A smidgen of prose from my on-going project...
~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Nixie Pixie,
I love when you send me letters -- it’s like we’re very cool pen pals who actually get to see each other every once in a while. The story you wrote for your final English class project is very good, and of course I have some comments. What kind of English professor would I be if I didn’t?! Put a copy of it in your luggage when you pack -- It’ll give us something to talk about on our drive. And no, I don’t care how much you beg, I’m not letting you drive. Even on that back road up through Waterton. Your mother would have my hide if she knew we were even talking about such a thing.
Oh -- make sure you bring your favorite tapes. My new VW bus has both an 8-track and cassette player and we’re going to need some good music to keep us rockin’. Sorry we’re not going to leave when we had originally wanted to, but I have some stuff I need to take care of first -- you know how that goes. I’ll call your mama and let her know when I think I’ll be getting to your house. We can take off a couple of days after that.
Take care, don’t be square, pinky swear.
Love,
Uncle Tombo
PS: Yes, I did know that Mick Jagger sings backup on “You’re So Vain.” I bet you think the song is about him, don’t you, don’t you!
11.30.2008
11.29.2008
Saturday Sloth
Another opening. Another show. Another lazy Saturday. Another meme.I'm in the mood to write today, but not in the mood to think too hard. Does that make sense? I've got what seems like a jillion half-written pieces dotting my desktop wallpaper, completely hiding Glammy's face. That's Glammy over there on the right -- she's my desktop wall paper. My muse. My reason for being. OK, not really.
Anyhoo.
So I poked around, looking for inspiration to help me. And, as is my modus operandi, I didn't opt to use any one specifically -- this is a One from Column A and One From Column B kinda thing.
It's called Coloring Outside the Lines, people -- and it's very liberating.
1. Is there a day of the week that time seems to fly by faster than the other days?
Sunday. Always. It seems as if it were just Friday and then BAM -- The Simpsons are on and I’m trying to get Will organized for school.
2. Is there a day of the week that seems to never end?
Wednesday. Probably because I am always racing around doing errands and then prepping for my Choir Urchin rehearsal that evening. Toughest but most rewarding hour of my week. They put me through the paces -- all 15 of them. Whew -- I don’t know how full time Pre-K teachers do it. I come home exhausted. But it’s a happy exhausted.
3. Have you ever had a strong crush on someone, but did not say anything to that person? If yes, why?Oh yeah. Hell, yeah. I’m not the Queen of Unrequited and Undeclared Love for nothing.
I've had more quiet crushes and unspoken affection for more boys than I can remember. Stretching all the way back to elementary school when I pined away for an older (three years) fellow who barely knew I was alive. Such torment. Through middle school. And high school. Even the occasional one in college. Sometimes the crushes lasted for weeks, sometimes just a couple of days. In those days, I was way too shy to ever actively pursue the objects of my affection. I loved in silence.
This wistful Rodgers & Hart tune is a classic look at my longtime predicament...
Glad to Be Unhappy
Look at yourself, if you had a sense of humor
You would laugh to beat the band
Look at yourself, do you still believe the rumor
That romance is simply grand?
Since you took it right on the chin
You have lost that bright toothpaste grin
My mental state is all a-jumble
I sit around and sadly mumble
Fools rush in, so here I am
Very glad to be unhappy
I can't win, but here I am
More than glad to be unhappy
Unrequited love's a bore
And I've got it pretty bad
But for someone you adore
It's a pleasure to be sad
Like a straying baby lamb
With no mammy and no pappy
I'm so unhappy
But oh, so glad!
And here's Miss Ella with a live rendition...
4. Have you had a crush in secret and then told that person? If yes, what happened?
No -- but almost. Never could get my nerve up or the timing right. Probably better that way. Considering I was totally head over heels in love with the guy -- and he was so aloof in this area, even though we were great friends. Turns out he was wrestling with sexual orientation issues. If I'd said anything, it would have been a big honking mess and ruined our friendship. Easier to have my heart break in solitude.
This was my theme song during that period:
5. Have you ever been stalked?
No. Thank goodness. But I had friends that were -- and it's some scary shit.
6. Have you ever, in retrospect, stalked someone?
Do high-school era “drive-by your ex-boyfriend/crush/ex-boyfriend’s-new-girlfriend” antics count? Lord, I hope not...
7. Have you ever slept with someone on a first date?
La la la... oh yeah. Even had my share of one-night-stands. Not exactly my proudest moments, but they were what they were.
And some were much better than others.
*insert eyebrow raise*
What?
8. Have you ever regretted not sleeping with someone?
Honestly, no. Never had second thoughts about turning down that invitation, such as it was. Wait... maybe once. Maybe. But it's a very tentative maybe. So no.
Maybe.
9. What attracts you first to someone else (sexually, romantically or both... you chose)?
Wit. Humor. Intelligence. It is so all about the mind for me.
And a hairy chest
C'mon -- you had to know that was coming.
OK -- your turn. Spill.
11.27.2008
Thankful
When I'm worried and I can't sleep
I count my blessings instead of sheep
And I fall asleep counting my blessings
When my bankroll is getting small
I think of when I had none at all
And I fall asleep counting my blessings
I count my blessings instead of sheep
And I fall asleep counting my blessings
When my bankroll is getting small
I think of when I had none at all
And I fall asleep counting my blessings
11.26.2008
Over the river and through the woods and via several construction zones...
In honor of today being the long-time Busiest Travel Day of the Year, I thought I'd share a little travel story of my own. The names have been changed to protect the participants...Mephistopheles? Oh, he’s the night clerk...
Picture it: A family of weary travelers stops to re-fuel their vehicle somewhere north of Atlanta and south of Seeing Rock City, in route from leaving one relative to go visit another.
Into the unassuming Texaco mini-mart goes the unsuspecting female of the group, in search of a bathroom, liquid refreshment and maybe a little something on which to nosh. One can really work up an appetite riding shotgun on a family road trip.
Approaching the entrance of the mini-mart, she's greeted by a cheesecake shot on the glass door -- and not the dense, very delicious kind of cheesecake from New York with strawberries on top, either. Although this shot did have its share of dimples.
Inside, she first notices a familiar ding-ding-ding sound... usually only heard in the smoke-filled, clockless neon rooms of Las Vegas or the smoke-filled, slightly listing rooms of big cruise ships in international waters. Yes, Virginia, this mini-mart features a row of old, but functioning slot machines. With an old, but questionably functioning woman plugging quarters into one of them as if her life depended on it. Quite a tableau.
She gives a quick survey of the interior, trying to spy the restrooms. Seeing as they are not immediately apparent, she opts to not pursue this any further. The prospect of needing a round or two of penicillin shots is less than appealing. Mother Nature can just be put on hold.
Looking around for the beverage coolers, the weary traveling chick finally finds them, tucked into a corner, eclipsed by the other larger and more numerous coolers full of every conceivable adult beverage one could want outside of a store that's not authorized to sell hard liquor. Who knew that there were so many colors and flavors of MD 20/20? Or so many ways one could take their Milwaukee's Best: Can, bottle, extremely large can, brown-bag size bottle. A more complete collection of such drink options likely does not exist. Amazing.
The weary traveling chick makes her beverage selections, which include a treat from her youth -- grape soda. Not Nehi, alas, but Fanta, which is almost but not quite as good. She turns to head to the front of this establishment to pay and check out, but not before she looks for something on which to snack. Finally finding the little endcap with the Lance Crackers, she notices a magazine rack. Thinking she might be able to grab a periodical to read while motoring, she scans her options. All of which are basically porn. Nothing but porn. A very narrow reading selection, that.
Finally, up to the counter she goes, drinks and crackers in hand. It's too bad she wasn't in need of a new lighter or tobacco product or OTC stimulant or prophalactyic -- because she could have engaged in some one-stop-shopping right there. Puts the convenient in convenience store, doesn't it...
The clerk, resplendent in a Big Johnson t-shirt and greasy hair slicked back in a purposefully nonchalant style, is busy with his lighter salesman, checking out the new merchandise which appears to feature many international beauties in some sort of swimwear. How chic -- that is certainly what every self-respecting smoker of all sorts of cigarettes will want to be carrying.
Walking out of the store, bag of purchases in hand, the weary traveling chick notices a shelving unit of knick-knacks for sale by the door. Confederate flag shot glasses and a slightly-faded tome detailing the nuances of How to Speak Redneck are featured. Along with a nice assortment of trucker caps. My. Such treasures.
As she says good bye to Cheesecake Girl on the door and meanders back to her vehicle where her family awaits, she thinks about all she has seen. And surmises that although they weren't obviously available, she probably could have inquired about procuring firearms or some controlled narcotic substances considered illegal by law enforcement and she would have received some positive information.
What a magical place, this unassuming mini-mart somewhere between Atlanta and Seeing Rock City. Sin Town masquerading as a Texaco. Clever. Very clever.
11.25.2008
Tune in, turn on, drop out. Tuesday Tunes.
Yep It’s time, once again, for Tuesday Tunes, y'all!
If music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
~ William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night
Happy Thanksgiving to those of you in the US. Even if you aren't celebrating Thanksgiving now, this week's meme is about thankfulness...
What musical things are you the most thankful for?
Where do I start? I’m thankful for...
Music that makes me feel the rhythm in my bones...
Music that makes me feel the passion in my soul...
Music that makes me a little giddy...
Music that makes me dance from deep within...
Music that gives me faith...
Music that makes Will happy...
Music that makes me think...
My favorite song of all time...
Music that makes me feel alive...
Music that makes me happy...
Music that makes me smoulder...
Music that makes me feel a little guilty (but I don’t care!)...
Music that makes me shake my groove thing...
Music that makes me want to front a band...
I’ll stop now... but I could go on and on and on. And on.
What music are you thankful for... do tell.
If music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
~ William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night
Happy Thanksgiving to those of you in the US. Even if you aren't celebrating Thanksgiving now, this week's meme is about thankfulness...
What musical things are you the most thankful for?
Where do I start? I’m thankful for...
Music that makes me feel the rhythm in my bones...
Music that makes me feel the passion in my soul...
Music that makes me a little giddy...
Music that makes me dance from deep within...
Music that gives me faith...
Music that makes Will happy...
Music that makes me think...
My favorite song of all time...
Music that makes me feel alive...
Music that makes me happy...
Music that makes me smoulder...
Music that makes me feel a little guilty (but I don’t care!)...
Music that makes me shake my groove thing...
Music that makes me want to front a band...
I’ll stop now... but I could go on and on and on. And on.
What music are you thankful for... do tell.
11.24.2008
Ten! Ten Revelations on a Meme Monday!
