June 18, 2008--Yesterday I was too worn out from an exciting day of software conferencing (more hair gel and flowbie action in that room than I've ever seen) and good deeds to even consider gloating in print.
Here's a quick 48-hour run down before I get down to real business and tell you how I saved somebody's life:
Monday I threw myself mercifully into an eight-hour work day, and I also found a wayward set of wedding rings in the bathroom, which were promptly returned to their rightful owner ( 1 point Instant Karma), thanks to my quick thinking and handy post-it note that read "If you lost something, I have it. Find me in Suite 150." The rings belonged to the cleaning lady, and she was really excited that I had her tokens of true love. I was really excited that I had the chance to play Lord of the Rings for an hour or so.To complete my day of philanthropy, I drove through a few shopping center parking lots on the way home from work, waving people across so they felt a revived sense that some people do indeed yield for pedestrians (Instant Karma points 3, 4 and 5). One guy actually looked like he might ask me on a date he was so shocked by a random act of consideration. But maybe he was just confused because I also waved him across a previous parking lot drive-by.
No-doubt, Tuesday is the frosting of my dayplanner cupcake for the week marked June 15-21. It kicked off with a super fun 8 am meeting, chock-full of strategic insight and ideas on how the organization can leverage its assets. (I spent the rest of the conference call fighting the urge to say 'Leverage up on these assets' so I'm not sure where we left off as we adjourned). Here's where my life's about to change.
At 10:30 am I am speeding down Hillsborough Street--running late for the flowbie convention in Durham---chatting on the phone with Melanie (think Gayle and Oprah here. This won't be the last mention of her as adventures tend to find us when we're together) as I'm closely observing the piece of tire rubber lying on the I-40 entrance-ramp that I'm about to roll over, which is beginning to look like some sort of creature-'OH SHIT IT"S A TURTLE!'--I think was my exact exclamatory phrase. My next immediate thought was What the hell kind of tail was on that thing? A dinosaur's? By the time I got to the top of the ramp, my conscience was screaming at me to pull off the road. I got off the phone with Mel--who happens to be the queen of turtle rescue in Arkansas--and prepared myself to either do my civic critter duty or be totally grossed out. I never ready to deal with anything freshly smashed. It took me forever to navigate downhill in heels but when I made it to the bottom--there she sat. Not happy about having to put her feet out on the hot asphalt, so she was pretty much on a suicide mission. Oh shit here we go, I exhaled.
Here I am hunkered over in the middle of the lane, turtle tucked safe between my feet as I'm sticking my hands out into traffic like the fashion police. I could almost read the mouths of people screaming 'stupid girl' and 'idiot' in their cars as they roared past. Almost on cue, this black jag pulls up and idles caddy cornered (traffic starts to back up) and this gaggle of the nicest white trash ladies start telling me that snapping turtles are mean and will bite me. No shit Sheila. And this particular individual has 100-degree asphalt feet, is probably thirsty, scared and could use a good bath, judging from the algae hanging off her shell.
I explained quickly that I wasn't going to let it sit out in the road, so they promise to handle the traffic while I transport the snapper to safey. A lot easier said than done. As I try to pick her up again and again she keeps slipping out of my grasp because she's so slimy. And then she starts hissing at me, and then when I get my hands under her shell she pushes up with some strong ass legs and starts freaking me out, so the jag committee tells me just to kick her across the road. Which sounds really bad, but my shoes ended up being the perfect shape to wedge under her shell and give her a little boost, which forced her to take three steps. So I did this little boot, scoot n boogy until she was safe and sound back at the edge of the road, where I'm assuming her bog is located.
All said, the process maybe took three minutes. So sorry for the inconvenience folks. And thanks nice jaguar ladies. If I knew where to find you I'd buy you a carton of Winston Reds. Afterall, it takes a village to raise a child, a turtle and an idiot like me.
