The Blog Has Moved

I've decided to host the blog myself, so it can now be found here. Sorry to move around, but I feel more secure with my archives on my OWN server.

Thanks For Nothing

I've been trying to launch a fledgling photography business on the side (because I have SO MUCH free time), and I've taken on a few jobs for free. Actually, they're not free, because I get exclusive rights to use the photographs in advertising, but for the models I've chosen, it's a win-win situation; they get free pictures for their portfolio, and I don't have to pay a modeling fee.

So this weekend I had two shoots; one paying, one not. The paying gig was a referral from the non-paying gig, so I was pretty happy to do another shoot for the girl who got me the business. Not to mention the girl is beautiful, and she photographs extremely well with very little direction. So I was rather shocked when I was told she was angry because I took a picture of her friend with my car.

Now, eighteen was not THAT long ago, and I do recall that things were much more dramatic back then. Rivalries were fierce, even among friends. But flash forward twelve years, & I became really irritated.

1) If you're getting free pictures, and most of them are in the style of YOUR choosing, you shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.

2) I am a 30-year-old woman, and I pay the note on my car, and if I want to take of picture of somebody with it, I will do so.

3) If the person taking a picture with said car happens to be your best friend, you should be happy for her.

4) If you're on good terms with the photographer, then chances are the opportunity will arise that you will be able to take the picture also.

5) If both you and your best friend are insanely beautiful, you should shut up and appreciate it before you make it to thirty and something as stupid as a picture doesn't matter anymore.

God, to be eighteen and have eighteen-year-old problems again.... try a mortgage, daycare, sick kid, stressful job, messy house, and bills, and if you make it through all that, then you can come back to me and bitch about a picture!

Doorway To Schizophrenia

I watched the moving "Waiting" this weekend. As far as a plot goes, it's non-existent, and the dialogue is wretched, but the core message behind the movie had me riveted.

"Waiting" is about a bunch of twenty-somethings who make their living in the restaurant industry. And while I'm watching this, I'm suddenly transported back to my restaurant days. It's amazing how accurate they portrayed the average American restaurant and the personalities that work there.

There's the slutty young underage hostess. The cool pretty-boy that sleeps with everyone. The woman who's been waitressing just a little too long (hence the term, Doorway To Schizophrenia, a term coined by myself & a good friend. You walk into the back, and you curse like a trucker; you walk into the dining room and you're Ms. Suzy Sunshine). The obnoxious tattooed grill cook. The older experienced sage who everyone goes to for advice. The drugged out bus boy. The lesbian bartender. And let's not forget the after-party EVERY SINGLE NIGHT, where all the employees get together to unwind and end up in some co-worker's bed the next morning.

It amazed me how much of that I'm suppressed. I think it was self-defense, a method to cope with the post-traumatic stress disorder you contract when you work in a restaurant. But it was so accurate, that it opened a floodgate of memories that I'd left somewhere in my subconscious. Good times, good times.

So which personality was I? I was very much like the main character; the once-ambitious but now slightly lazy server who gets caught in the machinations of the daily grind...quiet but witty... far too smart to be a lifetime server, but too lazy to figure out what I want to do with my life. I do my job, and do it well. But eventually, reality calls, and I realize I don't want to spend the rest of my life smelling like country-fried steak. And that's when I decide to turn in the apron and follow my dream...

...but you know, I made more as a waiter, and the damn government didn't take HALF as much in taxes!

Failure To Communicate

Have you ever encountered someone who asked you a question, but refuses to listen to the answer? It's a carefully-laid trap, a dangling question to which THEY have already formulated an answer of their own, without ever having the intention of listening to your reply. My question is this:

WHY IN THE HELL DO YOU ASK THE QUESTION IF YOU OBVIOUSLY HAVE THE ANSWER ALREADY???

Tagged

I was tagged by TexasGoodies and I figure if I don't share then I'll have seven years of bad luck or something....