Love, love, love this meme. Y'all can thank my girlie CajunVegan for bringing this little gem to my attention. And read carefully -- there are a couple of new revelations about me tucked in here. Just when you thought you had me all figured out, too...TEN things you wish you could say to TEN different people right now:
1. Whatchu talkin’ about, Willis?
2. Bite. Me.
3. Enough already. You exhaust me.
4. I don’t give a rat’s ass about your latest issue. Get over it.
5. You are beautiful.
6. Thank you.
7. You hurt me more than you will ever know.
8. I miss you. Terribly.
9. How you doin’ (to be read in the style of Joey Tribiani)
10. What’s new, pussycat?
NINE things about yourself:
1. I cannot remember what my natural hair color is.
2. Three quarters of my wardrobe is black.
3. If it weren’t for the fact that I never had dance lessons as a child, I would be a STAH on Broadway today.*
* This statement is the opinion of the author and does not necessarily reflect any actuality whatsoever.
4. I once tried to pierce a guy’s ear with an icepick and rubbing alcohol.
Yes, we were under the influence. Why do you ask?
5. I am going to attempt to make homemade pie crusts for the first time ever for my Thanksgiving desserts.
6. I have double jointed pinkys.
7. There are 17 pairs of shoes under my desk right now.
8. I like my meat rare and my fish back in the ocean where it belongs.
9. I cannot believe I'm about to share this... I. Was a debutante.
SHUT UP. NOW.
EIGHT ways to win your heart:
1. Make me think.
2. Make me laugh.
3. Make me think again.
4. Banter wittily with me.
5. Quote me “This is Spinal Tap” or “So I Married an Axe Murderer.”
6. Play Nick to my Nora.
7. Quote (or, even better, sing) Cole Porter.
8. Keep making me think. And laugh.
Oh -- and talk sports with me. And not just surface level stuff, either. Baby, I read espn.com and sportsillustrated.com every. single. day.
SEVEN things that cross your mind a lot:
1. Where in the hell are my keys?
2. Do I have enough time to take a nap?
3. Chick-fil-A. Evil. Chick-fil-A. Evil. Chick-fil-A. Evil.
(I figure if I say it enough, I might actually start listening... oh Number One with a sweet tea and extra ketchup and mayo, why do I love you so)
4. Shall I use my powers for good or for evil today...
5. Awww crap.
6. Should I wear the Apple Bottom jeans and the boots with the fur or something else...
7. Damn, do I hate underwires.
SIX things you do before you fall asleep:
1. Cleanse.
2. Moisturize. Everything.
3. Take my pills.
4. Brush.
5. Check on Will.
6. Set the TV Sleep timer.
FIVE people you couldn’t live without:
1. Mr. Clooney
2. Mr. Baldwin (Alec)
3. Mr. Copeland
(as in Stewart, drummer for The Police. If you’re new here, you might not be aware of my long-standing devotion to him...)
4. Mr. Hamm
(Jon, aka Don Draper of Mad Men fame)
5. Mr. Malkovich
FOUR things you’re wearing right now:
1. Reading glasses
2. Pajama top
3. Bed head
4. A thoughtful demeanor
THREE songs that fit your life perfectly:
1. “Jane’s Getting Serious” - Jon Astley
2. “Too Darn Hot” - Cole Porter
3. “Amazing Grace”
TWO things you want to do before you die:
1. Go to South America.
2. Be published.
ONE confession:
I lost my virginity underneath a Christmas tree.
Go ahead. Top THAT one, y’all...
PS: Don't forget to leave a little love in the comments in order to keep playin' our Big! Holiday! Fun! blog contest,'kay!
11.23.2008
Talkin' 'bout BIG! HOLIDAY! FUN!
Psssst... Have I got a deal for you!Here's the scoop on a BIG! HOLIDAY! FUN! blog contest that a bunch of my Plurk Pals are doing... you can either read the rules (SO boring but efficient) OR listen to the rules, as interpretively read by me.
Interpretively Read Rules!
Written Rulezzzzzzzzzzzzzz
1. How do you enter? It's easy -- just comment on our blog post for the day.
2. You can enter once per participating blog per day.
3. If you blog and would like to post about our contest, doing so will get you 5 extra entries.
4. There will be 2 winners.
5. Each winner will need to give us a mini bio of your family -- ie: ages, genders, wants, needs, likes.
6. We will buy prizes accordingly.
7. Prizes will be wrapped for under the tree and sent without delay!
8. Comments and posts from Sunday November 23 through Wednesday November 26th will be taken as entries.
9. The winners will be announced Black Friday!!!
Participating Blogs -- Go check 'em out!
11.22.2008
Novel Yet To Be Named: Chapter Three
It was the kind of day that people write stories about. Or at least they should. The sky was the color blue of Nana’s Wedgwood china in some places and it was a pale blue, like the robin’s egg I saw at the Nature Trail museum, in others. It was not hot -- which was weird for June here in Florida -- and there was a little breeze. Not a cloud in the sky. I was imagining floating on the lake at Nana and Papa’s summer house, eyes closed, thinking about nothing.
Unfortunately, what I was really doing was lying on the trampoline in my backyard, looking at the sky and wishing that Porter and his stupid friends hadn’t destroyed the hammock pretending they were soldiers in Vietnam and using it as a net to catch the Viet Cong. The hammock was my place to go and think and read and meditate. Uncle Tommy showed me how to meditate when he was here for Christmas last year -- he took a class on Transcendental Meditation when he was in California. I still don’t really get it, but I still try to do it anyway. Maybe I’m too young and don’t have enough experience or something.
I did a jump bounce dismount off the trampoline and walked over to the patio to grab my book. Pammy had lent me her copy of “Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret.” There had been a lot of talk by teachers and the PTA about it being in our school library -- I wanted to read it to see what the fuss was all about. Jenny Parker said she thought it was “total trash.” Which probably meant that I would really like it. I’d make sure I did, anyway.
I lay down in the grass near where the hammock should have been, rolled onto my side and began to read.
I hadn’t gotten past page one when I heard the sliding glass door off the patio open and Mama’s voice rising above the door skimming in the track.
“Jack McKey -- you had best stay out of those cookies. If I told you once I’ve told you ten times that they’re not for you, remember.”
Mama came over to where I was lounging in the grass and set a glass of lemonade next to me carefully on the lawn. Fresh squeezed -- none of that powdered Country Time for her. She had a glass for herself in her other hand and pulled a chair with her foot close to the edge of the patio, near where I was laying, and sat down with a sigh.
“Nixie Jean, please do not pull up any more blades of grass. Your father works very hard to keep this yard looking nice -- the least you can do is not destroy it. Your brothers do a nice job of that all on their own.” She kicked a stray basketball away with her bare foot and painted toes. Cherries in the Snow. Her standard summer color.
“Yes ma’am.” I sat up to take a sip of lemonade. Cool, sweet, tart. Just right. As always. Just like Mama.
“Who are those cookies for, by the way.” I was curious, mostly because I wanted one, but was trying to act grownup about it.
“The Junior League gals -- we have an Admissions meeting at Headquarters tonight and since I’m the chairman, I thought I’d make something nice.”
“Ah.” Mama did a lot of volunteer work -- Junior League, PTA, church. Now that Porter and Jack and I were older and more independent, she had more time on her hands and staying active with volunteer jobs helped to keep her busy.
“You don’t need to those cookies anyway,” Mama said after a moment. “You best be watching your figure. Especially now that summer and bathing suit season are here.”
“Uh-huh.” I mumbled. Mama set a great store by a person’s physical appearance. Specifically my physical appearance. I was built like my grandma -- Daddy’s mother. We both were on the curvy side, with hips and a chest. I had been wearing a bra since the fourth grade -- the first girl in my class to do so. Jenny Parker was so jealous that she told everyone I stuffed my bra with toilet paper. Kids would come up and try to bump into me at recess and in the lunch line, just to see if it were true. I think Jenny only wears Her Majesty camisoles with little ribbons and pink rosebuds even now. I haven’t been to one of her slumber parties since elementary school and she always dresses for PE in the bathroom stall, so I don’t know for sure about the bra. I still like to think she’s flat chested underneath it all, particularly when she’s mean -- it makes me feel better somehow.
“I want you to stick to your diet when you’re at Nana’s house -- I know it’s hard, especially with Nana and Aunt Emma Lynn being such good cooks.” Aunt Emma Lynn was Nana’s sister. “But you’re doing so well with it. People are noticing.”
Mama took a long sip of her lemonade and reached for her cigarette case.
I wasn’t sure what “people” she was talking about. Most likely it was just Mama herself. I didn’t think I looked that bad, but after the doctor told me that I was in a higher percentile of weight and height at my last checkup, she got it into her head that I was a “chubby” girl and put me on her version of a diet. Which consisted of her watching every thing that she could go into my mouth. And having me do exercises. And making me get on the scale every other day. I just went along with it -- it was easier to agree than to argue. The school nurse, Miss Rudolph, said I looked just fine for my age and physique and had nothing to worry about -- I went to talk to her about things after my doctor’s checkup. I thought Mama was just not sure how to deal with a daughter who didn’t look just like her -- tall and thin and the same size since college. I had heard Daddy mumble something about “mother/daughter stuff” under his breath more than once when we were having a talk about my diet and exercising.
“Hmmm.” I gave her as much of a response as I thought I could get away with. I didn’t want to pick a fight right now on such a pretty day. I leaned over and took a look to make sure my place in the book was marked. I didn’t have a bookmark and didn’t want to turn down the page of a book that wasn’t mine, so I used a leaf instead.
“It’s a nice day -- really nice for June, isn’t it?” Mama had lit her Virginia Slim and exhaled as she spoke. Daddy didn’t like her smoking at all, but especially hated when she did it in the house and so she would come out into the yard a couple of times a day to sneak a cigarette. She said it was a habit left over from college that she just couldn’t break, but I know that she had read an article in Ladies Home Journal about how smoking helped not make you as hungry and kept you slim. I figured that’s really why she kept on doing it.
“Yep. I miss the hammock though.”
“I know you do, honey. That is your special place, isn’t it. I cannot believe Porter and those Carson boys used it in one of their war games. Honestly. Your father wants to drive up the east coast on our way to Nana and Papa’s after Porter finally finishes with his tournament and Jack is done with American Legion and we’ll stop at Pawley’s Island and get a new one.”
“Oh, you will? Thank you -- that’s great.” I sat up and smiled.
“Nana wants us to get one for the lake house too, although I’m not sure where they want to put it.”
“Maybe between one of those big oak trees between the house and the lake.” I offered.
“Maybe.” Mama took another drag off the Virginia Slim and exhaled slowly, as if gaining energy or power from the motion. It almost seemed as if she wanted to tell me something serious. She often would come out and chat with me about this that or the other, but there was a different feel to this conversation.
We sat in silence for a little while, me trying not to mess with the lawn, her lighting another cigarette.
“What’s that you’re reading?” Mama motioned with her in-need-of-a-manicure hand over to the book beside me. Her standing appointment for hair and nails was a couple of days away
“Um, it’s a book Pammy lent me. She says it’s pretty good.”
