I was born July 9, 1982, which means that I am 27 today. I share my birthday with Courtney Love, Fred Savage, John Tesh, O.J. Simpson, and Tom Hanks. When I was younger, I used to think a lot about my astrological sign, Cancer, and how these people were somehow tied to me. I don't really do that anymore. Here's the highlights of 1982:
1. January 13th--a plane crash claims 78 lives and 3 people died when a train derailed. Both events happened in D.C. Now, you're saying, "Bette, I thought there was no tragedy on your birthday?" Unfortunately, I am obsessed with major disasters. It is not that I wish for them to happen, so much as I can't get myself away from being dazzled by the aftermath. I have always thought I would die in a plane crash. Woohoo, happy birthday to me!
2. Remember when plain ol' Bette used to be BetteDavisLies? That harkens back to the album of the year for 1982: Kim Carnes's Bette Davis Eyes. See, everything has a reason under the sun.
3. At the 1982 Academy Awards, Chariots of Fire won best picture. I've never seen the movie, but I know it is recorded on VHS somewhere at my parents' house from the days when my Dad would pop a tape into the VCR and record everything that came on HBO.
4. Reagan was president and the Falklands War was in the news, but, of course, I don't remember any of this due to the fact that I was a mere infant, though I did think Reagan looked a lot like my father's father, who was a WWII vet and the autobody teacher at our local high school. He died when I was six, but I'm pretty sure he was the reason my Dad was so old school masculine back in the day. I connect Reagan-era politics/ideology with my family's personal gendered family norms.
5. June 21-- Princess Di gives birth to Prince William. My mother says she hoped upon hoped that we would share the same birthday since I was due way before the 9th, but I had to be pulled forcibly from the warm confines of her body. In X-rays, it is clear that my left scapula is several inches lower than my right. When mom first found out, she cried, saying between sobs, "I....just....knew....they....wrenched...
you....outta...me...TOO HARD!" She was more disappointed that Prince William and I didn't get to share the same day than she was about the long ass labor I put her through, and she did it completely drug free. Yay, mom.
6. July 9-- I was born, and a Pan Am flight crashed in Kenner, Louisiana killing all 146 on board and 8 on the ground. When first I learned this, I took it as a sign to corroborate my belief that I will die in a plane crash. I told you I was seriously superstitious.
7. October 1--Sony releases the first CD player, though I'm sure it costs a million dollars. Remember the yuppie couple--Todd and Margot?--in National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation? When I think about CD players before the 90s, I always think about how Clark W. Griswold destroys said player.
8. November 30--the best-selling album of all time is released: Michael Jackson's Thriller. I had a major crush on both Michael Jackson and Prince when I was a girl. Really, I just liked exotic/dark-skinned men. My father was pretty racist, or at least concerned about what everyone would say in our small, Southern town if his daughter dated black boys. I was so scared of his wrath, that I had to keep my affection for both pop icons a secret. In fact, I didn't even tell my parents about my obsession with Oates of Hall and Oates fame because he was kind of black. I think it only made me long for these taboo men more.
9. December 26--Time magazine's Man of the Year award goes to its first non-human--a computer. I didn't realized inanimate objects were sexed in the English language.
10. A brief but severe recession occurred during the year 1982--I think some of this evidence is backed-up by my previous post with photos from early-1983. I guess this is the reason I'm not down on the economy because I know we'll all be okay, and I'm a glass half full kind of girl anyways.
Tonight, I'm off to see Wicked at the Orpheum in Memphis, and I'm eating my favorite, Indian food, with some of the best people I know. Tomorrow night, the Bunny is making me some homemade macaroni and cheese, and we are going to see Bruno. The best things in life are semi-cheap, generally edible, and always full of spectacle.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Our People Don't Take Kindly to Charity
I've been having the kind of week where extremely old memories come back to me in the middle of the most mundane moments. I'm rereading Dorothy Allison's Bastard Out of Carolina for the FOURTH TIME before setting out on my next chapter, which includes a discussion of the work and an original interview I did with Allison a few months ago. No other book reminds me more of my mother, as it follows the childhood perils of Bone--a victim of sexual abuse, labeled as "trash" and "bastard child," growing up poor and hungry in South Carolina.