Here's the rules:

Go write 6 weird facts/things/etc. about yourself in my comment box and on your blog, then tag six more people!
Then leave a comment that says “You are tagged” in their comments telling them to read your blog.

Now, six things about me....

1. I wear stripper shoes, but I am not and NEVER HAVE BEEN a stripper. I just love platforms, even though I'm already 5'11". I usually top out somewhere around 6'3" with the shoes. I figure if I'm going to be freak of nature, I'm going all out.

2. I twirled a flag in the 1992 Florida Citrus Bowl Halftime show in a shiny wizard costume. Harry Potter would be proud.

3. I used to date a guy whose grandmother had a six-foot alligator named Mike. She's feed it chicken twice a week. One day, my new puppy disappeared. A few days later, two more dogs disappeared. A few days after that, his nephew was playing next to the pond with another dog when Mikey decided to grab a snack. Luckily, he got the dog and not the kid. I've hated alligators ever since.

4. In 2002, I was the "Fastest Woman In Louisiana." No, not a reference to stripper shoes. I was the Trans-Louisiana Autocross Women's Champion. Okay, so it's not the Indianapolis 500, but according to the SCCA, it's racing! I won in a Miata. Despite upgrading to some very impressive cars, I've never been able to win again since.

5. My other career choices in high school were 1) genetic scientist or 2) lawyer. I chose to be a graphic artist instead. I'd love to go back to high school and beat my guidance counselor with a baseball bat.

6. On my first day all by myself as the youngest manager in the history of Cracker Barrel Old Country Store, I had a kid lock all the bathroom stalls, so I had to climb on the filty floor and unlock all of them. I also had a gas leak, which brought the fire department. And to finish off the day, a fat man had a heart attack during the lunch rush. More sirens. That same day was the first time I received flowers from what is now my husband, and I quit that job shortly thereafter.

As I was writing this, I realized that I have a pretty colorful history. And I always thought of myself as boring! So I pass the Tag Plague onto the following victims, er, participants: Just Kelly because she's REAL, Big Pink Cookie beacuase I love her photographs, I Don't Think beacuase, yes, somebody DOES read your blog, Ain't Chicken because she's funny as hell, Pete, because his blog reminds me of Dennis Miller, Mary @ French Roast, even though I know she hates this shit but she's too interesting to NOT do this to, & finally, TexasBug, because even though I don't always agree with her, she brings up some good points and occasionally makes me laugh. To the people I tagged, I'm sorry, but it is a form of flattery, because I admire your work!

Q-Tip

As the natural progression of marriage moves forward, you come to expect certain things from your partner. A kiss in the morning, "How was your day?" when you return home, your back scratched at night. These are the little things in marriage that you come to expect & eventually take for granted until you fight, and then all the little things become important again.

But then there are other little things that you begin to notice that get to you... those little habits that will start to annoy you, then really bother you, then drive you COMPLETELY INSANE. My biggest pet peeve for the longest time was a Q-Tip.

Every morning my husband has a habitual routine that includes sticking a Q-Tip in his ear. I like to tease him and remark, "Poking your brain awake?" while he makes comical faces of pleasure. That isn't what bothered me. What bothered me was the way he would haphazardly flick the Q-Tip in the general direction of the trash basket and, inevitably, miss. And there it would sit on the floor.

Filthy little yellow ear-waxed Q-Tip.

I don't know why it made me want to flip out. I think I might be a germophobe, bodily fluids in general gross me out, but ear wax & snot are definitely on my cannot-tolerate list. But I have been through a divorce, so I know that freaking out over a cotton ball on a stick is pretty stupid, so I'd clean it up and keep my mouth shut. It's part of marriage. For better or for worse. This is the "worse" part. And considering what other people have to tolerate for "worse,", I've got it pretty damn good.

