hatched

A tiny grain of sand

2012-01-12T13:27:00.000-06:00

Oh hi, 2012. Wish you had called before coming over, I would have changed out of these pajamas and maybe brushed my teeth.
(I would beg your indulgence on this post, dear reader, if I didn't have the feeling you had all abandoned me to my neuroses. It's gonna read like a really navel-gazing journal entry. Sorry.)
How does a new year manage to sneak up on me? But it did and here it is, a bright, shiny new year that I have yet to tarnish with continued low expectations and even lower productive output. 2011 was an all around shitty year. Bad things happened to good people, calamities, catastrophes and other words beginning with c. But nothing happened to me! Nothing good or bad, that I can remember. Nothing at all, actually. And I think I've finally figured out why: because I'm sitting here waiting for stuff to happen TO me. Turns out you have to DO stuff for stuff to HAPPEN.
When I was younger and full of more vim and vigor than stale Pop-Tarts and self-loathing, I would have made a list of New Year's resolutions. They would have read like so:
1. Get my novel published!
2. Lose 10 pounds and buy a really awesome wardrobe.
3. Learn to salsa dance.
4. Say yes to all of life's opportunities!
And so on. I never accomplished anything on those lists, but the writing of them filled me with such hope and excitement. This would be my year!, I would always think to myself triumphantly (I also liked to use exclamation points back then). I would begin the new year with my chin set, shoulders and hips in alignment, all chakras illuminated or what-have-you, and I'd set out to conquer that year, Scarlett O'Hara as my witness. Even though I rarely made much headway on the resolutions, I was trying. I did set out to do stuff and even when my plans didn't work out, interesting stuff happened. I can't seem to remember anything off the top of my head but, believe me, stuff happened.
A tiny part of me -- like the grain of sand that was all that was left of Fantasia at the end of The NeverEnding Story -- wants to draw up a list of resolutions and find something exciting to work toward. But I need a goal beyond becoming a certain size or writing a certain number of words or even learning to merengue or cha cha. So I won't make a list -- instead, I'll give myself one resolution this year: stop thinking about it, and just LIVE.

7 Essential Skills You Need for a DIY Remodel

2011-01-27T13:05:00.001-06:00

1. A champagne budget, and beer tastes.
If you have loads of money and you're good at making inexpensive materials look like a million bucks, then you will go far in your home remodel. If, like me, you can make a $4000 granite countertop look like it was installed by blind one-armed monkeys, you probably should just rent.
2. An eye for thrift store stuff that can be repainted/covered/re-engineered to look like something far more expensive.
I bought an old folding screen and intended to cover it with Marimekko fabric and place it in the living room. After moldering on the carport for three years, that folding screen went out with the trash.
3. The ability to negotiate for a better deal.
I have the reverse of this, where you pay far more than something is worth just because you're too embarrassed to haggle and look like a cheapskate.
4. Basic carpentry, painting and power tool skills.
I once cut myself with a hammer. If something needs to be plugged in, I will either trip over the cord or stick a finger in the socket. But I can paint like a mother.
5. Patience.
As if.
6. A willingness to go with the flow and take setbacks in stride.
I painted our new steel doors a couple of weeks ago. Problem is, I painted them high gloss to match the trim. Never do this. In fact, I knew not to do this but it's like my brain had taken a nap for the three hours while this was going on. So there I was, just mechanically painting and thinking about old Seinfeld episodes and musing over which character I liked best when really they're all equally unlikable, then suddenly I realized what I was doing and my brain screamed, "What the hell with the high gloss paint, you idiot?" Then I started crying and pretty much just did that for the next hour. Then I spent two days scraping the paint off the doors and repainting them with oil primer and flat paint in the wall color. The doors look fab, but I have developed a twitch whenever I look at them.
7. The ability to know when enough is enough, and just call the damn contractor already.

What a difference 8 years of marriage makes

2011-01-25T22:02:00.000-06:00

It's 2002. Royal and I are at a luncheon with my co-workers celebrating our engagement:
Royal: (Pokes at salad on plate tentatively.) "Hey, these are dogwood leaves!
Me: (Gazing at him adoringly.) "Oh my God, you're so adorable. My baby has never had arugula! It's so charming!"
Co-workers: Squeal with adoration in unison.

Eight years later, at the dinner table:
Royal: (Pokes at salad on plate tentatively.) "What is--"
Me: (Snarling) "Just eat the damn salad."

37 Songs

2011-01-25T21:14:00.000-06:00

Today starts my birthday week (not that I'm celebrating for an entire week -- in fact, can I just say that I'm not celebrating at all? I still haven't really wrapped my head around being 37 yet) and because I was inspired by Laurel's road trip post, and because I'm a lazy blogger, here are 37 songs I have loved over the years that I will still love at 87, provided I live that long:

1. Bizarre Love Triangle, New Order
2. We Got the Beat, The Go-Gos
3. Come Dancing, The Kinks
4. Rock Lobster, B-52s
5. A Letter to Elise, The Cure
6. Ziggy Stardust, David Bowie
7. Space Oddity, David Bowie
8. Ashes to Ashes, David Bowie (I couldn't pick just one Bowie song)
9. Hold Me, Fleetwood Mac (I always loved this cheesy video, but why were they in the desert?)
10. The Weight, Aretha Franklin
11. Heartless, Heart
12. Electric Church Red House, Jimi Hendrix
13. Once I Had a Woman, Jimi Hendrix
14. Voodoo Chile, Jimi Hendrix (I couldn't pick just one Hendrix song)
15. Texas Flood, Stevie Ray Vaughan
16. In the Evening, Led Zeppelin
17. Misty Mountain Hop, Led Zeppelin
18. Immigrant Song, Led Zeppelin
19. Ramble On, Led Zeppelin (with the old Hobbit cartoon!)
20. Thank You, Led Zeppelin (Oh God, Led Zep was the soundtrack to my teenage years)
21. Why, Annie Lennox
22. Do I Move You, Nina Simone
23. Nobody Knows You When You're Down and Out, Bessie Smith
24. Non Je Ne Regrette Nien, Edith Piaf
25. Wish You Were Here, Pink Floyd
26. Mother, Pink Floyd (and the entirety of "The Wall," the best album of all time)
27. The W.A.N.D., The Flaming Lips
28. Maps, Yeah Yeah Yeahs
29. Violet, Hole
30. Seether, Veruca Salt
31. Train in Vain, The Clash
32. Where is My Mind, Pixies
33. Une Very Stylish Fille, Dimitri from Paris
34. Shake Your Rump, The Beastie Boys (I used to have a huge crush on Ad Rock - he's still pretty cute)
35. Killer Queen, Queen
36. Let's Groove, Earth Wind and Fire (My all-time fave song to roller skate to)
37. Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin), Sly & the Family Stone

Happy early birthday to me!

The Life of a Migraineur

2010-10-28T14:37:00.000-05:00

I love that the term for a sufferer of migraines is French. Unfortunately, that's the only exotic thing about migraines. Unlike my other disorder, this one has no silver lining.

My eyesight is 20/200 and I often read weighty tomes with words printed in 8 point type. I've always had headaches. Most of the time I forget I'm even having one because they're so common. I used to rarely even bother to take pain relievers for my headaches, unless I got one of those tension headaches that made my eyes throb in their sockets. In a perverse way, I thought of my frequent headaches as a badge of honor; a nerd badge from all the reading I did.

At Lipstick, one of our saleswomen suffered from migraines. She always seemed to get a migraine just when I needed her to meet with an important potential advertiser. I suspected her "migraines" were just a convenient excuse. As someone who experienced almost constant headaches, I considered her a lightweight. Not knowing anyone personally who suffered from migraines, I placed them on my list with allergy sufferers -- weak people who didn't spend enough time around germs while growing up.

One day I was sitting in my very loud, very bright office -- my office had three walls of glass, so there was no sound proofing at all against the tide of phones and chatter on our floor -- and I was overcome by the worst feeling I'd ever had. I felt more nauseated than I ever had before. The room seemed to be tilting, the walls melting. Voices that I could normally tune out were shrill and piercing. The light was oppressive -- I felt it would shatter my eyeballs. I had no idea what was going on, but the pressure in my skull was intense. I wanted to cry, to puke, to pass out. What the hell was happening to me? I couldn't speak, but I managed to inch my way down to the back elevator, feeling my way along the wall because my eyes were squeezed shut against the pain. The walk through the atrium was agony. The noise from all four floors of the building had coalesced into a spinning ball of cacophony that lodged in my brain, along with the horrible food smells that came from the cafeteria. Deadly shafts of sunlight streamed through the windows and I thought I would scream. I stumbled out onto the street, and somehow made it to the relative darkness of my car in the parking deck. I called Royal. "Come get me," I sobbed. "I don't know what's happening to me."

The ride home was hellish. Royal had to pull over twice so I could vomit, and the pain in my head was demonic now. I think I begged him to kill me. He didn't know if he should take me home or to the hospital. I just wanted to lie down and die. At home, he put me in bed with a cool cloth on my head and pulled the curtains tight. A handful of Advil later, I felt a bit better. I think I finally slept, although fitfully.

That was my first migraine, and it was certainly the worst. After seeing my doctor, who gave me a shockingly expensive prescription medicine (at the time, it was something like $25 a pill), I was told my migraines were probably hormonal. It seemed my migraines had been brought on by switching to the generic version of the birth control pills I had been taking for years.

Now I get a migraine once or twice a month, and they aren't so bad. I'm prepared for them now with a bottle of Coke (caffeine is a wonder drug) and four Excedrin Migraine tablets. But even when I can dispatch them quickly, migraines have changed my life. I no longer shrug off a headache, I worry that it will bloom across my skull like a bloodstain. I now keep pain relievers in my purse, in my car, on my desk, anywhere that I might need to grab them at a moment's notice. Social plans are often canceled at the first twinge of a migraine. If I'm working, I try to stumble through the pain, but I'm in such a fog that I might as well give in and go to bed.

A migraine can appear on a otherwise perfect day and ruin everything. Like today, when I woke up and actually had some energy. I worked out and was cleaning the kitchen when BAM. A migraine hit and I didn't have a Coke on hand. I swallowed some pills but they just weren't working this time. Two hours in bed helped, but even now I can feel the insistent pressure at the back of my skull.

The worst part of being a migraineur -- besides the debilitating pain, of course -- is that there are no outward symptoms. I don't get a fever, spasms, blotches, a hacking cough, fainting spells or any other outward manifestation that tells people, "This chick is sick." The worst part of getting migraines is that they're all in your head -- and you hope people believe you're not using them as a convenient excuse.

The Meanings of Little Debbie Snack Cakes

2010-10-20T17:31:00.001-05:00

Little Debbie Snack Cakes are sources of much mystery and wonder. How, I ask, can you create a dessert-like snack so full of deliciousness, yet completely devoid of anything remotely resembling actual food ingredients? By pondering the meanings of these faux pastries, we may truly understand the universe.

What your choice of Little Debbie Snack Cake says about you:

Swiss Cake Rolls: Sadomasochists. Most people are unaware of this, but to really enjoy a Swiss Cake Roll, you must first peel off the "chocolate" layer that enrobes the "spongecake" layer. This requires patience and laser focus, after which you will become so frustrated that you consume the rest of the box in one sitting.
Devil Squares: Submissives. Swiss Cake Rolls with training wheels. Eat these and taste your shame.
Oatmeal Cream Pies: Traditionalists and/or ironic hipsters. These little "pies" seem so homely and wholesome Americana, yet to eat them is to truly know bliss.
Nutty Bars: The paterfamilias. My own dad eats them by the case. Whenever I pass by them in the grocery store, I think, "I need to call Daddy." They remind me of steel lunch pails and faded blue coveralls.

Far out, dude

Cosmic Brownies: If you said "drug users," nope, wrong. Sadly, these do not contain the drugs the box leads you to believe they do. These are the O'Doul's of snack cakes.

Fancy Cakes: No one eats these.
Fudge Rounds: The sensualist. "Chocolate" and more "chocolate-type product" are pressed together into delicious, creamy harmony. A wave of fudge icing adorns the moist, rich cake. These are sometimes called "slut cakes."
Fall Brownies: The snack of the easily amused. Whenever my husband sees them in the store, he says, "FAIL brownies"and laughs in a manner very like either Beavis or Butthead. Then he snaps a photo with his phone. I don't know what he does with this photo, since he doesn't blog or tweet or anything. He does this every time we go to the store. EVERY TIME.
Pecan Spinwheels: Your inner child. These take me back to third grade. My mom has set out a plate of these and a cold glass of milk for me after school. It's fall, and the windows are open in the kitchen as I unroll the Spinwheels and eat them in strips. Mama is washing dishes while asking me about my day. The TV softly chatters in another room. I am not aware of it, but this is an extraordinary moment. One day I will forget the pleasure of eating a snack in the kitchen while my mother speaks warmly to me.

Also, one day I will be fat.

What do you call this thing again?

2010-09-28T15:58:00.001-05:00

Well, hello there blog readers. *crickets* Hello? Hey you, out there in the cold, getting lonely, getting old can you feel me? Sorry, Pink Floyd has been ringing through the recesses of my mind all day.

Some people are just good bloggers, you know? Dedicated to the craft of writing. Determined to make their voice heard in the bloggy wilderness. I am not that kind of person. It's not that I don't have anything to say -- OK, it might be that sometimes -- but once I sit down to write I freeze. I become the most critical of critics. I self-edit to the point where the only word on the screen might be "the." I think of telling a really funny story, then wonder if it might offend someone, mainly a potential client. This is not conducive to the creative process.

National Novel Writing Month is coming up in November, and I'm giving it another try. That's why I want to start blogging again, so I can get into the habit of filling a blank page with more than blather. I failed spectacularly at NaNoWriMo last year. I got to 14,000 words and hit a brick wall. I was writing very honestly about myself and it was. So. Hard. Is that where I'm making the critical error, in writing about myself? I want to write what I know, and what do I know better than the foibles and idiosyncrasies of myself?

Unless I turn this blog into an homage to the world of Little Debbie snack cakes or a tutorial on power-leveling your WoW toons, I really don't know what else I could write about, other than myself. But really, isn't every blog topic an insight into how a person thinks, who they are? Like this blog post is all about my ability to over-think a plate of beans. Or an empty blog.

Neighborly Relations

2010-08-11T16:25:00.000-05:00

When I got home from running errands today, there was a huge plant under my carport. It was a painted lady hibiscus, a big, lush plant with glossy leaves and gorgeous blooms. I assumed it was a gift from my mother-in-law, who is gifted with plants and probably thought I'd enjoy the showy flowers. Then I saw the card tucked between the lower branches.

The card was a pet sympathy card, the second I've received in as many days. (I honestly didn't know this genre existed but I am so glad it does.) A handwritten note on the inside flap said:
We know that pets are part of the family. We are so sorry this happened. There is no way to replace your cat, but maybe planting this in your yard will help you remember him. We are so sorry, Paul & Judie.

Paul and Judie are the neighbors across the street, the owners of the Siberian huskies who escaped their enclosure and attacked Benny. They have always seemed like nice enough people, but we didn't know them very well. The morning of, Paul came over to tell us to send the vet bill to him and he profusely apologized to Royal (I was too busy sobbing in the bedroom to talk to him myself). I knew they weren't bad people, and this was all just a terrible mistake. But I did harbor a wee tiny amount of resentment toward them. After all, their dogs were alive and howling to keep the entire neighborhood awake, while my cat was dead.

The plant and the card really moved me, though. I walked over and knocked on the door, and Paul answered the door, looking a little wary to see me. At his feet was his little black dachsund, Fred. Paul was wearing a black tee with an American eagle on it that I tried to not look at too closely because I was afraid it might be some Tea Party bullshit. Fred was wearing a neon mesh wife-beater. Paul and I had a nice chat, awkward at first. I've never met Judie, beyond waving to her while she's in her yard, and Paul told me all about her job. We talked about what home renovation projects we're working on, and lamented how it's always something, isn't it? We shook hands as I left and he apologized again. It was a nice chat.

Strangely enough, I felt some weird relief as I walked across to my own house. Benny's still gone, but a neighborly gesture helped me feel a tiny bit better about the world.