Where I just stopped reading, Bone has been caught stealing tootsie rolls from the drug store. Oddly enough, I have to go to court tomorrow to testify against the man/boy that stole from us. It reminded me of the one time I stole a piece of gum at the tiny market in my hometown. I don't know my age, but I must have been a toddler because I remember being nearly eye level with the bottom rung of the candy display. We weren't poor, per se, but we did have a rough couple of months before my sister was born when my father got laid off from his factory. Mom was working around the clock at Wal-Mart, and my father--never one to take charity--refused unemployment benefits. Instead, he left every morning and stood in line to procure whatever day labor was available.
On the days he didn't find work, he would stay home with me. Always good with his hands--though he was a big, scary Southern daddy, he had delicate hands like my Bunny--he would make silly hats for me out of construction paper. Depending on the season/holiday, he would create a theme, prop me up on the appropriate "backdrop," sometimes my mother's handmade afghan or the bedspread on their water bed, and he would document them in photos:
You can tell he was off work for several months because of the changing hat themes.
All of this--Allison's words, my petty theft, our impending court case, and my father's pictures--reminded me of my mother's admonishments to me from early, early childhood: never take anything that doesn't belong to you. Her case-in-point comes from her personal tale of delinquency. Nevermind uncomfortable struggle, she was dirt ass poor. She says their house always smelt like piss, and it made her embarrassed to ever have anyone over for a visit. To this day, she cleans like a mad woman. One day, when she was a young child, Mom went to the drugstore and stole a giant candy bar. Eagerly unwrapping the foil, she took one bite and felt movement in her mouth. The entire bar was covered in ants. She took this as a sign of her sin, and she never, ever stole again.
Where I just stopped reading, Bone has been caught stealing tootsie rolls from the drug store. Oddly enough, I have to go to court tomorrow to testify against the man/boy that stole from us. It reminded me of the one time I stole a piece of gum at the tiny market in my hometown. I don't know my age, but I must have been a toddler because I remember being nearly eye level with the bottom rung of the candy display. We weren't poor, per se, but we did have a rough couple of months before my sister was born when my father got laid off from his factory. Mom was working around the clock at Wal-Mart, and my father--never one to take charity--refused unemployment benefits. Instead, he left every morning and stood in line to procure whatever day labor was available.
On the days he didn't find work, he would stay home with me. Always good with his hands--though he was a big, scary Southern daddy, he had delicate hands like my Bunny--he would make silly hats for me out of construction paper. Depending on the season/holiday, he would create a theme, prop me up on the appropriate "backdrop," sometimes my mother's handmade afghan or the bedspread on their water bed, and he would document them in photos:
You can tell he was off work for several months because of the changing hat themes.
All of this--Allison's words, my petty theft, our impending court case, and my father's pictures--reminded me of my mother's admonishments to me from early, early childhood: never take anything that doesn't belong to you. Her case-in-point comes from her personal tale of delinquency. Nevermind uncomfortable struggle, she was dirt ass poor. She says their house always smelt like piss, and it made her embarrassed to ever have anyone over for a visit. To this day, she cleans like a mad woman. One day, when she was a young child, Mom went to the drugstore and stole a giant candy bar. Eagerly unwrapping the foil, she took one bite and felt movement in her mouth. The entire bar was covered in ants. She took this as a sign of her sin, and she never, ever stole again.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Technically, the Fifth of July
We have the kind of relationship with our neighbors that affords us the ability to freely traverse the lush green valley between our lawns and vice versa. Just the other day, I left an extra tomato plant from our garden on our neighbor's porch with instructions for care. In return, he gave me the secrets to one of his prized cheesecake recipes. Whenever some crazy crime goes down on our block, we commiserate over midnight chats between the shadows of our homes and ring one another's doorbells for spices/tools/advice/trash talk. Really, it's the kind of thing I love most about living in a traditional neighborhood.
This neighbor, Mr. J, is a cancer survivor in his mid-50s. His wife of 30+ years is a quiet lady who wears denim Looney Tunes shirts buttoned to the top and incessantly carries around a small fluffy dog as if it were a mink muffler. Mr. J is quite liberal for a man his age born and raised in the South. He speaks in the sort of genteel Southern tone that requires the long i to sound like a long o. (For months we thought our other neighbor, Mr. Bible, was actually named "Mr. Bobble" due to Mr. J's unique pronunciation.) Though he was skeptical of our commitment to lawn care when we first moved into the house next door, he soon trusted in our ability to uphold his high standard of home maintenance. In fact, I'd say we one-upped up him.