After the fact, I had to do my ritual google as a tribute to my reptile sister. Here's what I found:
Common Snapping Turtle: Chelydra serpentina An adult usually weighs between 10 and 30 pounds but some will become well over 50 pounds. Unlike other turtles, snappers seldom leave their aquatic home, they rarely even come out to bask. Around the middle of June plus or minus a week, The females emerge to find and dig a place to lay their eggs. The eggs are slightly smaller than ping-pong balls, 20-40 perfectly round white eggs will be laid. This is one of the few times that Snappers will leave the water so they are frightened and easily angered-a large turtle seen at this time of year is best left alone. If the the Summer is hot, the eggs will hatch in late August or early September. If the Summer is cool the babies sometimes hatch but often remain in the nest until the following spring.
So now I'm totally feeling badass. Not only did I save one turtle, but I save 20-40 of her unborn children. (That's like the Instant Karma jackpot!). It's the middle of June so she was surely headed to the median to lay her eggs. What a bad idea, turtle lady. I hope she understands I was trying to help her. And if you're from Raleigh, please, NO SPEEDING near I-40 in August as it could likely be a crossing for snapper hatchlings, and I might not be there to supervise.
Moral of the story: Save a turtle. It feels good.
Playlist of the Day:
1. Road Block--Big Brother & The Holding Company
2. Keep it Light Enough to Travel--Be Good Tanyas
3. Send Me on My Way--Rusted Root
4. Shambala--Three Dog Night
5. Take Me in Your Arms (Rock Me a Little While)--Kim Weston
6. Instant Karma--John Lennon
7. Handle with Care--Traveling WIlburies
8. Don't Come Around Here No More--Tom Petty
9. I Shall Be Released--Bob Dylan
10. Thunder Road--Bruce Springsteen
11. Goin Down the Road Feelin Bad--Grateful Dead
12. Traveling Without Moving--Jamiroquai
13. Gimme Three Steps--Lynyrd Skynyrd
14. Ride On--Little Axe
Friday, September 12, 2008
Piddlers Unite
June 16, 2008--This is really no excuse for my second official blog entry, but upon my return from a skin-of-my-teeth bathroom break (out of nowhere my bladder almost gave way. Aren't I too young for this ? Do they make some sort of street shoe version of Depends for career women always on-the-go?), I am completely relating to my cat, who pees a lot, but more than that, has some sort of gland issue. Anal gland. TMI, I'm sure. But it's time for me to address her sensitive issue, publicly, and without shame.
Penny Lane (doesn't she sound adorable? she is.) has been plagued by this very unfortunate condition since she was a wee tot, and to make it even worse she has very long tufts of hair surrounding her haunches--like circus pants--which makes for a very unsavory visual in the chance you steal a glance as she's walking away from you. She's almost 9, and at the time of her adoption, we were both very very naive. I thought she was just a smelly cat from the humane society. What have they been feeding you? My mother was convinced it was because she was nothing 'but Alabama trailer trash.' Of course she did. We both agreed at least that it would probably pass as she progressed into cathood.
It hasn't. It's been a long, smelly decade. And I refuse to take her to the groomer for an 80 dollar 'lion cut,' which will only further humiliate her. There's no possible way I can give you a real good sense of this smell. But in an earnest effort, I will say it probably is along the same scent family as a freshly removed plaster cast in which sour milk has been coagulating against the skin for the hottest summer days. Honestly, Penny's ass is probably much worse. If she could read English and agree with me on this point, I'm sure she would. Poor thing, everytime she has to clean herself down there, she gags and makes that crazy 'something stinks and it's on my whiskers' cat face.
What makes it worse is that she's a beautiful and loving cat, who totally knows that her ass smells. Watching her embarrassment is probably as bad as the ooze itself. (it usually only oozes, but sometimes if you startle her it might shoot across the room like tiny baby oysters. Once, she ruined a friend's swishy pants that way. He scared her, she anally expressed herself on his favorite pants. The smell never washed out).
So what's a girl to do? I had pretty much given up all hope for my personal 'Until There's a Cure' campaign. But then I discovered these little-known jewels. Ohhh, Penny's getting a present--and she's gonna hate her mama now. (Maybe she'll lighten up when she realizes I'm sitting around next to her in my Depends).
