Good New(s) Year

Dr. Winterhalter sent me some good news the other day and I thought you all might like to know it. She and I applied for a research grant for the summer of '06 to work on a book she, along with a professor at Georgia Southern, is compiling. The book is called Feminist Locations, and it is composed of essays from professors all over the south. Dr. W let me know that we won the grant and I will be able to work as an assistant editor on the project next summer. I am happy for the experience. I know there are many other people who are more qualified for this position, but I am thrilled to have the opportunity.

The Dreaded Resolution

Every year, about this time, I begin to start thinking of my new year's resolution. Every year, this resolution is the same: to lose weight. While I was married, we would always go to church on New Year's Eve and at midnight, we would come together as a church and pray for the year ahead of us. I always imagined that the people around me were praying for world peace and an end to world hunger, while I bowed my head and asked God to give me the strength to lose the 60 pounds I gained when I was pregnant with Reese. I was ashamed to be so shallow, but it meant so much to me.

This year is no different. I have enjoyed bread and desserts during the holiday season because I know on January 1st, I will be right back on my diet. This year I started to question my resolution because it has been so ineffective in the past. Hopefully, I will start teaching this fall and I do not want to have to turn my fat ass to a group of insecure, and potentially mean, teenagers, so I have a lot of motivation to finally succeed. Outside of the physical, I have other issues I need to work on. I have ignored other areas in my life that could use some improvement to focus on this one wish, as if this achievement will fix all the other problems in my life. Maybe it would, but maybe not. I am going to try a different approach this year: I am going to keep my resolution to lose weight, but I will not make this my single goal. How about you? What resolutions have you had in the past, and how successful have you been? What is this year's resolution?

Kid's Say The Darndest Things

I don't want this to be a blog about the joys of motherhood, so I try to decide what to put based upon the rule of would I repeat this story if it did not involve my child. This is one story that I would probably tell no matter who it involved. Me and Trey were watching television together last night, actually I was watching television and Trey was composing a Christmas letter to Kirsten, when a commercial for Ruby Tuesday came on. The announcer said "Enjoy our Hang off the Plate Ribs, slow cooked for hours." Trey said, "I would never order those things." I disagreed,"I would, they look delicious."
"But Mama, think about it. It would take forever. The man said they cook it for hours."
After I quit laughing, I explained that they started cooking it long before the person ordered it from the menu. I thought it was very cute.

On another note. I do not know if any of you have seen the beautiful Reese Witherspoon in Vanity Fair, but I watched it the other night and loved it. It got such horrible reviews that I had never had any interest in seeing it, but I could not sleep and it was on HBO so I watched it. I fell in love with Becky Sharp's card-shark husband(James Purefoy). Seriously, it was like a teenage girls crush on the New Kid's on the Block. He is adorable (see picture above). I am going to the book store today to read all 912 pages of the novel to see how much they changed it in the film version. I always heard Becky Sharp was a horrible girl, but Reese Witherspoon could never be anything but sweet as pie. Casting may have been off here a little. If you get a chance, watch it, or if you have already watched it, tell me what you thought.

Merry Christmas!

Only the strong survived. The plastic reindeer did not have a chance.

For all my petty complaints about my life, this christmas I am thankful for the goodness in simply being alive. I have wonderful friends, people that I truly, truly like, and a beautiful family. I hope each of you have a merry Christmas and a fabulous year. I look forward to sharing them with you.

It's The Most Wonderful Time

I started this post several times but I kept erasing it because I could not find the right thoughts to put down. I felt that I had depressed everyone with my musings on death, so I wanted to talk about something different. I could have talked about my relentless pursuit of the xbox 360, and how maddening it was to keep missing out on the hottest gift this Christmas. I woke up at 7am each morning, threw on a baseball cap and sneakers and went to Wal-Mart and Circuit City, and then before I went to bed at night, I got out and repeated my trip to the stores, hoping that the person at the desk would say, "Boy are you lucky. We just got a shipment in." I would gladly write out a check, stuff the xbox in my car and plan on ways to keep it hidden from my boys. It would be my Christmas gift to myself to have pulled off the impossible and made two kids very happy. It was not meant to be that way. Instead, I woke up one morning, sad and depressed and feeling like a failure, only to stumble along a premium xbox 360 package at WalMart.com. I could not click the "checkout" button fast enough. It was, as Kirsten would say, "a Christmas miracle." It was not until I had to confirm the order that I realized this "premium" package was over 1000 dollars. I did not care: I bought it anyway.