One of our first experiences as neighbors happened within weeks of our arrival in the neighborhood. The Bunny and I would stay up until nearly sun-up in an attempt to finish six months of renovations in a month's time. After midnight, we would take breaks on the front steps, sipping cold beers and fending off the terrible heat wave of 2007. (Remember how the farmer's crops would barely grow that year?) One night, we heard a rustle to our right, and Mr. J emerged, seemingly bald head first, from the dark confines of his covered stoop. He remarked that he is a "night owl," and we put an already-sweating bottle into his fist as he settled in on the second step from the top. With our gigantic hollies guarding us from street view, the Bunny, Mr. J, and I talked with the occasional bumping bass music from passing cars and crickets as our soundtrack.
That night, Mr. J talked about the first place he and his wife rented together. It was the home of a middle-aged, never-been-married woman who found out she had terminal cancer. She meticulously covered every inch of her kitchen in heavy mil plastic, and shot herself in the head. As Mr. J put it, "she didn't want to leave a mess in the kitchen she loved." This tale was followed by the quiet admittance that he once had an affair. As we had only known him a few weeks, I didn't inquire into the details, and I'm certain we changed the subject rather fast. It is likely we discussed plans to merge our side yards into one joint walkway or made plans to cut back our hideous boxwoods. His admittance, however, hung heavy in the air, and neither the Bunny nor I have ever forgotten it.
It seemed like Mr. J just wanted someone to listen. I suppose we provided that opportunity. Then again, Mr. J did have us "listen" in on the fact that his cousin, who works at a busy music store in Memphis, had helped a local legendary musician find the "old school porn with the real bushy ladies" one day at work a few months ago, but that is another story for another night.
When the tornado sirens went off an hour ago, I nudged the Bunny to attention and flipped on the Weather Channel to discover a tornado warning for our county. I suppose we are all programmed to respond in these parts, but I deftly slid on the nearest discarded clothes and fumbled down the stairs with the still-sleeping Sebastian slung against my hip like a toddler. More curious than scared, the Bunny and I went outside to stare at the sky and "feel our way around" this weather. As if on cue, Mr. J emerged nearly simultaneously from his house followed closely by Mrs. J in a post-Mennonite layer of nighttime wear and with dog-muff intact.
It wasn't until I noticed their stares until I realized I was wearing booty shorts hitched nearly to my crotch accompanied by a bra-less tank and bright maroon tennis shoes. The Bunny donned his redneck tongue-in-cheek shirt that I brought for him last Fall: "Overworked and Underfucked" fell loosely above his britches.
Here we were, the four of us representing two generations of marital manifestation, linked by a common lawn, and standing under the same eerily moving sky lit with heat lightning and last minute contraband firecrackers. When the sirens finally faded--the tornado shifting to some other neck of these Tennessee counties--we all said our good nights and entered our respective doors. The Bunny's breathing is rising and falling beside me as I type, but it is likely our night owl neighbor is five yard sticks away from my window in his private office hoping to feel the need for sleep as desperately as I myself want it now.
This neighbor, Mr. J, is a cancer survivor in his mid-50s. His wife of 30+ years is a quiet lady who wears denim Looney Tunes shirts buttoned to the top and incessantly carries around a small fluffy dog as if it were a mink muffler. Mr. J is quite liberal for a man his age born and raised in the South. He speaks in the sort of genteel Southern tone that requires the long i to sound like a long o. (For months we thought our other neighbor, Mr. Bible, was actually named "Mr. Bobble" due to Mr. J's unique pronunciation.) Though he was skeptical of our commitment to lawn care when we first moved into the house next door, he soon trusted in our ability to uphold his high standard of home maintenance. In fact, I'd say we one-upped up him.
One of our first experiences as neighbors happened within weeks of our arrival in the neighborhood. The Bunny and I would stay up until nearly sun-up in an attempt to finish six months of renovations in a month's time. After midnight, we would take breaks on the front steps, sipping cold beers and fending off the terrible heat wave of 2007. (Remember how the farmer's crops would barely grow that year?) One night, we heard a rustle to our right, and Mr. J emerged, seemingly bald head first, from the dark confines of his covered stoop. He remarked that he is a "night owl," and we put an already-sweating bottle into his fist as he settled in on the second step from the top. With our gigantic hollies guarding us from street view, the Bunny, Mr. J, and I talked with the occasional bumping bass music from passing cars and crickets as our soundtrack.
