stand up and call them heretics!" my dad said. I am sure that he got this word from watching the show "The Tudors" on Showtime. Dad was devastated when Cromwell was executed. "I liked 'ole Cromwell," he said sadly.

"I don't even know what that word means," mom said.

"I've got one better Mom," I said loudly, "Tell them you are a Democrat."

"I did," she said proudly. "One Wednesday night the topic was Obama and how he is gonna bring on the apocalypse, and I told 'em that 'I like our President and that he's better than 'ole Bush.' They gasped," she said matter of factly.

"I don't see how you stand to be around those people," I finally concluded.

"I know. But, I guess I'll just go on Sundays from now on. Wednesday nights is when they get into that weird talking," she said.

I then rounded up my dog, who I am convinced is a gay boy, and told him,

"Come on Henry, before the white supremacists get ahold of you." Henry and I trotted back to my room and shut the door but not before I heard my mom say that Henry shouldn't be scared because, "He doesn't have any man-hood left for them to cut off."

Well, this would all be bad enough on it's own, but now my mom has recently received some good news from her surgeon which indicates that she will finally be able to walk because her bone has "miraculously" healed (his word). The church is, of course, claiming ownership over this miracle and I can tell that my mom, although growing less and less comfortable around her new church friends, is fearful to turn her back on them because what if they are correct in claiming this miracle to be a product of their work.

"April, they told me, they told me 'You gonna have to come up to the front to testify because of this,' and I say 'Noooo I'm not,' and they say 'Yesss, you are," my mom explained. Now, I'm not exactly sure what all is involved in testifying, but it sounds like a vulgar display of pageantry and pomp, all done with the secret motive to compete with your fellow church-goers over who loves God the most. What was worse, is that they are trying to bully my mom into doing something she doesn't want to do.

"Mother, you are a Protestant. You tell them that you can worship God in any way you see fit and you don't have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. They don't have the lock on praising God," I told her. I said this in a tone that I feel I may someday use when my children are being pressured into doing things they don't want to do.

"That's right!" she said. But, I could see her eyes dropping to the floor-- probably wondering if God giveth this "miracle," will God taketh away?

Father's Day

2010-06-22T08:39:00.006-05:00

Fathers have it easy in my opinion. While the moms have to get involved in the logistics of raising children-- the dads are just a presence. This presence, if done correctly, will sometimes be the only driving force behind a child's desire to behave. For me, I would think before doing something I knew to be bad, and weigh how mad it would make my dad. I rarely considered if it would make my mom mad. That's because she did plenty to piss me off, and dad, by abstaining from the day to day care of me, seemed to obtain saint-like status in my mind. Therefore, the only thing keeping me from doing bad things as a child, was the fear of my mom or anyone else, "telling daddy."

Even now, I still loathe the dreaded disappointment of my dad. Yesterday, for example, my dad asked my mom to text me to ask if I would bring home a pizza for dinner. "OK" I responded, not enthusiastic that I would have to make a 2 mile detour from my ride home after work. On my way home from work, my mom called me and sounding like she was out of breathe, asked me,

"April, [huhuhhuh] what kinda ice cream you want?" My mom, since I've moved back home, has adopted the annoying habit of pronouncing ice cream like it is a vulgarity. Ass cream is what she says.

"What?!" She repeated the question. I then asked,

"Are you at the grocery store right now?"

[pause] "Yea."

"Are you getting dinner?"

"No. I'm just getting the ice [ass] cream." She said "the" ice cream like it was a daily necessity, on the same par as dinner, soap, toilet paper, or detergent. I then said,
"Well why don't you get pizza then?" I said as if it was a no-brainer, which it was.

"Oh. [long pause] Oh. Ok." I knew then that there would be repercussions for me not getting the pizza like I said I would.

As I drove home I passed my mom driving to Winn-Dixie. She didn't notice me and I was confused why she lied and said she was currently at Winn-Dixie. I think she thought that if she said she was at home and not yet left to go get "the" ice [ass] cream, I would lambaste her for getting ice cream and tell her that she needs to lay off it for a while. When I walked in the front door, my dad said,

"Did mother not tell you to go get a pizza?" I was so annoyed that my mom didn't tell my dad that.

"Yes. But she called and said she was going to Winn-Dixie and I told her to get the pizza there." Then, my dad made the dreaded face. It looks like he is taking a bite of air with one side of his mouth and it triggers a sense of failure and despondence in me every time I inspire him to make that face. I retired to my room and felt sad until the pizza was ready.

For Father's Day, I was surprised that my dad made a specific request to "see all of [his] girls." My mom was in charge of getting my oldest sister Denise, my niece Haleigh, my sister Meagan, and me at the house on Sunday for a ham and to spend time with dad. I hesitated in sharing my mom's excitement for this day because I am leery of his sudden desire to participate in holidays. Usually on Father's Day, I try to make a big deal of it and give him presents, which he opens and says, "thhaaannk you" like he is doing me a favor by taking the time to open and receive a gift. My hesitation comes from my dad's morbid obsession with death. I am sure, although we never mentioned it, that my dad organized this day because he fears it may be his last Father's Day. I could dwell on that morbid thought, but instead, I choose to channel my frustrations in the direction of my oldest sister Denise, whose presence on Sunday was like a tornado.

Denise is my dad's oldest daughter from his first marriage. Denise, in an effort to punish my dad for divorcing her mother, marrying my mother who is only seven years older than Denise, and playing house with his new family consisting of Meagan, me and our mom, was a wild child in every sense of the word. Just use your imagination and think what kind of bad things little girls do and she did it. One thing that I can always praise my mom for doing is instilling a sense of necessity in Meagan and me that we had to go to college and we had to make sure we could make our own money in life. Our mom had had the both extremes in life-- extreme poverty growing up and carefree spending and living for the first twenty years of her relationship with my dad. She knew what it was like to go without AND she knew what it was like to want for nothing. As a result, she made sure that Meagan and I never wavered from our desire to finish school, have a career and take care of ourselves. This came at a price, as my mom watches her sister enjoy being a grandmother and she has to hold on to the fact that she has two smart-mouthed, sometimes ungrateful, childless, BUT educated daughters.