The next morning, I slept late. No early morning trek to Wal-Mart hell, so I sat at my computer and out of habit, I checked to see if Circuit City had any 360's in stock, and yes, they did, and at half the price. The only problem was that I had to call and order it over the phone and Reese just happened to overhear my order. I lost the element of surprise I love so much. There would be no "Oh my gosh" upon seeing the presents under the tree on Christmas morning. I thought I could work it out later. The next day, I told the kids that Circuit City called and said there had been a mistake and they could not send out the xbox 360, but would be happy to send us a regular xbox. They are so gullible! Sad faces abounded for the rest of the day. I had the advantage back.

I cancelled the order at walmart and waited for the order from circuit city. I convinced the kids that after Christmas we would get them an xbox 360. I went shopping and when I finished I stopped at my mom's to see my brother. Everyone kept mouthing something to me and pointing to the spare bedroom, but I had no clue of what they were talking about. I went into the kitchen with my mom and she said, "The UPS guy took the xbox to your house and the kids saw it. It is all in the guest room. Reese called me and said 'Please come get it Granny so mama will not know we saw it. She will be disappointed if she knows she can't surprise us.'" She had tears in her eyes when she told me, and at first I did not understand why, but then I thought about the fact that they had not said one word to me about their "surprise." There was no cheers of triumph or "can we play it now since we already saw it?" Three little people cared about dissapointing me more than they cared about their own fun times. I can't say that, as an adult, I always do that. I have no doubt that they would never have told me they already knew what they were getting. So, I got my own little surprise for Christmas. In a world that has commercialized the holiday season, and I am just as guilty of this, you can still find a moment of selflessness. I thought to myself, maybe, just maybe, I am doing an ok job. That I am not failing at the most important task I have been given: to not completely screw up the lives of three beautiful individuals. It was a gift that cannot be wrapped up in paper, or bought in a store, and it will be the best gift I receive this year.

Memories of My Melancholy Whores

I am reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez's new short story Memories of My Melancholy Whores. I love Marquez (I know you do too Christy) so I thought I would keep a little journal while I read it. When I told Dr. Torres that I planned to read it over the break, she said, "In Spanish, the title is very shocking. When I saw it I gasped." Initially, I was attracted to the word "Whores," but I knew it would not be about lascivious sex, but a love story of some kind. Sex is usually secondary to love in Marquez's work. So far, I love it. Here is one of my favorite lines: "I don't have to say so because people can see it from leagues away: I'm ugly, shy and anachronistic. But by dint of not wanting to be those things I have pretended to be just the opposite. Until today, when I resolved to tell of my own free will just what I'm like, if only to ease my conscience."

I'm not very far into it, but my heart already aches for the narrator, who is a ninety year old man preparing for his death. That is how Marquez always makes me feel and why I keep on reading his beautiful prose.

The Art of Losing

One Art by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

I am not easily frightened. I am unfazed by spiders and bugs. Finances never keep me up at night. I don't fear that the random man walking towards me will rape or kidnap me. But I am terrified at the thought of death. Rape me or take me, but don't kill me. Bite me and gross me out, but just don't inject me with any poison that will cause my heart to stop.

Yesterday, I found out that a girl I used to work with died Sunday night. She was my age and had a six year old daughter, Jasmine, who was her inspiration for going back to school to get a degree. Because she was a single mother, she used to bring Jasmine to work with her and, while she cleaned rooms, I would keep the precocious six-year old at the front desk. Because I lost my father at a young age, I can imagine what this little girl will go through. Every Christmas will be a reminder of what she does not have, and what she is missing. She is learning what some people will be lucky enough to never learn: that life can be unfair to the poor and the young and the vulnerable, who are all too often one in the same. Many times she will ask herself "How would my life be different if my mother had lived?" The sad part is that she will never know.

My 85 year old neighbor died last week. He had struggled with cancer for years and his death was no surprise to his family. His youngest son is my age and his oldest is in her fifties. They lived a nice, full life with their family intact and whole. I admit, I am jealous. Not only for me, but for Jasmine and others that I know have lost someone important to them too early. My tears for Jasmine are tears for myself. I have not yet mastered the art of losing.