That night, Mr. J talked about the first place he and his wife rented together. It was the home of a middle-aged, never-been-married woman who found out she had terminal cancer. She meticulously covered every inch of her kitchen in heavy mil plastic, and shot herself in the head. As Mr. J put it, "she didn't want to leave a mess in the kitchen she loved." This tale was followed by the quiet admittance that he once had an affair. As we had only known him a few weeks, I didn't inquire into the details, and I'm certain we changed the subject rather fast. It is likely we discussed plans to merge our side yards into one joint walkway or made plans to cut back our hideous boxwoods. His admittance, however, hung heavy in the air, and neither the Bunny nor I have ever forgotten it.
It seemed like Mr. J just wanted someone to listen. I suppose we provided that opportunity. Then again, Mr. J did have us "listen" in on the fact that his cousin, who works at a busy music store in Memphis, had helped a local legendary musician find the "old school porn with the real bushy ladies" one day at work a few months ago, but that is another story for another night.
When the tornado sirens went off an hour ago, I nudged the Bunny to attention and flipped on the Weather Channel to discover a tornado warning for our county. I suppose we are all programmed to respond in these parts, but I deftly slid on the nearest discarded clothes and fumbled down the stairs with the still-sleeping Sebastian slung against my hip like a toddler. More curious than scared, the Bunny and I went outside to stare at the sky and "feel our way around" this weather. As if on cue, Mr. J emerged nearly simultaneously from his house followed closely by Mrs. J in a post-Mennonite layer of nighttime wear and with dog-muff intact.
It wasn't until I noticed their stares until I realized I was wearing booty shorts hitched nearly to my crotch accompanied by a bra-less tank and bright maroon tennis shoes. The Bunny donned his redneck tongue-in-cheek shirt that I brought for him last Fall: "Overworked and Underfucked" fell loosely above his britches.
Here we were, the four of us representing two generations of marital manifestation, linked by a common lawn, and standing under the same eerily moving sky lit with heat lightning and last minute contraband firecrackers. When the sirens finally faded--the tornado shifting to some other neck of these Tennessee counties--we all said our good nights and entered our respective doors. The Bunny's breathing is rising and falling beside me as I type, but it is likely our night owl neighbor is five yard sticks away from my window in his private office hoping to feel the need for sleep as desperately as I myself want it now.
Friday, July 3, 2009
And you just thought that was all of me
I didn't mean to be so negative last time, but, really, it was everything I was feeling and more. Things just looked so dark from my little black office chair, and the news only got worse with every telephone call and inappropriately serious Facebook message.
But things are back on track. I've finished 1/3 of my dissertation since the beginning of summer. I plan to have 2/3 finished by the end of August, and I'm on the track to graduate next May. The Bunny and I have been hope, hope, hoping for a mini-bunny, but I certainly can't control what happens in that arena. We change our minds daily about staying in this house, building a fancy garage, and painting our guest room yellow. Then, again, in conversations late at night, we know that a move may be on the horizon. All I can say, is stay tuned, folks. It depends upon the the ol' academic job market, really.
The man-child that tried to steal our stuff--i.e. broke my sense of security, invaded my space, and made me feel like a fool--will be tried in court next Wednesday. I found his hat between the fences where he escaped. He is a juvenile. The really lame part of me wants to bring his hat to him, and the other half of me wants to piss on it. The side of Bette--which my father would call my "damn liberal" side--wants to teach this kid a lesson in....literature. I have this idealistic visioning that the world could be cured with books. Maybe the bad people are only evil because their mommies didn't read to them, or they themselves never found the magic in text with which all of the finest people I know are enraptured. I could haul my teachery cloth bags fulls of literary greatness up to the juvenile detention center and start him on a strict regiment of reading. After all, what will locking him up do anyways? He isn't going to be reformed in a cage. I feel sad for him now, really.
We had a rat living in our backyard. No kidding, the damn thing was munching on the feces left by our dogs before "poop clean-up day." (I only write Truth and Beauty, folks.) One day, I looked from our second floor bedroom window and saw TWO rats lunching together on our back lawn. What got me was how brazen they were--sunning themselves while enjoying their treats. I called the Bunny frantically, and we set up traps that night. The whole ordeal was strangely satisfying and grotesque, as we lobbed peanut butter on inordinately large rodent traps and--this next part is completely true--set up lawn chairs on the patio to watch. One rat hobbled out to the trap nearly immediately, and then he back-stepped and retreated into our shrubs. What a smart little rat. I'm certain he saw us in his peripheral vision.