Goodbye Benny

2010-08-09T13:30:00.000-05:00

Two weeks ago our beloved cat Benny -- all of 6 years old, fat and pampered -- was attacked by our neighbor's dogs while playing in our backyard. We rushed him to the vet and he seemed to get better for a few hours. Royal and I began to plan the fence we'd build in the backyard to protect him. The fattening foods he would be allowed to eat. The window seats we would put in all the windows for him to watch the squirrels. Our baby was hurt, but surely he would get better. And we would atone for letting this horrible thing happen to him.

The next day the vet called and said we should put him out of his suffering. Now who will put Royal and I out of ours?

I don't think I really understood the meaning of the word "suffering" before. I've suffered through a bad first marriage, an unwanted pregnancy that thankfully ended in miscarriage (but resulted in two weeks of intense physical suffering), bad bosses who undermined me, boyfriends who thought they could control me. I've suffered the misery of being separated from the man I loved by many months and many thousands of miles. I've suffered from years of depressions, sometimes so debilitating that I couldn't find the energy to even brush my teeth. I've been broke and sick, bereft of friends, miserable with jealousy, curled into a little ball on the bed wondering if this was all there was to life. But until now, I had never suffered this kind of heartbreak.

For people who don't love their pets like children, this all probably seems silly and incredibly melodramatic. The practical side of me sometimes pokes up in my head to say, "Benny was just a cat. Not a child you wanted and lost or a best friend who died. Just a cat." Only he wasn't. He made demands like a child, he listened to me and comforted me like a best friend. He didn't mind the depression or the weird songs I'd sing (although his little face would wrinkle with disapproval). His only task in life, besides ruling our house with an iron paw, was to love me. He had a squishy belly I loved rubbing my face on and practically drooled with ecstasy while being brushed. I loved him so much and I can't bear the thought that I won't see him any more.

Sometimes out of the corner of my eye, I do see him. He was big and white, with a black tail and ears, and sometimes I see a slow-moving bundle of white move past the doorway or I imagine I hear his particularly plaintive meow. As painful as those moments are, when I realize not only is Benny not there but he will never be there, I dread the time when I will cease to see him at all.

Look at me

2010-05-18T14:49:00.000-05:00

When you pass a stranger on the street, or get on a crowded elevator, or take your change from the cashier, do you look them in the eye? I don't, usually. I'm fairly shy, and I like to make my day-to-day interactions as short as possible. But something strange happens on those rare occasions when I look up and lock eyes with someone who is not known to me. The sense of connection, of awareness of another person is striking. Sometimes it can be scary or feel so intimate as to leave me blushing. Do you feel this way? Do you look others in the eye during your day?

I am obsessed with Marina Abramovic's art piece at MOMA, "The Artist is Present." During her performance, Abramovic sits in a chair, unmoving, barely blinking, while patrons take turns seated across from her. No words are exchanged, but the emotional impact is palpable.

Link-y goodness:
MOMA
Flickr portraits of patrons
Novelist Colm Toibin's review for NY Review of Books

A spanking! A spanking!

2010-05-02T22:28:00.000-05:00

I'm sorry, this is not a post about "Monty Python and the Holy Grail" (collective groan from the audience). Nor is it relating to BDSM in any way, so if you came here via some selective search terms this post will be really disappointing.

This is a post about spankings. The kind you receive as an impressionable child and later seething adolescent at the hands of your most likely fundamentalist parents or unenlightened teachers. Or do liberals spank their children? The liberals I know just burn sage and wave it over the offending child to ward off evil spirits. But I digress...

I got a lot of spankings as a child. A LOT. I got spanked in first grade for talking too loud, for laughing because the boy behind me farted, and once for telling the teacher she was wrong. She was indeed wrong -- Christopher Columbus did not discover America, and I thought all this attention he was receiving was just ridiculous -- and I and my father got a nice apology from Mrs. Smith after Daddy brought this to her attention. (I actually later grew to like Mrs. Smith quite a lot. A nice lady, if uninformed about the discovering of her native land and all that.) I got spanked for throwing dirt at a boy I hated, for sticking my tongue out at the principal (don't ask), for looking out the window when I was supposed to be looking at the blackboard, but mostly for talking. Almost daily in primary and elementary school for talking. In junior high and high school I learned to be discreet and write notes instead.

And those were just the spankings in school. I also got spankings from my parents once I got home for getting any spankings in school. My dad spanked me once for putting a bowl down in the sink that suddenly broke, and my father claimed I had put the bowl down "angrily." Well, I wasn't angry until the spanking happened, dad.

Once my beloved grandfather spanked me, a fact that sends shudders through the rest of the grandchildren as only I and my cousin Shelly have ever been spanked by him. One of us, I forget which, had been given this toy that involved upside down plastic cups with rubber straps on them that we walked on. I have no idea what they were called. Anyway, we fought over this stupid toy. It was my turn and Shelly was hogging the toy, as she often did, and I was totally calling her on it. We were about 8 years old and arguing over a second-rate dollar store toy on the front porch of my grandparents' house when Papa -- a large, imposing man who rarely displayed any anger -- came tearing out the door.

"What the hell is going on out here?" he bellowed. Before I could get over my shock at Papa saying "hell" in our presence, he had snatched us up and whipped us both. I was mortified. Papas are supposed to be loving and tolerant and give you candy, not spank you on the front porch where God and the entire Slocum family can see you. Funnily enough, my grandfather has a very hazy recollection of this momentous day, and only maintains that we both "probably deserved it."

Let me pause briefly to acknowledge the elephant in the room. I'm sure many of you who know me more than passing well are reading this and nodding your heads wisely. So that's where the rage comes from. Let's save that post for another time. What I would like to share with you now is the most heinous spanking of my memory, a memory that is long and full of probably hundreds of spankings.

It was 11th grade. I was 17. I looked at least 22. I was in study hall, a "class" I was taking because my school required it and I wish I was kidding about that. Our usual teacher, Coach Lightsey, was out that day and we had a substitute. (Note for a later post: Why did my high school have so many coaches masquerading as teachers? Oh, rage building...) I don't remember the substitute at all, only that I think she was a young and rather frail-seeming woman. An easy mark for the bigger, more raucous members of 5th period study hall. Suffice it to say, she did not have an easy go of it as our babysitter that day. Some students busied themselves with just talking loudly, others sang or made quite elaborate paper airplanes. Silly but harmless stuff. Most of us were reading, doing homework, or talking quietly to neighbors, ignoring the poor sub's shrieks for attention. While I would love to say I was reading Plath and writing dark poetry in my journal, I'm about 99% sure I was sleeping, because God made study halls so students could take naps in class unmolested. When I woke up and hastily wiped the drool off my desk, the sub was almost in tears and swore that Coach Lightsey would "make us pay."

By the next day, all thoughts of the substitute had been forgotten. We filed into study hall, rolling our eyes and sighing heavily when we saw Coach Lightsey had returned (he was a bit of a ball buster) and took our seats. Coach strolled up to the front of the class and said, "So what happened yesterday?" Silence. We weren't even sure what he was talking about. Perhaps he had become confused, and mixed up our study hall period with one of the actual subjects he taught (math, if I remember correctly)? He was a coach, after all, and most of us regarded him as tough but rather slow.

"I said, what happened yesterday," he repeated, his jaw clenched and his voice sliding down an octave. This made us squirm in our seats a bit. He was pissed, we could tell. But about what? We all looked around at each other for guidance. The sub wasn't bleeding when she left, was she? Sure, we were noisy, but he can't possibly take issue with that in STUDY HALL, can he? But reader, he did.

"Since none of you want to speak up," he said, spittle flecking those in front row, "you can all report to Mr. Stringer's office tomorrow for a paddling." The room immediately erupted in Say what? or whatever the 1991 equivalent would have been. We were outraged. A paddling! At our ages! I was most outraged because I had slept through all of the hootin' and hollerin' but would be punished just the same. "If someone wants to speak up and say who disrupted class, we will only paddle the offenders," he intoned, his narrowed gaze sweeping the room. I thought for sure the nerds would break ranks on this one, but once it sank in that this was an "us vs. them" situation, the room grew perfectly quiet. Nobody wanted to be the tattletale.

The next morning at 8 am, our class was lined up in the hallway outside Mr. Stringer the assistant principal's office. The chatter at first was boisterous and making the whole thing into a big joke. How cool were we, such a bad ass class we all had to be paddled at once! Such rule breakers! The big guys went first. Since these were the actual "offenders" in question, they felt themselves honor-bound to go first and get the first few licks. We knew his swinging arm would be fresh for the first few students, and start to flag about middle of the field. There were 30 of us, and I was roughly #15 in line. Some of the jokesters had put magazines or folded paper towels in the seat of their pants to cushion the blow, but we all thought this was more about symbolism. Ol' Coach Lightsey showing the kids he meant business.

Then the first kid came out. He was roughly 6'1", 200 pounds and he was holding back tears and rubbing his ass in misery. "Holy shit" was all we could get out of him as he hobbled down the hallway. The line erupted in pandemonium. Some of the girls burst into tears and the rowdier kids were threatening lawsuits. But who were they kidding. This was Mississippi, where civil liberties go to die. We knew we were doomed.

By the time my turn came, I was practically nauseous. I did consider sticking my finger down my throat to vomit and lose my place in line. However, 1) puking in public is probably worse than a spanking and 2) I was a little afraid they'd spank me any way, and I'd be known for the girl who puked and got spanked anyway. I walked into the principal's office like Marie Antoinette to the guillotine.

Mr. Stringer stood off to the side, hands folded, his jowls resting on his starched collar. Coach Lightsey stood beside him and a little apart, the better to get a good swing. The paddle in his hands was like nothing I'd ever seen. It was at least three inches thick and carved with a word that I don't remember. I'm pretty sure the rumor was that it was Coach Lightsey's personal paddle with which he carried out all ~~executions~~ school-sanctioned spankings and it had a name carved into it, like "The Beast" or "The Equalizer" or something. I have mercifully blocked the paddle's name from my memory.

I was told to bend over the desk, which I did with much reddening of my face. The executioner, er, Coach Lightsey spared me a brief, evil smile, then drew back his arm, the paddle raised high into the air. I'm sure it took only a second for the wood of the paddle to meet the acid-washed denim of my Girbaud jeans, but it felt like eternity. I felt I could hear it whooshing through space, seeking to blot out my very heart. Oh who am I kidding? I got spanked by a middle-aged man, just one lick, and then they said, "Next!"

Jesus Christ on a cracker, did it hurt. Tears sprang to my eyes immediately, but I laughed it off when outside with my friends. I could barely sit all day. I felt swollen and bruised, but mostly I felt fucking violated. I wanted to tear Coach Lightsey's throat out with my teeth. How dare he.

Not long after I graduated, I got word that Coach Lightsey had died. He had been sick with cancer for some time and had passed away after a very long battle. While I felt sympathy for his wife, also a teacher, I struggled to find some crumb of pity in my heart for Coach Lightsey but I kept seeing him with that damn paddle. I wondered if he had enjoyed telling an almost grown woman to "bend over" while he spanked her. Did he enjoy that power he had exerted over us, making us fear him, making us feel pain? I knew our little ordeal in Mr. Stringer's office couldn't compare to what he suffered in his illness, but I wondered if he had had any regrets while he lay dying. If he could, would he try to impart wisdom to us in that class, instead of dread? Make us feel enlightened instead of terrified? Would he be a different kind of man, the kind who children wanted to be, if he could go back?

Then my thoughts were interrupted by a friend of mine, who had also been in that infamous class. "Dude," he said, "I heard Coach Lightsey loved that paddle so much he got buried with it." Yeah, I think a man like that probably wouldn't regret a damn thing.

Giving up on writing

2010-04-18T21:59:00.000-05:00

The last few weeks, I've heard the same question from several well-meaning friends and relatives: "Have you given up?"

Ignoring the thought for the moment that, in my relatives' cases at least, this refers to my weight -- which has ballooned far north of the ability to wear the fat clothes in my closet -- I'm pretty sure they're talking about my writing. Or lack of it. I still do contract writing for small businesses (and one large corporation I will decline to name), but this is not what anyone I know thinks of as "writing." They want me to write stories.

In the not-so-distant past, I used to write stories. Stories about funny episodes from my childhood, or something absurd that had happened to me as an adult or, more likely, something completely ridiculous I had done that had turned out all screwy. I also used to blog, too, although we all know I was never really consistent at that.

But back to this question, which I guess I was not all that surprised to hear. I have wondered this same thing myself over the last year and a half, during which I got laid off from the magazine I helped found and struggled to find anyone who would give me even the most menial work. The writing I did during this time was angry, self-pitying sometimes and not at all good. Not at all. I am a terrible critic of my own work (aren't we all?) but I felt like whatever creative spark lived inside me had said, "That's it, I'm getting out of here," packed up and joined the Peace Corps. If it ever came back, it was going to be changed and probably all self-righteous. Then I realized it wasn't creativity I was missing -- it was the ability to actually work long and hard at the craft of writing. It's not easy. And those of you who say writing comes easily are probably writing bullshit anyway.

Here's my struggle with all of this: There's a huge disconnect between what I want to write and what I think I "can" write. I mean what's acceptable to write. I prefer reading, and writing about, the darker, smudgy side of life. I like ambiguity and uncertainty and shades of gray. Humans are more interesting as stained, imperfect creatures. I don't want to write sweet, happy prose about how awesome my neighborhood is or how I am an expert on yada yada subject. I want to tear your heart out. If I can't do that, then I really will give up.

Happiness is hard work

2010-02-22T12:55:00.000-06:00

A post on Jezebel today has really got me thinking. Why is happiness such hard work for some of us?

The Jez article cites two books, Bluebird: Women and the New Psychology of Happiness by Ariel Gore and The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin. I stumbled upon Rubin's site a little over a year ago (just in time to deal with my layoff) and her musings on happiness have been tremendously helpful. Most of her theories are no-brainer stuff: do good things for others, be mindful, exercise consistently, incorporate fun in your day, etc. But what has helped me most is the daily reminder to work on being happy. Because for me -- and I'm guessing millions of others since these books have gotten so much attention -- happiness is something I have to work on every single day.

Here's my daily formula: do some meaningful and productive work, do something enjoyable (take a walk, cook a new recipe, have lunch with a friend), do something nice for someone else (sometimes I just retweet someone or leave a nice comment on their blog or I spend an afternoon volunteering) and remember that I don't have to be perfect. It's that last one that's the killer.

Since I really began "working" on being happy I can say that I'm about 150% happier. (Of course, when I started this I had just come out of a trough of depression, so I had a really long way to go.) I'm curious about other people, though. Are you naturally a happy person? If not, do you work on finding happiness?