Insightful Insight

This morning on Imus, George Carlin said something that I think applies to this billboard on the side of a West Virginia highway: "When you are born, you get a ticket to the freak show. If you live in America, sometimes the seat is on the front row."

Dixie Lee Swogger Higginbotham Jacobs . . .

Cast of Characters

Going along with the theme of my previous post, I have to tell you a little bit about my family history. Most of you know I went to a bizarre little school where the only literature we ever studied was the Bible and Pilgrim's Progress. I never wrote an essay and the only science I learned was intellilgent design, or as we called it back then, " we don't come from no monkeys!" Many of the kids that went to school there, were there because their family either, did not want them around black people, they had been kicked out of public schools for abnormal behavior, or their parents went to the church that was in charge of the school. I was part of the last group.

I believe that I was a born radical. I read books that no one else even heard of and was constantly in trouble. I believe I got my rebellious streak from my grandmother, who refused to be called Granny, Grandmother or anything else maternal sounding. She was one of those women that are in every small southern town that was close friends with the sheriff and could get a ticket fixed with a phone call. She had several husbands (5 to be exact) who were prominent blue-collar businessmen and she owned a restaurant called "The Blue Bird Cafe" that is still opened in downtown Brunswick. Her husbands were strange men. Her first husband, my grandpa, owned a boarding house for horses and would take me to all the horse shows. He would sit in a chair and yell at the horses as they went around the barrel's. I would sit between his knees and feel like the luckiest little girl in the world. He had left Dixie and my mom and her sister when they were very young, but as he grew older he decided to be a part of his grandchildren life. He died shortly after this decision, which is how my luck seems to go.

Dixie's next husband (I won't go though them all as some are more memorable than others) was Cecil. Cecil owned a Catepillar dealership and he was the love of Dixie's life. When he tried to leave her, she pulled out her pistol and tried to shoot him, but the gun went off and she shot herself in the foot. She was never charged with anything (see the note about the sheriff above). A few years after Cecil, Dixie married a man named Hershel. Hershel was a drunk chef who owned a catering business that had recently suffered because of his drinking. I will never forget the Thanksgiving after they married. Herschel impressed everyone with a fabulous spread. I have never since had better sweet potatoes than Herschel's. After a couple of glorious thanksgiving dinners, Dixie got tired of Herschel and kicked him out. We were all devastated. I loved Herschel and his funny drunken ways. Herschel got drunk one night after their divorce and was killed in a car accident. God bless his soul, he was a good man in spite of the drink.

I could go on and on about Dixie and her stories, but this has been to long and I need to get to my point: I have a lot of Dixie in me. My first best friend in school was kicked out because they caught her in the bathroom unfolding sanitary napkins and looking at them. I married a man that loved to drink and have a good time and was a fabulous chef. I also contemplated killing him several times, and if I had a gun, I may have followed through. I get tired of guys after a few years and want to move on, but I have too much of my mom in me as well and I try to do the "right thing," whatever that may mean. Dixie's granddaughter all have a bit of her in them and we know this, but we seemed doomed to repeat her mistakes. I guess there is a lot of power in the blood.

There Is Power In The Blood

"In whatever form a slowly accumulated past lives in the blood . . . It has the same power of broadening and deepening the individual existence, of attaching it by mysterious links of kinship to all the mighty sum of human striving."

This quote comes from The House of Mirth. Lily's life is destined for heartbreak because of her past. Wharton seems to blame her misfortunes on the "power of the blood, " and her family history. That is why Lily had to die: she could have never overcome her fate because it is in her blood.

I thought about this when my beautiful niece came by my mom's the other day to help us make fruit cake. She said, "I have 'shit magnate' across my forehead. If a guy is a jerk and a loser, I will find him out in a crowd of winners." She should have better luck. She is tall and thin, blonde, beautiful and smart. She is working on her master's in education, goes to a big university and has an amazing personality. However, it's in her blood to have that kind of luck. Everyone says she reminds them of me (not that I am tall, blonde or beautiful), but she has my type of luck. She thinks with her heart and not her head. She makes choices on how it will feel right now and not how will it feel ten years from now. I like to go to school and have fun, and if there is a loser in the room, I find him like a heat seeking missile. I wonder, Are we destined for our life? Can we do anything to change our fate? Wharton and Hardy seem to think not.