Do not fret, however, as the mini-possum-esque creatures were found semi-decapitated and curled the next day. This morning, I remarked to the Bunny that he might try putting the traps in our back trash area, as we live close to downtown, and I'm certain the sewers are what has brought them our way. The Bunny fell to the ground in a semi-convulsion, protruded his teeth, and made the classics X across the eyes squinty-face in homage to our dead rodent pets. I giggled and supposed that was a "yes" for my question about the traps.
All in all, we've been trying to avoid the things that bring us down and live each day with "I love you" falling out of our mouths with reckless abandon. On that note--I'm sorry I abandoned you, dear bloggers.
But things are back on track. I've finished 1/3 of my dissertation since the beginning of summer. I plan to have 2/3 finished by the end of August, and I'm on the track to graduate next May. The Bunny and I have been hope, hope, hoping for a mini-bunny, but I certainly can't control what happens in that arena. We change our minds daily about staying in this house, building a fancy garage, and painting our guest room yellow. Then, again, in conversations late at night, we know that a move may be on the horizon. All I can say, is stay tuned, folks. It depends upon the the ol' academic job market, really.
The man-child that tried to steal our stuff--i.e. broke my sense of security, invaded my space, and made me feel like a fool--will be tried in court next Wednesday. I found his hat between the fences where he escaped. He is a juvenile. The really lame part of me wants to bring his hat to him, and the other half of me wants to piss on it. The side of Bette--which my father would call my "damn liberal" side--wants to teach this kid a lesson in....literature. I have this idealistic visioning that the world could be cured with books. Maybe the bad people are only evil because their mommies didn't read to them, or they themselves never found the magic in text with which all of the finest people I know are enraptured. I could haul my teachery cloth bags fulls of literary greatness up to the juvenile detention center and start him on a strict regiment of reading. After all, what will locking him up do anyways? He isn't going to be reformed in a cage. I feel sad for him now, really.
We had a rat living in our backyard. No kidding, the damn thing was munching on the feces left by our dogs before "poop clean-up day." (I only write Truth and Beauty, folks.) One day, I looked from our second floor bedroom window and saw TWO rats lunching together on our back lawn. What got me was how brazen they were--sunning themselves while enjoying their treats. I called the Bunny frantically, and we set up traps that night. The whole ordeal was strangely satisfying and grotesque, as we lobbed peanut butter on inordinately large rodent traps and--this next part is completely true--set up lawn chairs on the patio to watch. One rat hobbled out to the trap nearly immediately, and then he back-stepped and retreated into our shrubs. What a smart little rat. I'm certain he saw us in his peripheral vision.
Do not fret, however, as the mini-possum-esque creatures were found semi-decapitated and curled the next day. This morning, I remarked to the Bunny that he might try putting the traps in our back trash area, as we live close to downtown, and I'm certain the sewers are what has brought them our way. The Bunny fell to the ground in a semi-convulsion, protruded his teeth, and made the classics X across the eyes squinty-face in homage to our dead rodent pets. I giggled and supposed that was a "yes" for my question about the traps.
All in all, we've been trying to avoid the things that bring us down and live each day with "I love you" falling out of our mouths with reckless abandon. On that note--I'm sorry I abandoned you, dear bloggers.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Hello, Bette
I'll be honest: I haven't traveled to bloggyville for several days now. I have not written nor have I read a single blog entry. Besides trying to keep my personal writing deadlines, I've been way too social and maybe a bit obsessed with working out, spending time with my husband, and taking care of my dogs. The kicker, however, is that all of this is generally a fine element in the chaos of my writing summers, but something really bad happened Thursday night.
After the Bunny's softball game, we went out for a few drinks. When we came home, we saw some random items piled in the trash bin behind our shed that sets beside the pad where we park in the alley behind our house. At first we assumed our crazy Nam vet neighbor, Mr. Bob, had dropped off more "presents" for us, but when I moved to investigate, we realized it was our stuff. It took my confused, wine-laden head about two seconds to realize it had been removed via theft from our shed and the rustling noise an arm's length in front of me in the dark was the perpetrator trying to escape. Though the shed is locked three times with a master lock, he had squeezed in the space between our neighbor's fence and the building and popped open a tiny storm window. It was through this little space that he was now attempting to escape.