Denise comes into the house with her 19 year old daughter Haleigh. Haleigh is shy and demure because Denise is so boisterous I guess. But as they both enter the house I notice that Denise, my 44 year old sister, is sporting a nose ring, and a tattoo. The nose ring is small and "tasteful" if you could ever call it that, and the tattoo, which is some sort of medallion on her hand, is small as well. Both of these things were so small, that my dad did not even notice them. He later said he thought the nose ring was a mole. Tattoos and body piercing can be fun for some, but they should never be sought after for the first time once you enter your 40's. Denise, eager to display the intricate facets of her personality, also tells my dad the following gems of information:

"I'm just not settled daddy. Nope, I still don't know what I wanna do. Me and Haleigh were in south Florida all last week and I said to Haleigh, 'Why don't we just move down here?' I just wanna be able to move around."

"I was dating this guy who rode bikes [cue my mental image of Denise and some fellow engaging in a healthy activity of bicycle riding. I even pictured her wearing a helmet and knee pads.] and on the weekend we'd spend all day riding around with his other motor cycle crew. They still do, I guess, but not with me on the back of the bike, hahahaha. I even bought the leather jacket and the chaps [cue my mental image of another variety and I lost my appetite]"

"Have you ever played Farmville on the Facebook? I do and I love it." Dad says, "What in the hell is farmville?" Denise, who is good with the elderly speaks up, leans in to my dad and says, "FARMVILLE, it's a game you can play on the computer. You can grow a farm on the computer." Waiting for my dad's reaction, I guess she realized how ridiculous that sounds and she ran off to another room declaring, "Shut up! I love my life hahahahaha!"

"Do you have a facebook account? I do. My facebook picture is weird. Sometimes I just use a picture of... a tree... or... a flower. Me and my girlfriend were out riding around and I just kept seeing these weird looking trees so I stopped and took a picture and used it as my facebook profile." She stopped there as if that was some original concept that people take photos of nature and there is hobby called-- photography. While she was wanting credit for engaging her artistic side, I was thinking more along the lines of "Acid trip."

One good thing about Denise is her finesse with the elderly. She cares for her mother who old and sick and she doesn't look appalled when dad exhibits elderly mannerisms. She speaks incredibly loudly and she always maintains eye contact while leaning in to my dad. While Meagan and I both looking in horror as my dad was about to fall to the ground as he tried to sit at the dining room table, Denise was able to quickly maneuver his chair underneath him as if nothing had happened. While Meagan and I try to pretend our dad isn't having trouble standing up, Denise says the obvious,

"Daddy, why don't you get a walking stick?"

"For what?!" both my dad and I say simultaneously. Who does she think she is, coming in here and aging my dad like that? But, she probably is right. Sometimes it takes the perspective of an outsider to point out the obvious.

A Movie Review: Law Abiding Citizen

2010-06-21T10:48:00.003-05:00

* star out of five stars. This movie made me wish I was deaf and blind... and dumb. For this movie, we are supposed to believe that the main character, Clyde, played by Gerard Butler, is a genius strategist. For the past ten years, he has been planning revenge murders for the killing of his wife and child. Every murder has been carefully planned and executed while he predicts everyone's move. He is such a genius that he even predicts that the legal system will do the following unorthodox procedures:

1) after being arrested, Clyde will enter a maximum security prison to await his hearing. He will be forced to share a jail cell with a violent offender... no need to just place him in the county JAIL. Just send him straight to PRISON

2) After determining that there is not enough evidence to hold him the judge will put him in contempt of court. He will not go to jail, he will go to the same maximum security prison, back to the jail cell with a violent CONVICTED criminal.

3) Clyde is so smart, that he predicts that when he begins killing police officers and blowing up government vehicles, that Homeland Security or the federal government would bypass this opportunity to invoke their right to govern and protect from domestic terrorism, and they will simply defer to the leadership of the Philadelphia MAYOR's office.

4) the assistant district attorney will bypass the chance to use an eyewitness to a double homicide for fear of losing a percentage point in his winning streak.

5) Clyde even predicts the unlikely event that a district attorney will take orders from an assistant district attorney, because, the assistant district attorney is played by Jaime Fox who takes orders from no one.

Sure. Maybe I'm not any fun. But if the director and writers of this film want to take me on a little ride into fantasy film-making and they expect me to be on board with the concept that this man is a genius, strategist, then they better have him predict legal and customary practices. The believability of this premise is riding on the credibility of the main character. All I could think about was how stupid he would be to actually predict those things to happen.

The Market, a Novel

2010-06-07T12:22:00.008-05:00

Usually when I go to restaurants, shopping malls, salons, or anywhere in the service industry, I am shy and non-confrontational with the workers. For some reason, I feel like they are doing me some huge favor by taking time out of their busy day to ring up my order, open a dressing room, or cut my hair, even though that is their job. Because I have this mindset, I don't feel the need to ensure they perform up to my expectations. "Oh that's okay; I didn't want any fries with my combo Burger King worker-- after all, you know better than I do." If my order is wrong, I generally just chalk it up to the eternal order of the universe: "You've won today God of Luck, but tomorrow, when I find a good parking spot, I will be the victor." So, on Friday, when I found myself writing a four paragraph email to the corporate headquarters of a downtown franchise restaurant, I felt as though someone was impersonating me.

I've only complained to companies on two separate occasions, both times while I was in law school or studying for the bar-- hence, a decrease in my coping skills. The first time was when I called the managing office of the McDonald's on Fortification Street in downtown Jackson. This McDonald's had one of those terrible drive-thrus where you were trapped once you entered the line because of some engineering nightmare or from a purposefully erected curbside. That meant you could never escape the line and you would have to wait for everyone in front of you to pay and get their order before you could zoom away, shaking your fist, if you changed your mind or forgot your money. Furthermore, once you were trapped, this McDonald's had the habit of putting a hand written paper sign on the drive thru menu that said, "cash only, no debit or credit cards." Therefore, if you didn't have any cash, you were trapped in the long drive-thru line. There, time would creep and I would grow more and more agitated by the second. Also, this McDonalds had the habit of claiming that the ice cream machine was not working. This happened a half dozen times and I eventually determined that this was just a lie. The workers just did not want to make a milkshake. One day, I tried to order a Sundae and I was told the ice cream machine was not working. I had nothing else to order and I was trapped in the line while the people in front of me got their food. At that point, I called their corporate office which they invited me to do with a sign taped to the window saying, "How are we doing?" listing the number of the office. I called and left a scathing message and I informed them that I would be a What-a-Burger customer from now on. I never received a response to my complaint and McDonalds continues to thrive. The market failed.