Free At Last, Free At Last!

This may be overdoing it, but only to a small degree. I am the angel and I am free. Get it?

Free at last, free at last! Thank God Almighty, I'm free at last! Let Freedom ring!, Operation Iraqi Freedom . . . Well maybe not the last one, but it is fabulous to be free. After taking my last final yesterday, I am able to once again enjoy freedom. I know why it was such a big deal. It feels great to wake up and lay there in my nice warm bed and not feel guilty. To know that I have no certain number of pages to read, no paper to write, and no lesson plan to make up, is wonderful. The sad part is that in a couple of weeks, I will be ready to go back to school,with my new pens and pencils, and laugh with Kirsten and listen to Brandi's elopement fantasies. For now though, it feels good to have nothing to do. I hope all of you are almost done, and when you are, let me know how it feels.

It's Finals Time

I will return, if I have the power of language, after my last final on Wednesday.

Sean Has Taken Over

Sean keeps coming up with lists that he would like for me to post, so here is another. I have to admit that I am partial to these as well.
I told Sean that I don't know if I can come up with 10 of my favorite movies. List as many, or as few as you want.
What are you favorite movies?
1. Grapes of Wrath
2. Gone with the Wind
3. Braveheart
4. Shine
5. Malcom X
6. Closer
7. Thelma and Louise

I don't think these are my favorite movies, but it's finals week and I have zero brain capacity.

What We Love

My friend Sean loves to debate the merits of certain books that have historically been called "great." I think he has some strange ideas, but he does share my love for books. I was sharing a quote with him and a couple of other friends, and, as anti-sentimental as Sean is, he thought it was a great paragraph and sentiment:

" Vendler is evoking one of the great myths about those of us who take literature seriously enough to major it in college, perhaps enough to want to spend out lives teaching literature to others: that in our Edenic childhoods we grew up enchanted by the pleasures and powers of literature . . . However we got hooked by literature, it seems to be a lifelong addiction, and studying it is the tribute we pay to the power it has over us."
Falling Into Theory
I told Sean I would try and start a debate, or at least a list, of books others feel are great. Here's mine, in order of greatness:
1. The Waves
2. Jane Eyre
3. The Brothers Karamozov
4. Love in the Time of Cholera
5. To the Lighthouse
6. Mrs./ Dalloway
7. The Portrait of a Lady
8. As I Lay Dying
9. One Hundred Years of Solitude
10. The Good Soldier
I could go on and on, but I am already questioning my top ten list. I would love to see what books show up again and again on this list. Add yours and make Sean happy.

Happy Thanksgiving!!

It's almost obscene.

Life's Little Nuisances

I saw a list on a blog the other day and thought it was very funny, so I came up with a list of a few of the students that I see in my classes at Armstrong. Most of these are found in my education classes. Feel free to add one of your characters to the list.

1. The student who uses the wrong word, or uses unnecessary words, because they are trying to sound smart.

There is a lady in one of my classes who loves to speak articulately and enunciate everything perfectly. She ends up sounding like a minister. Some of her favorite words are "Holistic"and (my personal favorite), "Dramastically." Last night she sounded the battle cry for teachers everywhere to "Give of yourselves" (pause here) "that is the best we can do for our children." One semester, a guy was so out of control, that we had to create a banned word list. If I recall correctly, "Juxtaposition" was at the top of the list.

2. The student who is connected in some way to every situation:

One of the women in my class has a little bit of everybody in her family. "I have been accused of being Jamaican," "I have been around a lot of Muslims,"" I like to eat bean Pies," "My Auntie is an Indian," "I had a great-uncle who was from Turkey," "Jehovah Witnesses always knock at my door." You get the picture. Her initial revelations always end up in a 15 speech that rambles on about things that no one cares about.

3. The student who is so PC that she qualifies everything she says:

There is a girl we call "Lily White" in one of my classes. She is so conscious of everything she says that she has to say two sentences for every one sentence she says. Example, "I never knew that black children had such problems, you know what I mean when I say black, I don't mean black children."

4. The student that "helps out" the teacher by bringing in articles or news stories that she thought we would find "interesting."