100 things about me, the final installment

2010-02-17T11:43:00.000-06:00

Are you as sick of me as I am?
81. My breakfast this morning was Nutella straight from the jar and a glass of milk. Breakfast of champions.
82. I used to eat Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch every morning for breakfast, so the Nutella is an improvement.
83. Royal is gone on a business trip to Orlando for the next three days and I am excited about having the house to myself. Not that I won't miss him terribly, but I can listen to 80s music and watch as much crap on TV without fear of him thinking badly of me.
84. I am going to work out today. I mean it.
85. I do all my own stunts.
86. I never thought that at age 36 I would still be living in the South. I like snow. I like cold weather. I don't like collard greens or fatback or even grits really unless they're baked with copious amounts of cheese. I don't watch football, collegiate or otherwise. I wear a lot of black and am sarcastic. I have always lived in the South (born and raised in Mississippi, moved to Alabama at 25) except for a one year stint in Germany. But besides my accent and my obvious roots here, what makes me a Southern girl? I feel lost here sometimes, as if my tribe moved on without me to a colder climate.
87. But here's what I love about the South: really awesome BBQ, the friendliness of strangers, that we have a grocery store called Piggly Wiggly and everybody calls it The Pig, that girlfriends are considered sacred. Who knows, maybe if we moved I'd be terribly homesick. It's possible I'd feel out of place just about anywhere.
88. I absolutely cannot stand the word "fashionista." Or anything with an -ista on the end, unless it is "Sandinista" and we are discussing the tumultuous regimes of Nicaragua.
89. Don't even get me started on "recessionista." Gag.
90. Almost forgot the most important thing I love about the South: pimento cheese. I could eat it every day. Jim 'N Nick's here has a great burger with pimento cheese on it that makes me almost want to whistle Dixie.
91. Royal and I have talked about living in other places, mainly the west coast. I'm drawn to rainy weather and good food, so Seattle or Portland seemed logical. I could also do Minneapolis or some quiet town in the Northeast.
92. I got married in a red dress and spike heels at the courthouse. Royal was in Army dress.
93. After our wedding, Royal offered to take me to the finest restaurant in town. I told him I was really craving chicken wings, so we had that instead. "You're an awesome wife," he said. I so know it.
94. Royal is an awesome husband, too. He has put up with my weirdo tendencies, depression, fits of rage (once I flung all the food I was grilling into the yard saying, "There, cook it your damn self"), utter silliness and crying jags. He never seems to get frustrated with me, even when I'm going over and over the same crap like I'm bothering a sore tooth. He listens and hugs me and tells me I'm wonderful. What else could I ask for?
95. Music I listen to over and over: "Howl" and "Rabbit Heart" by Florence + The Machine; "Heavy Cross" by Gossip; "Freeway" by Aimee Mann; "Maps" by Yeah Yeah Yeahs
96. Musical artists I adore: M.I.A., Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Gossip, Talking Heads, David Bowie, Santigold, B-52s, The Go Gos, Annie Lennox, Zap Mama, Outkast, Nina Simone, Chaka Khan. Lots more, but these get the most play on my iPod.
97. I love flamboyant people. I am a pretty reserved person, so people who are completely out there and unafraid are my heroes.
98. There are lots of things I don't like about myself. My weight. My fear of rejection. My crankiness. My inability to bake a cake from scratch. I'm working on these things this year.
99. There are also some things I like about myself. My unerring honesty. How I can make my friends laugh. My love for animals. My compassion for people who have very little in life. I need to develop more ways to be a better person this year.
100. If there's one thing I want readers of this blog to take away from this about me, it's this: I am who I am. I don't put on a show for people, or pretend to be what I'm not. I'm not ashamed of my foibles and flaws. It's taken many years, therapy, lots of books and countless hours of overthinking, but I can at last say, "This is me, and I'm OK."
Thanks for reading!

Unemployed for a year

2010-02-16T09:46:00.001-06:00

February 13 had an extra special distinction this year: it marked the one year anniversary of my unemployment. While I was hardly celebrating the date, I couldn't help but dwell a bit on it. A whole year. Without a job. The enormity of that statement is pretty soul crushing.

I still remember that day vividly. We were sending the April issue to the printer, and I had come in early to help Michelle go over the PDFs before we sent them off. I had had a bad feeling all week, and my boss wouldn't answer any of my pointed questions -- as in, "Will we have jobs next week?" -- with a direct answer. So I knew something was looming, I was just trying not to think about it.

At 8 am, she called. From the tone of her voice, I knew what was about to happen. Then she said, "Gather your people and meet me in HR at 8:30." So this was it. I had been fretting over it for months, and it was finally here. To be honest, my first feeling was relief. At least I knew now, and I could move on. No more sleepless nights and trying to stay positive (and failing, mostly) for my staff.

We trundled down the stairs to our doom at exactly 8:30. My boss, the director of HR and the publisher were gathered in the room. After going over the technical details of our severance and what not, we were told we needed to vacate our offices by 5 pm. Back in the relative privacy of our offices, we sent off the issue and packed up as quickly as humanly possible. A little after noon, we were throwing boxes in my car, turning in our badges, and hightailing it to Bottletree to wallow in our collective sorrow and rage. It was a low point for all of us.

For me, at least, it got even lower as the months went by. I was drawing unemployment, which was a lifesaver, but I wasn't even getting nibbles on my resume. Doors I had always assumed open to me closed in my face. I was competing against more and more of my friends as magazine after magazine folded all around us. I became ever more disheartened, and finally I just stopped looking.

Depression sunk its black claws into me again. I slept for fourteen, fifteen hours a day, tired of just existing. I stopped communicating with people, didn't answer emails, didn't go to parties or events that I used to enjoy. Part of me wondered if I would ever work again -- sounds dramatic, I know. But when so much of your self worth is tied up in your job, it's hard to see things realistically.

Fortunately, I got tired of being tired and morose. I forced myself to cold call people for jobs, I put aside as much pride as I could and I asked for help. Slowly, and not so surely, I began to get my footing back. Life didn't seem as hopeless as I had thought. I got a couple of reliable freelance clients, and I went on some promising interviews. I didn't get those jobs, but I felt wanted a bit more.

So here I am a year after that dreadful day, and I still feel like I'm fighting to keep my head above water every single day. When I open my eyes every morning, I have to make a choice to be positive or give in to my natural pessimism. Sometimes pessimism wins. I am not naturally positive and it's hard work for me to remain so. But I do it.

To my fellow unemployed (sorry -- "freelance") friends, you have my unwavering love and support. If there is one important lesson I've learned above all others this year, it's that misery loves company. Just kidding! It's that having friends who understand makes all the difference. It does make it easier to get up in the morning, and to get through an entire year being unemployed. I hope we have no other such anniversaries.

100 things about me, Part 4

2010-02-16T08:16:00.000-06:00

61. Finding 100 original things to say about myself is surprisingly difficult.
62. I am a compulsive list maker, so you'd think this would be right up my alley. I have whole notebooks filled with various lists, from grocery lists to "things to do before I die."
63. One of the things I want to do before I die: learn to make my grandmother's chicken and dumplings. I've watched her do it, and can never duplicate it. She rolls out her dumplings, so they are more like big squares of dough. But they are perfect and delicious.
64. I love rainy days and settling in on the couch with a good book or a pile of magazines.
65. I have a cat who licks all the condensation from the windows in my office every morning. He's doing it right now.
66. I have keratosis pilaris, or what is sometimes referred to as "chicken skin." My body produces too much keratin and I have the tiny bumps and redness all over my upper arms. This is why no one I know has ever seen me in a sleeveless shirt. It's a pain in the ass.
67. Royal just told me I need to say that I like to talk over other people's conversations. This is a pet peeve of his.
68. I routinely run into things like the corner of the bed or my dresser and have bruises all over my legs. It's like I'm walking through the house in a fog and bam! There's the bed.
69. My dream job was to be editor of a magazine, then I became editor of a magazine. Not my dream job any more.
70. I can overanalyze a plate of beans.
71. Royal and I spent Valentine's Day playing Super Mario and watching Clone Wars. We are not exactly romantics.
72. I hate romantic comedies. Well, except old ones like The Awful Truth or Bringing Up Baby. I am getting so sick of seeing beautiful, accomplished women on screen being treated like they are pariahs because they have no man in their life. And why do they suddenly become these shrill harpies when planning the wedding? I don't know any women like this. And I don't enjoy watching women reduced to a stereotype. Hollywood has some serious misogyny issues, and I don't spend my money on making it worse.
73. I don't like Judd Apatow movies either. Seriously overrated.
74. I'm a pretty sensitive person, and looking for a job for the past year has taken a toll on my self-esteem. I'm beginning to feel unwanted.
75. When I got laid off a year ago, I thought I'd find a job quickly. I'm a smart person, and I always get along great with people. Now, I sometimes feel like I'm begging people just for a chance to prove myself. I know I'm not alone in this, but it feels like it.
76. I promise I will try to make the rest of this list more positive. Just feeling down today.
77. I wish I was more talented with the camera. My cats are looking extra cute right now.
78. Sometimes when I'm driving around town running errands, I get an overwhelming urge to get on the interstate and just keep driving until I reach the end of civilization. In Alabama, this doesn't take too long. I kid, I kid!
79. I am a bad joke teller.
80. I will work a little harder on my last 20 things about me. These were a little tired, I'm afraid.

100 things about me, Part 3

2010-02-08T15:52:00.001-06:00

41. I can type about 80 wpm.
42. I can barely write legibly any more, but I think this is a pretty common phenomenon among people who work on a keyboard all day. I wrote out a check today and it looked like a ransom note.
43. I watch a lot of old movies. 90% of my favorite films are in black and white. Colorizing black and white films is a mortal sin in my book.
44. I once interviewed the designer Betsey Johnson. Sadly, it was only over the phone. Still, she was as delightful as you'd expect.
45. My favorite colors are red and purple. I try not to wear them at the same time.
46. When I was a kid, I had a guinea pig named Caesar. Also, a raccoon named Rascal.
47. I think I'm getting asthma. The last few times I've gone walking in our neighborhood, I've gone about ten minutes and started to feel like someone was sitting on my chest. It was almost impossible to breathe in or out. Pretty scary. I sometimes get this when I walk or run on the treadmill, but it's not as bad as when I'm outdoors. Pollution? And no, I haven't seen a doctor about it.
48. I keep trying to become a vegetarian, but I can't quite make it stick. But I probably eat meat less than five times a month.
49. The best thing I've ever eaten was tortellini Gorgonzola at a tiny restaurant called Gino's in Neustadt, Germany (at least, I think it was Neustadt. Royal and I can't quite remember the name of the town). The owners were northern Italians and the pasta was freshly made. Wonderful cream sauce flecked with ham and (as the name implies) Gorgonzola cheese. The second best thing I've ever eaten would be the meal we had at another tiny restaurant, this time in San Gimignano, Italy. Lamb chops, local bread, pumpkin ravioli, a chocolate sampler and some local wine. Simple, fresh ingredients beautifully prepared. I was in heaven.
50. If I could live anywhere, it would be southern Germany. Gorgeous landscape, hearty food, proximity to all the awesomest European countries.
51. When I was in fourth grade, my teachers wanted to promote me to 6th grade because I was so far ahead. My parents let me make the decision, and I decided not to because I didn't want to be that nerdy girl. I still was that nerdy girl, just got to be nerdy among people I knew well.
52. I regret that I didn't do a semester abroad. Money was an issue then, but it would have been well worth it. My English major friends lived it up in London and Edinburgh without me.
53. Places I'd like to see: India, China, Morocco, Ireland, Iceland.
54. I'm a terrible procrastinator.
55. I have a recurring dream about this fantastic house in San Francisco that Royal and I are thinking about buying. I've never been to San Francisco, but it looks amazing in the dream.
56. I almost drowned when I was 6.
57. I fear public speaking more than death.
58. I loathe shopping. It makes me tired and cranky and depressed. Even if I go shopping with somebody else's money.
59. Sometimes I fantasize about going into politics, but then remember that a pro-choice, pro-gay marriage, anti-death penalty gal like myself would never get elected in Alabama. Also, there's that fear of public speaking and all.
60. As of this week, I've been laid off exactly one year. Sigh.

100 things about me, Part 2

2010-02-04T13:47:00.000-06:00

21. I am very nearsighted. Can't drive, watch TV or even read without corrective lenses.
22. The nail on my right index finger is stunted and won't grow past the edge of my nail bed. This has freaked out every nail technician I have ever been to. It's not like I have six fingers on that hand or something!
23. I can't stand Ernest Hemingway. Macho crap.
24. I have a weird fixation on fried popcorn shrimp. I will eat them until I'm almost sick. It doesn't matter if I just had them for lunch, I will eat them again at dinner. And again the next day. We never (almost) buy popcorn shrimp for this reason. Are they breaded in crack or something?
25. My husband and I watch a lot of animated stuff. Spongebob, Jimmy Neutron, Avatar (Last Airbender, not that stupid blue alien stuff), Looney Tunes, Fairly Oddparents, the usual fare. But a few months ago I saw my first Miyazaki anime and was Blown. Away. I have never been so enchanted by a film (it was Howl's Moving Castle). Until I saw Spirited Away. And then Princess Mononoke. And Nausicaa. I have the rest of his films in my Netflix queue. Brilliant filmmaking that is a pleasure to behold.
26. But my favorite film of all time is All About Eve. I can't even remember how many times I've seen this. It's just marvelous writing. Bette Davis is at the peak of her considerable powers and her lines are drenched in acid. Funny, delicious bitchfest.
27. Daniel Craig is my favorite James Bond. Sorry, Connery.
28. I drive a stick, and most of the valets in this city are completely flummoxed by it. This is a source of some pride for me.
29. I am pro-choice.
30. I once made out with a boy who went on to get busted for smoking pot in the Mississippi state capitol building.
31. Royal and I have been married 7 years. We married each other less than three months after we met. My parents knew each other only about that long before they got hitched and they've been married for almost 38 years. I hope I can stand him for that long.
32. Royal and I are child-free by choice.
33. We have four fur children who are more than enough right now, thank you.
34. I am trying to be an optimist this year but it's still a struggle. I am a natural pessimist, and frankly I think I see the world more realistically than all you rainbows and unicorn folk.
35. I am much kinder to others than I am to myself.
36. I am much more tolerant of others than I am of myself.
37. In fact, I would say I irritate myself much more often than others irritate me.
38. I am constantly astounded by the kindness of others, and try to remember to pay it forward.
39. I am a horrible dancer, but I do it anyway.
40. I am a terrible phone person. I just absolutely loathe talking on the phone and will try to avoid it at all costs. This means I currently have several friends who are annoyed with me, but I really wish they would email me instead. Are you reading this, Robin?

100 things about me, Part 1

2010-02-03T16:12:00.000-06:00

I started following a new blog last week, Surf's Up Buttercup, because I also stalk her on Twitter. Also, because she is an interesting person and our interests often intersect. For her blog's first post, Laura listed 100 things about herself (or, actually 76 because she was late for church and also has time management issues). I was intrigued, mainly because I figured if I cut it up into lists of 20 I could get five easy posts out of that idea. And y'all know I'm all about easy. What makes this a little more challenging is that, as an extreme over-sharer, I've probably already used up all my good bits on this blog. I'll try to limit myself to unique things you have not yet read about me here or in my scandalous former magazine.
Fasten your seatbelts, kittens:
1. I don't floss. My dental hygienist loathes me.
2. I've never had a cavity. So there, hygienist.
3. I started wearing a bra when I was 9 after my third-grade teacher pulled me aside and told me I was "developing." At the time I was wearing a shirt that my grandma gave me that said "I never get lost because everyone always tells me where to go." I feel there is a profound, Alice Munro-type story in there somewhere but I haven't yet figured it out.
4. My parents almost named me Heather Nicole. *shudder*
5. I was not in a sorority in college, and I am extremely self-righteous about it.
6. I got married at 19 and divorced at 21, which played a large part of why I was not in a sorority. Seriously, those bowheads would have been scandalized by my Jezebel self. Instead, I had an apartment off campus with another divorcee. Stories for another time, as my Daddy reads this blog...
7. My mother used to babysit a boy a bit younger than me when we were kids and he called me "Teen Teen." How freaking hard is it to say Tina? I mean honestly.
8. I have severe girl crushes on Dita Von Teese, Mariska Hargitay and Michelle Obama.
9. I'm afraid of frogs and toads. Probably not phobia territory, but close. When I was a teenager my brother threw a toad at me and it hit me in the mouth. Unfortunately, it was not a Hypnotoad and I did not engage in Toad Licking.
10. I'm allergic to eggs but often eat them anyway, if it's something like quiche.
11. Last week I cut open my thumb using a winged corkscrew. That sucker cut out a good 1/4" of flesh from my thumb. It wasn't the sharp part that cut me, either, but the little corkscrew wheel. Who does this? And no, I had not been drinking.
12. I can't use chopsticks.
13. If you give me a plant, I will kill it. It doesn't matter what kind of plant, or if I try really hard to keep it alive. It will die.
14. I can't stand those "daily quote" kind of things. Say something original. Tweeters are so bad about this.
15. Do NOT send me an email forward, no matter how knee-slappingly funny you find it. I will delete it, complain about it if it's offensive, and consider blocking your emails from now on. Notice to Daddy: This does not apply to you, of course.
16. I love watching people fall down. Just thinking about it right now is making me laugh. Once, my little sister was over at my townhouse in college and I was coming down the carpeted stairs with a laundry basket full of dirty clothes. My socks slipped on the carpet and I tumbled down the stairs, clothes flying out of the basket and my limbs flailing for purchase. I didn't even see this and I think it's the funniest thing that has ever happened. My sister practically wet the couch.
17. My sister and I used to talk about poo a lot. We don't so much any more, but probably because she has two young sons and is probably sick to death of poo.
18. I love curse words. I refrain from profanity in most situations, but I have a few friends with who I can let my freak flag fly. Swear words are marvels of economy of expression. I don't use too many on this blog because I'm not out to purposely offend anyone, but sometimes, gosh darn it to heck, they just make more sense than tiptoeing around them.
19. I once had my picture taken with LL Cool J. I really wish I could find that pic. We look like a couple, for real. He smelled so good.
20. I'm a feminist. Women deserve equal treatment with men. Full stop.
Check back for part 2 tomorrow!