So we're having dinner with another couple, J. & S., and after a couple of drinks we start to bash our significant others, because that's much cheaper than therapy. And it was then that I realized, I am not alone! S. has the exact same problem with the Q-Tips!!! Hallelujah! It was like a miniature Q-Tips Anonymous meeting, and here I could vent my Q-Tip frustration in a safe place. My husband looked at me like I was crazy as S. & I carried on about Q-Tips & socks, but I suddenly felt a sense of complete relief. Because finally, I knew that it's not just me, and I'm not crazy. Sometimes your feelings need validation, otherwise you start to question your judgment, your character, even your sanity.

Shortly afterwards, my husband started making an effort to get the Q-Tips in the trash. The socks...well, that's another story, but today, I want to say THANK YOU for the Q-Tips. It's the little things that matter.

Jellybean

The Value of A Band-Aid

I went in to see my doctor today for some routine blood tests. I used to have a hellacious fear of needles, but through the years I have been lucky enough to encounter some great nurses. The technician today was no exception; she's frequently taken blood samples from me before, and her gentle touch & extreme care makes it relatively painless everytime. She always remembers me when I sit down it the chair:

"I'm fine-" I start...

..."I know, as long as you don't SEE the needle," she finishes. We smile at each other & I close my eyes while she wraps the rubber tourniquet around my left bicep. A tiny poke, and I don't even feel the blood coming out this time. She pulls out the needle & puts a small piece of gauze on the area, telling me to hold it firmly. A moment later, I'm on my way to front desk to pay my co-pay.

As I'm standing there, I feel something crawling across my fingertips, put I pay it no attention at the moment. The nurse behind the desk points to me and says something, but I didn't understand her.

"Your bannnnnfff..." she says.

"I'm sorry, what?" I ask.

"Your banddfff...your banndff...." she says, pointing.

"My what?" I repeat, looking down. It was that moment I realized she was saying Band-Aid, because my entire left arm was now covered with blood that was dripping off my fingers.

And with that, I promptly passed out.

I have never passed out in my life (without alcohol), so I actually found it funny when I came to & three concerned faces were hovering over me. Just like in the movies! The nurse, the receptionist & the lab technician helped me to a nearby chair, when the technician commented, "Obviously I can't let you see your blood, either..."

And with that, it is official. I am a bonafide, complete & total wuss. I will now carry Band-Aids with me at ALL times.

Selective Stupidity

It took years for me to get where I am today. Lots of spelling errors, lots of wasted print runs, lots of wasted time, & lots of wasted money. So I'd like to think I MIGHT know what I'm talking about when it comes to print design. Not the design side, because that's all relative to person's opinion, but the technical-can't-argue-with-a-two-ton-press-and-a-postscript-file side.

After years of fruitlessly banging my head against a brick wall trying to explain graphic formats to salespeople & clients, I drafted a course called Graphics 101. It involved short, simple sentences & lots of bright, catchy illustrations. The presentation that accompanied it had lots of fun little tunes and cute animations. There are four basic handouts titled:

a.) "Why Is My Customer's Logo Fuzzy?"

b.) "Why Doesn't The Color Match On My Ad?"

c.) "Why Can't I Use The Picture Off The Internet?"

And of course, my personal favorite...

d.) "Why Can't I Use Microsoft Word To Design My Ad?"

I figured that this was the proactive solution to all my problems. Written in USA Today-level language with lots of big pictures, surely I wouldn't have any more communication problems! When they see what happens to a photograph when you blow it up to seven times it's intended size, I would never again encounter a 72dpi image. Oh happy day! Oh joy!

After giving them the handouts on FOUR SEPARATE occasions, after REPEATED phone calls rejecting artwork, after doing everything short of pulling out an aluminum baseball bat & a cattle prod, I STILL receive files in Mircosoft Word and instructions to "just use the picture off the Internet....."

WHY, GOD, WHY?????

I Surround Myself With Storytellers

I grew up in a tiny Mississippi town nestled near the southern part of the Pearl River. A marina used to stand across the street from the house I grew up in (pre-Katrina). My grandmother's house was about a mile & a half up the road, behind the small yellow Catholic church.