Many times these articles are of no interest to me at all. They end up be more paper that I have to toss out of my already too cluttered book bag. I have to confess though; sometimes I am this student. But I do not bring these articles to the whole class, just to the teacher and a select few who I know will be interested in it.

A New Metaphor

Oak Tree on Sapelo

I have my theory that life is like a merry-go-round; there are ups and downs, but you have to stay on the ride. Today, as I was watching Meet the Press, I decided that life is not only like a merry go round, but it is also like a television show. We live life in production mode; presenting ourselves as who we want others to think we are. When we are being observed through the lens of the camera, those watching only see what we want them to see. It looks pretty good to them. We read from the teleprompter and make as few mistakes as possible. We only let a few see the behind the scenes action. The wires that hang free and make the set, when seen in its entirety, look messy and disordered, are cut off when others narrowly observe us. When the camera widens out, others can see that our set is not as perfect as it seems through the selective eye of the lens, so we try to keep them from that wide shot. We try to keep the camera in tight and the frame under our control. When the microphones are turned off, we say things we would rarely say when others could hear our broadcast.

Some may think this is a criticism of the way we live, but it is not. We cannot, no matter how we would like to, walk around saying or doing whatever we please with no consideration of those around us. We live, not only for ourselves, but for others as well. Independence is great, but so is interdependence. I was told by a very wise man once, "Before you say something, ask yourself, Is it necessary and is it kind?" As long as I can present a decent picture to the people in my viewing area, then I can work on the behind the scenes stuff. I can reach back and tuck in a wire that may be hanging in way of the shot. At least I can try.

It really is sad

The Chili Cheese Dog

This post is dedicated to Malinda. Her reaction to Willie's just shows you how, once bitten by the Willie Bug, you can never recover. I also realize how sad it is that I have dedicated so much time to a hot dog stand. Tomorrow we are going to St. Simons to play in the park. Look for the pics. I promise there will be none of Willie's.

Well Put Candide

"'That is very well put,' said Candide, 'but we must cultivate our garden'"

Voltaire in Candide

Sometimes I am amazed at the hurt we can feel for others. I remember reading the end of "Candide" and being so disappointed that he did not find the happiness he had fought for throughout this novella. I felt the same way for Newland Archer at the end of Age of Innocence.

But these are characters in books. I have never, and will never know them. I cry because I feel their pain in a way that I relate to my own life.

Last night I went to a sports banquet for Reese and Hope's football and volleyball teams. Although Hope was never able to play (I am glad to say she is an artist and not an athlete), she was very excited to be able to receive a certificate and stand on the stage with her friends. But when the members of the volleyball team were called up to receive their rewards, Hope's name was not called. She smiled and said "It's OK. I don't mind." But I knew better, and I hurt for her much like I hurt for Candide and Newland.

Tha' Real Willie's

As promised:

Making Your Own Space

I believe that, no matter the circumstances, people find a way of making their own space. I thought you might like to see some of my spaces in Brunswick. What more do you need besides a great restaurant, a good cup of coffee, a delicious cheeseburger and an independent bookseller that sells great old books?

To Will

We are alone, absolutely alone on this chance planet: and, amid all the forms of life that surround us, not one, excepting the dog, has made an alliance with us.
- Maurice Maeterlinck

When I read that quote earlier today, I did not give it much thought. It seems like one of life's cruel moments because my beloved dog Will was killed tonight. It was Phil's fault, and I am going to be completely bitter and unbearably mean for a little while. I hope I can forgive him and be the kind of person I aspire to be, but right now it seems unlikely.

Differance

Nothing great in the world has ever been accomplished without passion

G. W. F. Hegel

When someone asks me what my major is, I am always a little proud to tell them "I am an English major." I am sure there are other people with different majors that feel the same way I do. They ask, "Why would anyone want to be an English major?" while I wonder why anyone would be a business major. Having a degree in English is not especially prestigious, and will probably not bring me great wealth, but I am pursuing my passion. I love that I walk around work all day and talk to people who love, not only to read, but to think. I am convinced we look at the world differently.