I froze and then my heart started beating in my ears. This is the moment one always imagines but never quite believes will happen to them. I started shouting to the Bunny, "Jesus Christ, we've been robbed and he's RIGHT HERE!!!" To the thief, I shouted, "Do you understand that we have a gun, and we are about to fucking kill you?" No, I didn't have a gun, but my combative nature combined with the stupid drunkeness of the wine in my blood intermingling with an adrenaline overload made the situation spin out of control. I called 911, and as they were asking the most stupid questions, "What is the name of your business?" and "What does the man look like?" (It's a home, not a business, and it's dark, bitch, so just call someone to come, okay?), the Bunny snapped the phone out of my hand and screamed, "Get someone here now or someone is going to fucking die." By this time, the criminal had extricated himself from the window and was running down the space between our fence and our neighbor's.
I ran through our gate and into the house where I sent Dax back to meet dear husband in the alley. I ran to the front street and flagged down the SEVEN cop cars that came rolling up our block. To the JPD's credit, they really hauled ass this time. Within minutes, they caught the guy an alley over, and the Bunny went to identify him, though he'd only made out the outline of the guy's hair and glowing white wifebeater. He was just a juvenile with a long rap sheet, but we will have to go to court in the coming weeks.
After the last cop left around 1:00 am, I was still too hyped up to sleep, so I tossed and turned for most of the night. The next day, I started to realize what could've happened had he had a weapon, and I just started to break down. There was a juvenile that tortured and killed a couple just a few streets over about two years ago. He had only meant to rob them. I just kept replaying the whole ordeal in my head. Though our house was secure, this boy invaded my space, but worse, he invaded my head. I can't stop thinking about him. I tell myself at night to think about sunshine and beaches and mountaintops, but all I can do is replay R-rated versions of the incident over and over again. My ears cock to the side for every little sound I hear in my 82-year old home. I imagine scenes where I am forced to "fight" again, and I clutch the panic button on our ADT alarm remote. It's no way to live, I'm telling you.
Friday night, the Bunny and I came home early and watched Revolutionary Road. Not to be a spoiler, but the ending involves a self-abortion, which, in turn, follows with a lot of other gruesome images. As I watched the blood trickling down this woman's thighs, I started to feel hot. I have a history of blacking out when I give blood or if I am overworked/underfed/sleep-deprived/stressed, etc. I blacked out right before our wedding when we were building our first home, I was working 40 hours a week, finishing 20 hours at school, and trying to deal with family drama and stress over our impending union. This, however, was much worse. I had what seemed to be a panic attack combined with a minor seizure and all the horrible, being-held-under-water-feelings, that occur with my typical blackouts. When I came to, I was pale, shaking, and confused, and my body just couldn't take it anymore. We went to bed, but I lay awake anxiety-ridden until the sun came up.
Honestly, I am having a bit of a self-indulgent pity party right now, but here's the truth: I need a break. So, to that end, I'm putting this blog on hiatus until shit works itself out. Please send me your blessings of peace, and I hope to see you all soon.
After the Bunny's softball game, we went out for a few drinks. When we came home, we saw some random items piled in the trash bin behind our shed that sets beside the pad where we park in the alley behind our house. At first we assumed our crazy Nam vet neighbor, Mr. Bob, had dropped off more "presents" for us, but when I moved to investigate, we realized it was our stuff. It took my confused, wine-laden head about two seconds to realize it had been removed via theft from our shed and the rustling noise an arm's length in front of me in the dark was the perpetrator trying to escape. Though the shed is locked three times with a master lock, he had squeezed in the space between our neighbor's fence and the building and popped open a tiny storm window. It was through this little space that he was now attempting to escape.
I froze and then my heart started beating in my ears. This is the moment one always imagines but never quite believes will happen to them. I started shouting to the Bunny, "Jesus Christ, we've been robbed and he's RIGHT HERE!!!" To the thief, I shouted, "Do you understand that we have a gun, and we are about to fucking kill you?" No, I didn't have a gun, but my combative nature combined with the stupid drunkeness of the wine in my blood intermingling with an adrenaline overload made the situation spin out of control. I called 911, and as they were asking the most stupid questions, "What is the name of your business?" and "What does the man look like?" (It's a home, not a business, and it's dark, bitch, so just call someone to come, okay?), the Bunny snapped the phone out of my hand and screamed, "Get someone here now or someone is going to fucking die." By this time, the criminal had extricated himself from the window and was running down the space between our fence and our neighbor's.