Six Word Memoir possiblities

2010-02-03T14:32:00.000-06:00

Just got a cryptic email from my husband that said, "Can u write 6 word memoir 4 ur blog." (Hmm... What is he up to today?) I don't think I have anything as brilliant as Aimee Mann's Couldn't cope so I wrote songs, but I'll give a few options a spin. Here you go, honey:
I am not making this up.
Maybe I am making this up.
Any minute now, something will happen.
Trying to get to just enough.
I just had the strangest dream.
I don't lie, I just embellish.
I know I can do better.

Read some really good ones at SMITH Magazine.

Another year older but none the wiser

2010-02-01T09:07:00.000-06:00

Yesterday I turned 36. Birthdays are a bit of a non-event to me, so this day was not auspicious in any way, except perhaps for the fact that I feel like at this age I should really start to act like an adult. My daily breakfast shouldn't be a glass of milk with four heaping tablespoons of Nestle Quik, for example. It's time for whole grains and serious thinking!

So while playing Lego Star Wars yesterday, Royal and I talked about what we felt was holding us back from attaining true adulthood.
"Laziness," he offered.
"Oh yes," I agreed, "I don't think lazier people exist. I don't even bend down to pick things up off the floor, I just try to pinch them with my toes or just kick them out of the way. That's pretty lazy. The question is, how do you stop being lazy?"
We pondered this question while our Darth Maul and General Grievous characters accidentally killed each other on screen.
"Maybe we also need to do stuff that adults do," I said finally, "like play games less and watch CSPAN or read stock reports." We agreed that, although we do enjoy the occasional CSPAN interlude, we were unlikely to take this course of action.
Royal suggested a walk. It was a glorious day, so while we walked we talked about what exactly was wrong with us. We were always very responsible when it came to work. We both worked hard at our jobs (I do work hard as a freelance writer, I just make it seem effortless) but when we came home all that responsibility and effort came to a screeching halt. Cleaning the house was like getting an invasive medical exam to me, something that needed to be done but avoided until my life might actually be in danger. Royal probably doesn't even know where the cleaning supplies are stored in our house, so he's definitely not taking the lead in this. And it wasn't just housecleaning that we were letting slide, but house repairs and budgeting and saving and planning for the future.
We didn't get everything figured out on our walk, but did come to an agreement that a "just do it" attitude and doing things together would go a long way. In many ways, our shared delight in what might seem like childish things to others -- gaming, junk food eating, 14-hour sleeping binges -- has been a source of keeping us strongly tied to one another. I don't know anyone who I could play World of Warcraft with for 8 hours or watch back to back to back episodes of Spongebob with except my husband. While some may think we bring out the worst tendencies in each other. we like to think that we're helping each other keep that inner child alive and kicking.
And at my advanced age, I need all the childlike wonder I can get.

The Year of Doing Stuff isn't going so well

2010-01-25T15:06:00.000-06:00

Previously on hatched: The Year of Doing Stuff

This isn't quite working out the way I'd hoped. I had to cancel my Spanish class at the last minute because of money. Lack of money, that is. Hubby and I are not on food stamps yet, but we're scrutinizing every penny we spend. I couldn't justify spending money on a night class when we have unpaid medical bills and a house that is slowly eating us, a la The Money Pit. I'm bummed about it, but fortunately the Hoover Public Library is well-stocked with Spanish language instructional CDs.

Also, my volunteering training is difficult. I can't really talk about where I'm volunteering, which I hope doesn't make you more curious about it, but suffice it to say I'm not working with kittens or anything. It's hard work, and I haven't even started yet. The other volunteers and staff are wonderful, though. I'm proud to be working with this great group of people.

Just the thought of bowling fills me with ennui. Maybe it's just January, but I am not interested in doing much of anything lately, besides eating, sleeping and thinking about eating. I put my running shoes on every day but still haven't found the energy to step on the treadmill, which is placed mere feet from my TV. Apparently the only way I'll exercise is at gunpoint.

The only good news? As for cooking, oh yeah, still doing that. I do so love to eat. I made red beans and rice AND peach cobbler yesterday. So all is not lost! Next Sunday is my birthday, so I'm sure the prospect of being just four short years from 40 will put my butt, and the Year of Doing Stuff, back into high gear.

Why should writers blog?

2010-01-25T14:33:00.001-06:00

I am fortunate to have many talented writer friends. Most of them are much more accomplished and successful than I am. That's why I'm always surprised when I ask about their blog and they say they don't have one.

There's no rule that all writers must have a blog, of course. I'm sure the ones who are the most successful are too busy writing for money, not personal notoriety like yours truly. But even if you don't think you "need" a blog as a writer, there are many good reasons you should consider one.

1. People want to get to know the real you. If you're writing medical articles all day long you're probably not getting to inject a lot of your own voice in your pieces. What's going on in your head when you're not querying and writing and editing? What are your passions? What ticks you off? Being your honest, true self is often scary. I sometimes wish I could delete a post I've written, because it shows vulnerability or a strange inclination to sing to cats. But the Internet is full of phonies. Be authentic, and I do believe fame and fortune will follow. Eventually.

2. You have something to say, even if you don't know it yet. I have been struggling to come up with good article ideas since getting laid off last year. It's hard to think of something original when the only other beings you come into contact with all day are four unimpressed cats. But blogging should be no-pressure writing. Just say it, even if it's silly or weird or controversial or kind of boring. I fight with this every day, as I think I should only blog when I have something earth shattering to say. The funny thing is, quantity will eventually produce some quality when you blog. The more you blog, the more chances you have to say something that catches the eye of readers.

3. Try something new. If you're primarily writing straightforward articles, look at your blog as a chance to break out. Write poetry. Post your amateur photos with witty captions. Write a blog as your pet. Post an experiment, such as making something every day or reading and reviewing a book every week. Julie Powell did this and turned her blog into Julie and Julia. Who says you can't have the next big blog thing? If nothing else, the creative muscle stretching will make your writing richer.

4. Show off your expertise. Let's say you are excellent at knitting with cat hair. When you're sending in a query or emailing a potential client, it's simple to say, "I've been blogging about knitting with cat hair for two years" and give links to pertinent blog posts you've researched and written. Ta da, you're an expert. The blogosphere is full of general blogs with inane babbling, like the one you're reading, but the specialty blogs are where it's at. If you're really good at something, a blog is the place to let your little light shine.

If you're reading this and finally decide to create a special blog of your very own, come back and tell me about it in the comments. Or if you are a writer and think I'm full of crap, share that, too.

I just won a Major Award

2010-01-20T20:29:00.001-06:00

Today was pretty tough. On Mondays and Wednesdays, I put on my "career hat" and look for more freelance clients, full-time work, pennies under the couch cushions, etc. With a fragile ego like mine, it's difficult, and required copious amounts of Betty Crocker whipped frosting just to get through it.

So when I got an email from my dear friend Rachel at Wine and Cheese Please saying I had won a "major award," it completely made my day. A friend of Rachel's, Christine at the wonderful Type A Chronicles, had given her the prestigious "When Life Hands You Lemons" award. In her infinite generosity, Rachel named me as one of the people she was passing this award along to. I was seriously flattered. I often feel like I'm blogging into oblivion and most days it's hard to find the motivation to write anything at all. So kind words go a long way to making me feel like all is not in vain.

In the spirit of the award, I'm supposed to list five things about myself, then link five new recipients and notify them. I'm an oversharer, so I'm thrilled to open up my darkest secrets to you, my three readers!
1. Ok, this one's a bit tragic, but in 2003 Royal and I were in Florence, Italy, taking in the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore. We had climbed to the top of the campanile and were taking in the breathtaking view, or, rather, I was struggling to take breaths after climbing almost 300 feet up narrow stairs in knee boots with three inch heels (hello, we were in Italy, not Cleveland). While we were resting, I took a look around at the other tourists and lo and behold, there was Elrond! (For those of you not well-versed in the Tolkien universe, it was Agent Smith from The Matrix.) "Oh my God, Royal," I wheezed, "It's fricking Elrond." Royal, being almost as well-versed in Tolkien lore as I was, was like, "No way." But he looked anyway and squealed, "It is Elrond!" Then he kept poking me and saying I should go talk to him. But by this time Elrond (or Hugo Weaving, as is his real name) was eying me suspiciously. I tried to be nonchalant, but after pretending to not look for a while I couldn't resist and had to steal another look at him. He was staring at me by this point. It looked like Elrond, er, Mr. Weaving, was on vacay with his family. There was a least one woman with him and a few kids. I could practically feel him saying, Put aside the ranger. Become who you were born to be. Take the Dimholt Road. Wait, no, that wasn't it, I could feel him saying, "Don't you dare speak to me, you typical American dolt." So I contented myself with staring at him, until finally he and his whole family grew uncomfortable and descended those stairs very quickly, only to be mobbed by some Japanese tourists on the ground. We were like ships passing in the night!
2. I also saw Yo Yo Ma, the world's most famous cellist, (I'm a HUGE fan) in the lobby of the Four Seasons Atlanta. Also gawked and did not speak. Seriously, the celebrities I see aren't surrounded by a SWAT team so what is my DEAL?!
3. I have not showered for two days. I just remembered this interesting fact.
4. When I was in high school, my dream was to be a journalist. In fact, in my senior yearbook I wrote that in ten years I would be editor of the New York Times. Beyond the sheer naivete of this statement, let's marvel at the fact that I was under the impression that journalism paid well. Instead, I became a well-paid, highly regarded freelance writer. HA HA HA HA HA HA. *Sob.*
5. Whenever I'm alone with my cats, which is probably too often for sanity, I make up songs for them. The one for Benny goes like this:
Benny! Mr. Kitty,
Benny! You're so shitty,
Benny, Mr, Kitty CAAAAAAAAT! (Big finish.)
Unfortunately, one of my cats is named Niblet, and the only thing that rhymes with "Niblet" is "giblet," which doesn't give me a lot of variety in songwriting. Thankfully, he doesn't seem to care.

Now, who to bestow this prestigious award upon? My first pick would of course be to give it back to Ms. Rachel at Wine and Cheese Please, who now has two of these things and will grow a huge ego and be completely impossible to live with. But really, she is the most generous friend. I love reading about her adventures and her unique perspective on things. She is probably the only naturally cheerful person -- besides her mother, who I also adore -- who I do not naturally loathe. Her happiness is contagious, and although I seem to be inoculated against optimism, I do, truly appreciate Rachel's good heart.

I don't really read a lot of personal blogs. Most of my time is spent on places like Metafilter, Jezebel, etc. But one blog I read without fail is It Is What It Is, the blog of my friend Laurel Mills. Laurel means a lot to me. She was the managing editor at Lipstick, and has seen me in more bad moods than my own husband. She has talked me down from many ledges. And she's funny as hell, and incredibly talented.

I know I have three more people to bestow this upon, so I will use this as an impetus to start checking out more personal blogs. I'll start with Rachel's favorites, as clearly she knows a good thing when she sees it! Thanks, Rachel.

The Year of Doing Stuff

2010-01-12T11:20:00.001-06:00

OK, kids, my resolution this year was to Do Stuff. It's capped 'cause it's important. I don't really Do Stuff, normally. I think about it, roll it around it my brain until it gets covered in lint, maybe discuss it with like-minded Don't Do Stuff-ers. It's getting kind of old.

So this year, I want to become a person who Does Stuff. How, you ask? Well, um, by Doing Stuff. There really is no other way, is there?

I've been thinking about Stuff I want to Do, and I've come up with some ideas:
*Volunteering. So important. I used to volunteer regularly for the local Humane Society, but honestly it became too much to bear. I have serious admiration for people who can do this on a regular basis. It's so hard to see those sweet little faces that have been abused, neglected or just dumped off at the shelter because "I didn't want a big dog." It made me hate people, seriously. So now I'm going to start volunteering somewhere else. I start training this weekend, and I'll tell you more about that in later posts.
*Exercising. I'm going to start Couch to 5k as soon as I get all this caffeine out of my system. See, I'm a big-breasted girl. And caffeine makes my girls hurt. Really, that's all that needs to be said about that right now.
*Bowling. Wait, what? I know what you're thinking. Who goes bowling any more? That's the whole point. Nobody does during the day. My friend Jane and I went a few weeks ago and just had ourselves a big ol' time acting like fools at Brunswick Lanes. We're going to make it a steady date.
*Cooking new recipes. I love to cook and I'm quite good at it. But I haven't challenged myself in a long time. Ok, maybe challenge is a bit much but I'm sick of eating the same stuff. This weekend, I made 44-clove garlic soup and later this week I'm making chicken corn chowder from scratch. It's not Julia Child, but it's a start.
*Taking a Spanish class. I am seriously thinking about going back to school for my Spanish degree. I have always loved languages, and I was fluent in Spanish, once upon a time. I'm taking a class at Samford this semester to see how much I remember, and just for the fun of it.

So what other Stuff can I Do? Any hobbies, events, ideas that I should try? And let me know what you're doing. I could use some inspiration!

I'm being held hostage by my house

2010-01-12T10:50:00.001-06:00

Almost four years ago, Royal and I started house hunting. It was exciting at first. We went in houses that were out of our price range (out of our stratosphere, in some cases) and we toured houses that needed a lot of work, or maybe a match and some kerosene. We played "what if" in every room of the houses we liked. "What if we made this closet into a second bathroom?" "What if we made that old patio a glass sunroom?" "What if this house weren't painted pink?"

Some houses I could see myself living in the minute we saw them, like the one I fell in love with in Roebuck Springs. It was a small, tidy house that had obviously been well cared for. Built in the 1950s, both bathrooms retained their original tile (pink in one bathroom and spring green in the other) but it had otherwise been updated. I still weep that we didn't buy that house sometimes. But we wondered if Roebuck Springs was a little too far from the heart of town and especially from Royal's job on 280. Oh, did I mention this perfect little house was only $140,000? That may have been part of my love for it.

We began looking in Bluff Park, although I was sure we couldn't afford anything there. For those who don't know, Bluff Park is one of the oldest neighborhoods in Birmingham. It sits high on a bluff (duh) and has a lot of natural beauty. Some of the homes built at or before the turn of the century (that would be the turn of the 20th century) still stand, but mostly it's a neighborhood of post-WWII ranch homes. We found one home on a quiet street with a huge backyard, but with a bewildering floor plan. The kitchen was oddly shaped, and not at all built for a cook. My mother-in-law Doris, who has a real estate license, was with us on this particular trip, and she pointed across the street. "What about that house?"

"That house" was a gray house with a pagoda-style roof bordered with masses of flowering bushes. It was early spring, and everything in the yard was in bloom in shades of pink, white and blue. Butterflies fluttered amongst the blooms, and I swooned a little. It was all so very picturesque. "Let's go see it," I said, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice.

The home was owned by a sweet little old lady who was moving in with one of her sons due to failing health. There was a piano with a vase of flowers on it in the living room, lace curtains on every window and a aura of long-faded romance. I was smitten. The lady's son showed us around the place, opened all the closet doors (eight closets in all!), pointed out things they had changed in the decades since their mother and late father had bought the house, and walked us down to the creek that ran behind the house. We chatted for a while and said we'd be in touch.

Once we got in the car, I wouldn't shut up. "I. Must. Have. That. House." I didn't even want to look at anything else. I knew this was it. I felt like the house was whispering to me that I belonged there. Royal was a little bemused, as he had not heard any house whispering. "If it makes you happy," was all he said. I was convinced I would indeed never be happy again if we did not purchase this house immediately.