When I was younger, I was different from my friends. I was reminded of this last night when I went to dinner with four girls I've known since elementary school. Four times a year, for each others birthday, we go out to dinner. I always think about how we were when we were growing up for several days before we meet. I am convinced that we are who we are and there is not much we can do to change it. Our school did not encourage reading, but I read. I read Austen, Bronte, Shakespeare, Sewell, Alcott and even Margaret Mitchell. I listened to Opera music on large records. or Frank Sinatra as he crooned about love. I was just different. One of my favorite people in the world confirmed this difference for me today. When she was in the sixth grade, her idea of a great Halloween costume was to dress up like a Picasso painting. No one else recognized what she was, they had the nerve to ask if she were "trash," but even then, she knew what she liked and did not care that no one else shared her view of the world. She was different then and she still is, but I hope now she values that difference. One day, I am convinced, she will be famous because of her unique vision.

I was reminded of that difference last night as my friends pulled up in their large SUV's with their American flag magnetic stickers on the back window. They stepped from their cars perfectly pressed, grabbed their Vera Bradley bags and walked to the restaurant confident in their good looks. I picked up my bag from the Junkman's Daughter, smiled and followed them in, confident in the fact that I am where I want to be and, tomorrow, I will walk into a building to a group of people from whom I am not so different.

Killing Time Without Injuring Eternity

"Public opinion is a weak tyrant compared with our own private opinion. What a man thinks of himself, that it is which determines, or rather indicates his fate."

H. D. Thoreau

I love where I am right now in my life. I love school and homework and being told that I have to read certain books. There are very few days that I am truly depressed. I may be blue or out of sorts, but it is a fleeting feeling and insignificant in the large scheme of things.

I fall in love at least eight times a day with guys I will never talk to. I am aware that, if I did talk to them, I probably wouldn't like them anymore. My life is not perfect, but it is life and it is here and it is mine.

I got the title for this post from Thoreau, who always makes me think of life a little more carefully. The direct quote is, "As if you could kill time without injuring eternity." Amazing. As happy as I am, there are people that keep asking me when am I going to get on with my life. "Get a job," they say, and "Start living." As if life begins at certain landmark moments, such as graduation, a new job, or turning 30 or 40, or whatever. We spend our life waiting to live. These "landmarks" come and go and we are eternally disappointed because it is never what we thought it would be. I felt that way when I got my undergrad degree. I was let down because I felt the same as always. Now I realize that each day I live and love what I do and where I am, I am not killing time. If I spend each day waiting for something to happen, then I guess that would be injuring eternity. Maybe, if I try really hard, I can avoid doing that.

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

I just took my son, Reese, to see a one-man show at the Conference Center at Coastal Georgia Community College. The show consisted of one man who looked like a perfectly sane Edgar Allen Poe. The actor lectured on literary criticism and read some of Poe's best known poems. The crowd was larger than I expected, but it soon became obvious that they did not have any idea what the hell was going on in the darkened auditorium.

Several times during the performance, someone would clap at inappropriate times, such as when the actor would pause in the poem. One lone pair of hands would begin to clap, only to quickly realize their error and stop, but not before some other idiot had joined in on the applause. It was not just inappropriate cheering;there was also someone's cell phone blaring out the Battle Hymn of the Republic, while the cell phone owner frantically dug in their purse to silence the offending phone. Then there was the child in front of me whose mother had bought him a bag of cheetos during intermission so they could get through the rest of the show. Crinkle, crinkle, crunch, crunch. They were on the front row, right in front of me.

Although the actor was probably oblivious, or drunk, I felt acute embarrassment for my fellow citizens. Some were intelligent senior citizens who probably relocated here from a large city and, thirsty for a taste of culture, decided to grab an evening with Poe, only to have it ruined by their new compatriots in Brunswick, or as some call it, "The 'Wick." I don't know why I take this type of embarrassment to heart. Why do I care if strangers in the same room as I am, behave like backasswards lunatics? Have any of you ever experienced that feeling? I want to hear about it, unless it was me that embarrassed you by acting a fool.

Friday Night Lights

Last night I went to the city championship game here in Brunswick. The town's two high schools, Brunswick High and Glynn Academy, square off in a game that always attracts a large crowd. All three of my older brothers went to Brunswick High and played football for the Pirates, so I spent many Friday nights in the fall cheering for their team to win. My father decided I should go to a small "christian" school to keep me away from boys like my brothers, so I did not get a regular high school experience. All of our flag football games were played during the day in towns like Waycross, Jesup and Ludowici. Because I was exposed to the hedonous public school games, I knew there was a major difference between our cheerleaders and the Brunswick High cheerleaders. Our cheerleaders had skirts that went to their ankles and had shirts that were sure not to produce any lust in the hearts of the boys in the stands, well not really stands, the fans just kind of stood around on the grass because we did not have any stands.