Most Saturdays were spent on a boat in the river, either fishing or water skiing. Every Sunday we would go to church, then walk over to my grandmother's house and sit in the back yard under the massive old oak trees. The adults would talk over a couple of beers (always in koozies), and the kids would either play in the pea gravel or run up to the grassy point and pick blackberries or strawberries until my grandmother would yell at us. It was here that I learned the value of a good story.

My aunts & uncles had hard lives. They would all gather in a circle, some in the porch swing, others laid back in old dollar store canvas chairs. I would hide behind the folding lawn chair and listen as they relived their childhood antics. Do you remember when Charlie did this? Or Neice did that? And then there was the time Leona did this, and Mary Ruth, well, ha, ha,ha... As they would drink more, the stories became more animated, more lively, and a little more inappropriate for children. About that time, my parents would kiss everyone goodbye and we'd head home.

I love the stories. And as I grew up, I surrounded myself with people who tell stories the same way. Attention to detail, animated motions, and most importantly, heart. It wasn't a conscious decision, I just gravitate to that kind of person. Someone who can help me escape reality a few moments at a time, and take me to a place that meant something to someone.

You would think, as time progresses, that people like this would be easy to find, but it's actually getting harder for me. People get so wrapped up in NOW, that they forget the moments that make their life special. Perhaps that's why it's so hard for me to truly connect with people. I want to hear the stories, not the complaining. I want to know the person, not what you think I want to hear. I want to truly connect, not just small talk.

It's a lofty expectation for someone you just meet.

Down at the Redneck Drive-In

Over the weekend, my husband & I decided to try out the new drive-in in Tomball. It's been over six months since we've gone out to a movie, which is unheard of for us. During that life before baby (distant, distant memory), we would go to the movies almost every week. Immediately post-baby, we thought we were going to be the "lucky" parents whose kid could sleep through anything, and we were until about seven months. The last movie we saw together was "Walk the Line." Actually, we didn't see it together because we spent the entire movie playing tag team with the baby in the lobby. So we were pretty excited to hear about the drive-in; freedom again! The ability to let the baby talk all she wants in the backseat without the angry stares and frequent "SHHHHHHH!"

We arrived around 7:30, and it was already packed. Row after row of Ford & Chevy pickup trucks with dirty children and beer coolers. I was a little apprehensive at first. If somebody pulled out a shotgun, there was no other option than to run. But the atmosphere was light, and the rednecks were jovial. Some stopped by to admire the truck (bright yellow F-250), others smiled at Alex as she played in her playpen. (Can't bring that to the cinema!) The weather was absolutely beautiful, and as the sun set and the lights came up, the old fifties music began to play and Alex danced happily on the backseat. (Can't do that either!) For $10, we watched two new releases (Ice Age 2 & Failure to Launch, and that would have cost us at LEAST $28), ate popcorn, and let the kid climb around the cab of the truck until she passed out in the backseat. During Intermission, the redneck children played happily on the field beneath the screen (no grass or fresh air at the megaplex). And aside from the creepy fifties music (which is catchy, but I can't get the movie "Christine" out of my head), it was a very pleasant evening.

I have a feeling we'll be frequenting that establishment more often. Me, my baby, my husband, fresh air & a beer cooler. What more do you need?

Spam Sammich

Sorry for the inconvenience to my dedicated readers, but apparently I caught the eye of a spammer who was driving me insane. Enter Word Verification, that annoying little necessity that forces the reader to decipher some squiggly text before you get your turn to speak. Who are these bastards who intrude into my daily zen, hocking useless products and services to the technologically-impaired & hopelessly naive? Does ANYBODY ever REALLY click on this stuff anyway? Why can't these web parasites get a life and try a real job?

Deprived

My husband & I have been juggling alternate schedules lately. Somehow, our activities cannot seem to coincide (either that, or it's an activity that the other has no interest in). So a few nights ago, I was happy that we found each other in the house at THE SAME TIME.