“Oh yes -- that’s the one that the PTA was all in an uproar about. I heard about it at tennis. Carolyn Parker wanted me to sign a petition to get it taken out of the school library. Of course I didn’t -- sign it, that is. You know how I feel about censorship.”
I sure did. As much as Mama rode me about my diet and exercise and being a well mannered Southern lady, she was also just as firm about trusting me and what I chose to read or watch on television. Most of my friends had restrictions on what they could or couldn’t watch -- not me. Along with my “facts of life” talk (which was really a waste of time because Pammy’s older brother Shriner told us all about that at one of her slumber parties way before the “talk”) Mama also told me that she wasn’t going to supervise what I read -- that I was a smart girl with good sense and she and Daddy trusted my judgment. I thought that was pretty cool and tried not to abuse their rules.
“Had a call from Tommy today. He’s going to be a few days later than he originally thought getting here.” Mama sat up a little straighter in her chair.
“Oh -- that’s OK. As long as we’re still going -- he is still going to drive me up to the lake house, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes, me still looking at the sky, Mama taking thoughtful drags off the Virginia Slim.
She finally finished and rubbed the butt out on the edge of the patio. “Nixie, I want you to make sure that you are nice to your Uncle Tommy -- he’s had a difficult past couple of weeks. Listen to him when he asks you to do something. Be sweet.” Her voice was tight -- it almost sounded like she had something caught in her throat.
“Of course I’ll be nice -- Uncle Tommy and I are pals. I’d love him anyway, ‘cause he’s family and all, but I really love him because he doesn’t treat me like a kid. He’s so cool.”
“Good.”
“Is he OK -- he’s not sick, is he?” Now I was worried. What did a “difficult past couple of weeks” really mean?
“Um, he’s fine. Health-wise. He’s just had a rough time of things lately. This vacation will be good for him. Hopefully.” Mama looked in her cigarette case, trying to decide if she wanted one more smoke or not. “I just wanted you to be aware. That’s all.”
“OK.”
We sat quietly again for a little bit. Finally, she stepped down to pick up my empty lemonade glass and gave me a kiss on the forehead.
“After a while, go down the street and look for Porter. He’s got homework to finish and I want him to have it done before dinner. The Nichols are coming over for pot luck.” The Nichols were our next door neighbors -- Carrie, the daughter, was a couple of years younger than me and had a terrible crush on Porter. It was unrequited, however, as Porter hadn’t yet discovered his interest in girls. I laughed -- no wonder he had wandered off down the street.
“OK. Just let me finish this next chapter and I’ll go find him.”
Mama was opening the sliding glass door to go into the kitchen. “Thank you. Oh, and Nixie.” She turned to look at me, a far away look in her eye.
“Yes Mama.”
“You know I’m very proud of you.”
“Yes Mama. Thank you.”
She smiled, and walked in the door just as the phone started to ring.
Unfortunately, what I was really doing was lying on the trampoline in my backyard, looking at the sky and wishing that Porter and his stupid friends hadn’t destroyed the hammock pretending they were soldiers in Vietnam and using it as a net to catch the Viet Cong. The hammock was my place to go and think and read and meditate. Uncle Tommy showed me how to meditate when he was here for Christmas last year -- he took a class on Transcendental Meditation when he was in California. I still don’t really get it, but I still try to do it anyway. Maybe I’m too young and don’t have enough experience or something.
I did a jump bounce dismount off the trampoline and walked over to the patio to grab my book. Pammy had lent me her copy of “Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret.” There had been a lot of talk by teachers and the PTA about it being in our school library -- I wanted to read it to see what the fuss was all about. Jenny Parker said she thought it was “total trash.” Which probably meant that I would really like it. I’d make sure I did, anyway.
I lay down in the grass near where the hammock should have been, rolled onto my side and began to read.
I hadn’t gotten past page one when I heard the sliding glass door off the patio open and Mama’s voice rising above the door skimming in the track.
“Jack McKey -- you had best stay out of those cookies. If I told you once I’ve told you ten times that they’re not for you, remember.”
Mama came over to where I was lounging in the grass and set a glass of lemonade next to me carefully on the lawn. Fresh squeezed -- none of that powdered Country Time for her. She had a glass for herself in her other hand and pulled a chair with her foot close to the edge of the patio, near where I was laying, and sat down with a sigh.
“Nixie Jean, please do not pull up any more blades of grass. Your father works very hard to keep this yard looking nice -- the least you can do is not destroy it. Your brothers do a nice job of that all on their own.” She kicked a stray basketball away with her bare foot and painted toes. Cherries in the Snow. Her standard summer color.
“Yes ma’am.” I sat up to take a sip of lemonade. Cool, sweet, tart. Just right. As always. Just like Mama.
“Who are those cookies for, by the way.” I was curious, mostly because I wanted one, but was trying to act grownup about it.
“The Junior League gals -- we have an Admissions meeting at Headquarters tonight and since I’m the chairman, I thought I’d make something nice.”
“Ah.” Mama did a lot of volunteer work -- Junior League, PTA, church. Now that Porter and Jack and I were older and more independent, she had more time on her hands and staying active with volunteer jobs helped to keep her busy.
“You don’t need to those cookies anyway,” Mama said after a moment. “You best be watching your figure. Especially now that summer and bathing suit season are here.”
“Uh-huh.” I mumbled. Mama set a great store by a person’s physical appearance. Specifically my physical appearance. I was built like my grandma -- Daddy’s mother. We both were on the curvy side, with hips and a chest. I had been wearing a bra since the fourth grade -- the first girl in my class to do so. Jenny Parker was so jealous that she told everyone I stuffed my bra with toilet paper. Kids would come up and try to bump into me at recess and in the lunch line, just to see if it were true. I think Jenny only wears Her Majesty camisoles with little ribbons and pink rosebuds even now. I haven’t been to one of her slumber parties since elementary school and she always dresses for PE in the bathroom stall, so I don’t know for sure about the bra. I still like to think she’s flat chested underneath it all, particularly when she’s mean -- it makes me feel better somehow.
“I want you to stick to your diet when you’re at Nana’s house -- I know it’s hard, especially with Nana and Aunt Emma Lynn being such good cooks.” Aunt Emma Lynn was Nana’s sister. “But you’re doing so well with it. People are noticing.”
Mama took a long sip of her lemonade and reached for her cigarette case.
I wasn’t sure what “people” she was talking about. Most likely it was just Mama herself. I didn’t think I looked that bad, but after the doctor told me that I was in a higher percentile of weight and height at my last checkup, she got it into her head that I was a “chubby” girl and put me on her version of a diet. Which consisted of her watching every thing that she could go into my mouth. And having me do exercises. And making me get on the scale every other day. I just went along with it -- it was easier to agree than to argue. The school nurse, Miss Rudolph, said I looked just fine for my age and physique and had nothing to worry about -- I went to talk to her about things after my doctor’s checkup. I thought Mama was just not sure how to deal with a daughter who didn’t look just like her -- tall and thin and the same size since college. I had heard Daddy mumble something about “mother/daughter stuff” under his breath more than once when we were having a talk about my diet and exercising.
“Hmmm.” I gave her as much of a response as I thought I could get away with. I didn’t want to pick a fight right now on such a pretty day. I leaned over and took a look to make sure my place in the book was marked. I didn’t have a bookmark and didn’t want to turn down the page of a book that wasn’t mine, so I used a leaf instead.
“It’s a nice day -- really nice for June, isn’t it?” Mama had lit her Virginia Slim and exhaled as she spoke. Daddy didn’t like her smoking at all, but especially hated when she did it in the house and so she would come out into the yard a couple of times a day to sneak a cigarette. She said it was a habit left over from college that she just couldn’t break, but I know that she had read an article in Ladies Home Journal about how smoking helped not make you as hungry and kept you slim. I figured that’s really why she kept on doing it.
“Yep. I miss the hammock though.”
“I know you do, honey. That is your special place, isn’t it. I cannot believe Porter and those Carson boys used it in one of their war games. Honestly. Your father wants to drive up the east coast on our way to Nana and Papa’s after Porter finally finishes with his tournament and Jack is done with American Legion and we’ll stop at Pawley’s Island and get a new one.”
“Oh, you will? Thank you -- that’s great.” I sat up and smiled.
“Nana wants us to get one for the lake house too, although I’m not sure where they want to put it.”
“Maybe between one of those big oak trees between the house and the lake.” I offered.
“Maybe.” Mama took another drag off the Virginia Slim and exhaled slowly, as if gaining energy or power from the motion. It almost seemed as if she wanted to tell me something serious. She often would come out and chat with me about this that or the other, but there was a different feel to this conversation.
We sat in silence for a little while, me trying not to mess with the lawn, her lighting another cigarette.
“What’s that you’re reading?” Mama motioned with her in-need-of-a-manicure hand over to the book beside me. Her standing appointment for hair and nails was a couple of days away
“Um, it’s a book Pammy lent me. She says it’s pretty good.”
“Oh yes -- that’s the one that the PTA was all in an uproar about. I heard about it at tennis. Carolyn Parker wanted me to sign a petition to get it taken out of the school library. Of course I didn’t -- sign it, that is. You know how I feel about censorship.”
I sure did. As much as Mama rode me about my diet and exercise and being a well mannered Southern lady, she was also just as firm about trusting me and what I chose to read or watch on television. Most of my friends had restrictions on what they could or couldn’t watch -- not me. Along with my “facts of life” talk (which was really a waste of time because Pammy’s older brother Shriner told us all about that at one of her slumber parties way before the “talk”) Mama also told me that she wasn’t going to supervise what I read -- that I was a smart girl with good sense and she and Daddy trusted my judgment. I thought that was pretty cool and tried not to abuse their rules.
“Had a call from Tommy today. He’s going to be a few days later than he originally thought getting here.” Mama sat up a little straighter in her chair.
“Oh -- that’s OK. As long as we’re still going -- he is still going to drive me up to the lake house, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes, me still looking at the sky, Mama taking thoughtful drags off the Virginia Slim.
She finally finished and rubbed the butt out on the edge of the patio. “Nixie, I want you to make sure that you are nice to your Uncle Tommy -- he’s had a difficult past couple of weeks. Listen to him when he asks you to do something. Be sweet.” Her voice was tight -- it almost sounded like she had something caught in her throat.
“Of course I’ll be nice -- Uncle Tommy and I are pals. I’d love him anyway, ‘cause he’s family and all, but I really love him because he doesn’t treat me like a kid. He’s so cool.”
“Good.”
“Is he OK -- he’s not sick, is he?” Now I was worried. What did a “difficult past couple of weeks” really mean?