The only other time I have lodged such a complaint was to CNBC. I had just watched a Frontline special called "Inside the Meltdown" which chronicled the fall of Bear Stearns. The special demonstrated CNBC's role in the collapse of Bear with CNBC's fear mongering. The day before Bear fell, its CEO finally decided to give heed to the rumors by appearing for an interview with a CNBC analyst/ reporter. Bear was concerned that if they gave an interview to one CNBC reporter over another reporter, there would be repercussions because it was not a little known secret that the CNBC reporters exact revenge on companies who slight them in favor of other journalists. To be diplomatic, the CEO of Bear decided he would contact the person in charge at CNBC and allow that person to decide who would get the interview. When the CEO tried to contact someone who is in charge at CNBC, I was horrified to learn that he could find NO ONE. Instead, each of the journalist on CNBC have their own individual producer as they compete against one another for the "leaks" and "exclusives." CNBC is complicit in knowing that the "exclusive tips" they get from other companies are part of the the game to bring down the companies' competition. But they don't care. They fool themselves into believing that they are king pins of this money-making cycle when in reality, they are foolish pawns. After one of CNBC's reporters made an ass-nine comment about poor people just needing to get off the couch and get a job, I wrote to CNBC and explained that they were fools and they were being played by these big companies they tried so hard to woo. Kind of like that dorky kid at the party who talks bad about other people. Everyone is thinking, "who are you to talk bad about people, you are not one of us. You should be thankful you were even invited." I'm not sure what I expected in return for my complaint, but I can say that I am exercising my duty in the world of Capitalism by boycotting CNBC and their ridiculous fear mongering.

On Friday, one of the senior partners asked me to go get his lunch. As is the custom, he said, "April, where 'we gonna go today?" He then waits for me to ponder this question, and I respond with a restaurant downtown. This time I responded with Zoe's. I called in his order and upon walking into Zoe's I was struck by how crowded they were. I was then greeted by a worker who said, "Hey do you have a call-in order?" Thinking that this man was going to retrieve my order for me, I perked up and said, "Yes." He then pointed to the back wall and said, "Ok, well, your line is all the way over there." As I trotted towards the back of the call-in line, I noticed that the two dine-in lines were nearly empty. Instead of standing in the call in line, which had a dozen people standing in it, I moved to the dine in line, as I had done on many other occasions. Then, the man followed me. He said, "I'm sorry but I'm not trying to keep moving you to the back of the line or anything--" Thinking he was apologizing for sending me to the back of a long line when there were two shorter lines, I quickly said, "Oh it's okay--" but then he finished his original statement "...but your line is over there," and he pointed to the back of the call in line, which by this time, had two additional persons waiting in it. He remained standing there as if he was going to escort me to the other line. I now understood. He was trying to herd the call in orders to stand in the long call in line while the dine in customers would get immediate service and he was frustrated that I didn't yield to his demand. Since it had never been a problem for me to pay for my call in order in the dine in line, and since there were no dine in customers behind me, I decided to stand my ground, which I would have done even if there had been a mob of dine in customers behind me. I said, "I come here all of the time [exasperated laugh] and this has never been a problem--" to which he interrupted me to say, "Oh really! [nodding and smiling] Well, your line is over there," and he pointed to the back of the line again. He was bending his knees to be at eye level with me which made this experience even worse because it looked like he was guiding a confused child. He continued to stand there and wait for me to move until I looked at him, laughed a disgruntled laugh, and said, "You know what? I'm... I'm just gonna stay here," like this was the most obvious thing in the world. Kind of how Maria Antoinette said, "Let them eat cake-- duh." As he walked away, I shook my head from disbelief and to let the on-lookers know that I was the one who was right. He marched away and went to speak to the person ringing up the call in orders and I, without any problems or delays, paid for my order in the dine in line and left. When I got back to the office, I sat and reflected on this. I decided to write an email to Zoe's corporate. In this email, I was determined not to exaggerate any of the details and I was fair to the person I was complaining about by making sure they knew that "at no time did this worker become un-professional. He smiled the entire time and he never raised his voice." As if I was a philosopher, pontificating on the ways of the world, I expressed some regret that I had never thought to praise this Zoe's for the countless positive experiences I had had there, but, unfortunately, people just take the time to complain about the negative experiences. Basically, I wrote a novel to these people. It began with the story of my job and an explanation that I retrieve lunches for the senior partners at the law firm where I work and that one particular lawyer always asks me where I want to go. I was sure to emphasize my autonomy in this matter. I then explained that for almost a year I came to Zoe's several times a week for this boss. I then explained, in detail, what transpired that afternoon. After the arc of my novel, I then explained to them why a seemingly innocent conversation could make me so upset. I explained that, given my position at my office, I yield to the demands of a number of people every day of the week. When it comes to this one little thing that I can control in my job-- where I go to get this particular partner's lunch-- I am NOT going to choose a place that gives me a hard time for choosing a shorter line.

Within the hour, the manager of that Zoe's emailed me and explained that he was the one who "tried to help" me that afternoon. I was certainly glad for my lack of exaggeration because that could have been awkward. He said I looked confused about where the line was and he was only trying to help me. At that moment I really began to question my novella to Zoe's headquarters. Now, when that partner doesn't take my advice for lunch and demands that we go to Zoe's, they know who I am and I will get an uncomfortable amount of attention. But, whenever I felt any regret for this decision, I thought back on that moment in Zoe's and I felt re-invigorated to my cause. After that, the VP of Zoe's emailed me to personally apologize and to let me know that he spoke to the manager and that it has NOT gone unnoticed. This email was comforting except that he said, "Thank you for taking the time to write us, as I am sure you have plenty of other things to do during your day besides write us emails," which I am sure was a stab at the length and quality of editing of my emailed complaint. But, alas, he is mailing me free Zoe's. So, now I feel like a real player in the world of Capitalism. I have a choice. If that choice fails me, then I, as a part of the mythical MARKET, can use my buying power to prove that only the strong shall survive.

*Editor's note: Readers, as I know you so often are guilty of doing, do not follow my example. Zoe's is a fine Birmingham owned establishment and the quality of the food and service has been satisfying every occasion except for this one time. I am not going to boycott Zoe's and nor should you.