So buy it we did. Doris talked the sellers into a much lower price, and we signed on the dotted line. A month later, it was ours.

Then the trouble began. First, we bought a 36-cubic foot fridge. It was so beautiful and shiny on the showroom floor. But it wouldn't go through any of the doors of our new house. After hours of sweating, swearing and crying, and after removing the doors of the fridge, laying it on a blanket and sliding it up the stairs, we finally got it in the house. Next we started removing the things we hated, like the old plywood paneling and wallpaper in three rooms. I had budgeted two days for this. Three weeks later we finished the wallpaper. The walls were damaged, and so was my love for the house. Everywhere we turned we found something that needed to be fixed. Rotten wood around the windows. Leaky pipes. Eletrical outlets that were wired backward. An air conditioner that stopped working the day it hit 105 degrees in Birmingham. A roof that had been put on incorrectly. (And yes, we did get a home inspection before we bought the house.) And on and on and on. It still hasn't stopped. Sometimes when Royal and I start listing all the things that need to be fixed in the house we both get depressed and drop the subject for a while.

Meanwhile, our lives are on hold. I want to travel again and go back to school, but we feel like every penny needs to go into the house. On top of feeling trapped, I feel guilty. Who was it who just had to buy a house? Oh, that was me. I feel stupid sometimes for not seeing the house for what it was. And I kick myself for being such a perfectionist that I couldn't just freshen things up with paint and call it a day. No, I just had to get out a sledgehammer and then complain about what a mess had been made.

I have no idea when, or if ever, this house will be finished. My mother claims that no house is ever "finished," that there is always something you can find to improve or update and things are always getting old and breaking down. Intellectually, I know this. But emotionally, it's another matter. I fell in love with this house, and I, like someone in love, expected it to be perfect. Once I saw that it wasn't, my love faded. Now my house is holding me hostage. It's not ready to sell (and I wouldn't try in this market) and the unfinished projects stare me in the face every day and remind me of my failures to plan, to anticipate, and to use common sense instead of emotions when buying a house.

This house is my life in microcosm. I had one idea in my head of how it should be, and it turned out another way -- or it's just taking me far too long to get to where I think I should be. Isn't this the way of the world? If we don't have those pictures in our head of that perfection we so desperately desire, how can we ever hope to get close? I want to be one of those people who is happy with a roof over their head, windows that open and close and running water. I should just be happy that I even have a house to live in. But I can't, because I want more. I want the best house on the street, in the neighborhood. I want it to be perfect in every way. I want the same thing from my life.

Is that too much to ask?

For my "fans"

2010-01-01T15:20:00.000-06:00

Hello, Bennett family relations and West Marion High School grads. (Go Trojans!) I've received a few emails this week that shocked me. Apparently several of you actually read this blog. At first I panicked a little, because I like to reminisce about events in my childhood so I had to do a quick check to make sure I hadn't named any of you. With that out of the way, I could then panic about not having anything original or interesting to say. How to keep my new audience engaged?

I considered just making some stuff up. It's not like you'd know the truth, with none of you living in Birmingham. Those of you who see my parents on a regular basis might be tempted to ask them, "How did Tina like meeting the Dalai Lama?" and my parents would figure this probably didn't happen, but they know me well enough to place a call first.

With this fresh new year upon us, I got another idea. How about I actually start doing some things worth blogging about? I can leave the house and visit other people, maybe get a job (eh, maybe). I can stop reading about adventure and start having one of my own.

I announced to my husband last night that 2010 would be the Year of Doing Stuff, Not Just Talking Vaguely About It. He's holding me to it, and I hope my three or four readers will, too. But if it comes down to it, at least I can come up with some spectacularly tall tales.

Lumbering man beasts

2009-11-10T21:57:00.000-06:00

Misogyny in advertising is nothing new. Sex (as in sexy women, of course) is used to sell everything from shampoo to vodka. But if you watch many commercials, you may have noticed that men aren't exactly presented in the best light, either. Let my beloved Sarah Haskins explain it to you:

Square pants

2009-11-09T23:10:00.000-06:00

Let's be perfectly honest: Despite what Huey Lewis may think, it's never, ever been hip to be square. And I am hopelessly square. Don't believe me? The evidence:
*I listen to Billy Joel unironically. I especially love "Allentown," and sing along to it loudly and cheerfully, as if it weren't about a depressed blue collar steel town.
*I think Twilight may be the worst book ever written. And Robert Pattinson is not even remotely attractive.
*I didn't watch Titanic until four years after it came out, after everyone else on the planet had seen it. Hated it with a burning passion (although I thought Kate Winslet looked great).
*I've never watched a Mad Men episode.
*I don't have the slightest clue who "Kings of Leon" are.
*The Halls commercial with the mom and her son's roommate suckin' down on shared mouth drops makes me laugh every time, although apparently some people don't find it so funny.
*That last one reminded me: Can we stop calling older women cougars? It's insulting and stupid.
*Even though I use them -- grudgingly -- I absolutely hate Twitter and Facebook. But all the cool kids are doing it, so...
*All my favorite films were made before 1950.

I could go on, but I think my point has been made. At 35, I'm no longer considered hip by the people who decide these things and even when I was young I had the taste of a much older person (I've been a Pink Floyd fan since I was 6 years old and sang "Another Brick in the Wall" to my horrified first grade teacher. We don't need no education, indeed.) Of course, I also play WoW and watch cartoons, so I obviously have the taste of an older person who lives in her parents' basement.

I wish I could say it didn't matter to me that I am hopelessly uncool, but sometimes I wish I wasn't quite so contrary. I wish I enjoyed Lost as much I enjoy Mythbusters. I'd like to be included on the conversations about the latest music or whatever the hip crowd is reading (as for me, I'm reading Pullman's "His Dark Materials" trilogy. I think that might be cool in some circles, though). Sometimes, I'll admit, it's not even that I don't like these things or don't understand them so much as I don't want to, since that would make me a follower. I'm very averse to tagging along with something because everybody else is doing it or likes it. It's a stupid reason to not even learn about some things, and I think I veer dangerously into self-righteous territory when I sniff, "I don't watch vampire movies that don't feature Nosferatu and/or subtitles."

Perhaps the problem isn't that I'm hopelessly square, but hopelessly snobbish.

Weighty matters

2009-11-07T20:24:00.000-06:00

I seem to be fighting an eternal battle with weight loss. After being at a healthy "fighting weight" for several years, I started gaining again about two years ago. Not to make any excuses, but I'm pretty sure my on again/off again relationship with anti-depressants (and finding the right one in the first place) plus an extraordinarily stressful job plus suddenly getting migraines for the first time in my life were factors. Getting laid off in February meant I didn't have nearly as many places to get dressed up and go to -- and lot more reasons to lie on the couch and watch endless episodes of NCIS.

I've lost count of how many times I've gained more than 20 pounds and had to struggle to lose it. I'll be 36 in January, and this stuff just isn't melting off like it did in my twenties. To make matters worse, I am starting pretty much at square one again with fitness, when I used to spend three hours a day at the gym. Yeah, it was a bit excessive. But I ran, and easily did 200+ lbs. on the leg press machine and took step classes, Pilates, kickboxing and burned up the elliptical for at least an hour a stretch. It was exhausting, and I was hungry All. The. Time. I was in the best shape of my life, but holding on to it was almost impossible.

Now I'm doing like 30 minutes on the treadmill, and about 10 minutes of Pilates. I feel like the biggest couch potato. I'm trying to ease back into it, avoid injury and not go overboard. I'm still in the beginning stages of my plan, but I've found some great motivation and advice from other people who've gotten back into shape in a realistic way. Here are some sites I'm finding helpful right now:

On Losing Weight, Slowly
7 Rules
Couch Potato to Gym Rat
Cranky Fitness
Does This Font Make Me Look Fat?

On goal setting

2009-11-06T18:45:00.000-06:00

To the three people who read this, thanks for dropping by! As I said in yesterday's post, I'm just not feeling inspired to blog, probably because I'm busy writing about childhood trauma (just kidding, Daddy, who is one of my three readers) for NaNoWriMo. But I've committed to blogging every day this week, and I'm happy to say that I have so far.

I've never been a goal setter. I'm a list maker, which is different. I make endless to-do lists, which never get done, but still I make them obsessively. It's a strange habit, especially because I seem unable to stop doing it. Mild OCD? Anyway, this week I thought I'd try setting some goals -- easy ones, so I wouldn't set myself up for failure -- and I posted them on a giant Post-It on the wall next to my computer. My goals this week were to blog every day, exercise every day and take a multi-vitamin every day. These are things I need to be doing, and can't seem to do with any sort of consistency. I wrote down my goals, and under them drew little boxes for each day this week. Then I checked off each day if I kept to the goal.

I didn't make my goals super specific -- like, "exercise for 30 minutes every day" -- for a reason. To get into a habit, I think you need to give yourself as much leeway as possible in the beginning. Changing behavior and adopting new habits is difficult. By beginning with some easy goals, I gave myself every chance to succeed and didn't set myself up for failure with too lofty goals. This way, I was psyched every day when I was able to check off another day. It kept me motivated to be consistent.

Next week, I'll keep going with these goals, and add one more. This is such simplistic stuff that I'm a little embarrassed to be writing about it. Most people that I know seem to be able to do these things without the prodding of a bright yellow sticky. But if you've been struggling with a new goal -- whether it's working out or eating right or whatever -- write it down. I find it a lot harder to weasel out of a goal if it's in my face reminding me every day.

Pithy title here

2009-11-05T20:13:00.001-06:00

Now that I'm working feverishly on my "novel," I don't seem to have a lot of juice left for blogging (I couldn't even think of an appropriate title for this blog post). I'll spend some time this weekend thinking of something to say. Meanwhile, I'm up to 6000 words for NaNoWriMo, and boy is it getting tough. I'm writing about my first marriage... I'm still pissed off about some stuff. This is so much cheaper than therapy!

Kittehs!!!!!!1

2009-11-04T19:10:00.001-06:00

Jeez, I'm feeling uninspired today. I wrote a little for NaNoWriMo, but coming up with an interesting blog post was just beyond me. Unfortunately, one of my goals this week is to blog daily -- and I am all about taking my goals seriously right now. So... how about some cat pictures?

This is Benny. He weighs about 18 pounds. (He's much prettier than this, and has amazing green eyes but my husband takes crap pictures.) We got him about four years ago. My brother found him outside a convenience store, sick and starving, and kids were throwing rocks at him. My mom called me and asked if we needed a kitten ... and yes, we did. I was going to get Benny from my parents in south Mississippi on Labor Day weekend... but then Hurricane Katrina hit on August 29. For over a week, I couldn't get in touch with my parents, who had lost power, water and phone service. Is it wrong that, while I was worried about my family, I was sick with worry over my tiny (seriously, he was little then) kitten? As you can see, he not only survived, he thrived.

Here's Niblet. Poor, poor Niblet. Until about two weeks ago, he had this thick, luxurious coat that was strikingly beautiful -- and almost impossible to groom. I was sick when his grooming appointment rolled around so Royal took him -- and you can see the results here. Not his proudest moment, is it? (Royal's, not Niblet.) Can you believe what he did to my baby?! He looks utterly ridiculous and knows it. What you can't see in this picture is his tail, which makes me choke with laughter every single day. It's the classic lion cut "puff" and he is definitely not the breed for this particular cut. He tries to wrap his anemic little tail around his body for warmth, so we've taken to covering him with a corner of the blanket when he sleeps on the bed. Niblet is already a strange, strange cat (climbs walls, cries like a baby at random and you can never figure out what he wants) but this haircut has not helped his self-esteem one bit.

Fred is one of our new babies that we "rescued" from Laurel's frat boy neighbors. This is another bad picture (dang it, Royal!) but isn't he cute? He has a twin brother, and we named them Fred and George, after the Weasley twins in Harry Potter. Yes, we're nerds, why do you ask? Fred likes to dry nurse me, but only me, and he likes to be carried around like a baby. He's not quite as gregarious as his brother George, but he is so sweet and affectionate. I need to upload a better picture of him so you can see his fox-like face. He's really adorable.

I'm sure you can guess why I saved this one for last. Yes, he fell asleep on the toilet lid. Doesn't your cat? Totally normal. George is quite rambunctious, so we had to wait until he was sleeping to get something that wasn't a complete blur. He did not disappoint in his choice of sleeping area. His absolute favorite place to sleep, however, is snuggled up to his surrogate mother, Benny. Benny is resigned to this fate, and will even acknowledge his presence with some half-hearted licking on occasion. We think George is going to be a handful -- he already is -- and he is the reason I sometimes question my need for four cats. But what a cutie pie! I wouldn't trade any of them for well-behaved, pedigreed cats. All my kitties are rescues -- if you need a furry baby, visit your local rescue organization. Every kitty needs a warm, safe home.

NaNoWriMo

2009-11-03T12:11:00.000-06:00

Yesterday, I signed up for National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo. I've thought about doing it for years, but would forget it was going on until, say, November 29. Since you need to write 50,000 words and most days I'm lucky if I write 200, this is a huge challenge for me.

The impetus to sign up was mainly from reading Art and Fear by David Bayles and Ted Orland. Seriously, this book is an ass kicker. If you're a creative sort, you will either be completely astounded by this book or you are already so awesome that we cannot be friends. It's the kind of thing you read and think, Of course! and feel stupid you never thought of it before. But it's truly life changing for someone like me, who is such a perfectionist that I can barely get anything done.

One particular anecdote in the book has completely changed my view of writing.There's this pottery class, and the teacher divides the class into two groups. Group A will only be judged on the quantity of their work, while Group B will be judged on the quality of their work. At the end of the semester, the teacher will weigh Group A's pots, and they will receive an A for 50 pounds of pots, a B for 40 pounds, and so on and so on. Group B only has to produce one pot -- but it must be perfect. At the end of the semester, something surprising happens. Group B has barely produced anything -- and certainly no perfect pot -- while Group A has created many perfect pots. I'm not exaggerating when I say this was like one of those Oprah lightbulb moments, when everything comes into sudden focus and I see what I'm supposed to do with perfect clarity (and no, I'm not starting a girls' school in Africa). I immediately put the book down and ran to my computer to start writing. Ok, maybe not ran, but walked with a renewed purpose.

Are you laughing at me yet? Right, this is elementary stuff. The more you write, the more likely you'll write something worth reading. It's practice. Just like, when I studied piano, I didn't expect to be able to play Rites of Spring* until I practiced and practiced and learned the easier stuff, I can hardly be expected to write The Great American Novel while writing 3 or 4 tweets a day, and maybe a Facebook update. (*I never learned to play Rites of Spring. Are you shocked?)

After ~~running~~ walking purposefully to my computer, I remembered NaNoWriMo and signed up. And I must say, it's going beautifully. I am writing the most shit-filled, mind-bogglingly awful stuff I think I've ever written. And I couldn't be more excited about it. Because, surely, once I get all this crap out, there must be a jewel in there somewhere.

My (un)sentimental journey

2009-11-02T09:27:00.002-06:00

At book club last week, the conversation turned to childhood – what was important to us, what we kept and these kids today!, etc. etc. Many of the women still had dolls they received as Christmas and birthday gifts as girls. Some of them still had papers and artwork from elementary school, poems they had written at the tender age of 6 and letters from first loves.

I contributed very little to this conversation – except to lament the passing of my beloved Charlie's Angels treehouse, which my little sister sat on and destroyed not long after I received it – because I never kept anything. Neither, to my knowledge, did my mother. I don't have old love letters or report cards or newpaper clippings or even photos, for that matter. I have an album with some photos I took in high school with my own camera, but hardly any of me before age 15. I don't have stuffed animals or dolls given to me by friends, family or boyfriends. (Actually, Royal made the mistake of sending me a stuffed teddy bear for some reason in our early stages of courting. I was touched by the underlying emotion for the gift, but quickly informed him that I was not a 9-year-old girl, and from now on all gifts should be chocolate-related.) In fact, I don't have a single thing in my current house that shows I even existed before the age of 30 or so.