But when I came in from work, I was disappointed to find his nose buried in his laptop (where it tends to spend a WHOLE lot of time.) He can spend hours cruising car forums, until the entire evening has disappeared in a click of a web page.

"You pay more attention to those damn forums than you do ME," I complained.

"No, I don't." he replied without looking up. Click click. Click.

"Yes you do. You get to come home early, and all you do is sit on the couch and surf. It's not fair. I want you to pay that kind of attention to ME."

"Then join the forum."

Indeed. Bay-stard.

Flying Projectiles

I hate laundry. I hate it so much that I will let it pile up all week until there is a huge mound of clothing that blocks the path from my bed to the bathroom. Then, in moment of pure disgust (usually on a Sunday), I throw everything in the washing machine at once and leave while it wobbles furiously from being overloaded. But I digress...

I had about a month's worth of Alex's clothes that I needed to put away, so I lugged her upstairs. She rarely spends time in her room unless she's sleeping, so she loves the opportunity to explore when I let her. So I gather the basket of clothes, and lay all the empty hangers around me on the floor.

Mistake Number 1: Choosing to sort the laundry on the floor. As soon as something is laying neatly, she feels the urge to pull at it (usually whatever is at the BOTTOM of the stack).

Mistake Number 2: Assuming that her room will keep her occupied for over ten minutes. I am dealing with the daughter of the poster child for ADD. After chewing on assorted blocks, pulling all the stuffed animals off the bookcase, pulling over the diaper hamper and climbing up the changing table, the whole "Alex's Room" situation was pretty much played out.

Mistake Number 3: Putting hangers within a one-year-old's reach. She is inexplicably drawn to hangers for some reason. Maybe it's the shape, maybe it's something new, maybe it's the taboo because Mommy constantly takes them away and says "no no."

But I knew exactly when she'd had enough of it, because it came hurtling at the back of my head. With a shriek I turned to regard my previously passive daughter, who obviously found the sound funny because she erupted into the beautiful sound of tinkly childhood laughter. I, however, did NOT find it funny.

"NO." I barked. "No ma'am!" With that, the laughter quickly stopped, the smile faded, and slowly the face transformed into the huge pout that always precedes the crying. Immediately I regretted my tone and did exactly what I swore I would never do. I gathered her into my arms and kissed her until the smile came back. A few moments later I was rewarded with another hanger in the back of the head.

So the true trials of motherhood have begun. She's only one; how do I teach her that throwing things at her mother is not socially acceptable (unless you have a horribly dysfunctional family) ? I know this is just one of many issues I will face in my life, but now that I'm faced with them, what I SAID I was going to do is going to be a LOT harder than I thought...

Perception

I was at classy wine bar this weekend with a friend of mine. Since it was "Girl's Day Out," we got dolled up and took my sportscar, a Lotus Elise. Upon arrival, the valet looked at the car with a small degree of awe.

"Dude, what is this?"

"It's an Lotus Elise," I replied, giving him the additional instruction that it starts with a BUTTON so he wouldn't attempt to break the key off in the ignition. Now, those of you who know me know that I love any and all types of cars, and my biggest addiction (other than Starbucks) is speed. So I was pretty flattered when they parked my little yellow car next to a SL600 V-12 Mercedes directly down in front. A few moments later, two Ferrari 360 Modenas joined the party.

We sat at table on the patio since it was a beautiful day, and I observed how many people looked at the cars parked down in front. What amazed me the most is how many people walked right past the $100,000+ cars over to my tiny little go-cart car.

There are NO creature comforts in the Elise; I almost feel like I should turn around & pull-start it like a 5hp Briggs & Stratton. We bought the car because it is a racecar, pure & simple. But slap a label on the back and give it a pretty yellow paint job, and people assume it's a $100,000+ car, too. I had the realization that labels can be very, very misleading.... and that made me wonder how many people judged me when I stepped out of it.