Parenting

2010-06-03T11:44:00.007-05:00

If my parenting skills are to be judged by the way I have raised my dog, I am going to have a fat, spoiled, bratty, bully for a child. Picture Eric Cartman from South Park in dog form and you will have my Henry. Henry and my journey began when he was only 6 weeks old. I constantly worried over him when he was a puppy. So much so, that my then-boyfriend likened my behavior to a mother suffering from postpartum depression. A close inspection of the house I was living in at the time revealed it to be a death trap as I was morbidly obsessed with how every item and architectural detail in our house could somehow maim and kill my Henry. "Why is there card board blocking the stair case banister?" my roommate would ask. "Because Henry could fall in between them and fall to his death." "Why are you picking all of the wild mushrooms in the yard?" they would wonder. "Because Henry could eat them and get sick and die." This constant attentiveness is a form of anthropomorphization, which they say is the worst thing you could do to your dog. But, during the ups and downs of my time in Jackson, the one thing that I could count on and look forward to was seeing my little angel's face when I walked in the door. Now that he is 4 years old, and living with my roommates-- mom and dad, he is a bully to my parent's sweet gentle, 9 year old, golden retriever, Pretty Boy. Henry won't let Pretty Boy get petted without using his big fat nose to swipe our hands from Pretty Boy and he even comes running whenever anyone utters Pretty Boy's name. My parents think this is because Henry is confused into thinking that he, too, is a Pretty Boy, so he thinks they are calling for him. I know the truth. Henry knows they are calling Pretty Boy to give him attention and Henry's thought process goes like this,

Mom: "Pretty Boy...."

Henry: [What?! They are still talking to that Pretty Boy?! I thought I had convinced them I am the only dog worthy of love and attention?! Better go take care of this!!]

Henry is constantly testing the boundaries as to how much Pretty Boy will take. As the boys trot down the stairs of the back deck into the yard, Henry always leads, only to stop every few steps, just to make Pretty Boy stop, who is directly behind him. I would say this was not on purpose, except that he glances back at Pretty Boy in satisfaction that he is obstructing Pretty Boy's path. Pretty Boy, who has lived and ruled in this back yard for his entire life, has a carefully constructed world where he lives in harmony with the surrounding neighbor's animals except when they cross into our territory. Pretty Boy treats the yard as a fortress and he goes through certain rituals every time he enters the yard. Henry disrupts these rituals as he is unable to grasp that there is a world outside of the Walker household and his only purpose in the yard is to frustrate Pretty Boy's rituals by charging at him and by peeing over his pee.

Henry is also is a selfish little brat with his swimming pools. When I lived in Jackson, I bought Henry a tiny hard plastic swimming pool that his big fat rear end hung over the edge. On all three sides of our rectangular back yard were other dogs. There was "Zeke," a husky mix on the right hand side, "Tinkerbell" a Chihuahua on the left hand side, and "Blackberry" a black lab on the back side. Henry was the most spoiled of all of our neighbors dogs. This, I could tell, because our yard, unlike the yards of my neighbors, was littered with toys and balls for Henry to play at his every whim. Zeke, deprived of toys, would try to dig to get the balls that Henry would tease him with by leaving at the edge of the fence. Also, Henry was the only dog who had a swimming pool which I would fill every afternoon when I got home from work and every Saturday morning. As Henry splashed and rolled around in the cool water, the other three dogs would look longingly through their fences. I would feel so guilt ridden and sorry for those dogs, and I thought perhaps Henry would show some compassion by not appearing to enjoy himself so much. Instead, Henry, aware of their watchful eyes, would show off by running around the fence dripping wet and then hopping into the pool to demonstrate how refreshing it was. Furthermore, Henry was the only dog of the four who was allowed inside his master's home. Henry, out of breath from running alongside the fence, would get to come inside with me, while the other dogs would be panting in the sun, watching in jealousy. With their eyes as the last thing I saw before getting Henry inside, I would slam the door shut and close the blinds, kind of how you change the channel when one of the starving children commercials come on. The guilt from the other dogs was one of many things I would not miss in Jackson and upon moving to Birmingham, I felt guiltless enough to buy Henry a giant plastic swimming pool for him to use while donating the smaller one to Pretty Boy. That was a nice theory, but Henry only saw this as being his second pool and he jumps from the bigger to the smaller if Pretty Boy gets close to dipping his paws in the cool water. Now, Henry has to sit inside while I allow Pretty Boy his own time in the pool, to which Henry responds by howling and crying like a baby.

But, like the mothers of all of the world's criminals, I still baby my baby because he's MINE. I do hope though, that this is not reflective of the type of mother I will one day be-- caving to my child's every desire and spoiling them unabashedly while the starving children of the world look on.

Off the Wagon

2010-06-02T11:09:00.004-05:00

I want to petition the Burger Kings, McDonalds, and Arby's of the world. For what reason, you ask? To stop targeting lower income families and to stop using food additives and to start using better quality meats? No no no. I want to petition these fine franchises to use a better quality paper cup for their small and medium sized fountain drinks. For several years now, I have noticed that the paper cups I leave in my cup holders are melting. This leaves a mess as the liquid inside the cup then spills into the cup holder. Sometimes I happen to have some towels or napkins to soak up the soggy mess. Other times, I forget and I just leave it to nature as the sun forces the sticky watered down liquid to evaporate back into the circle of life. I will be the first to admit that this paper cup sits in my cup holder for a period of time that probably exceeds the designated time frame for maximum paper cup effectiveness. But, as owners of fast food restaurants, you must know your consumer, and a messy car person is just the type of person who uses your drive-throughs for the in-car dining experience. An item enters into my car and stays there for a minimum of 2 weeks. I see scan the car before I park it in the driveway for the night, and then I make a decision as to what MUST go inside or be thrown away immediately. Usually that is nothing and I have a little celebration inside my head "Yay!" Therefore, it is a given that a paper fast food cup will remain in my cup holder until the paper dissolves and the remaining contents fill up my cup holder with watery liquid.