“Um, he’s fine. Health-wise. He’s just had a rough time of things lately. This vacation will be good for him. Hopefully.” Mama looked in her cigarette case, trying to decide if she wanted one more smoke or not. “I just wanted you to be aware. That’s all.”
“OK.”
We sat quietly again for a little bit. Finally, she stepped down to pick up my empty lemonade glass and gave me a kiss on the forehead.
“After a while, go down the street and look for Porter. He’s got homework to finish and I want him to have it done before dinner. The Nichols are coming over for pot luck.” The Nichols were our next door neighbors -- Carrie, the daughter, was a couple of years younger than me and had a terrible crush on Porter. It was unrequited, however, as Porter hadn’t yet discovered his interest in girls. I laughed -- no wonder he had wandered off down the street.
“OK. Just let me finish this next chapter and I’ll go find him.”
Mama was opening the sliding glass door to go into the kitchen. “Thank you. Oh, and Nixie.” She turned to look at me, a far away look in her eye.
“Yes Mama.”
“You know I’m very proud of you.”
“Yes Mama. Thank you.”
She smiled, and walked in the door just as the phone started to ring.
11.21.2008
T-minus Six Days: The Turkey Day Countdown
Word of the SeasonLucullan \loo-KUHL-uhn\, adjective:
rich; magnificent and luxurious
Created in the spirt of a Roman general, Lucius Licinius Lucullus (c. 110-57 BCE), who was known for his sumptuous banquets.
"Mr. Buzzi's tastes run the gamut from the simplest to the most Lucullan." Aram Bakshian Jr.; Gastronomy; The Wall Street Journal (New York); Sep 24, 2005.
When literary groups meet in Paris, they also tend to eat and during the November rite of book awards, luncheons may reach a Lucullan level.
-- Jeanne Molli, Paris Links Pleasures Of Table and the Mind, New York Times, November 18, 1958
11.20.2008
Novel Yet To Be Named: Chapter Two
Here goes nothing yet again. I'm tossing up the next bit of my NaNo project to see what it looks like in the cold harsh light of day (and my office.) Deep breath...
“Hey! Pizza Face! Phone for you.”
Porter’s voice came through the intercom into the rumpus room, where I was trying to figure out how to make a macramé plant hanger to take to Nana for the lake house. It was raining outside and had been for a while. We get a lot of rainy weather in Florida in the summertime, but this was a lot even for us.
“Thanks. And make sure you hang up when I pick up. I mean it, Doofus.”
I got up off the sofa to get the phone. Which was in a real phone booth. My dad found it at a salvage yard and thought it would be cool to have at home. He’s an architect and likes weird stuff like that. Our house is kind of crazy, actually, especially in comparison to the other houses in our neighborhood. Daddy designed it and oversaw the construction himself. He’s very proud of it. It’s three stories with two parts -- the rumpus room is separate from the rest of the house but is connected to it by a closed-in walkway that runs over the driveway. Daddy said he wanted a place for us kids to be able to go and bring our friends and be as noisy as we liked and not bother anyone else in the house. Jack uses it a lot -- he and his friends come over and play pool and pinball and darts and listen to the stereo all the time. One night, it seemed like the whole junior varsity high school football team was down there -- it took Mama and Miss Bea (our maid) a whole day to get rid of all the soda cans and dropped food and sticky that they left. I overheard Mama and Daddy talking to Jack not long after about some things that went on at the party that they were not happy about at all -- I think they must have been talking about pot, but I couldn’t get close enough to hear. They were in the family room and I was in the kitchen and would have heard it all if Porter hadn’t come in with his remote control car and scared me half to death. Jack was grounded for a week after that, so I guess it was pot after all.
Our house has got some other unusual things too -- like an open stairwell with a rock garden and a dumb waiter, which Daddy had put in because the kitchen is on the second floor and it’s easy to put the groceries in it and send them up rather than carry them up the stairs. When Porter was little Jack and I tried to put him in the dumb waiter and send him from floor to floor. We almost had Porter convinced to do it, except Mama came home from her weekly hair appointment right then and we had to “abort the mission.” We were very into space and astronaut talk back then. Sometimes I miss those days when we would all play together.
I sat in the phone booth -- thank goodness there’s not a pay phone in there. I saw that episode of the Brady Bunch where Mr. Brady puts a pay phone in the house and just held my breath hoping that Daddy wouldn’t think that was another “smashing” idea. He likes to use words like “smashing” and “brilliant” when describing things. Mama says he picked up talking like that when he went to college in London for a semester and that he should just cut it out because he sounds pretentious. I secretly think it’s kind of cool and spend time trying to use words like that when I talk.
I picked up the phone. “Porter! You can hang up. Now! I mean it! Hello?”
“Hey Nix. Whatcha doin? This rain is terrible, isn’t it? My mom says that if it doesn’t stop soon, we’re going to need to build an ark. Whatcha doin’?”
It was Pammy.
“Not much. I’m in the r- room working on my macramé -- you know, that plant holder we tried in art class. I want to make one to take to the lake.” I walked out of the phone booth and over to the pit sofa -- the phone had a really long cord so you could move all over the room and still talk.
“I’m also trying to stay away from Porter who smells and is being a real pain today!” I raised my voice purposefully, in case he was still listening in. I heard a snicker and then the phone slam down. “Watching TV a little. But there’s not a lot on right now. The Watergate Hearings are on instead of other stuff. No As The World Turns today.”
“I know. It’s sooooooo boring. You’d think they could have scheduled them for a time when we weren’t on summer vacation.”
“Sure Pammy. Why don’t we write Congress a letter and ask them to move the hearings to September when we’re back in school.” I sighed.
“Well, you did write that letter to Henry Kissinger and got an answer back, didn’t you?”
I made a face. One of our assignments in English class this year was to write a persuasive letter to someone we admired -- people like Bobby Fisher and Elton John and Robert Redford and Reggie Jackson and Randolph Mantooth. Pammy wrote her letter to Ryan O’Neal, because between “Love Story” and “What’s Up Doc” she was convinced he was the man of her dreams. As for me -- I decided to write to Dr. Henry Kissinger, the Secretary of State. He was always in the news and I really was interested in what was going on in the world. I read the newspaper every day and watched the evening news, although sometimes it was a little weird to see film from the war on the screen during dinner time. Mama wasn’t happy about the television being on while we ate, but Daddy thought it was a good exercise for us to watch and discuss the news as a family. As long as Porter and Jack remembered the “you must wear a shirt to the dinner table and no hats” rule, she was fine.
I didn’t want to tell Pammy this, because she sometimes has a hard time not telling everything she knows, but I was kind of interested in the Watergate Hearings. More than kind of. I liked to see “government in action,” as my history teacher Mr. Daniels called it. There was something very dramatic about them as well -- it was like a big realistic play. And watching it made me feel smart and grownup. No wonder Jack called me Nerdy Nixie.
“Yeah, I did. And yeah, I got an answer back.” I had the letter from a State Department Under Secretary pinned to my bulletin board in my room; I was disappointed that Dr. Kissinger didn’t write me himself (one boy in our class got a hand written letter from his person, a wrestler named Dusty Rhodes. I figured that he probably didn’t have anything better to do, so he wrote back) but was even more disappointed that he didn’t send a picture like I’d asked for. I guess important government officials don’t have autographed photos like other celebrities do.
“But I think that me writing a letter won’t stop the Hearings from being on television.”
I heard munching on the other end of the phone which meant that Pammy had gotten into the Charles Chips. I saw the delivery guy in the neighborhood yesterday and the Campbells had been getting them brought to their house as long as I could remember.
“Um, Nixie. I gotta go -- my mom is yelling at me to come help with the laundry. Gilly left a bunch of stuff in his pockets and it all went through the wash and now there’s a big mess. I’ll call you later. Want to have a sleepover tonight? Ask your mom. We just got the Charles Chips and the Partridge Family is on TV. Bye.”
And with that, she hung up. I walked over to the phone booth and put the receiver back in its place and grabbed a grape NEHI from the little refrigerator in the corner. I sat down on the pit sofa, fully intending to work some more on my macramé. But the twine just sat there as I became glued to the set, watching Sam Ervin ask questions in a way that reminded me of Andy Griffith. Government in Action.
“Hey! Pizza Face! Phone for you.”
Porter’s voice came through the intercom into the rumpus room, where I was trying to figure out how to make a macramé plant hanger to take to Nana for the lake house. It was raining outside and had been for a while. We get a lot of rainy weather in Florida in the summertime, but this was a lot even for us.
“Thanks. And make sure you hang up when I pick up. I mean it, Doofus.”
I got up off the sofa to get the phone. Which was in a real phone booth. My dad found it at a salvage yard and thought it would be cool to have at home. He’s an architect and likes weird stuff like that. Our house is kind of crazy, actually, especially in comparison to the other houses in our neighborhood. Daddy designed it and oversaw the construction himself. He’s very proud of it. It’s three stories with two parts -- the rumpus room is separate from the rest of the house but is connected to it by a closed-in walkway that runs over the driveway. Daddy said he wanted a place for us kids to be able to go and bring our friends and be as noisy as we liked and not bother anyone else in the house. Jack uses it a lot -- he and his friends come over and play pool and pinball and darts and listen to the stereo all the time. One night, it seemed like the whole junior varsity high school football team was down there -- it took Mama and Miss Bea (our maid) a whole day to get rid of all the soda cans and dropped food and sticky that they left. I overheard Mama and Daddy talking to Jack not long after about some things that went on at the party that they were not happy about at all -- I think they must have been talking about pot, but I couldn’t get close enough to hear. They were in the family room and I was in the kitchen and would have heard it all if Porter hadn’t come in with his remote control car and scared me half to death. Jack was grounded for a week after that, so I guess it was pot after all.
Our house has got some other unusual things too -- like an open stairwell with a rock garden and a dumb waiter, which Daddy had put in because the kitchen is on the second floor and it’s easy to put the groceries in it and send them up rather than carry them up the stairs. When Porter was little Jack and I tried to put him in the dumb waiter and send him from floor to floor. We almost had Porter convinced to do it, except Mama came home from her weekly hair appointment right then and we had to “abort the mission.” We were very into space and astronaut talk back then. Sometimes I miss those days when we would all play together.
I sat in the phone booth -- thank goodness there’s not a pay phone in there. I saw that episode of the Brady Bunch where Mr. Brady puts a pay phone in the house and just held my breath hoping that Daddy wouldn’t think that was another “smashing” idea. He likes to use words like “smashing” and “brilliant” when describing things. Mama says he picked up talking like that when he went to college in London for a semester and that he should just cut it out because he sounds pretentious. I secretly think it’s kind of cool and spend time trying to use words like that when I talk.
I picked up the phone. “Porter! You can hang up. Now! I mean it! Hello?”
“Hey Nix. Whatcha doin? This rain is terrible, isn’t it? My mom says that if it doesn’t stop soon, we’re going to need to build an ark. Whatcha doin’?”