I'm fine with not having these things. I don't have them for many reasons, one of which is that I don't like clutter. But another reason is that I'm just not that sentimental. “Stuff” holds no emotional value for me. Here's the problem: Should I be more sentimental? I think it says a lot about me that I'm not attached to things, but maybe it's not a good thing. Are people who hold on to old mementos living a richer life, or are they stuck in the past?

I have wondered if my opinion might be different if I had lost one or both parents, or even my grandparents. Would I have kept that awful music box with the ballerina that my grandmother gave me at 27 if she had passed away soon after? I know the answer: no. Besides being a little insulted that I got the same gift as my 12-year-old cousins, simply by virtue of being the last single woman in the family over the age of 18, that music box didn't represent anything to me. It was just a thing. It didn't cook a pot of chicken and dumplings for me, or let me eat all the cheesecake I wanted or hold me in its lap on the front porch swing. Those were all things my grandmother did for me growing up and I'd never, ever forget them. Same with my parents or friends or husband or anyone else I've ever loved. I don't need a letter or a teddy bear to remember why these people or certain experiences in my life were important to me. The best thing I can do, to make sure I continue to remember, is to write it all down. Every wonderful, awful, exciting, life-changing episode so I can remember it always.

Maybe I am a little sentimental -- I just don't measure it in stuff saved, but in words.

Seeing things

2009-10-28T08:16:00.000-05:00

I see ghosts. Not ghosts like vague apparitions exhorting me to get out of the house or asking me to help solve their murder, but a more sinister kind. These ghosts are all in my head.

For at least 15 years -- and maybe my whole life, my doctor isn't sure -- I've been having hypnopompic hallucinations. When I start waking up, I see things that aren't there, but they are so real I feel I could reach out and touch them. Most of the time, I see innocuous things -- balloons around the ceiling of my bedroom, gently bobbing in the breeze of the ceiling fan (I groggily wonder, "Is it my birthday?"); beautifully elaborate patterns on the wall, like something on a palace wall in Marrakesh; hieroglyphic-style writing on the wall, sometimes in a lime green ink; damask wallpaper with roses; huge cracks in the ceiling.

But sometimes these visions are of people. And even if they're friendly people, it's so out of context as to be disturbing. The first one I remember, from college, I woke up to see my roommate standing in my doorway in a white nightgown. I wasn't scared to see her, just peeved because she hadn't even knocked. She was a little spooked later when I berated her about it, only to find out she doesn't own a white nightgown.

When I started living on my own, the hallucinations became almost unbearable. I saw ex-boyfriends looking in windows, would-be burglars with ski masks lurking over the bed. But the worst were when I saw angry men with knives or guns advancing toward my bed. I would blink rapidly, telling myself, They're not real, but they wouldn't fade for maybe 20, 30 seconds. So then I'd start screaming my head off. My neighbors probably thought I was insane, and I started to believe it, too. Sleep did not come easily most nights, because I dreaded what I'd see. And who knew when I'd blink my eyes, only to have the vision not go away? I took to sleeping with the light on.

Almost two years ago, I finally mentioned this weirdness to my doctor and she told me I probably had narcolepsy. I doubt I do, but I won't know until I let them do a sleep study on me (and my insurance being what it is, it won't happen any time soon). I don't have any of the other classic symptoms, so I think my hallucinations are part of something else, maybe my depression. Whatever the underlying cause, over the last two years they've become less and less frequent. The weird thing is, I miss them. Not the terrifying ones, but the gentler hallucinations with balloons and pretty wallpaper. It was almost exciting, not knowing what I'd open my eyes to any given morning. And for a few brief seconds, my ordinary, practical world became strange and wonderfully unusual.

Pants on fire

2009-10-27T21:38:00.005-05:00

Most writers are good liars. Or exaggerators, if the word "liar" gets your undies in a bunch. It's just part of storytelling, that little extra fudging on the details, or the outright fish tale that hooks your audience from the first word (see what I did there? Perhaps I should blog about my love of bad puns). Truth truly is stranger, and more interesting, than fiction, but sometimes it just needs a bit of help.

I am not always a good writer, but I'm a pretty talented liar. I can make a random trip to the supermarket sound like I inadvertently joined the circus, just by changing up the details a bit. On occasion, I've told an "enhanced" story at a party, only to have my Dear Hubby sputter, "That so did not happen!" or "There were no ninjas at Publix!" I had to have a little talk with him about outing me in public, plus I explained that This is What Writers Do. Hell, I have no idea if all writers do this, but once you start lying you really can't stop.

I'm sure I told some whoppers as a kid, but for the most part I always knew I'd get in trouble. Not so my little brother Scott. Not only could he lie practically from the moment he opened his mouth, but his lies were so extravagantly detailed, we figured they had to be true. When he was about five, he told my father than he and Mom had broken down on the side of the road on the way to the store and this nice man named Johnny Monson had come along and fixed the car. Johnny Monson drove a blue pickup truck. My mother swore to Daddy this had never happened, and she couldn't figure out why in the world he would need to make up such a story. A few weeks later, the whole fam is in the car driving a few miles from home when Scott points out the window at a house and says, "That's where Johnny Monson lives." Sure enough, there was a blue pickup truck. My parents wre a little freaked at that point, because not only did he remember the lie he remembered the details. That is gold medal lying.

I'm not that good. Now, my lies are not of the "I did not have sexual relations with that woman" or "I was hiking the Appalachian Trail" variety. They are innocent, told to embellish a story or just to have a little fun with people. But as I get older, I find myself forgetting most of my little exaggerations and getting busted by my friends. I'm not ashamed of it, I just hope these friends continue to trust me.

But if I tell you something's a fact, I won't be offended if you need to Google it.

Halloween Spooktacular

2009-10-12T12:02:00.010-05:00

Halloween, my favorite holiday, is a few short weeks away. Be prepared with some of my favorite ideas for food, costumes and decorations.

Food
Mental Floss - Creepy Halloween Food
The brain cupcakes look gross, and probably taste delicious. The Melting Head Cake makes me want to vomit. That's a good thing, for Halloween.

Trix Your Treats

Creepy Cocktails

Costumes
Lady Gaga
Let's hope it's warm enough on Halloween for no pants.

Kate Gosselin Wig

How to Create a Jon Gosselin Halloween Costume
Easy: Just be an Ed Hardy-wearin' tool.

Bubblewrap Jellyfish
Strangely gorgeous.

Decor
Ideas for Pumpkins

Ghoulish Gourds

Tampon Crafts
I couldn't resist. Cuter than it sounds!

(Re)finding motivation

2009-10-12T11:43:00.003-05:00

Above my computer, I have a large yellow Post-It with the Zig Ziglar quote "Motivation follows action."

If only it were that simple.

Some people are people of action. Doing things come easily to them, and they don't have to sit and ponder an action for an interminable amount of time. They just do it. Other people -- like me -- are people of words. I like to talk a problem to death. I can talk for hours about why I have trouble writing or exercising or flossing or any of the other things that I don't do as often as I should. But I still don't do them.

The solution? Find a routine and stick to it, no matter what. When I was working in an office, a routine was a snap. I got up at the same time every morning, worked out (usually...), ate breakfast, got dressed and headed to work. Once at my desk, I made myself a cup of tea, perused the day's headlines and checked e-mails. Around 9 am I was ready for actual work and meetings, and I felt like I'd had enough time to warm up to the day and didn't feel stressed -- or I didn't if there hadn't been a pile-up on 65 North that morning. Sometimes there were hiccups -- like when my boss would convene a 7:30 am meeting and throw off my whole day. So flexibility was also key. But my schedule helped me focus for the day and get down to work without feeling rushed.

Now my day looks a lot different. I get up when I feel like it, which some mornings could be 6 or 7 or as late as 8:30. I may or may not eat breakfast, depending on my mood. Some mornings I just must have a certain thing for breakfast, and as I'm trying to lose weight, that thing is usually not in the kitchen. So then I'm grumpy because I have to eat oatmeal. I watch an episode of Golden Girls, lie on the couch long enough to become deeply bored and finally turn on the computer around 10. Then I'm online all day doing... not much of anything. I play around and waste time until it's the afternoon and I have to pretend I've been busy all day when Royal comes home.

Is it any wonder I don't feel motivated? I've trained my mind and body to do as little as possible. Now, I'm all for periods of laziness, and I think it helps to recharge the batteries and refocus. But the human body and brain isn't built for extended periods of extreme ennui. After a while, you kind of stop trying any more. I realized yesterday I hadn't brushed my teeth all day. That's going a bit far, I think. When you work from home, it is absolutely essential to treat each day like a regular work day. Otherwise, it's easy to let the monkey mind take over and sabotage everything.

So, once again, I need to force myself into becoming a person of action. It seems like I go through this over and over again, and it's true. One of these days it's going to stick, I just know it.

Sunday bloody Sunday

2009-08-16T20:21:00.005-05:00

I, Tina Hatch, lover of Bette Davis movies and kitten videos, really like to see things blow up. And cars fly off tracks and into crowds, and sharks swirling in tourist-infested waters and dinosaurs munching on dishonest corporate attorneys.

There, I said it.

I sometimes pretend to be high brow, but my closest friends know the truth. I may get on my soapbox about using only real, aged Parmigiano Reggiano (for the love of God, not the pre-grated stuff in a can!) but I still like grilled cheese sandwiches with squishy white bread and American cheese. I may rail against the idiocy of movies like Transformers and G.I. Joe, but I actually went to see Undercover Brother in the theater. And loved it.

I spent most of today watching dino movies, Destroyed in Seconds (where horrible things happen and by far the best show on TLC) and nature movies that showed landslides and torrential flooding in endless instant replays. There is something exhilirating about watching scary, bad, catastrophic things happen and know that you are safely ensconced in your living room on an otherwise lackluster Sunday. Or is it the thrill of knowing that at any moment, my life could be in danger? I could be trying to cross the street, and above me on the overpass a truck hauling thousands of pounds of lemons could overturn and pour onto the street. Who wants to die crushed to death by lemons? (This actually happened on Destroyed in Seconds today. The guy wasn't crushed to death, but I was amused by imagining his obituary if he had been. I am sick.)

I am not an even remotely violent person. I'm a pacifist (unless it's a kung fu war, then I'm down) and I hate seeing people get hurt. Once I saw an elderly man fall down on the sidewalk and he was clearly more embarassed than hurt, but I almost cried for him. But if that elderly gentleman had flipped his truck and it exploded and he got out and walked away, unscathed? That would have been cool.

Short answer: Yes

2009-07-20T15:08:00.002-05:00

Longer answer to previous post:
I spent the weekend thinking about my last post, what I was really trying to say and what lay behind those feelings of frustration. The conclusion I came to is that I am not writing because I. Am. Bored. It is extraordinarily difficult for me to write without stimuli. After some serious "what do I need?" soul searching, I now know that I actually thrive when I'm around other creative people, even if bad shit is going down in the office and we all have letter openers to our throats as we weep openly at our desks. I am not a loner who can sit in a quiet room all day with no company except the cats and churn out interesting prose.

Honestly, this is a revelation!

Writing is a lonely profession. It requires you to be inside your own head for sometimes dangerous amounts of time, and you can get lost in there (I know I do, and often). If you're lucky, you have an understanding and talented writing group to bounce ideas off of, but most of us toil in solitude. Or, like me, you think about toiling but then go find something to watch on TV because the house is just too damn quiet to write.

I've gotta get out of this house. My concern with not spending money has kept me in a virtual prison since February. I have to draw the line somewhere, and that's my sanity. So, I'm going to start saying yes to all those Facebook invitations (well, not all of them), take some classes and just get out there and find something to write about.

Am I a writer?

2009-07-14T11:24:00.004-05:00

I've always made my living in writing-related industries. I started out doing mindless data entry at a newspaper, because I respected the role of journalism in our society and hoped to be a journalist myself one day. Then I got hip to magazines, and that magazine writing paid more (most of the time). After almost five years of that, I moved to another country and when I came back, I couldn't get my foot back in the door of the old company. So I started writing ad copy, which was insanely easy for me to do. But I hated myself for it being so easy, if that makes any sense. Then I quit and started freelance writing. Fell into it, actually. I didn't have to look for anything, because all my clients were word-of-mouth or friends of friends. I also didn't make much money because I wasn't willing or able to do the hard work involved in finding and keeping clients.

While freelancing, my portfolio (pretty from working with so many great designers) caught the attention of someone who put me on the short list to edit a new magazine. I'd never been a "real" editor before. I felt up to the challenge. But then I hardly ever got to write anything. Wasn't that what I really wanted to do?

This is where I'm stuck right now. Isn't writing what I'm supposed to be doing? Everyone thinks so. Any time I bring up my frustration to my mom, she says, "But you're such a talented writer!" to which I wonder, when was the last time she read something I wrote? Can I spin a yarn about my early years or highlight the absurdity of my former in-laws or reveal embarrassing details about myself? Sure, because I was born into a family of natural storytellers. And I was born in a weird place in Mississippi (all places in Mississippi are weird to an extent, but Foxworth is special) that has all the elements of Southern Gothic with more absurdity and without any of the highbrow literary leanings. Everybody's got a hundred funny and/or morbid stories.

But a talented writer can weave a story out of thin air. I cannot do this. My mind starts out in high gear but quickly shuts down when I see the illogic in what I'm going to say. I think I would have made a better lawyer than writer, because I can argue against myself and win every time. I shoot down my own ideas and nothing, nothing is ever good enough.

So, fine. I have high (-ish) standards. Most good writers do. But here's where good writers and I part company: They work at their craft. I don't know what has happened to me, but I can barely make myself tweet something and I certainly don't write in a journal any more. I'm not sure if it's just the physical nature of writing -- it does require you to be pinned down, sometimes for hours at a time, and often with little to show for it at the end -- or the fact that I feel like my imagination and creativity have been completely dessicated. I don't really have "ideas" any more. I have random, fleeting thoughts ("I wonder if the neighbor who never comes out of the house during the day is a drug dealer") but I don't act on them. I don't jot dialogue down in a notebook I keep in my purse (I used to do this). I don't write.

I have managed to make a bland blog post about my frustration, but is that writing? The ability to string words together does not make you a writer. Having a blog does not make you a writer. A writer can't imagine doing anything else but writing. It's both a career and a lifestyle. Is it possible that I ended up in a career by circumstance when I should have been doing something else? How does anyone ever know that the path they're on is the right one?

Burning love

2009-07-08T14:01:00.005-05:00

I have only truly loved a few TV shows in my life. My first crush was Seinfeld, which I still quote in conversation and think was the best TV comedy ever. Then came the original Law & Order with its strangely hot ADA Jack McCoy and wise Detective Lenny Briscoe. My college roommate and I never missed the new episodes and would frequently lock the door and unplug the phone (oh, those grand days before cells and social media!) so as not to be disturbed.

More recently, I came to love that geriatric mainstay, CSI. For the first four seasons of CSI (the original, not those paltry also-rans CSI: Miami and CSI:NY), I was completely obsessed. Royal and I could usually guess the true killer's identity before the half hour mark, but the true draw of the show was Gil Grissom. He was a modern day Sherlock Holmes who was unabashedly nerdy, and quite open in his attitudes about sex. Rowr. Once the show started focusing on him less and the other (less interesting) characters more, our attention waned.

Then last week, we watched a marathon of Burn Notice episodes. And now I am in complete lust with this show. Jeffrey Donovan plays Michael Westen, an ex-spy who's been "burned," fired and deprived of his resources so he can never work again. Everyone seems out to get him, and he's out to find who burned him and why. He's been dumped in Miami, a city he left at 17 to escape a bad childhood and dysfunctional family (Sharon Gless plays his mother Madeleine). His only friends are Fiona, his gun-toting, former IRA ex-girlfriend (played by the gorgeous Gabrielle Anwar) and former military intel officer and current FBI informant Sam (the always wonderful Bruce Campbell).

A lot happens in any given episode. Things go boom, Fiona and Michael may or may not make out, Sam drinks mojitos (this show makes me crave alcohol something fierce) and Michael gets one step closer to unraveling the puzzle of his past. It is not the type of show I would normally find interesting much less completely absorbing, but the witty dialogue, likeable cast and intricate plots keep it from being a typical action show. Oh, and did I mention the hotness of its three main stars? This show is sizzling, and a lot of fun.