In the world of car cleanliness, a dichotomy exists in which there is no in between. There are the clean car people, and there are the messy car people. The clean car people are clean to a fault. They keep their cars cleaner than their homes and they are repulsed by their counterpart-- the messy car people. In contrast, the messy car people are more messy in their cars than in any other aspect of their life. A clean car person hesitates to allow anyone to eat in their car, and if they do yield to this privilege, they do so only if the food is something dry and lacking in aroma-- such as a Chick-fil-a chicken sandwich consisting of only dry bread and dry, un-sauced meat. The messy car person consume full course meals in the comfortable confines of their little petry dish of an automobile-- hummus with pita chips, chicken tacos, fries with ketchup. The clean car people are quick to locate and remove any bits of trash or items that do not belong as a ritual before exiting the car. The messy car people, in contrast, exhale a sigh of relief when they look around the car and realize that nothing has to go inside right this minute. This includes the bags of fast food that have been casually tossed to one corner of the car, perhaps even with food still in it. Since car cleanliness or car messiness is not always reflective of the person's individual preferences for their homes or workplace, it is always a little jarring when you enter a person's car for the first time. If I get into someone's car and I find that it is stark and sterile, I literally gasp and usually say out loud, "Your car is so clean!" I then give that person a quick stare while they are not looking so I can try and size them-up and re-evaluate my initial impressions. "This person is hiding their inner obsessive tendencies," I think to myself, "What else are they hiding," I wonder. Upon entering the car of another for the first time only to find that it is composed of decaying trash and petrified french fries, I breathe a little sigh of relief and think to myself, "This person doesn't have their shit together as much as I thought, a kindred spirit." I then tell the person, "No no, your car is fine; no it's not messy at all; you should see mine." I say this partly out of truth and partly because I want to keep this person comfortable in this state of disarray because if I shame that person, they may convert to one of the clean car people, thus leaving me behind with all of the dirty people.

Recently, however, my boyfriend, a clean car person, suggested that we put his new shop vac to use by vacuuming and thus cleaning my car. It took several hours and I was so pleased with the result that I kept it that way for a few days. During one of those clean days, I was asked by one of the sr partners to give him a ride to the mechanic and back. This particular sr partner liked Thedric so this duty had always been reserved for him, thus, limiting the sr partner and my interactions to his afternoon arrival when I tell him "good morning" and he looks at me like he's trying to figure out who I am. I was apprehensive about this car ride because it was sure to be riddled with awkwardness. Upon entering my car, he said, "What a nice car! And how clean you keep it! Much better than the other boy!" At this moment I fought my natural response to provide too much information in the form of "Oh no my car is not usually this clean. My boyfriend helped me clean it because it was so bad. I've even had spider infestations in my car before. Haha. Buckle up." In a matter of milliseconds, I wisely decided that would not be the appropriate response to I then considered the opposite of too much information-- the complete lie. "Oh yes, well, that's just how I treat my cars. You see, a car is such a fine piece of machinery that the only way I know how to treat it is to let her beauty shine. Plus, Mr. [sr partner], having spent my hard-earned money on such a fine automobile, I can think of nothing else but to treat my baby right." No No. I quickly decided against that response. Instead, I turned to my 'ole stand-by when I don't know what to say, "hehe [big smile]." Brilliant.

I was pleased to elicit a compliment from the sr partner because it broke the ice and conversation flowed naturally after that. Was it because he is a clean car person, and just as I feel a connection to fellow messy car people, he felt I was one of his kind? He even let me drive his car for the next voyage. Was I pleased enough with this, though, to keep my car clean from now on and convert to one of the clean car people? I don't think so. Now my car has several outfits, nice jackets, two tupperware containers filled with molding food, a bevy of un-used coupons resulting from my new hobby of coupon cutting and rainboots. It was nice while it lasted.

The Electric Cheese Grater

2010-06-01T09:08:00.003-05:00

In an effort to stymie any feeling of happiness this morning, my mind wondered to a deep dark memory in my past-- the 4th grade science fair. When I was in the fourth grade, I began at a new private school where all of the kids seemed smarter and more worldly. This was confirmed when our science teacher informed us that 4th graders, like all of the other grades in our school, must enter the school-wide science fair for class credit. The science fair would be our chance to display either a scientific theory, supported by the scientific method, or we could display some invention to better mankind. I had never been to, nor had I ever heard of a science fair. Even worse, I was terrified of the elusive "scientific method" and I remained so until I finally grasped the concept ten years later in Biology at Birmingham-Southern. Therefore, my only option was to manufacture an invention of some sort. My sister, simultaneously, had to create something similar for one of her high school classes at Erwin. For this, she partnered up with a brainiac, and I, wanting attention, eavesdropped and butted in at every turn. Between the three of us, no one knows who really invented the Electric Cheese Grater, but I do know that it was used by both parties-- for my sister who received an A, and for me who received a D.

Cheese grating was always my job whenever we ate baked potatoes or salads. For some reason, we didn't wise up to buying pre-shredded cheese until I was in college. What took us so long to jump on the pre-shredded bandwagon? Well, as one of the partners at work informed me in a tale, a woman who was preparing an Easter ham proceeding to cut the end of the ham off before putting it in the oven. Her daughter asked her, "Mom, why do you always cut the back of the ham off before you put it in the oven?" The mom responded, "Well, I don't know. That's just the way my mom always did it." So she called her mom to ask. "Mom, why do you always cut the back of the ham off before you put it in the oven?" Her mom responded, "I don't know; that's just the way my mom always did." So she decided to call her mom and ask her the same question. "Mom, why do you always cut the back of the ham off before you put it in the oven?" She responded, "Because my oven's too small for the whole ham to fit." Meaning, that sometimes we do things simply because that's the way it has been done before.

The Electric Cheese Grater was simple in its design. A plastic 12 inch robot, whose arm moved up and down with the press of a button on its back, was the base of the invention. Through the design and faculty of the person who invented the plastic 12 inch robot whose arm moved up and down with the press of a button on its back, we were able to modify it to becoming an invention of our own. It's not stealing if you put a small cardboard shoe-box over the robot and cut a hole for his arm to move up and down against the cheese grater. The cheese was lodged by a fork we taped to the robot's arm. The robot arm, at the push of the button, would grate the cheese up and down the cheese grater, so long as the cheese grater was in close enough vicinity. I named my invention, "The Electric Cheese Grater," and called it a day. My sister, who went to a different school, turned the project in, received an A and then returned the project to me to use for my science fair. At the beginning of science class that day, the teacher instructed everyone to turn their projects in if they had not already done so. I walked my project up to her desk satisfied that I had dodged a bullet. That evening, she said, would be the science fair where the winners would be revealed and your parents were invited to attend to browse the other student's work. At seven pm, my mom and I went downtown to my school and I was horrified upon walking into the gymnasium that everyone else's science project had a tri-fold displayed behind it to explain the tenents of the experiement or invention. I looked for mine but it was lost under the sea of tall tri-folds and with no explanation behind it, it was easy to overlook. Upon locating mine, I stepped away from it like it was cancerous, and my mom wouldn't acknowledge that there was anything wrong with my project. My mom, who during this time, was exausted from projects such as these, had begun working a second job cleaning houses in addition to her job as a nurse. This was because one of my dad's gambling operations had fallen through and he quit working for several months. On a side note, he always references this time when he wants to brag on my mom. He explains that he was depressed from not working and he had refused some work because he wouldn't "take a job for no $10 an hour," when my mom told him point blank, "Well the money isn't gonna fall from the sky B.J." It confuses me when he brings this up because it doesn't shade either of them in favorable light, but he seems to appreciate my mom for not being afraid to tell him the truth, and for taking up the extra slack when he decided to remove himself from the work force. For richer or poorer, they say.