It was Pammy.
“Not much. I’m in the r- room working on my macramé -- you know, that plant holder we tried in art class. I want to make one to take to the lake.” I walked out of the phone booth and over to the pit sofa -- the phone had a really long cord so you could move all over the room and still talk.
“I’m also trying to stay away from Porter who smells and is being a real pain today!” I raised my voice purposefully, in case he was still listening in. I heard a snicker and then the phone slam down. “Watching TV a little. But there’s not a lot on right now. The Watergate Hearings are on instead of other stuff. No As The World Turns today.”
“I know. It’s sooooooo boring. You’d think they could have scheduled them for a time when we weren’t on summer vacation.”
“Sure Pammy. Why don’t we write Congress a letter and ask them to move the hearings to September when we’re back in school.” I sighed.
“Well, you did write that letter to Henry Kissinger and got an answer back, didn’t you?”
I made a face. One of our assignments in English class this year was to write a persuasive letter to someone we admired -- people like Bobby Fisher and Elton John and Robert Redford and Reggie Jackson and Randolph Mantooth. Pammy wrote her letter to Ryan O’Neal, because between “Love Story” and “What’s Up Doc” she was convinced he was the man of her dreams. As for me -- I decided to write to Dr. Henry Kissinger, the Secretary of State. He was always in the news and I really was interested in what was going on in the world. I read the newspaper every day and watched the evening news, although sometimes it was a little weird to see film from the war on the screen during dinner time. Mama wasn’t happy about the television being on while we ate, but Daddy thought it was a good exercise for us to watch and discuss the news as a family. As long as Porter and Jack remembered the “you must wear a shirt to the dinner table and no hats” rule, she was fine.
I didn’t want to tell Pammy this, because she sometimes has a hard time not telling everything she knows, but I was kind of interested in the Watergate Hearings. More than kind of. I liked to see “government in action,” as my history teacher Mr. Daniels called it. There was something very dramatic about them as well -- it was like a big realistic play. And watching it made me feel smart and grownup. No wonder Jack called me Nerdy Nixie.
“Yeah, I did. And yeah, I got an answer back.” I had the letter from a State Department Under Secretary pinned to my bulletin board in my room; I was disappointed that Dr. Kissinger didn’t write me himself (one boy in our class got a hand written letter from his person, a wrestler named Dusty Rhodes. I figured that he probably didn’t have anything better to do, so he wrote back) but was even more disappointed that he didn’t send a picture like I’d asked for. I guess important government officials don’t have autographed photos like other celebrities do.
“But I think that me writing a letter won’t stop the Hearings from being on television.”
I heard munching on the other end of the phone which meant that Pammy had gotten into the Charles Chips. I saw the delivery guy in the neighborhood yesterday and the Campbells had been getting them brought to their house as long as I could remember.
“Um, Nixie. I gotta go -- my mom is yelling at me to come help with the laundry. Gilly left a bunch of stuff in his pockets and it all went through the wash and now there’s a big mess. I’ll call you later. Want to have a sleepover tonight? Ask your mom. We just got the Charles Chips and the Partridge Family is on TV. Bye.”
And with that, she hung up. I walked over to the phone booth and put the receiver back in its place and grabbed a grape NEHI from the little refrigerator in the corner. I sat down on the pit sofa, fully intending to work some more on my macramé. But the twine just sat there as I became glued to the set, watching Sam Ervin ask questions in a way that reminded me of Andy Griffith. Government in Action.
11.19.2008
11.18.2008
Novel Yet To Be Named: Chapter One
So. I'm working on this project -- a book, actually. For NaNoWriMo. I don't like calling it a book because that scares me. "Project" seems less frightening and not so pretentious.
Anyhoo.
Here's the first "chapter of sorts," in all its first draft glory. I'm tossing it out there to give myself a feeling of legitimacy. And to garner some accountability.
Here goes nothing. Be kind, 'kthx.
----------------------
The voice bellowed from across the refreshment table.
“Hey Nixie! Look how much my feet sweated when we were dancing just now!”
Ansel Mahler, shoe in hand, hobbled over to the punch bowl where I was pouring my third cup of sherbet drink. Being nervous made me thirsty.
“Wow Ansel. That’s something.” I tried to look interested. Mama and Nana always told me to be polite when “engaging in conversation.” All part of being a lady. Especially in social situations. Even gross ones like this.
“Isn’t it, though?” He grinned from ear to ear. “Wanna dance again later? When they play ‘Stairway to Heaven’?”
“Maybe.” I looked around to see who, if anyone, was watching us. No one was.
“Cool. I’ll come find you.” Ansel lumbered over, shoe still in hand, to the corner of the room where the football players were giving each other noogies and engaging in cookie-eating contests. Their suit jackets were tossed on chairs and their ties loosened. They all looked at the sweaty shoe like it was some sort of prize in a contest. High-fives started flying Ansel’s way. He turned to look at me and smiled shyly.
It was the last junior high dance of the year. The Spring Fling,. I was wearing my brand new Gunne Sax -- a denim sundress with ribbon and lace trim that made me look at least 14. Well, I thought so anyway. And I was practically in eighth grade now -- that had to count for something. Seventh grade was already almost a memory. Two more weeks of school and it would be summer vacation time.
I was thinking about having another glass of punch and was reaching for a cup when my best friend Pammy came rushing over, frantic and talking.
“Nixie! Oh my gosh you will never believe what I just heard. Jenny Parker told Susie Barnes who told Kate Zimmer who told me that a couple of boys stole some...” Her voice dropped to a stage whisper. “... vodka from their parents’ liquor cabinet and poured it in the punch. You better be careful.” Pammy was always worried about stuff like that -- she was a true blue friend but sometimes she was really a big goody-goody spoilsport. You’d never think it to look at her, though. Pammy was the prettiest girl in school -- at least I thought so. Tall, with long blond hair. Like a Breck girl. But she was a little too prim and proper to be in with the popular crowd. Which didn’t seem to bother her at all. I envied her for that.
I grabbed the punch ladle and poured the fullest cup of punch I could and then drank it all in one big gulp, watching Pammy’s eyes bug out in horror.
“Aw Pammy -- you need to take a chill pill. Don’t be such a stick in the mud. Do you drink I’ve been thinking?” I staggered around a bit to make my point, grabbing onto the table for balance. “Look. I can still touch my nose. Kinda. Now watch me try to walk a straight line. I saw this on an episode of ‘Columbo’ once. Or maybe it was ‘Hawaii 5-O’”
“Nixie!”
“Don’t worry -- there’s nothing in this punch but 7Up and rainbow sherbet. Here, taste.” I refilled my glass and made her take a sip. I needed to stop, though. Too much of this stuff had made my tummy ache a little. “Um, did you hear which guys had the vodka?” I tried to sound cool and casual when I said it, but my heart was racing just a bit, hoping to hear one name in particular.
“Um, no, not really.” Pammy was a little distracted as she poked around the half-empty trays of cookies. The football players had made a mess of things when they raided the refreshment table before their cookie eating contest. “I’m looking for some of those chocolate chip cookies my mom made. I can always tell which ones are hers because she puts nuts in them. Not many people do that -- but they should, because the nuts just make them taste better, don’t you think...”
“Yeah.” Now I was the one who was distracted. I was watching a group of guys at the front of the room, up by where the disc jockey -- not anyone great, just Coach Hall, the basketball coach/boys PE teacher -- were standing. Honestly, I wasn’t sure why these things were called dances -- they mostly were all about groups of boys and groups of girls standing around, talking to each other, with the occasional group dance and every-once-in-a-while couple dance. The dance I had with Ansel was the only one I’d had as part of a couple that night.
What I was hoping for -- what I had thought about for weeks, what I written in my diary about, what I had dreamed about -- was the chance to have a dance with Kevin Ritter. He was the reason I was distracted, why I was watching that group of boys, who were now gathered around the audio equipment, looking at albums and telling Coach what to play next. He was why I picked this particular dress for the dance and worked so hard to get my hair to look just right and not so frizzy, which is hard to do with thick curly hair like mine that has a mind of its own.
Kevin Ritter. With his wavy light brown hair and brown eyes. And that smile -- even with braces, it was dazzling. Better than Donny Osmond. And David Cassidy.
“Whatchalookingat.” Pammy came and stood beside me, still chewing. The football players had obviously missed some of her mom’s cookies when they raided the refreshment table. Pammy’s mom had the reputation of being a great cook -- Mrs. Campbell’s cookies were always really popular at bake sales and parties and dances.
“Oh, nothing.” I wanted to sound confident and not give anything away. Too bad that didn’t work.
“Oh yeah... Kevin Ritter. He looks pretty groovy tonight.” Pammy wiped her mouth with a napkin.
“Kevin Ritter always looks groovy.” I said, a little too quickly.
“I haven’t seen him dance with anyone tonight. He’s just been hanging around Coach Hall with those other basketball team guys, trying to be cool.”
“Kevin doesn’t have to try to be cool. He just is.” I sighed, even though I didn’t mean to.
“Jeez, Nixie. You so like him.” Pammy laughed.
“Do not. Well, yeah. Kinda.”
“Kinda nothing. Do you know him. like know him know him... or better yet, does he know you? Those jocks stick to themselves. Or the cheerleaders.” Pammy nodded towards Jenny Parker and the other members of the cheerleading squad, who were attempting to flirt with Kevin and his buddies.
She had a good point. Ansel, who was one of the stars of the football team, was an exception. We had math class together and sat across the aisle from one another. I let him copy down our homework assignment a couple of times, when he’d been absent because of an away football game. That obviously had made a good impression on him and his big sweaty feet, because he always seemed to make a point to say hi and talk to me whenever he saw me out of class. I took a quick look to see if he coming to ask me to dance again, as things were starting to wrap up, as it was nearly 10 o’clock.
“I think he does. Know me. He was on the stage crew for the musical this year, so he has to at least know my name. Right?” I had a pretty large part in the junior high play -- not the lead, but I got to sing a solo. And the yearbook had a couple of pictures of me from the show, about which I pretended not to care but was in fact secretly really excited.
“You’d think so.” Pammy sounded skeptical. I chose to ignore that comment.
The sounds of Three Dog Night and “Joy to the World” came blasting through the stereo. Coach had let one of the basketball players mess with the sound system and whoever it was obviously had good taste in music but didn’t know what he was doing.
“Oh wow -- I love this song.” Pammy started moving to the music, not caring that no one else around us was dancing.
“Me too.” I moved a little myself, careful not to be too obvious and draw a lot of attention.
Pammy stopped abruptly and looked thoughtful.
“What if we went up front and just sat on the edge of the stage -- close to where he’s hanging out. Then it wouldn’t be so weird and obvious for you to go and talk to him.”
“Hmm.” I wasn’t sure about this at all.