Today's playlist:
1. Smelly Cat: Phoebe Buffay
2. That Smell--Lynyrd Skynyrd
3. Lovecats--The Cure
4. Kitty--Presidents of the U.S.A.
Penny Lane (doesn't she sound adorable? she is.) has been plagued by this very unfortunate condition since she was a wee tot, and to make it even worse she has very long tufts of hair surrounding her haunches--like circus pants--which makes for a very unsavory visual in the chance you steal a glance as she's walking away from you. She's almost 9, and at the time of her adoption, we were both very very naive. I thought she was just a smelly cat from the humane society. What have they been feeding you? My mother was convinced it was because she was nothing 'but Alabama trailer trash.' Of course she did. We both agreed at least that it would probably pass as she progressed into cathood.
It hasn't. It's been a long, smelly decade. And I refuse to take her to the groomer for an 80 dollar 'lion cut,' which will only further humiliate her. There's no possible way I can give you a real good sense of this smell. But in an earnest effort, I will say it probably is along the same scent family as a freshly removed plaster cast in which sour milk has been coagulating against the skin for the hottest summer days. Honestly, Penny's ass is probably much worse. If she could read English and agree with me on this point, I'm sure she would. Poor thing, everytime she has to clean herself down there, she gags and makes that crazy 'something stinks and it's on my whiskers' cat face.
What makes it worse is that she's a beautiful and loving cat, who totally knows that her ass smells. Watching her embarrassment is probably as bad as the ooze itself. (it usually only oozes, but sometimes if you startle her it might shoot across the room like tiny baby oysters. Once, she ruined a friend's swishy pants that way. He scared her, she anally expressed herself on his favorite pants. The smell never washed out).
So what's a girl to do? I had pretty much given up all hope for my personal 'Until There's a Cure' campaign. But then I discovered these little-known jewels. Ohhh, Penny's getting a present--and she's gonna hate her mama now. (Maybe she'll lighten up when she realizes I'm sitting around next to her in my Depends).
Today's playlist:
1. Smelly Cat: Phoebe Buffay
2. That Smell--Lynyrd Skynyrd
3. Lovecats--The Cure
4. Kitty--Presidents of the U.S.A.
Won't You Please, Please Help Me?
June 14, 2008--Nearly 30 days after turning 30, I've come to realize that I'm not necessarily the bucket of beautiful sunshine I've considered myself all these years. Maybe inside the dreamworld I've created I really am the carefree vixen I've cooked up---somewhat a cross between the Kate Hudsen character 'Penny Lane, Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally, Some Big Chill Glenn Close for good measure, Wonder Woman of course for when I need to activate, and a splash of Audrey Tatou in Amelie for those days I'm just not feeling normal. Throw some of Van Morrison's or Donovan's greatest hits in the background for my personal soundtrack and I'm ready to hit the streets like a Doublemint Twin.
I heard the tell-tale record scratch at 10pm on May 24, 2008. I rang in my 30th year at 1pm. At 9pm I had just finished shoving some pizza in my face at Mellow Mushroom, and by 10pm I was sitting in my rented living room surrounded by new friends about to cut into a cookie cake, complete with a pink, icing-encrusted, stick figure portrait of myself (My friend Darren is quite the artist). I sat there looking at the cake , pondering my two gigantic, sprinkle-covered breasts and pony tail. I got up to get plates, and did a quick drive-by my full length mirror. Ponytail--check. Really big boobs--check check. I'm not who I thought I was. In my dream world, I was flat chested.
That very moment, the pretend world swung open it's jowles and spit me out into dirty reality, not unlike the Jersey Turnpike portal in Being John Malkovich. There I sat, helpless like an oversized infant. At least I remembered the plates for the cake, or else I might have blown my newborn cover. I sat the rest of the night in a corner wondering who the hell I was and where these big ass ta-tas came from and more importantly, how had I squeezed them in that tiny Michael Stars tank I was sporting. Not a good look, my infant eyes told me. Babies don't lie, so I must be telling the truth. I'm not sure since I was in total shock, but I think I left my own party with the excuse I needed sleep, but really I think I was hoping my dreamworld would come back looking for me and snatch me up so I wouldn't have to face this very ugly truth. It didn't. And Donovan didn't even show up to serenade me. I was totally out of my element.