I ran through our gate and into the house where I sent Dax back to meet dear husband in the alley. I ran to the front street and flagged down the SEVEN cop cars that came rolling up our block. To the JPD's credit, they really hauled ass this time. Within minutes, they caught the guy an alley over, and the Bunny went to identify him, though he'd only made out the outline of the guy's hair and glowing white wifebeater. He was just a juvenile with a long rap sheet, but we will have to go to court in the coming weeks.
After the last cop left around 1:00 am, I was still too hyped up to sleep, so I tossed and turned for most of the night. The next day, I started to realize what could've happened had he had a weapon, and I just started to break down. There was a juvenile that tortured and killed a couple just a few streets over about two years ago. He had only meant to rob them. I just kept replaying the whole ordeal in my head. Though our house was secure, this boy invaded my space, but worse, he invaded my head. I can't stop thinking about him. I tell myself at night to think about sunshine and beaches and mountaintops, but all I can do is replay R-rated versions of the incident over and over again. My ears cock to the side for every little sound I hear in my 82-year old home. I imagine scenes where I am forced to "fight" again, and I clutch the panic button on our ADT alarm remote. It's no way to live, I'm telling you.
Friday night, the Bunny and I came home early and watched Revolutionary Road. Not to be a spoiler, but the ending involves a self-abortion, which, in turn, follows with a lot of other gruesome images. As I watched the blood trickling down this woman's thighs, I started to feel hot. I have a history of blacking out when I give blood or if I am overworked/underfed/sleep-deprived/stressed, etc. I blacked out right before our wedding when we were building our first home, I was working 40 hours a week, finishing 20 hours at school, and trying to deal with family drama and stress over our impending union. This, however, was much worse. I had what seemed to be a panic attack combined with a minor seizure and all the horrible, being-held-under-water-feelings, that occur with my typical blackouts. When I came to, I was pale, shaking, and confused, and my body just couldn't take it anymore. We went to bed, but I lay awake anxiety-ridden until the sun came up.
Honestly, I am having a bit of a self-indulgent pity party right now, but here's the truth: I need a break. So, to that end, I'm putting this blog on hiatus until shit works itself out. Please send me your blessings of peace, and I hope to see you all soon.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
I'm in the Business of Blowing your Mind Right Now
I submitted Chapter One yesterday to my dissertation committee chair. He started lecturing me about sending out more of my work to scholarly journals, so that I'll have more publication credits on my CV, hence, I'll be more "marketable" when I start job hunting. The problem is that I can't both write book chapters and write for journals, so I don't know where he expects that I'll find the time to do all of these brilliant things. Hell, I'm hard-pressed to keep up with my dear blog these days. The less I see of humanity, the less there is to discuss. What should I report? Well, we started giving Dax fish oil tablets because we heard they were good for his joints and his heart, of course. I switched from light sour cream to full fat. No more of that lower-cal cream for me, kids. I want the good stuff. The pool water is finally crystal clear... Okay, you get the idea.
As for my Chair--he just kept talking about the difficult job market, and I said, "Oh, Dr. -----, stop being such a negative Nancy." I figured he would understand that better than Debbie Downer. I hate being compared to a product. Should I also be sure to clean myself up and put my ass on display so that some school might yank me up out of the ranks of nonacademia oblivion? I think I'd rather just become a professional underwear dancer.
I'm watching this study about womenomics--which is a sort of exploration of alternative ways for women to both run companies and still have "flex time" to spend with their families---and they noted that since more female CEOs have sprung up, profits have increased by 1/3. I'm not surprised by this figure, as all of my female friends in co-habitation situations are, generally, the ones that keep the houses running efficiently. Plus, think of how much time is wasted by excessive masturbation and porn-perusing practices. I like to think that better than half of male CEOs do their fair share of both while on the corporate clock. Maybe that is just my evil fantasy spawned by terrifying 80s films about women in the corporate world pre-p.c. Maybe that was insulting. Maybe I should edit that part for my male readership, who, by and large, are sensitive and intelligent individuals.
We had a yard sale on Saturday, and we made a ton of good, hard cash on old basement items. Plus, it was fun chatting with neighbors and friends from around our hood. Winnie, Will, and Lisa came by to help, as did my mother, who kept trying to give me part of her profits. Though the yard sale began at 7:00 am on Saturday, one woman came at 4:00 in the afternoon on Friday and asked for a "sneak peek." That same woman returned at 5:30 am to watch us unload, asked if she could get started early, and dropped $100 before 6:00 am rolled around. Her boyfriend looked like Terrence Howard, and Winnie and I started fawning over him. He sat on my porch and chilled with everyone while his girlfriend kept spending money. He says he gets the Howard comment all the time.