I was lucky that my brothers were considered studs and the cheerleaders at Brunswick High always wanted to appear maternal in front of them so they would let me sit on the field and hold some of the small pom-poms. Occasionally they would pick me up after a touchdown and I would look up into the stands and feel like I was the luckiest girl in the world. They were sweet and perky and I wanted to be just like them one day. These kind souls did not realize that my brothers despised me because my dad let me watch Seseame Street any time I wanted too, but Rusty, Tim and Robbie tried to be nice to me in front of strangers so it worked out well for all concerned. It was my greatest desire in the world to be a cheerleader. I learned every cheer, every move and I would stand alone outside during lunch at school and do those cheers imagining that I was at the game on a friday night. I spent many hours in detention because, according to mrs. Partin, I was doing "inappropriate gyrations." I knew I had no chance at Emanuel Christian School of being a real cheerleader. I would never be able to wear those short blue and gold skirts and shake my ass as the band played the Brunswick High fight song. I remember my shame and astonishment when, on our first game at Emanuel, the cheerleaders took the field with pom-poms that were made of trashbags that had been cut into long strips! I know it is unbelievable, but I swear it is true.

Going to the game last night brought back a lot of those memories. The cheerleaders I remember looked so much older. The girls cheering last night looked like babies, but maybe its because I am so much older. I saw people that I knew from high school: the girls who were once so beautiful were still beautiful; they only had a few more lines and a thicker waist. Guys that all the girls used to love were chasing a kid around and underneath their baseball cap was a little less hair. I heard some older people around me comment on how rude kids are nowadays, and I thought about it. I don't think it is rudeness, or lack of manners; I think it is that they live in a world consisting of themselves and their friends. A few wrinkles can make you invisible to them. It is not that they don't care; they just don't care about you. Fifteen years from now, they will return to this game and complain about the rudeness of kids nowadays while they adjust their baseball cap or look across the bleachers to find their teenage son and his friends.

Getting Your Way

Sometimes I think getting your way is overrated. We spend so much time pushing for what we think we want, that we spend very little time on really thinking about what we need. It seems unfair that with age comes wisdom. The arrogance of youth is thinking you know exactly what you, and those around you, should think or believe or do. Maybe if we spent a little less time on introspection and a little less time thinking about what those around us could do to give us our way, we could find a peacepul existence.

Thoreau said it best: "If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away."

It Tastes Like Evaporated Milk

I think people are hilarious. As I grow older, I am beginning to realize that I love the quirkiness and differences that are inevitable in people. A few weeks ago, I was on the treadmill next to a man wearing black knee socks, black shoes, black dress shorts and a black fanny pack. I smiled as I saw him stand on the treadmill and begin his very sensible workout; not too fast or exciting. It may sound strange for me to say that his oddness made me happy, but it did. I felt this strange affection for him and his fanny pack because it told me so much about him, or at least my idea of him. He probably has a nice life with a sensible wife and a normal home, nothing out of the ordinary in the decor. He drives a mini-van and wears his seatbelt. His radio is tuned to the station that plays "The best in lite favorites," and plays quietly, only as a backdrop to his thoughts on the ride home from work, and not intrusively as a source of any emotional release or outlet. He knows who he is and what he is all about, and a part of me loves him for that. His predictability is his quirkiness, and I think it is beautiful.
I went to dinner last night with a group of people that, except for one, I do not know very well, and I was reminded of how funny and strange people are. We were served a desert that I had never seen before. It was simply strawberries and cream, but because the restaurant was exotic, it felt like something much more than just strawberries and cream. A girl at our table, that I always find quirky and amusing, said "It tastes like evaporated milk!" She did not use her quiet voice, and my friend and I thought this outburst was so funny, because we always sit on pins and needles when this girl talks. We feel like she is going to say something that will embarrass us or herself at any moment. This was one of those moments when I felt like the guy on the treadmill: uptight and sensible with an emotional fanny pack on. Why would I care what she says or be embarrassed by her outbursts? I don't know the answer, but I may not be as free-spirited as I think. I may be more conscious of the gaze of others than I like to think. I found myself thinking about it and laughing today, but the truth is, it did taste like evaporated milk, but I would have been too afraid to say that.