So, when my mom, tried to pretend nothing was wrong with my project, she did so out of exhaustion because she feared I would lament over this for decades (we are three years shy of 2 decades now, thank you very much) and she worried I would misplace my frustration in her direction. I then told her I wanted to browse on my own which I did but I ultimately returned to my project where I saw a trio of older boys examining it. Just like a scene from a terrible sit-com, I hid behind a someone else's trifold while I listened to the boys examine my project. Surely they would recognize its advanced concept and design, even though it was lacking a tri-fold. "This one is stupid" one of them said, and they walked away. Crushed, I found my mom and told her I wanted to go home. I also grabbed my science project on the way out and dumped it into the trash as if it had betrayed me. Looking back, things could have gone a lot worse. If my mom has overheard the boys she would have done one of two things which would have only drawn more attention: 1) she would have immediately looked at me and said, "--gasp-- I'm sorry baby; don't you listen to them; they're just a bunch of mean 'ole boys," at which point I would have undoubtedly started crying and caused a scene. Kind of how when little kids fall and they feel fine until their moms run up to them to console and coddle them. Or, 2) she would have taken matters into her own hands and yelled at the boys for making fun of my project. At which point I would have literally been begging God for an immediate death so I wouldn't have to suffer this any longer.

I reviewed the assignment when I got home and it said nothing of a tri-fold or explanations, so I felt like I was being set-up. The following science class, my teacher called me up to her desk and told me that my science project was good, but with no explanation she couldn't give it the proper attention it deserved. I wanted to argue semantics and lambast her for assuming I, a new student, would know to do that, and to perhaps save other new students from sufferring such an embarrassment, but I didn't. I preferred her to think of me as just lazy than stupid. The following year, I received an Honorable Mention at the science fair and I felt vindicated. Somehow though, when I decide to think on this time, the failure of the Electronic Cheese Grater seems to evoke a more powerful memory. Which brings me to why I was even thinking of this in the first place. Well, I was shaving in the shower this morning when I remembered some idiotic idea I once had for determining if you have missed a place shaving your legs. This idea was idiotic because it required some length between the shavings so it was not for everyone. That thought reminded me of the time I presented this shaving idea to my sister who actually perked up with interest at my declaration that I had discovered a new shaving technique. That made me wonder, why did my sister perk up with interest and not discard my thoughts as childish banter? Ah, yes, I recalled: Because I had been credited with inventing the Electronic Cheese Grater which afforded her an A. I had earned some credibility in her eyes, which I quickly lost when I told her my idea for shaving.

Mea Culpa

2010-06-01T08:06:00.004-05:00

Today, I was 30 minutes late to work because I couldn't find my car key. How absurd, first of all, that I only have a single car key. Even more absurd is that this single car key stands alone, unattached to any other keys. This is because my dad dropped it and the plastic tip broke so that no key ring will secure it. A replacement or back-up key would have to specially ordered from Mitsubishi and it would costs upwards of $100. So, like many things in my life, I have decided to leave this to chance. Sure, I have spent over $300 in lock-smiths as a result of locking my keys in my car, but every time I do it, I assure myself it will be the last time. Today, however, was not my fault. This past weekend my dad drove my car because I blocked him in the driveway. As soon as I relinquished the single key into the palm of his hand, I knew that if I didn't make a point to unearth the key as soon as he returned, that I would be in for a morning such as the one I experienced. Leaving things to chance, however, I barely noticed when he returned from his outing and I did not question the location of the key until it was time for me to leave this morning.

My mom, my dad and I spent a total of 30 solid minutes looking for the key which was eventually discovered by my mom squished in between the couch cushions. Thirty minutes doesn't ever seem long when you say it, but it is a long time to be looking for something without a break. As time went on, I became more and more angry. I, like my dad, have a temper. My temper is not easily rattled, but it does exist within me, liking a sleeping giant. As time went on and the possibility of me having to call into work, on a day when the receptionist is taking a vacation, to explain that I won't be making it in today, was enough to get my blood boiling and I wanted someone to blame. "No no. I'm not sick," I would have to say. "No I'm not calling in because I partied too much; no, actually, I just can't find my f'ing car key." I decided to let my parents know I was out for blood by slamming my bedroom door. By doing so, I had made a declaration that this was someones fault. After slamming the door I began searching through the dirty clothes I wore that weekend, including the shorts I had worn the last time I drove my car. As I spotted those shorts and began to search the pockets, I had the strangest feeling. Despite already being late to work, I actually breathed a sigh of relief when I didn't find the key in my pocket because I didn't want to have to face my parents with my tail between my legs and say, "Found them!" "Where were they?" they'd ask. I would pretend to ignore them while I decided whether it was worth it to lie. Deciding against the lie I would try and smooth things over by giggling and saying, "In my shorts pockets... hehe." I was so mad that at that point, I wanted to blame someone else just for the purpose of taking out my anger on someone.