The night before, Winnie helped me organize and price everything, which included this lovely ceramic cherub-in-Southern-Belle-wear figure. My Nanny made it, gave it to my mother, who shamelessly tried to sell it in a yard sale two years ago, failed in this endeavor, and then my mom snuck it into my basement where I found it. Horrified, I got it out for this year's sale. We thought $0.50 was a fair price, but we certainly couldn't part with Angel before taking a few snapshots:
Sebastian got really nervous when we put Angel in his bed.
Winnie thought Angel could have used a little more tact with her snippy comments.
I laid Angel down for her feeding.
Here is the man that bought Angel, but he refused to pose for our photo:
I'll leave you with some more images from the classic, Southern yard sale, which, by the way, is far-removed from a "garage sale," in my humble opinion.
As for my Chair--he just kept talking about the difficult job market, and I said, "Oh, Dr. -----, stop being such a negative Nancy." I figured he would understand that better than Debbie Downer. I hate being compared to a product. Should I also be sure to clean myself up and put my ass on display so that some school might yank me up out of the ranks of nonacademia oblivion? I think I'd rather just become a professional underwear dancer.
I'm watching this study about womenomics--which is a sort of exploration of alternative ways for women to both run companies and still have "flex time" to spend with their families---and they noted that since more female CEOs have sprung up, profits have increased by 1/3. I'm not surprised by this figure, as all of my female friends in co-habitation situations are, generally, the ones that keep the houses running efficiently. Plus, think of how much time is wasted by excessive masturbation and porn-perusing practices. I like to think that better than half of male CEOs do their fair share of both while on the corporate clock. Maybe that is just my evil fantasy spawned by terrifying 80s films about women in the corporate world pre-p.c. Maybe that was insulting. Maybe I should edit that part for my male readership, who, by and large, are sensitive and intelligent individuals.
We had a yard sale on Saturday, and we made a ton of good, hard cash on old basement items. Plus, it was fun chatting with neighbors and friends from around our hood. Winnie, Will, and Lisa came by to help, as did my mother, who kept trying to give me part of her profits. Though the yard sale began at 7:00 am on Saturday, one woman came at 4:00 in the afternoon on Friday and asked for a "sneak peek." That same woman returned at 5:30 am to watch us unload, asked if she could get started early, and dropped $100 before 6:00 am rolled around. Her boyfriend looked like Terrence Howard, and Winnie and I started fawning over him. He sat on my porch and chilled with everyone while his girlfriend kept spending money. He says he gets the Howard comment all the time.
The night before, Winnie helped me organize and price everything, which included this lovely ceramic cherub-in-Southern-Belle-wear figure. My Nanny made it, gave it to my mother, who shamelessly tried to sell it in a yard sale two years ago, failed in this endeavor, and then my mom snuck it into my basement where I found it. Horrified, I got it out for this year's sale. We thought $0.50 was a fair price, but we certainly couldn't part with Angel before taking a few snapshots:
Sebastian got really nervous when we put Angel in his bed.
Winnie thought Angel could have used a little more tact with her snippy comments.
I laid Angel down for her feeding.
Here is the man that bought Angel, but he refused to pose for our photo:
I'll leave you with some more images from the classic, Southern yard sale, which, by the way, is far-removed from a "garage sale," in my humble opinion.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
My Guilty Pleasure
Please read this story about the new NPR series My Guilty Pleasure, in which writers talk about the books they love privately but would (usually) never share in public.
I love this article because heterosexual male author, Brad Meltzer, discusses his passion for the Twilight series. I, too, am a fan, though I have a sort of love/hate relationship with the protagonist, Bella. I even made the Bunny watch the movie with me, and, yes, I have a huge crush on Edward Cullen (Robert Pattinson). There is something kind of delicious about having ridiculous infatuations at this age.
I love this article because heterosexual male author, Brad Meltzer, discusses his passion for the Twilight series. I, too, am a fan, though I have a sort of love/hate relationship with the protagonist, Bella. I even made the Bunny watch the movie with me, and, yes, I have a huge crush on Edward Cullen (Robert Pattinson). There is something kind of delicious about having ridiculous infatuations at this age.
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