“C’mon. It’s not a big deal. Especially if you don’t act like it is.”
She had a point. “Fine. You go first.”
Coach had put “Rockin’ Robin” on the stereo and kids were moving onto the dance floor as Pammy and I weaved our way through the crowd to the front part of the stage. Kevin and his pals were still there, some sitting backwards on the metal folding chairs, others leaning back supported only by the back chair legs and a couple were up by the sound system with Coach.
We walked by their little group to a vacant section on the stage. I flipped my hair and laughed loudly as we passed by, trying to act cool but looking out of the corner of my eye to see if Kevin was watching. He wasn’t.
We sat on the stage, legs dangling and swinging in time to the music. The dance floor was packed -- kids were moving in couples and in groups. Part of me wished I was confident enough to go join them -- but I wasn’t.
“Well, did he see you?” Pammy finally asked.
“No. At least I don’t think so.”
“Boys are so stupid sometimes.”
“Yep.”
I suddenly was ready for the dance and the evening and my unmet expectations to all be over. The beginning notes of “Stairway to Heaven” -- the traditional last dance song at our school -- began to play. I saw Ansel look around the room -- I figured he was looking for me. I smoothed my hair and straightened my dress. It was a big deal to dance the last dance of the night. Ansel finally caught my eye and lumbered forward to the stage, reaching me and holding out his hand.
“Hey Nixie. Wanna dance?” Straight and to the point. He had both his shoes on. Thank goodness.
With a glance over to Kevin, who was still sitting with his friends, still too cool to dance and still ignoring the cheerleaders, I nodded yes and followed Ansel to the floor. He put his arms around my waist and I put my hands on his shoulders -- he was too tall for me to reach around his neck -- and we began that standing and turning in a circle thing that we called slow dancing. I sighed and closed my eyes, just focusing on the music, trying not to get dizzy. Or to think about Ansel’s sweaty shoes.
----------------------
May 17, 1973
Dear Diary,
School dance tonight -- the last one of the year. No more seventh grade -- yeah! It was a pretty good dance, even though YOU KNOW WHO didn’t even look at me once. And I was wearing my new Gunne Sak and everything. At least he didn’t dance with anyone special, not that I could tell anyway. Including that Jenny Parker. Blech. Oh -- that blech is for Jenny Parker -- NOT YOU KNOW WHO. Danced a lot with Ansel M.-- he’s nice, but just friend-nice. Not boyfriend-nice. But I think he might like-like me as more than a friend. What am I going to do about that. I don’t know.
Can’t believe school is almost over for the summer. I so want to get high honors on my last report card to just show up that smarty JP. And Uncle Tommy gets here the last day of school -- yeah! He’s not teaching any classes at his college this summer so he’s going to be with us at Nana’s lake house the whole time I’m there. Yeah again! I’m glad he’s driving me up there instead of Mama and Daddy -- they are so unfun and when they drive, we have to listen to their boring music on the radio. YUCK! I hope both Porter and Harry’s baseball teams keep winning so M&D stay here as long as possible and I can be on my own and have fun! Who knew my stupid brothers would be actually good for something?
Wonder what YOU KNOW WHO is doing this summer -- maybe I’ll get up the nerve to ask him before the end of school and then see if maybe we could be pen pals -- with me going away, that makes sense. I’ll see what Pammy thinks about me doing that -- how cool would it be to be pen pals with HIM? Uncle Tommy says that writing as much as I can is good practice for being a writer. Which is why I try to write in you so much, Diary. Being pen pals with YOU KNOW WHO would be a double great thing. I could get to know him and impress him with my writing. That’s what I’m going to think about tonight as I fall asleep -- reading letters from YKW on the porch at Nana’s. Oh -- I’m also gonna think about Pammy’s skating party tomorrow afternoon, which is going to be so much FUN. I think Ansel’s going to be there because he’s friends with Pammy’s brother Jack and it’s his party too. Oh boy. Oh well.
Until tomorrow, Diary.
Nixie
----------------------
Bryant Junior High
Home of the Pirates
1973 Yearbook
Property of Nixie McKey
Dear Nixie,
It’s been great sitting next to you in Math class. Thanks for all your help with the homework and everything. Your a great girl whos really cute and smart and a really good dancer. I hope that I can get to know you better and stuff next year. Or maybe even over the summer.
Love
Ansel Mahler
#78 Go Pirates!
Nixie Nixon (ha-ha -- don’t you think that’s funny?)
Have a great summer, Miss Smarty Pants.
Jenny Parker
Nixie,
I’m not gonna write a lot since we’re gonna see each other all the time until you go to your Nana’s house but it’s been a great year, hasn’t it. You are the best friend a girl like me could ever have (most of the time) and I can’t wait until we’re cool 8th GRADERS! Yeah! Oh -- thanks for all your help in English class with my essays. You’re the best writer I know and I’m so glad that we’re friends now cause that will be so cool when you are famous! I’m not going to tell you to have a great summer because I know you WILL! Wish I could go with you this year -- stupid music camp. Oh well.
Love ya,
Pammy
Miss McKey,
It has been a pleasure having you as a student this year. Your participation in class is always interesting and appropriate, particularly on Current Event days. You have also grown as a writer, and your Uncle Thomas should be very proud of you. I look forward to having you in my eighth grade honors English class next year. Please give your uncle my best. Have a good summer.
Regards,
Mr. Daniels
Nixie!
Didn’t we have fun doing the play this year -- and you’re right -- "Around the World in 97 Days would still be a better title." You were SO great as Mrs. Murchison and can sing SO well -- almost as good as me. Ha ha! Can’t wait until next year’s show -- wonder what MK will pick out for us stars to do. Have a great summer -- maybe we can get together and go to the movies -- call me!
XOXOXO
Christopher
Trixie,
Be cool.
Kevin Ritter
Anyhoo.
Here's the first "chapter of sorts," in all its first draft glory. I'm tossing it out there to give myself a feeling of legitimacy. And to garner some accountability.
Here goes nothing. Be kind, 'kthx.
----------------------
The voice bellowed from across the refreshment table.
“Hey Nixie! Look how much my feet sweated when we were dancing just now!”
Ansel Mahler, shoe in hand, hobbled over to the punch bowl where I was pouring my third cup of sherbet drink. Being nervous made me thirsty.
“Wow Ansel. That’s something.” I tried to look interested. Mama and Nana always told me to be polite when “engaging in conversation.” All part of being a lady. Especially in social situations. Even gross ones like this.
“Isn’t it, though?” He grinned from ear to ear. “Wanna dance again later? When they play ‘Stairway to Heaven’?”
“Maybe.” I looked around to see who, if anyone, was watching us. No one was.
“Cool. I’ll come find you.” Ansel lumbered over, shoe still in hand, to the corner of the room where the football players were giving each other noogies and engaging in cookie-eating contests. Their suit jackets were tossed on chairs and their ties loosened. They all looked at the sweaty shoe like it was some sort of prize in a contest. High-fives started flying Ansel’s way. He turned to look at me and smiled shyly.
It was the last junior high dance of the year. The Spring Fling,. I was wearing my brand new Gunne Sax -- a denim sundress with ribbon and lace trim that made me look at least 14. Well, I thought so anyway. And I was practically in eighth grade now -- that had to count for something. Seventh grade was already almost a memory. Two more weeks of school and it would be summer vacation time.
I was thinking about having another glass of punch and was reaching for a cup when my best friend Pammy came rushing over, frantic and talking.
“Nixie! Oh my gosh you will never believe what I just heard. Jenny Parker told Susie Barnes who told Kate Zimmer who told me that a couple of boys stole some...” Her voice dropped to a stage whisper. “... vodka from their parents’ liquor cabinet and poured it in the punch. You better be careful.” Pammy was always worried about stuff like that -- she was a true blue friend but sometimes she was really a big goody-goody spoilsport. You’d never think it to look at her, though. Pammy was the prettiest girl in school -- at least I thought so. Tall, with long blond hair. Like a Breck girl. But she was a little too prim and proper to be in with the popular crowd. Which didn’t seem to bother her at all. I envied her for that.
I grabbed the punch ladle and poured the fullest cup of punch I could and then drank it all in one big gulp, watching Pammy’s eyes bug out in horror.
“Aw Pammy -- you need to take a chill pill. Don’t be such a stick in the mud. Do you drink I’ve been thinking?” I staggered around a bit to make my point, grabbing onto the table for balance. “Look. I can still touch my nose. Kinda. Now watch me try to walk a straight line. I saw this on an episode of ‘Columbo’ once. Or maybe it was ‘Hawaii 5-O’”
“Nixie!”
“Don’t worry -- there’s nothing in this punch but 7Up and rainbow sherbet. Here, taste.” I refilled my glass and made her take a sip. I needed to stop, though. Too much of this stuff had made my tummy ache a little. “Um, did you hear which guys had the vodka?” I tried to sound cool and casual when I said it, but my heart was racing just a bit, hoping to hear one name in particular.
“Um, no, not really.” Pammy was a little distracted as she poked around the half-empty trays of cookies. The football players had made a mess of things when they raided the refreshment table before their cookie eating contest. “I’m looking for some of those chocolate chip cookies my mom made. I can always tell which ones are hers because she puts nuts in them. Not many people do that -- but they should, because the nuts just make them taste better, don’t you think...”
“Yeah.” Now I was the one who was distracted. I was watching a group of guys at the front of the room, up by where the disc jockey -- not anyone great, just Coach Hall, the basketball coach/boys PE teacher -- were standing. Honestly, I wasn’t sure why these things were called dances -- they mostly were all about groups of boys and groups of girls standing around, talking to each other, with the occasional group dance and every-once-in-a-while couple dance. The dance I had with Ansel was the only one I’d had as part of a couple that night.
What I was hoping for -- what I had thought about for weeks, what I written in my diary about, what I had dreamed about -- was the chance to have a dance with Kevin Ritter. He was the reason I was distracted, why I was watching that group of boys, who were now gathered around the audio equipment, looking at albums and telling Coach what to play next. He was why I picked this particular dress for the dance and worked so hard to get my hair to look just right and not so frizzy, which is hard to do with thick curly hair like mine that has a mind of its own.
Kevin Ritter. With his wavy light brown hair and brown eyes. And that smile -- even with braces, it was dazzling. Better than Donny Osmond. And David Cassidy.
“Whatchalookingat.” Pammy came and stood beside me, still chewing. The football players had obviously missed some of her mom’s cookies when they raided the refreshment table. Pammy’s mom had the reputation of being a great cook -- Mrs. Campbell’s cookies were always really popular at bake sales and parties and dances.
“Oh, nothing.” I wanted to sound confident and not give anything away. Too bad that didn’t work.
“Oh yeah... Kevin Ritter. He looks pretty groovy tonight.” Pammy wiped her mouth with a napkin.
“Kevin Ritter always looks groovy.” I said, a little too quickly.