So here I sit, dedicated to my new mission of facing reality as myself going forward. I'm leaving the vixens and heroines behind, but I'm keeping Van Morrison. And Donovan. Sister can indulge a little.
Before I set sail on the mission of discovering the new world, I think it's important to recognize my God-given talents. I've always been a natural writer and I've never really done anything with it. I mean, I'm a corporate journalism major, and I've also dabbled with a fiction manuscript that I'll probably never do anything with. In fact, I'm so sick of looking and thinking about it that I've probably ruined any hope for having it published. I've never done anything with my words other than a few lackluster travel articles that landed only in my hometown paper. So now that I'm thirty and have no idea who I am, I'm going to write. Every day. Also, I make really good guacamole, and even better black beans and rice.
It's also important I feel, for me to document all of the flights of fancy on which I've embarked over the years and never done anything with, although, had I been more focused, I'm convinced I could have been successful at any of these endeavors:
1. Child Entrepreneur: When I was in the third grade, I devised these little art project critters that were adorable, albeit useless. I would cram a bit of a blue maribou feather boa into half of a walnut shell, glue on some googley eyes and complete the look with some gold puffy paint accents, and then try to sell for 50 cents on the playground. I still don't know why those never caught on.
2. Mermaid: Growing up, we had a pool. And I loved Splash. I used to tie my ankles together with ribbon and jump in the pool to see if I could swim like the rest of the mermaids. But this was shortlived, as my dad caught me doing this one day, and probably thought I was trying to commit suicide so he made me stop.
3. Famous Ballerina: This obviously didn't work as evidenced by these ginormous boobs.
4. Mod statement maker: In college, I tried to only wear black shift dresses and look serious in the rain. But the thing with Auburn, Alabama is no one knows what mod is, and it's way too hot in the summers to go around in black all the time. Sorry Twiggy.
5. Cracker Jack Journalist: I threw in the towel after nine months, because really.. who wants to give up national holidays to sit in a flourescent atmosphere editing a free rag that no one even bothers to read? Not this one, I have shift dresses to shop for.
6. Nationally Acclaimed Photographer: I still haven't given up on this dream. In fact, it will happen. I think this is still on the table because pictures can describe any mood or moment, and having big boobs won't get in the way of my success.
7. Supermodel: I used to starve myself for years until I realized how foolish it was. At that point, I discovered a passion for dining, good beer, and general social enjoyment. Now I have a belly to go with my boobs, and I don't think Tyra would let me remain in the running to become America's Next Top Model. That's ok, because now I'm thirty and my belly is beautiful and womanly.
8. Go-Go Dancer. This is also one that's not over yet. I'm never going to let go of this dream.
9. Disc Jockey: I went through Auburn University's DJ class and everything. I even know the eleven words you can't say on-air. I'm not sure what happened. I think they wanted me to raise money for the station, and I just wanted to twirl and dedicate songs to all my friends. It's ok, I still DJ at my apartment. Any requests?
There are others, but I'm not going to bore you or myself with them right now. It's 5:30 p.m. and I need to go out for my born-again, ritualistic 3 mile jog. This is the year I learn to love myself and my shortcomings. I'll even embrace these 36C red headed step children. I'm pretty sure that I'll try on whimsies (like I do shoes on good days at DSW) for the rest of my life, but from here on it will be without Meg Ryan. Sorry Meg. I have an awesome support system right now so I don't really need you anymore. I'm speaking of course about my terrific husband (Whoo Robby!) who tries hard to understand me on a daily basis. He's got a head full of hair right now, but we'll see how long it lasts with me at his side. My best girlfriends and sister are scattered across the country, and I miss you all terribly. It gets lonely being one of the only true weirdos in Raleigh. Karen, you're more than my sister--you're part of my dysfunction. Mel, we are truly from the same stardust little wondertwin. I think one more visit and our dance moves will be perfected. Kellie, we have the same aura--and a photograph to prove it. Sara, no one else could make dolla-wine so enjoyable. Robin and Ash--we are the white trash bitches of the float-n-tote. Lorinda, I'm so glad we've reconnected and quite honestly, there needs to be a therapist among us. Thank you all for being good teachers and for helping me get my feet back on the ground.....