During this mad search, I did dulcify my temper by wondering what my dad must be feeling like right then. Dad is constantly reminded of his failing memory. Last week when mom was in the hospital, he confided in me that he gets so embarrassed in front of Frankie and Bo, his younger co-workers, when he tells them a story and he forgets half-way through. It shattered my little heart to hear him say this that I couldn't stand to probe him some more as to why he was embarrassed because I dreaded hearing him say they make fun of him or something horrible to that effect. So my dad, feeling defeated and feeling more and more like he doesn't belong in this world, made me put my anger aside. Throughout the search process, my inner self was in a battle over which feelings would ultimately preside. I could let my anger take force and make my dad feel bad about losing my key, or I could let my empathy prevail and then feel sad for my dad. Neither of those feelings are enjoyable to endure, so I was on the verge of tears either way. Ultimately, I chose empathy. I think that this empathetic nature has developed over time as a coping mechanism to soothe my temper. Any time I have a mad rush of anger or frustration, I won't allow myself to indulge that feeling for too long before I try and figure the person out who has caused my temper to rise. Sometimes this involves some self-righteousness (which I generally loathe to see in people), sometimes it involves a stretch of the imagination (perhaps his mother didn't hug him enough as a child), and sometimes this involves some liberties with psychology (which, for the record, I never took as a part of my course of study.) But, here-in lies the rub, once I have pacified myself with my diagnosis, I am then taken over with feelings of sadness and guilt for that person from my invention. I either, 1) feel sorry for them to the extent that it is hard for me to shake whatever image I constructed to divert my attention from the anger, or 2) I am plagued with good 'ole Irish guilt for ever having been mad at this poor suffering person in the first place. This morning, after the key was discovered, my dad made the long trek from his car where he had been searching to the house. During that time my mom asked me not to be mad at dad and that he didn't mean to. I had the opportunity to laugh it off and say something like, "Sure glad we found it-- I was gonna have to get you to take me to work hehe. See you guys later," but instead, I refused to look at anyone and I threw the emptied contents of my purse back inside it. Dad, feeling defensive, then said, "April, we are gonna have to get another one of those keys made." I cut him a look and left without a word. Once I was to my car, the guilt began to fill me up until I was almost choking back tears. I can't just look at something in a simple isolated way. I have to put it in perspective with the bigger picture and images flashed in my head of my dad being lost in a Walmart parking lot or my dad leaving his keys on the counter of a gas station or some other flub that would leave him feeling alone and vulnerable. At the same time, I was frustrated that my parents seem to hold me back at certain times. Here, when I had been the one who made the sacrifice to wake up at 5:30 am, so I could be at work 30 minutes early to sit in for the receptionist, and when I had actually fulfilled that goal by being ready to walk out the door at 7 am, I was still not able to effectuate that plan because-- gasp-- my parents. I know this is a selfish line of thought, but coupled with other such instances, it is not entirely unfounded. When experiencing this duality, I comfort myself with a quote from F. Scott Fitzgerald's "The Crack-Up": The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function. So, congratulations to me, for not experiencing a nervous breakdown. Like I said though, ultimately the empathy prevailed and I called my mom while driving to work. "Mom, I just want you to know that I'm not mad at anyone. I was just frustrated because I'm late for work." That didn't seem like enough though and my mom only responded with, "Ok. See you tonight. Love you." I guess, I can be grateful that my course in life has taken me back home with my mom and dad so that I can use this time to be some help and comfort to my dad as he makes this transition in life. I can make sure he knows that he's not alone in his struggles and I can try and think of things to help him that he wouldn't think to do for himself. That is my mea culpa.

A Movie Review: District 9

2010-05-28T11:44:00.003-05:00

***** out of 5 stars. It has been a while since I've been impressed with a movie. Lately, I've been satisfied just to not be horrified by cliches. District 9, however, was a good movie where I accepted the plot and went along for the ride. The movie is a "mock-u-mentary" relaying the story of how in 1982, an alien vessel just appeared and hovered over South Africa. Once humans were able to get into the vessel, they discovered an alien race who were malnourished and out of fuel. The aliens look like a crawfish and lobsters and they speak and entirely different language. They are called Prawns and are ugly. They are not the keepers of some great wisdom and they don't teach humans how to be better inhabitants of the universe like most alien first contact movies. For humanitarian reasons, the aliens are escorted from the vessel to be given food. They are sequestered from humans and it eventually became a slum. Twenty-years later, the South Africans are tired of having the Prawns in their backyard and they are being evicted to another district. The main character, Van Der Mere, is in charge of the eviction and he comes into contact with some kind of liquid. The liquid makes him change into a Prawn.

What I found great about this movie was how they story began with such unsympathetic characters-- the Prawns and Van Der Mere-- and the movie ended with me loving them. I suspected at the beginning of the movie that the plot would try to evoke sympathy, but I was determined not to fall for it. To begin with, the Prawns are so freaking disgusting. They eat cat food and their skin is so nasty. They are crude and worthless and I was of the attitude that the humans should just elminate them like an insect infestation. Also, Van Der Mere is so unsympathetic. He is a stupid bureacrat. He is callous and closeminded. By the end of the story, he was a hero and I was about to cry for the baby Prawns. I realized I was being set up, but the main Prawn, Christopher and his little boy-- ahem, please play the violin music now-- make you realize that everyone has feelings and you cannot just disregard the existence of others. To the annoyance of Chris, this movie actually had me yelling at the screen, "Run little Prawn run! Go find your father!!!"

An Ode to my Father, on his 75th Birthday

2010-05-25T09:00:00.006-05:00

This past weekend, my mom was in the hospital for another surgery and Chris was at the beach for a work conference. That meant that me and old dad were in for some one on one time. If you remember from my blog post "The Silent Treatment," the last time dad and I were home alone together, we sat in silence for most of the time. He played internet poker and I watched Dog the Bounty Hunter. This time I decided I would make him talk to me, but to no avail.

Thursday night, my dad and I both proclaimed that neither of us were hungry and, instead, we ate Nestle Toll House chocolate chip cookies for dinner. The electricity then blew out from a violent thunderstorm and we sat in the darkness. It was during this time that I developed an appreciation for the plight of Anne Frank. Locked away in a small little attic with old people who make strange noises... even louder noises outside... no electricity and no entertainment. Upon the loss of electricity, my elderly father immediately fell into a slumber and snores erupted from his already belabored breathing. With no air conditioning, the dogs began to pant loudly and there were no candles to be found. The flashlight that my parents stole from me was dead from my dad shining it into people's eyes and all I could find was a lighter. As a gazed over to my dad, I realized that the dark house was a death trap for him because of his nightly pee breaks, so, with my lighter in tow, I hunted some candles for the bathroom and I moved obstacles out of the way. I chatted with Chris whose power was also out, and while he claimed to find solace in the peace and quiet I told him I felt like Anne Frank, to which he did not respond. At 3 am I woke up to my dad opening my bedroom door and saying, "April! What are you doing?" Groggy and blinded by the lights that had re-appeared after the outage, I said, "WHAT, is going on?!" Dad seemed confused about why I would have left all of the lights on before going to bed, but it dawned on him and he shut my bedroom door without saying anything else.