“I haven’t seen him dance with anyone tonight. He’s just been hanging around Coach Hall with those other basketball team guys, trying to be cool.”
“Kevin doesn’t have to try to be cool. He just is.” I sighed, even though I didn’t mean to.
“Jeez, Nixie. You so like him.” Pammy laughed.
“Do not. Well, yeah. Kinda.”
“Kinda nothing. Do you know him. like know him know him... or better yet, does he know you? Those jocks stick to themselves. Or the cheerleaders.” Pammy nodded towards Jenny Parker and the other members of the cheerleading squad, who were attempting to flirt with Kevin and his buddies.
She had a good point. Ansel, who was one of the stars of the football team, was an exception. We had math class together and sat across the aisle from one another. I let him copy down our homework assignment a couple of times, when he’d been absent because of an away football game. That obviously had made a good impression on him and his big sweaty feet, because he always seemed to make a point to say hi and talk to me whenever he saw me out of class. I took a quick look to see if he coming to ask me to dance again, as things were starting to wrap up, as it was nearly 10 o’clock.
“I think he does. Know me. He was on the stage crew for the musical this year, so he has to at least know my name. Right?” I had a pretty large part in the junior high play -- not the lead, but I got to sing a solo. And the yearbook had a couple of pictures of me from the show, about which I pretended not to care but was in fact secretly really excited.
“You’d think so.” Pammy sounded skeptical. I chose to ignore that comment.
The sounds of Three Dog Night and “Joy to the World” came blasting through the stereo. Coach had let one of the basketball players mess with the sound system and whoever it was obviously had good taste in music but didn’t know what he was doing.
“Oh wow -- I love this song.” Pammy started moving to the music, not caring that no one else around us was dancing.
“Me too.” I moved a little myself, careful not to be too obvious and draw a lot of attention.
Pammy stopped abruptly and looked thoughtful.
“What if we went up front and just sat on the edge of the stage -- close to where he’s hanging out. Then it wouldn’t be so weird and obvious for you to go and talk to him.”
“Hmm.” I wasn’t sure about this at all.
“C’mon. It’s not a big deal. Especially if you don’t act like it is.”
She had a point. “Fine. You go first.”
Coach had put “Rockin’ Robin” on the stereo and kids were moving onto the dance floor as Pammy and I weaved our way through the crowd to the front part of the stage. Kevin and his pals were still there, some sitting backwards on the metal folding chairs, others leaning back supported only by the back chair legs and a couple were up by the sound system with Coach.
We walked by their little group to a vacant section on the stage. I flipped my hair and laughed loudly as we passed by, trying to act cool but looking out of the corner of my eye to see if Kevin was watching. He wasn’t.
We sat on the stage, legs dangling and swinging in time to the music. The dance floor was packed -- kids were moving in couples and in groups. Part of me wished I was confident enough to go join them -- but I wasn’t.
“Well, did he see you?” Pammy finally asked.
“No. At least I don’t think so.”
“Boys are so stupid sometimes.”
“Yep.”
I suddenly was ready for the dance and the evening and my unmet expectations to all be over. The beginning notes of “Stairway to Heaven” -- the traditional last dance song at our school -- began to play. I saw Ansel look around the room -- I figured he was looking for me. I smoothed my hair and straightened my dress. It was a big deal to dance the last dance of the night. Ansel finally caught my eye and lumbered forward to the stage, reaching me and holding out his hand.
“Hey Nixie. Wanna dance?” Straight and to the point. He had both his shoes on. Thank goodness.
With a glance over to Kevin, who was still sitting with his friends, still too cool to dance and still ignoring the cheerleaders, I nodded yes and followed Ansel to the floor. He put his arms around my waist and I put my hands on his shoulders -- he was too tall for me to reach around his neck -- and we began that standing and turning in a circle thing that we called slow dancing. I sighed and closed my eyes, just focusing on the music, trying not to get dizzy. Or to think about Ansel’s sweaty shoes.
----------------------
May 17, 1973
Dear Diary,
School dance tonight -- the last one of the year. No more seventh grade -- yeah! It was a pretty good dance, even though YOU KNOW WHO didn’t even look at me once. And I was wearing my new Gunne Sak and everything. At least he didn’t dance with anyone special, not that I could tell anyway. Including that Jenny Parker. Blech. Oh -- that blech is for Jenny Parker -- NOT YOU KNOW WHO. Danced a lot with Ansel M.-- he’s nice, but just friend-nice. Not boyfriend-nice. But I think he might like-like me as more than a friend. What am I going to do about that. I don’t know.
Can’t believe school is almost over for the summer. I so want to get high honors on my last report card to just show up that smarty JP. And Uncle Tommy gets here the last day of school -- yeah! He’s not teaching any classes at his college this summer so he’s going to be with us at Nana’s lake house the whole time I’m there. Yeah again! I’m glad he’s driving me up there instead of Mama and Daddy -- they are so unfun and when they drive, we have to listen to their boring music on the radio. YUCK! I hope both Porter and Harry’s baseball teams keep winning so M&D stay here as long as possible and I can be on my own and have fun! Who knew my stupid brothers would be actually good for something?
Wonder what YOU KNOW WHO is doing this summer -- maybe I’ll get up the nerve to ask him before the end of school and then see if maybe we could be pen pals -- with me going away, that makes sense. I’ll see what Pammy thinks about me doing that -- how cool would it be to be pen pals with HIM? Uncle Tommy says that writing as much as I can is good practice for being a writer. Which is why I try to write in you so much, Diary. Being pen pals with YOU KNOW WHO would be a double great thing. I could get to know him and impress him with my writing. That’s what I’m going to think about tonight as I fall asleep -- reading letters from YKW on the porch at Nana’s. Oh -- I’m also gonna think about Pammy’s skating party tomorrow afternoon, which is going to be so much FUN. I think Ansel’s going to be there because he’s friends with Pammy’s brother Jack and it’s his party too. Oh boy. Oh well.
Until tomorrow, Diary.
Nixie
----------------------
Bryant Junior High
Home of the Pirates
1973 Yearbook
Property of Nixie McKey
Dear Nixie,
It’s been great sitting next to you in Math class. Thanks for all your help with the homework and everything. Your a great girl whos really cute and smart and a really good dancer. I hope that I can get to know you better and stuff next year. Or maybe even over the summer.
Love
Ansel Mahler
#78 Go Pirates!
Nixie Nixon (ha-ha -- don’t you think that’s funny?)
Have a great summer, Miss Smarty Pants.
Jenny Parker
Nixie,
I’m not gonna write a lot since we’re gonna see each other all the time until you go to your Nana’s house but it’s been a great year, hasn’t it. You are the best friend a girl like me could ever have (most of the time) and I can’t wait until we’re cool 8th GRADERS! Yeah! Oh -- thanks for all your help in English class with my essays. You’re the best writer I know and I’m so glad that we’re friends now cause that will be so cool when you are famous! I’m not going to tell you to have a great summer because I know you WILL! Wish I could go with you this year -- stupid music camp. Oh well.
Love ya,
Pammy
Miss McKey,
It has been a pleasure having you as a student this year. Your participation in class is always interesting and appropriate, particularly on Current Event days. You have also grown as a writer, and your Uncle Thomas should be very proud of you. I look forward to having you in my eighth grade honors English class next year. Please give your uncle my best. Have a good summer.
Regards,
Mr. Daniels
Nixie!
Didn’t we have fun doing the play this year -- and you’re right -- "Around the World in 97 Days would still be a better title." You were SO great as Mrs. Murchison and can sing SO well -- almost as good as me. Ha ha! Can’t wait until next year’s show -- wonder what MK will pick out for us stars to do. Have a great summer -- maybe we can get together and go to the movies -- call me!
XOXOXO
Christopher
Trixie,
Be cool.
Kevin Ritter
Warm Head, Grateful Heart
A night-cap decked his brows instead of bay, A cap by night - a stocking all the day!
~ Oliver Goldsmith
My great friend perpstu shared a tender post this morning about her labor of love: knitting little caps for newborns in developing countries in conjunction with the Save the Children Knit One, Save One project.
Great cause. Really great cause.
And one with which I have a little bit of first hand experience.
That's Will, age two months and change, in a hand-knit hat, hanging out in the NICU.
Even underneath the tubes and wires, he's pretty darn adorable, don't you think?
And while we certainly don't live in a developing nation, we have experienced the gift of having something handmade with love shared with us at a time when it was desperately needed.(Yeah -- that's Will's mama with her boy, having a little quality connection time there. Note the cap on his head...)
Sadly, I don't knit. Fumble fingers here isn't deft enough to wield those needles with any sort of precision, grace or style. However, I can cheer on and encourage those of y'all who do. Like my chica perpstu.
I can also say, on behalf of the mamas (and daddys) of the little ones whose heads will be warm and cozy because of giving hearts and willing talents, thank you.
You have no idea how much your seemingly little contribution means.
11.17.2008
Sigh. Ever have one of those days...
... We are friends of the friendless
Be they near, be they far
We are here for the downtrodden
And we sober up the sodden...
Yeah. Me too.
~ If I ran away
I'd never have the strength to go very far
How would they hear the beating of my heart ~
Be they near, be they far
We are here for the downtrodden
And we sober up the sodden...
Yeah. Me too.
~ If I ran away
I'd never have the strength to go very far
How would they hear the beating of my heart ~
Do, Re, Me Me Me Me Monday!
Yep, it's that time of the week when I share even more useless facts about... me. These questions were fun to answer, as they're a little different from the norm.Save your applause for the end, though...
1. When showering, do you start the water and then get in, or get in then start the water?
I start the water, get it to the desired temperature and then get in. Thrilling, eh?
2. Do you read the labels on your shampoo bottle?
Nah.
3. Do you moan in the shower like the people on the Herbal Essences commercial?
Now that’s a very personal question.... what do you think?
4. Have you ever showered with someone of the opposite sex?
Indeed I have.
5. Have you ever been forced to shower with one of your siblings?
Good grief, no.
6. Have you ever brushed your teeth in the shower?
Yuck. No.
7. Have you ever dropped your soap on your foot?
Of course. Who hasn’t?
8. How old do you look?
If you ask my Choir Urchins, 25. (Remember, they’re four and five year olds. Twenty-five is ancient in their world.) In reality, I look a little younger than I am. And we’ll leave it at that.
9. How old do you act?
It depends. Sometimes I’m ready to try out for the talent show at Shady Pines; other times I need a hall pass to go to the library from English class.
10. What's the last song you sang?
This one:
11. Have you recently become a member of anything?
Facebook *cough*virtual crack*cough* and I rejoined Amnesty International.
12. What are your plans for the weekend?
I have three things thus far on the agenda for the coming weekend:
a. Have my Choir Urchins sing in “big church” (aka the regular worship services)
b. Enjoy Will’s birthday present -- floor seats to the Wiggles.
c. drink as heavily as possible.