I really, really like Fiona. I love that she is played by a 39-year-old actress, and not a 20-something with little to contribute besides looking foxy in a bikini. Not that Fiona isn't foxy: this woman is incredibly lean and taut with freakin' 12-pack abs. But she's not a stock character or just a pretty face. She is deeply in love with Michael and her vulnerability with him obviously pisses her off. I like that she's tough and talks smack. BUT, in a scene in the second season, Fiona and Michael get into a fight as "foreplay." She's hitting him in the face, kicking him, throwing him down, but when he hits her he immediately freaks out and is all, "Sorry! Sorry!" Obviously he's bigger than her and she's ticked off that he hit her, but is it OK to hit a man, especially a man you love? I guess it's part of her complicated character, and we're supposed to see this as the main reason she and Michael couldn't make their relationship work. She's not a soft, anxious, behind-the-scenes girlfriend. She will kick anyone's ass who tries to mess with her man, her friends or even women she barely knows (a couple of episodes showed her getting enraged at men who had abused women) so I like that she's strong in that regard. But physical violence as foreplay... I don't think I can get behind her on that one. Still, Fiona's a great character and I can't wait to see what the next episode brings for her and Michael.

"This lady doesn't have a job"

2009-07-01T20:46:00.003-05:00

While I was getting my hair cut today, the stylist and I were making the idle chit chat you make in salons.
"So what do you do?," the stylist asks while lathering my hair.
"Well... um, I used to work for a magazine."
"Oh, really? Which magazine?"
"Lipstick? You probably never saw it..."
"No, I remember that magazine! I know somebody who worked there. Actually, she still works there. Her name is [says name of person who didn't work at Lipstick]."
"Um, actually she works at the News. She didn't work for Lipstick."
"Are you sure? Because I remember her telling us she was working on the magazine. She talked about it all the time! She's got long red hair?"
"Well.. I was the editor, and she didn't work for Lipstick. And she's blonde."
"Oh... So what are you doing now?"
"Freelancing." I said this with a straight face.
"That's good. Hey, did you hear about one of the radio stations doing a show where you call in your resume and they help you with it?"
"Oh, really? That sounds interesting," I say, mildly interested.
"Hey, Tammy!" my stylist yells across the salon. "Do you know that show on the radio you call in with your resume and they help you with it?"
"I don't listen to the radio," Tammy says.
"Oh you know what I'm talking about. The one on 102.5? The one with Dollar Bill and the girl who replaced Patti?"
"You don't call in your resume, you post it online where everybody can see it," Tammy answers, a tad impatiently to my ears. "Why do you want to know?"
My stylist yells back, "This lady doesn't have a job and I thought it would be good for her."

Fortunately, this is a small salon and there were only 7 or 8 people in it at the time. Still, I was embarrassed. But why? It's not exactly a secret -- or a humiliation -- that I don't have a job. I probably should tell everyone I see that I'm out of work. And also that I'm creative, hardworking, a good typist and work well alone or in groups. You never know who might be the next Mark to my Rachel, with the perfect job at Bloomie's.

With so many people unemployed right now, I think there's no longer the stigma of being jobless that there once was. People understand, and don't judge you for it. That doesn't mean I don't judge myself. I still go through scenarios in my head where we could have hung on to Lipstick. I think, If only I had been a better salesperson and a better manager and If only we had had the support we needed and about a billion other "what ifs" that don't matter now and probably wouldn't have salvaged the thing anyway.

The thing is, I've never been laid off. Well, once, but I was 21 at the time and got hired back less than two months later. It was never a reflection on me because that job was just a job. I did it to have drinking money and because my two besties worked at the same place. But Lipstick -- that was not just a job. It was the culmination of everything I had ever worked for or wanted. And to have it fail felt personal and final. So it's not just that I'm out of a job -- I'm out of the job I thought defined me as a person. Now I've got to find some other way to define myself.

After my stylist got through telling everyone my business, we actually had a lovely chat about Michael Jackson, Larry Langford, why everyone in Alabama is nuts about football, how Birmingham is like Gary, Indiana and our plans for July 4. She did a fabulous job on my hair, too.

Asleep at the Keyboard

2009-06-29T21:50:00.007-05:00

Where the heck have I been?! I wish I had a good story for you...

When you only interact with cats all day, it takes a toll on your blogging abilities. As cute as those Daily Kitten kind of blogs are, nobody wants to read about how I had to pull some string out of my cat Niblet's butt or how Benny slept beside me on the couch for two hours so of course I couldn't get up and work out because I didn't want to disturb him.

Seriously, that's my whole day most days. Life, where did you go?

5 things I'm loving right now

2009-05-11T11:06:00.002-05:00

1. The new Star Trek movie.
I gave in and went to see it to be nice to my husband, but I am so glad I did. It's awesome and fun and I don't think they said "dilithium crystals" even once. And ladies: Spock is hot.
2. Country Living. My mother-in-law gives me old issues every month, but most of the magazine just never appealed to me. Until now. New EIC Sarah Gray Miller has transformed the publication into a budget-friendly, fun and lively read. I usually tear out pages that interest me, but I started tearing out so many I decided to just keep the whole issue. I'm a huge Sarah Gray Miller fan. She was editor of my favorite magazine of all time, Budget Living, AND she's from Mississippi. We're like best friends already.
3. Kashi TLC Original 7 Grain crackers. These are old news, but I wanted to proclaim my love for them in a public way. They are so tasty that I don't mind the whole grain goodness. It also helps to balance out all the pimento cheese I like to eat them with.
4. John's City Diner. Last week, I got a nice letter and a $10 gift card as a thank you for my patronage (it was the regular lunch hang out for the Lipstick crew). I haven't since shortly after the layoff, but now I have a good excuse to get my ration of their amazing mac and cheese.
5. Starting over. Sometimes (okay, often) I get frustrated and throw in the towel. Whether it's writing consistently or working out or just being productive, I get discouraged when I don't feel I'm making progress and fall back on the bad, depressive habits that comfort me like overeating or ignoring my blog. It's hard to keep having to start over, but it's nice to know I can and that things will get better, and easier. Small, daily steps will help keep me on the right track.

Is that your final answer?

2009-04-09T14:32:00.002-05:00

This is what it's like to pick somewhere to eat in the Hatch household:
Royal: "What are you hungry for?"
Me: "Hmm... I don't know... What are you hungry for?"
Royal: "I asked you first."
Me: "Well, I picked last time so you pick this time.
Royal: Sighs. "How about Arby's?
Me: "Ewww, not Arby's."
Royal: "Mexican?
Me: "Had it for lunch."
Royal: "Hamburger Heaven?"
Me: "I worked out today, so I probably shouldn't."
Royal: "I can call Baker's and get a pizza."
Me: "Pizza feels so heavy. I don't think I want anything heavy."
Royal: Begins rummaging around in the fridge. "K. Let me know when you decide. I'm going to eat this block of cheese in the meantime."

A couple of weeks ago, we were debating a lunch spot and had narrowed our choices down to Tip Top Grill (we live just a couple blocks away, and it was a lovely day) or Mr. Chen's (I had just read Susan Swagler's review and it sounded delish). I told Royal to pick. He chose Tip Top, so I said let's walk there.
So we're walking, and it was kind of hot that day, and I was getting grouchy about how tight my pants were. We're like a hundred yards away and he says, "Why are you so quiet? Is something wrong?"
I say, "I really wanted to go to Mr. Chen's..."
I had to chase him down the sidewalk after he started walking back toward home in a huff. I told him I was just kidding. But I wasn't.

It isn't just food that is impossible to pick for me. We have had a plywood floor in our kitchen for three years because I can't decide on the flooring. Linoleum? Too institutional. Ceramic tile? I tend to drop things, so probably not a good idea. Wood? Too expensive. Cork? Ditto. Bamboo? Maybe, but I like the lighter colors and they look weird with our cherry cabinets. Then I'll see an article in one of my favorite shelter mags about these awesome new Marmoleum tiles and I'll think, "Maybe..."

Sometimes I imagine that this cycle will continue, until I'm on my deathbed. There, I'm surrounded by my nearest and dearest, who have gathered to see me into the great beyond (of course, I am dying quietly and painlessly, and I look fabulous). I will beckon to my husband, who, though still handsome and agile, will never remarry or even think of another woman because I was just that awesome. As he leans in, his face full of love, I will whisper my final words, "Tiger-stripe bamboo."

Drum roll please...

2009-04-08T09:52:00.003-05:00

In my previous post today, I wrote that I would try to sit down and write until I found my purpose in life, as instructed by internet writer and reformed klepto Steve Pavlina. Here's what I've got so far (he says to list things until one makes you cry, so I'll stop on that one).

My purpose in life is:
1. Total world domination
2. To make people laugh
3. To make people cry
4. Enjoyment
5. Writing a runaway bestseller
6. Writing emo poetry no one reads
7. Writing blog posts no one reads
8. To serve as a warning to others
9. To make up for sins in a past life
10. To become one with the universe
11. To overcome depression and write a runaway bestseller about it
12. To be bigger than Oprah (not in that way, idiot)
13. To live a full, interesting life and die in my sleep (almost a tear? Er... nope)
14. To actually feel good about myself (we're getting warmer!)
15. To conquer my fears, become secure with the essence of who I am -- warts and all -- and to help other people do the same (hmm... think I'm on to something)

Ok, seriously, I think there might be some merit to this method. Once you get out all the crap, the snarky cliches and such, it's hard not to start coming up with good reasons. I'm just not quite there yet.

The purpose-less life

2009-04-08T07:39:00.002-05:00

Yesterday's Oprah was about the four "blue zones" of the world, where people are more likely to live to be 100 -- and still be healthy and happy. I wasn't all that interested in the topic because nobody in my family seems to die before 95. I have a great uncle who still drives himself to his favorite fishing spots, and he's at least 99. I've got practically immortal genes.

Anyway, so Dr. Oz and his sidekick Dan somebody are listing tips from each of the blue zones: Eat a small dinner, get daily physical activity, drink red wine, blah blah blah. We've heard all this a million times from a million different gurus (including Oprah). But then they said something like "and have a purpose in life. A reason for getting out of bed in the morning."

What?!

Huh, a purpose in life, you say? This kind of threw me for a loop. I don't really want to live to be 100, but I can't fight heredity (although I am trying, with my sedentary lifestyle and eating nothing but white foods), and I certainly don't want to be miserable for the next 65 or so years.

I haven't ever thought about my purpose in life before. Until watching Oprah yesterday, I didn't realize I didn't have one (or that it was all that important, honestly). When I was little, my purpose was to get through school, so I could be a grown-up. At 20, it was to finish college and find a job. Once I got my first real job, my purpose (if I even thought of it as such back then) was to work my way up and have a true career.

But a job isn't a purpose. So what is it? According to Steve Pavlina, it's "the very reason you exist." That's kind of serious.

(Who is this Steve Pavlina? Well, his web bio states that he's "widely recognized as one of the most successful personal development bloggers on the Internet, attracting more than two million monthly readers to his website." But the best part is this: "Arrested for felony grand theft at age 19 and expelled from school, the full weight of responsibility for his life came crashing down upon him. In an attempt to overcome his out-of-control kleptomania addiction, he decided the best course of action was to go to work on himself." Now this is a guy I can believe in.)

Steve also says you can find out your life's purpose in 20 minutes. Yes, 20 minutes! And to think some of you are paying a therapist for this. Steve says to sit down and type out (or write, if you're a Luddite) what you think your purpose is. Once you get to the reason that "makes you cry," that's it!

As ridiculous as that sounds to me, I'm going to give it a shot. My next post will be my, hopefully short, list. And my newfound purpose in life!

Snippy lives

2009-04-01T08:15:00.003-05:00

Finally! After weeks of sweat and toil, Snippy has successfully launched. There were some hairy, tense moments with domain mapping (now there's a phrase I've never used before). But after some sobbing at my computer at 6 am and some "pointers" from my husband — none of which helped, mind you, but he gave me somewhere else to focus my rage — everything seems to be working. Please check it out and tell me what you think.

The Book of Dahlia

2009-03-29T21:47:00.003-05:00

I've been AWOL from the blog for far too long, but I don't have a good, long post in me. Yet. What I do have to share is my love for The Book of Dahlia, which I bought today at 2 pm and finished at 9:30 pm. I read it at my computer when I was supposed to be working, and I read it in the tub until the water was cold. Dahlia is 29 and dying of brain cancer. But wait! It's not that kind of book — the one where the dying protagonist lives life to the fullest and inspires others through her graceful death. Dahlia is a self-described "fuck up" who wonders if anyone will mourn her "wasted life." She is one of the most interesting characters I've ever seen in modern fiction. It's gritty and harsh and funny and heartwrenching and you must add it to your reading list.

Update

2009-03-14T17:23:00.002-05:00

Last Wednesday, I got together with Laurel and Michelle at Oak Hill to talk about Snippy. Andrew Yeager from WBHM interviewed me about moving on after Lipstick, my first ever radio interview. I hope I didn't stink too badly. It is really difficult to give serious, thoughtful answers when two women are across the table from me with "oh shit" faces, hanging on my every word with dread. They were both so relieved at the end that I hadn't humiliated them! Bless their hearts, I did try.

Nadria, Nancy B., Bradford K. and Jane L. all stopped by to find out how they could help with Snippy and give us their input. They had some outstanding ideas, and I'm excited to see how the site will take shape. I may not be blogging much (not that I've been that much of a regular) as we get the site moving and all my creative "efforts" are focused on that.

Stay tuned!

Letting fingers do the talkin'

2009-03-10T14:11:00.003-05:00

I was flipping channels this morning and stopped on Headline News as they were talking about the new trend of tweeting in church. Apparently, some megachurch is encouraging its younger worshippers to use Twitter to keep their friends in the loop about how "cool" religion is.

I'm pretty sure this is not a good idea. I grew up attending a small, rural Southern Baptist church. I don't know if this is true in every congregation, but in ours the youth (the 13-18 y.o.) sat in the back. One particular Sunday morning, we were drawing tribal headdresses on the photos of deacons in the program and writing insults to pass back and forth, as we usually did every Sunday morning. (I actually still have one of these notes, probably from when I was 15 or so; It was from my friend Jamie and says "You are a big dog. You are a slobbery, rabid dog, too." Only "rabid" looks like "rabvi" for some reason.) Anyway, something happened that morning that was so totally funny that people were falling out of the pew around me, snorting and doing that silent crying thing you do when something is so funny and you're in a place where you're not supposed to laugh. So then I started laughing at the reactions, still not knowing what was going on, and that's when the pastor stopped his sermon mid-sentence.

"I want to know what's so funny back there," he intoned, red-faced.
The entire back three pews froze as we realized he was talking to us, man. That's when 200 pairs of eyes swiveled from the pastor's face to ours.
"I said," the pastor bellowed, "what is funny about the word of the Lord? I see you snickerin', Tina Bennett..."

I don't know if he said other names because my entire world went into slow-mo, and that's when my daddy stood up from about 20 rows in front of me and crooked his finger at me, to silently say, "Come down here right now."

Has your father ever crooked his finger at you? When mine does it, it is not a good thing. It means I cannot believe that you are my child and if I could tear all the skin from your body with a switch I would do it. When the finger crooks at you, you do not hesitate, for fear of death.

After Daddy's finger-crooking, I slunk up to the front of the church in silence. I could feel the fury radiating off both my parents so I sat as still as possible and kept my eyes on the pastor the rest of the interminably long sermons. The urge to die out laughing was intense.

So as I'm thinking of these kids thumbing their iPhones and Blackberrys and what-have-you, I'm imagining my dad, at the front, crooking his finger at them. Don't make him do that, kids.