Friday night after work I visited my oldest friend Jessica, her husband Matt, and their 8 month old son, Jack Henry. Jack Henry is a good baby and he is too pleased with his present condition to try any crawling. Instead, he sits up with his back straight as an arrow and his feet pressed together like a Buddhist monk in meditation while he observes and smiles at his surroundings. When I came home that evening, my dad was watching Anderson Cooper 360. Anderson's guests were Frank Zappa, Anthony Bourdain and CNN's chief political correspondent who is named Candy-- a broad who my dad said, "HAHA! She's trying to look pretty! hahaha!" When Anthony Bourdain, a celebrity chef with no known political knowledge, began speaking about the BP oil crisis, my dad chimed in with a series of long slow nods while saying, "Thaaat's right.... Thaaat's right. I agree with him!" while pointing his finger at the television to let me know which idiot he referencing. Dad seemed happy I was home and he even ate an entire can of soup I heated for him. He even asked me if anything exciting happened at work today. This stems from a story I told him last week about a deposition where the plaintiff's attorney began yelling at one of the sr partner's "SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!!!!!!!" It reminded me of one of me favorite movies "The Insider" where Russell Crowe plays the tobacco company whistleblower Jeffrey Wigand. In the movie, which is based on a true story, Dickie Scruggs and the AG of Mississippi sued the tobacco companies on behalf of the state of Mississippi and they circumvented the whistleblower's confidentiality agreement by subpoenaing him to appear in a deposition in Mississippi. This resulted in the following exchange:

Ron Motley (for the State of Mississippi): Dr. Wigand, does [nicotine] act like a drug?
Tobacco lawyer: Object!
Ron Motley: Is there an echo in here? Your objection's been recorded. She typed it into her little machine over there. It's on the record. So now I'll proceed with my deposition of my witness. Does it act as a drug?
Tobacco lawyer: Dr. Wigand, I am instructing you not to answer that question in accordance to the terms of the contractual obligations undertaken by you not to disclose any information about your work at the Brown and Williamson tobacco company, and in accordance with the force and effect of the temporary restraining order that has been entered against you by the court in the state of Kentucky. That means you don't talk! Mr. Motley we have rights here.
Ron Motley: Boy, you got rights... and lefts. Ups and downs and middles. So what? You don't get to instruct anything around here! This is not North Carolina, not South Carolina, nor Kentucky! THIS IS THE SOVEREIGN STATE OF MISSISSIPPI'S PROCEEDINGS!!!! WIPE THAT SMIRK OFF YOUR FACE!!! Dr. Wigand's deposition will be part of this record! And I'm gonna take my witness' testimony whether the hell you like it or not!

No matter how many times I see that movie, whenever I watch that exchange I have an urge, which I sometimes indulge, to make a fist and throw it into the air while yelling, "YEA! Power to the people!" Of course, this was a Hollywood re-enactment at its finest because the actual deposition, which was videotapped, can be found on YouTube and it is more along the lines of:

Tobacco lawyer: I object
Ron Motley: Hey we heard your objection
Tobacco lawyer: object
Ron Motley: Now, Dr. Wigand does--
Tobacco lawyer: Objection
Ron Motley: we heard your objection
Tobacco lawyer: we object
Ron Motley: --Dr. Wigand, do you need me to repeat the question--
Tobacco lawyer: --object to the question on the basis of the confidentiality agreement you signed---
Ron Motley: Dr. Wigand, does nicotine act like a drug
Dr. Wigand: Yes.

That was more like the deposition we had at work the other day. The sr partner calmly asked the plaintiff's attorney to move on to another question and before the plaintiff's attorney could repeat the question, the sr partner would instruct him to move on to another question. This went on until the plaintiff's attorney could take it no more and he came unraveled, leaned across the conference table, and yelled, "SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!!!!" I told this story to my dad and now he expects these types of tales every day. I thought for a moment knowing that something out of the ordinary had happened and then I perked up as I remembered and said, "Yes!" He turned his attention from the television and said, "What? What happened?!" "I proofread a contract!" I said, and he nodded at me like he was obliging me and turned his attention back to the television.

On Saturday I disgracefully avoided going to visit my mom in the hospital because I claimed to be cleaning the house. I am slowly learning that it is just better to do what you think is moral, not out of an effort to be a goody-too-shoes, but because the guilt that follows is way worse than the momentary evasion of doing something you don't want to do. But by having the house to myself, I was able to revive some memories of what it was like to be on my own, living alone. I could and did spend almost every weekend just hanging out at my house, tending to the chores that would facilitate a better work week and shopping aimlessly at Target. At Target I bought my dad's birthday present: 2 firm pillows, a pair of jeans, slip on boat shoes like the prisoners wear, and some Turtles candy. That night I went to one of my sister's wedding showers and came home at 1o pm to find all of the lights on, the television on, and my dad asleep in his bedroom fully dressed. I had to creep up and get really close to him to make sure he was breathing because he scared me when I couldn't find him. I stayed up to make his birthday cake and the next morning I woke up while he was getting ready to leave to see my mom. I pleaded with him to wait for me and while I got ready he asked me in an irritated tone if he had any clean jeans. I said yes and he asked me where. I told him in the wrapped birthday presents he so casually ignored. We came home to find the house was as hot as Haiti and he called my cousin Mike to come and fix the air conditioner. Mike came over and the next day my aunt Kathryn called my mom to tell her that Mike had been bragging to everyone about the time he got to spend with B.J. "Me and B.J. went to Lowe's together. B.J. came and picked me up. No, I'm not hungry--- I ate with B.J." My mom's side of the family has always revered my dad for some reason. When they were struggling to make ends meet, my dad came in, swooped my mom off her feet and showed her a world where you eat in restaurants with waitors and you go to the doctor when you don't feel well. This could have invoked resentment on their behalf, but my dad was always generous with my cousins-- especially the boys who he felt didn't have much of a role model-- and he would take them places and give them attention that they were lacking. My dad is one of those people who makes people feel special simply by virtue of giving them his attention. However, just as it can be warm in the glow of his attention, it can quickly become cold when he moves on. While my mom and I were visiting my grandmother on Mother's Day, Nanny, as I call her, was watching Top Gun and my mom commented that "That is one good-looking man," as she pointed to Tom Cruise. Nanny, who suffers from Parkinson's, can barely finish a sentence, but when she spotted my mom directing carnal attention toward Tom Cruise, she mustered up the strength in defense of B.J.: "Well---I---know---someone---who---is---better---looking---than---that....." My mom interrupted to say, "I know where this is going." My grandmother finished her sentence, "B---J--- Walker--- is--- better--- looking--- than--- him," and she winked at me. My mom, who over the years has grown frustrated with the Poole family's undying support for my dad, said, "You've always done that! Even when me and B.J. were fighting you'd say, 'don't you be mean to him. You better go back to him. He's one good man.'" I laughed and Nanny smiled at me and nodded. I wouldn't go that far, but I wouldn't trade him.