If you’re into cause and effect, then (c) will be a direct result of both (a) and (b).
13. Do you kiss with your eyes open or closed?
Closed, so I can fully linger on the moment.
14. What's the sexiest thing about Condoleeza Rice?
Weird question -- but I would have to say her mind. She’s an exceptionally bright woman -- we don’t agree politically, but I appreciate her accomplishments.
15. Does anything on your body itch right now?
No. Thank goodness.
16. Who's the sexiest famous woman alive?
You asked for it -- Helen Mirren. Did you see those bikini shots of her? Damn. And she is intelligent and talented to boot. I want to be her when I grow up.
17. Who's the sexiest famous man alive?
Must I pick one? Actually, no -- my meme, my rules.
George Clooney. Alec Baldwin. Jon Hamm. And, in a surprise move, Daniel Craig. He oooozes alpha maleness and I swoon every time an ad for “Quantum of Solace” appears on the telly.
18. Does every family have a crazy uncle?
Of course. And a crazy aunt, too. I’m from the South -- we just take these things for granted.
19. Have you ever smuggled something through customs?
Shhh.. yes. I’ve brought back some very cool shells and beach rocks from Cancun and forgotten to declare a couple of things on my way back from Vancouver to Seattle.
20. Does playing the guitar make a guy more attractive?
Musicians = hot. Uber hot. Guitar, bass, keyboard, drums. Major, major turn-ons.
21. Do you live in a city with a good sports team?
Hell, yeah. The TAMPA BAY RAYS, baby! Plus the Buccaneers. And the surging, kicking-ass-and-taking-name FLORIDA GATORS are just two hours north.
22. Have you ever finished off the popcorn and ate the junk from the bottom of the bag?
Of course. Please.
23. Have you ever had sex in a tent?
No. My idea of camping = no room service. You do the math.
24. What about in a boat?
Now this is another story entirely...
25. Have you ever dated a Goth?
No. I have dated musicians and actors and hippies and starched shirts and mercurial grad students though -- amongst others.
26. Would you rather receive amazing oral sex or have amazing sex?
Amazing sex. Gotta be good for both.
27. Can you fix your own car?
Are you kidding? I’ve been a member of AAA for nearly 30 years and have the mechanic on speed dial. Just in case.
11.16.2008
I Am Goddess, Hear Me Purrrr...
Yep, it's Pilfered Blog Fodder Time once again -- my chica Perpstu to the rescue as usual. I sure hope she comes and steals something of mine soon, so I don't feel like a total moocher.YOU ARE HEBE
Animal: Bird
Color: Burgundy
Hebe is the daughter of Zeus and Hera, the rulers of the gods. Hebe married Hercules, and was wine bringer to her parents. She is the entertainer, the one who enjoys pleasing the guests and keeping the good cheer flowing. She represents an earthy and provocative nature.
In Euripides' play Heracleidae, Hebe granted Iolaus' wish to become young again in order to fight Eurystheus. Hebe had two children with her husband Heracles: Alexiares and Anicetus. In art, Hebe is usually depicted wearing a sleeveless dress. (Yet another good reason to do one's triceps exercises.)
Hebe is the goddess of pardon or forgiveness. She is also the goddess of youth and can make the old feel young again.
Cool. I'll take that.
11.15.2008
Now Who's Talking Dirty...
Me, that's who!
In a fit of boredom and inspiration, fueled by the need to have a post today for NaBloPoMo, I decided to use my new pal Utterli and have a little good clean fun with my Top 10 Sexy Words.
It's not my best work -- damn throat issues still abound -- but it's not bad.
Please be kind. We are all friends, right?
In a fit of boredom and inspiration, fueled by the need to have a post today for NaBloPoMo, I decided to use my new pal Utterli and have a little good clean fun with my Top 10 Sexy Words.
It's not my best work -- damn throat issues still abound -- but it's not bad.
Please be kind. We are all friends, right?
11.14.2008
Talk Dirty to Me.
So, while I was doing some online research for my NaNoWriMo project (which is going verrrry slowly, but at least I have a plan!), I came across a most compelling item.
It's a list of the Sexiest Words in the World, as put together by the Calgary Association of the Romance Writers of America.
Unfortunately for Writer Me, these words aren't really helpful for my project, which has as its main character a 12-year-old girl in 1973. And it's not THAT kind of story anyhoo.
However, the list has piqued my interest. Shocking. And will be a good reference for later projects.
Wanna see the list? Of course you do.
As the only format in which I could find it was a PDF, I did a little copy/paste action and put it here, on my tester/auxiliary blog for your perusal.
Take a look -- it's rather extensive. But if you're like me, some words stand out more than others, at least in the context of being "sexy."
Here's my Top 10 words from the list, in no particular order (I just know you were wondering what they might be...)
Bite
Decadent
Wanton
Evocative
Languid
Provocative
Sultry
Writhe
Erotic
Groan
Is it a little warm in here, or is it just me...
If you're so inclined, feel free to share your faves from the list. There are no wrong answers (gotta love that kind of exercise) and I can guarantee you'll find it fun. Or something.
It's a list of the Sexiest Words in the World, as put together by the Calgary Association of the Romance Writers of America.
Unfortunately for Writer Me, these words aren't really helpful for my project, which has as its main character a 12-year-old girl in 1973. And it's not THAT kind of story anyhoo.
However, the list has piqued my interest. Shocking. And will be a good reference for later projects.
Wanna see the list? Of course you do.
As the only format in which I could find it was a PDF, I did a little copy/paste action and put it here, on my tester/auxiliary blog for your perusal.
Take a look -- it's rather extensive. But if you're like me, some words stand out more than others, at least in the context of being "sexy."
Here's my Top 10 words from the list, in no particular order (I just know you were wondering what they might be...)
Bite
Decadent
Wanton
Evocative
Languid
Provocative
Sultry
Writhe
Erotic
Groan
Is it a little warm in here, or is it just me...
If you're so inclined, feel free to share your faves from the list. There are no wrong answers (gotta love that kind of exercise) and I can guarantee you'll find it fun. Or something.
Damn. I'm it.
Yep. I've done been got. So here goes nothing...
Step #1 - Link to the person who tagged you.
Easy. It’s one of my fave peeps, Miss Perpstu.
Check.
Step #2 - Write Five Fun/Interesting Facts about yourself. This gives fellow bloggers (and your readership) a chance to actually get to know you better.
Hmmm. OK.
1. I hate snakes. Snakes are the debil -- just read Genesis and the story of Adam and Eve in case you had any doubts. Can’t even stand to see them on TV, much less in person. Needless to say, I don’t watch a lot of Animal Planet. At the park where I work out with my trainer, there's a nature exhibit right next to the ladies room, featuring not one, not two but THREE snakes that are common to the area. I close my eyes and literally run into the potty when I'm there -- and always have to shudder when I leave. It's awful... they are the debil, I'm telling you.
2. I’d not a big fan of chocolate. I don’t dislike it, but I also don’t go out of my way to find it -- no chocoholic tendencies here. Now, caramel and/or pralines are a complete other story... a praline is a little bit of heaven as far as I’m concerned. There are few things I won't do for one of these...mmmmmmm...
3. I can’t drive a stick shift. I have a recurring nightmare in which there’s some sort of emergency and I’m the only one who can drive to safety and the only vehicle available is a stick. I also have a recurring nightmare about trying to drop a class in college before the drop period ends and not being able to find the administration building. Thank goodness the two scenarios have never collided into one Super Nightmare. Yet. Paging Dr. Freud, Dr. Sigmund Freud...
4. I would rather speak in front of a group of 100 people than go to a cocktail party where I know only one or two folks. Public speaking = love. Small talk = eeek.
I really am a shy girl at heart...
5. My happy place is my kitchen, small and overcrowded as it might be. I love to cook and read about cooking and think about cooking. Food porn = hot, hot hot. My home library has well over 100 cookbooks. However, I would NEVER want to be a professional chef or caterer, though. I’m content being a fairly proficient home cook, thank you very much. Although I do wish my knife skills and grilling technique were better...
Check.
Step #3 - Tag Six Other People and link to their blogs. Then let them know you’ve tagged them by twittering them or leaving a comment on their blog.
You know what -- I’m in a free-wheeling kinda mood today. No tagging. Wheee! Y’all are on your own.
How’s that for living on the edge...
11.13.2008
She Speaks!
Fun with a forgotten favorite: Utterli.comClick here to hear what I sound like (albeit with laryngitis) -- you won't be sorry!
11.12.2008
Cause of My Heart
Today is the March of Dimes Prematurity Awareness Day.
Why do I care about such a thing?
Here's the answer:
That's Will, not long after he was born. Still hard for me to look at these pictures, even seven years later.
Twenty-five weeks gestation.
Weight of one pound, 10 ounces.
Three and a half months in the NeoNatal Intensive Care Unit.
His early start in life came with a myriad of health problems, which he bravely and stubbornly battles still today, as he is developmentally delayed, with mild cerebral palsy and a seizure disorder.
However, as you probably do know, he is a bright, funny, creative, sweet-natured fellow who is the light of my life and my primary focus and inspiration.
The March of Dimes folks have set up a online petition that you can sign indicating your support for more public research dollars to identify causes of preterm labor and prematurity, and to identify and test promising interventions. No donation is necessary -- just your virtual John or Jane Hancock.
If you're so inclined, please take a second to check this out -- I've got a handy-dandy place to sign right here in the sidebar of the blog. If you're even more inclined and curious and would like to read more about our journey, check out my blog pieces entitled The Will Chronicles.
As you can imagine, I'm more than passionate about this cause and wanted to share a bit of that with y'all.
Thanks and love.
Why do I care about such a thing?
Here's the answer:
That's Will, not long after he was born. Still hard for me to look at these pictures, even seven years later.
Twenty-five weeks gestation.
Weight of one pound, 10 ounces.
Three and a half months in the NeoNatal Intensive Care Unit.
His early start in life came with a myriad of health problems, which he bravely and stubbornly battles still today, as he is developmentally delayed, with mild cerebral palsy and a seizure disorder.
However, as you probably do know, he is a bright, funny, creative, sweet-natured fellow who is the light of my life and my primary focus and inspiration.
The March of Dimes folks have set up a online petition that you can sign indicating your support for more public research dollars to identify causes of preterm labor and prematurity, and to identify and test promising interventions. No donation is necessary -- just your virtual John or Jane Hancock.
If you're so inclined, please take a second to check this out -- I've got a handy-dandy place to sign right here in the sidebar of the blog. If you're even more inclined and curious and would like to read more about our journey, check out my blog pieces entitled The Will Chronicles.
As you can imagine, I'm more than passionate about this cause and wanted to share a bit of that with y'all.
Thanks and love.
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