5 completely random things

2009-03-09T20:27:00.003-05:00

Today was weird. I wasn't bored, exactly, but my mind had drifted off somewhere else. I hope wherever it went, that it was getting lots of sun and umbrella drinks. Anyhoo, I never could think of anything profound to blog about today. Then it hit me: no one blogs about the profound. Who would read that? So here are five completely random things that I thought about today, for those who are keeping score at home:
1. Are newspapers dying? Are magazines? Will people even know how to read in 50 years or will all our necessary info be downloaded in microchip form (or whatever is more sophisticated than a microchip in 50 years) so we can put forth no effort whatsoever? I read a few articles today about the death flop of print media, because I like to torture myself and my choice of profession.
2. My cats, Niblet and Benny, are masters of manipulation and mind control. They can see that I am focusing all my attention on my little screen, so therefore they wail and twitch and run about until I stop what I'm doing and follow them into the kitchen where they stare pointedly into their bowls. This will continue ad infinitum, between naps of course.
3. Ellen DeGeneres is really funny.
4. Tai chi looks like it would be a relaxing thing to learn, but man, is it boring. I made it 30 minutes into the DVD and she hadn't even started teaching the steps to the form. She did talk a lot about how master tai chi instructors' upper bodies "are soft like butterfly wings." That sounds nice.
5. This weekend I watched some Muppet Show episodes with John Cleese, Peter Sellers and Dudley Moore. I keep thinking about John Cleese being forced into costume complete with maracas as the Muppets sing "Impossible Dream" and laughing to myself. The cats just narrow their eyes, suspiciously.

Who you callin' Snippy?!

2009-03-04T15:41:00.003-06:00

Since we all got laid off February 13, Laurel, Michelle and I have been tossing around the idea of starting a new website that has the content we really want to do. Strong personal essays, interviews with our favorite women, book reviews, lists (we love lists), etc. And one where we are free to cuss and carry on like the jezebels we are.

Last week we decided to go for it, but then came the hard part — what the hell to name it. "Vagina Dialogues," though intriguing, was out. So was "The Dish," because there's already a cable gossip show called that (and hosted by the girl who played Topanga on Boy Meets World — I hope she gets better material soon). We considered "Zelda," as an homage to Montgomery-born Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald, who was known for thumbing her nose at Southern social mores of the time. Her story's a bit too tragic for her name to be the title of an uplifting (we hope) women's site, so we passed on it, too.

Then at lunch today with Laurel, inspiration struck. We were bitching about past workplace indignities when I mentioned being called "snippy" whenever I spoke up about something. "That's it!" Laurel said. Laurel's standards are higher than mine, so if she liked it I figured I better jump on board, too. I'm actually pleased as punch with the name, and although it's a bit inside joke-y, I think it sums up pretty well what our site's voice will be like. We will often say things that would get us in trouble at a corporate-owned magazine. I'll write more about it once we launch the site April 1 — snippyonline.com.

The Hatch house, frosted with snow

2009-03-02T12:15:00.002-06:00

I felt too bad to enjoy the snow on Sunday, but my wonderful mother-in-law Doris captured this image. It makes our weird little house look almost cute!

The painful truth

2009-03-02T09:39:00.002-06:00

I woke up Sunday with a headache, a really bad one that started at the back of my head and radiated up and out until my whole head throbbed. I must have taken 10-12 Advil during the course of the day (including 3 Advil Migraine tablets) but it never even took the edge off.

Around noon, I went back to bed. When I wasn't sleeping — fitfully — I was doing some not-so-pleasant thinking about why I felt so bad. See, I wake up almost every morning with a headache. Most days they fade not long after breakfast, but sometimes they stick around for the rest of the day, or even days. I've seen my doctor about it and she's prescribed Treximet, but the pills are incredibly expensive. But she also told me something I didn't want to hear — I'm fat and out of shape and I won't feel better until I do something about it.

Just writing that is embarrassing, although I can't imagine that anyone who's ever seen me would argue (and if you would, that is very sweet of you, but it's not honest). Since I moved to Birmingham 10 years ago, I've struggled with my weight. Well, "struggled" wouldn't be the right word since that assumes that I actually put some effort into it. I did try to work on it for a couple of years, going to the gym for 2-3 hours a day, drinking Slim Fast and falling into bed every night before 9 pm, exhausted but hungry. It was hard, hard work and my tantrum-throwing inner child would show up at least once a week demanding a cheeseburger and cocktails, which I would overindulge in and ruin my progress for the week.

I achieved nirvana while Royal and I were in Germany for a year. Bored, I spent lots of time at the gym. We only had one car, which Royal took to work, so I walked everywhere. We ate the good, hearty German food with gusto, but I managed to lose weight from all the activity. I came back to the US lighter than when I'd left (and, for the first time in years, quite infatuated with my toned body).

Unfortunately, it didn't last. Our first meal back in Alabama was at Hamburger Heaven. You just can't get a good cheeseburger in Germany. Then I had to have Mexican about four nights in a row, as that's not popular in Bavaria, either. A few months of this and no activity later, and I was back in the fat clothes.

Fast forward a few years, and things have only gotten worse. I no longer even pretend to eat healthily. When I have a craving — which is often — I dispatch Royal to the Pig for our crack of choice, Little Debbie snack cakes. We can polish off a box of Swiss cake rolls or fudge rounds in a matter of hours. Royal is definitely an enabler, but only because I allow him to be. He only wants me to be happy, bless his heart. And being unhappy is what got me to this point in the first place. I have been depressed for many, many years and was officially diagnosed last summer. I am taking Wellbutrin, which helps tremendously, and seeing a therapist. But while those things give me the tools I need to make a change, they can't actually make the change for me. I have to do the work. And that's where I've been stuck ever since.

Anyway, confessional blog posts like this always make me cringe a little bit, but if everyone in the world — or, the five people who occasionally read this blog — knows about my problem, then I can't pretend there isn't one any more. I am not so vain as to worry about the number on the tag inside my jeans, but I do worry that, at 35, I'm experiencing the pain and discomfort of someone 20 years older (and also out of shape). It's keeping me from doing the things I want to do and it has to stop. Today.

Pity poor Gwynnie

2009-02-24T10:24:00.003-06:00

What is it about Upper East Side-educated, Oscar-winning, musician-marrying Hollywood A-listers that makes everyone so testy? I have been reading about the GOOP backlash for a few weeks, first with amusement and then with growing irritation. Even The New York Times got in on the act recently.

For those of you who don't spend all your time on gossip sites, GOOP is the brainchild of actress Gwyneth Paltrow. It's a lifestyle site that sends you a weekly newsletter with tidbits like "Police your thoughts." I had never visited it until today and what I found, though hardly groundbreaking, wasn't as insidious as I had been led to believe. Yes, Gwynnie is a very rich, very fortunate and very famous woman. And no, she doesn't necessarily have the qualifications to be a lifestyle guru, or a gym owner, or a food show host, or (and I'm being mean here) an Oscar-winning actress (come on, Cate Blanchett and Meryl Streep were both nominated that year!).

But since when has a lack of qualifications stopped anyone from blogging?

I can't believe I'm saying this, but cut the poor girl some slack. If we had to be qualified before we were allowed to expound on a subject, there would be no Internet. If there's one thing I can count on every day, it's that I will read reams of information from complete know-nothing nobodies who are convinced that their opinions are sound and not to be questioned. This is the entire foundation on which conservative talk radio is based! To mouth off on matters of which you have little knowledge or experience, this, my friends, is what it means to be an American.

Ticking away the moments that make up the dull day

2009-02-23T15:45:00.003-06:00

One of the four or five good things about having a full-time job is the demarcation of time. You know you have a long and probably boring week ahead of you but, eventually, Friday will come. You might spend the whole week planning for it, talking about it and daydreaming of it rather than actually getting any work done. The anticipation is painful, but delicious — and makes your Friday night happy hour seem all the more deserved.

What happens, then, when there is no 40-hour work week? How can you anticipate the weekend with any fervor when it looks the same as, say, Tuesday? This thought hit me on Saturday morning, as I was waking up and poked Royal in the shoulder with my usual Saturday, "Hey, what do you want to do today?" His anticipated stock answer, "I don't know. What do you want to do?" bothered me more than usual. What did I want to do?!

You would think, given that I had my choice of things to do, that I would come up with a thousand creative and fun things to keep us occupied. But exactly the opposite happened — I was completely paralyzed by the options. I had already cleaned the house, done the laundry, shopped for groceries and paid the bills for the week, so we had none of that usual last minute housekeeping to do. Nothin' but time and my imagination. Unfortunately, I have the former in droves and the latter not at all. The things I really wanted to do — go try a new restaurant, see a movie, drive to Atlanta for the weekend — involved spending more money than is feasible at this time. So that left cheap/free things, none of which come easily to mind in Birmingham.

I spent most of the morning fretting about fretting the hours away, while Royal played WoW and generally feigned sympathy at my plight. He's fine not doing anything. Not doing anything is like his favorite thing to do. But it makes me feel lazy and unproductive and then I feel even worse come Monday.

Finally, at around 1:30, I declared we were going for a walk, and not around the neighborhood either. So we drove the mile or two to the little gravel lot outside Moss Rock, and walked the winding trail into the neighborhood. It was cold out, but the sky was breathtakingly blue and the exercise was invigorating. We talked about things we wanted to learn — Royal wanted to learn Spanish and brush up on coding, I wanted to learn origami which he mocked me for — and stopped to pet a friendly dog on the trail. Afterwards, we stopped by The Purple Onion for gyros and drove home sated and spent.

I am slowly learning that it's OK to not have anything exciting on the agenda. I just need to learn to turn that phrase "we have the whole weekend in front of us" into something a little less panic inducing. I do expect this unemployed stint to be short-lived — and I should enjoy frittering away time while it lasts.

Quotidian joys

2009-02-19T11:35:00.002-06:00

I'm not accustomed to being home during the day. This week I've been trying to create little daily rituals to make each day seem special — and not an endless slog until I find my next job. I've been exercising as soon as I get out of bed and get fully awake (and as soon as Royal has left so he doesn't have to endure my singing and wheezing on the treadmill), then eating breakfast while watching The Golden Girls. [I had forgotten how good that show was. Ridiculous? Yes. Dated? Definitely. But this was the first show that let older women actually have sex lives!] Then I putter around the house cleaning and Febreze-ing. I now understand my stay-at-home mother much better, as a clean, fresh-smelling house makes the whole day easier, even if that day is spent updating Facebook and watching Law & Order reruns.

So something I noticed today was how good these tiny little things were making me feel. I looked forward today to going to my neighborhood Pig and buying a few things, stopping off at the post office next door to pick up a package and cancelling my gym membership (actually, I didn't enjoy that one as it was awkward for everyone involved). I cleaned out my car and hand washed things that have been in my car for two months, intended for the dry cleaners. Then I snipped some forsythia branches from the hedge and placed them in vases around the house.

For the record, I am not a woman who enjoys house cleaning or hand washing or flower picking (maybe a little). But when the whole day is spread out before you and you don't really have anything planned, even the smallest, most everyday task can be a pleasant experience. I am taking more time to appreciate these little things because, well, I have the time. Now all I need to do is remember this feeling when I get a job and time is all too fleeting.

Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana. ~ Groucho Marx

Frosting delivery system

2009-02-17T13:21:00.003-06:00

While searching for the ultimate cream cheese frosting recipe (the one on the Kraft site is good, but you can't go wrong with mixing cream cheese, butter, vanilla and powdered sugar until you get the consistency you like), I found the phrase "a cupcake is nothing more than a frosting/icing delivery system" in dozens of articles online. I couldn't imagine that so many disparate food blogs and publications (even the esteemed magazine The Atlantic uses the phrase) would come up with such a witty turn of phrase all at the same time. After some preliminary investigation (ok, looking up more recipes), it looks like Ina Garten, food goddess, coined it. In her honor, here is her recipe for Peanut Butter Frosting. Top chocolate cupcakes with it or, you know, just eat it out of the bowl with a spoon.

Peanut Butter Icing
from Barefoot Contessa
1 cup confectioners' sugar
1 cup creamy peanut butter
5 tablespoons unsalted butter at room temperature
3/4 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1/3 cup heavy cream

Place the confectioners' sugar, peanut butter, butter, vanilla, and salt in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with a paddle attachment. Mix on medium-low speed until creamy, scraping down the bowl with a rubber spatula as you work. Add the cream and beat on high speed until the mixture is light and smooth.

Another reason to not go in the water

2009-02-17T13:11:00.003-06:00

This article scared the bejeezus out of me:
What Invasive Species are Trying to Tell Us

At right: a lionfish — beautiful, resourceful and a harbinger of the impending apocalypse

Farewell, Lipstick

2009-02-16T17:14:00.003-06:00

Thanks to Media of Birmingham and The Terminal for getting the word out about Lipstick folding. If you've come here from either site, here's a bit more info.

The Birmingham News launched Lipstick in November 2007 with high hopes (and a low budget). Our staff included art director Michelle Hazelwood Hyde, managing editor Laurel Mills, administrative assistant Nadria Tucker, and myself as editor in chief. All of us were laid off on Friday. According to the News, it was strictly a business decision. We had to make money to survive, and in this economic climate it just wasn't happening.

For what it's worth, the News was always supportive of our editorial content. Nervous, but supportive. We established a somewhat irreverent voice early on that was a challenge in a city as conservative as Birmingham, but we had a loyal, vocal following. I am so grateful for the opportunity to serve the women (and men!) of Birmingham in whatever small way. I look forward to the next chapter.

Big, big thanks and hugs to Anne Glamore, Catherine McCarty, Kim Hildenbrand, Chianti Cleggett, Helen Grebe, Abigail Millwood, Cindy Riley, Melanie LeMay and so many others I'm probably forgetting for writing such fantastic essays, profiles and articles. I wish you all the best in your journeys.

Meanwhile, please pick up the March issue of Lipstick! It will be on racks throughout the city around March 1. And if you're upset the magazine is going away, drop a line to the News and let them know. :)

The eternal to-do list

2009-02-16T13:49:00.003-06:00

Now that I have some extra time on my hands, what with being laid off and all, I figure there's no time like the present to get started on my "life list." I like to think of it as a really lofty to-do list. Only instead of looking at it morosely right before bed and realizing I have done nothing on the list all day, I can look at this in the nursing home right before death — and regret not having done anything on the list for decades. I'm just being realistic.

In no particular order, here are 10 of the things I want to accomplish this lifetime:
-Learn Spanish. In college, my Spanish IV professor told me I had a natural ear and should consider a job as a translator or interpreter. Now I can barely order a chimichanga at Hacienda Grill.
-Learn German. I know what an ausfahrt is and how to order spaetzle, but I bet there are more important things I can learn in German. Like cursing.
-Write a novel. Autobiographical, of course. I've been talking about this for at least 10 years and have yet to set pen to paper (er, keystrokes to screen? I am such an old person). A few of the integral people in my story have died, so the threat of lawsuits is diminished, at least.
-Learn how to use power tools appropriately. This may seem trivial addition, but I would really like to know how to use an electric drill without fearing I will bore through my hand.
-Learn to make bread from scratch. I have a bread machine, but it can't create the crusty exterior, chewy interior of my favorite artisan breads.
-Knit a sweater I'd actually wear. The reason this one is worded this way is that I can actually knit, but everything comes out misshapen and malformed. I made a "hat" for Royal once that I later had to turn into a totebag. It was about 20 times too big for his head. And Royal has a really big head, y'all.
-Take dance lessons. Now, I took bellydancing classes a few years ago, so I know I'm not completely uncoordinated — but I'm pretty close.
-Pay off credit cards. Who doesn't have this one on their list? If you don't have credit card debt, you are clearly a better person than I am.
-Work on a political campaign. I really, really, really wanted to work on the Obama campaign, but it didn't pan out. Not that I applied or anything.
-Plant a garden. I grew up with a huge vegetable garden in my back yard, and I really wished I had paid attention. Yes, Mom and Dad, I know you told me so.

The first post is always the hardest

2009-02-14T21:30:00.002-06:00

Today is Valentine's Day. I got laid off yesterday. My husband and I made homemade red velvet cupcakes with vanilla buttercream frosting (verdict: meh) and spent the rest of the day playing WoW. We had good intentions to go hiking today and Royal was going to teach me to play tennis, but I felt like today needed to be as unplanned and relaxed as possible. Yesterday was hellish.

The worst part? I knew it was coming. I just didn't know when, and that was making me sick with anxiety. I couldn't decide if I should start looking for something else — or fight harder. The magazine was so special and so beneficial to a lot of people... It doesn't feel real yet that we don't have it any more.