Living in the House of Mirth

Birthdays are funny. When you are little, you count the days until your next birthday. I remember waking up on my birthday and feeling like I was the luckiest girl in the world. My mom would bake a cake and my brothers would be nice to me for the day and I would get phone calls from relatives and presents from my family and friends; birthdays were fabulous. Another year older and closer to independence. The freedom to stay up as late as I want, to get out of school, to drive, to have sex, and whatever else my age stopped me from doing.

Now, I feel completely different. My son asked me today if I was happy that it was my birthday. I said "no." He found that ridiculous. He just does not know what I know: It is nice to be told what to do. Now all the mistakes I have made, and still make, are all on me. I would like to go back to the days when someone told me to go to bed, not to have sex with just anyone, and drove me where I needed to go. Freedom can be overrated, but my thirteen year old does not recognize that yet, and I am glad. He is still filled with the possibilities of the future. He does not know the constraint of freedom yet, but someday he will. That thought makes me sad, but I know that he can do better than I have. I hope I have plenty of birthdays ahead to see what he does with his freedom.

I Put the King in Burger

I am one of the unfortunate many that sees food as a pleasure and not a source of nourishment. I listen in amazement when someone says, "Oh my god, I forgot to eat today!" I do not even have to look to see that the person that said this weighs as much as my thigh and has on large hoop earings. I was not always this fascinated with food. In fact, when I was younger, my mother said I was "wormy." I would love to find out where I got those worms and if they are still available for service.
My problems all began with a girl named Ginger T. She was far from wormy and lived across the street from me. Ginger was only 11, but she already smelled like Grandma, you know, you have to hold your breath when you go in for a hug kinda smell. Well Ginger loved to eat, especially food from Burger King, specifically the Whopper. Instead of writing about food in her dairy, Ginger wrote about the happiness she felt on the days her mom would go the grocery store. Sad I know, but 100% true.
Ginger taught me this game. The game diod not have a name, but it went something like this: Whoever takes the longest to eat the whopper wins. Sounds fun huh? Well I was not the sharpest kid at this game. When it came to food games, nobody beat Ginger T.
One day I was sick and tires of losing "Eat the Whopper Slowly," so I formed a strategy and challenged the master. Her mother always felt sorry for me because my mom never bought us fast food, so she always bought an extra Whopper for me. As Ginger and I unwrapped our sandwiches, we looked at one another and knew that the game beginning. We paced ourselves, no need to eat slowly until the end. I watched from inder my bangs as we neared the end of the sandwich. I watched in amazement as Ginger took her last bite. Did she forget we were playing? Was the power of that last fabulous bite to much for her? In a moment of her obvious weakness, I defeated the master. I raised my last bite to the air, and felt as I imagined Olympic athletes must feel when they stand on the podium after winning the gold medal, and dropped the small piece into my mouth. But then, to my astonishement, Ginger brought her hand from behind her back and cackled, "You did not winnnnn!," as I swallowed the last sesame seed.
I went home, once again defeated by a child obviously much smarter than I, and had a bowl of pudding.

Cigarettes and Baseball Hats

I recently discovered something about myself that I think I have always known: I like boys that look bad. I am the kind of girl that looks twice at the cute guy standing outside of the probation office wearing a baseball cap and smoking a cigarette. I like the guys who work in central supply here at Armstrong who wear t-shirts that say "Rehab is for Quitters." If you have some sort of addiction or did not enough love as a child, then I am all yours. I guess it is a savior complex, and it would not be a problem if I directed it towards children and small animals, but I inevitably lavish my attention on the cute guys that, if they are not on probation, then they are in danger of it.

Getting On Board

Everyone has told me that I should start a blog, so, here it goes. I do not have any good Washington gossip like Wonkette, or anything beautiful and thoughtful to say like that cool chick at Sunday Morning, but I may try to make you laugh about something that I think is funny or outrageous. Every once in a while, I may try to write something serious about life and how tough we make it.