Today's Playlist:
1. Help--The Beatles
2. Runaway--Del Shannon
3. 36D--The Beautiful South
4. Yellow--Donovan
5. Gypsy Queen--Van Morrison
6. Situation--YAZ
7. Lyin Eyes--The Eagles
8. Gone Gone Gone--Alison Krauss and Robert Plant
I heard the tell-tale record scratch at 10pm on May 24, 2008. I rang in my 30th year at 1pm. At 9pm I had just finished shoving some pizza in my face at Mellow Mushroom, and by 10pm I was sitting in my rented living room surrounded by new friends about to cut into a cookie cake, complete with a pink, icing-encrusted, stick figure portrait of myself (My friend Darren is quite the artist). I sat there looking at the cake , pondering my two gigantic, sprinkle-covered breasts and pony tail. I got up to get plates, and did a quick drive-by my full length mirror. Ponytail--check. Really big boobs--check check. I'm not who I thought I was. In my dream world, I was flat chested.
That very moment, the pretend world swung open it's jowles and spit me out into dirty reality, not unlike the Jersey Turnpike portal in Being John Malkovich. There I sat, helpless like an oversized infant. At least I remembered the plates for the cake, or else I might have blown my newborn cover. I sat the rest of the night in a corner wondering who the hell I was and where these big ass ta-tas came from and more importantly, how had I squeezed them in that tiny Michael Stars tank I was sporting. Not a good look, my infant eyes told me. Babies don't lie, so I must be telling the truth. I'm not sure since I was in total shock, but I think I left my own party with the excuse I needed sleep, but really I think I was hoping my dreamworld would come back looking for me and snatch me up so I wouldn't have to face this very ugly truth. It didn't. And Donovan didn't even show up to serenade me. I was totally out of my element.
So here I sit, dedicated to my new mission of facing reality as myself going forward. I'm leaving the vixens and heroines behind, but I'm keeping Van Morrison. And Donovan. Sister can indulge a little.
Before I set sail on the mission of discovering the new world, I think it's important to recognize my God-given talents. I've always been a natural writer and I've never really done anything with it. I mean, I'm a corporate journalism major, and I've also dabbled with a fiction manuscript that I'll probably never do anything with. In fact, I'm so sick of looking and thinking about it that I've probably ruined any hope for having it published. I've never done anything with my words other than a few lackluster travel articles that landed only in my hometown paper. So now that I'm thirty and have no idea who I am, I'm going to write. Every day. Also, I make really good guacamole, and even better black beans and rice.
It's also important I feel, for me to document all of the flights of fancy on which I've embarked over the years and never done anything with, although, had I been more focused, I'm convinced I could have been successful at any of these endeavors:
1. Child Entrepreneur: When I was in the third grade, I devised these little art project critters that were adorable, albeit useless. I would cram a bit of a blue maribou feather boa into half of a walnut shell, glue on some googley eyes and complete the look with some gold puffy paint accents, and then try to sell for 50 cents on the playground. I still don't know why those never caught on.
2. Mermaid: Growing up, we had a pool. And I loved Splash. I used to tie my ankles together with ribbon and jump in the pool to see if I could swim like the rest of the mermaids. But this was shortlived, as my dad caught me doing this one day, and probably thought I was trying to commit suicide so he made me stop.
3. Famous Ballerina: This obviously didn't work as evidenced by these ginormous boobs.
4. Mod statement maker: In college, I tried to only wear black shift dresses and look serious in the rain. But the thing with Auburn, Alabama is no one knows what mod is, and it's way too hot in the summers to go around in black all the time. Sorry Twiggy.
5. Cracker Jack Journalist: I threw in the towel after nine months, because really.. who wants to give up national holidays to sit in a flourescent atmosphere editing a free rag that no one even bothers to read? Not this one, I have shift dresses to shop for.
6. Nationally Acclaimed Photographer: I still haven't given up on this dream. In fact, it will happen. I think this is still on the table because pictures can describe any mood or moment, and having big boobs won't get in the way of my success.
7. Supermodel: I used to starve myself for years until I realized how foolish it was. At that point, I discovered a passion for dining, good beer, and general social enjoyment. Now I have a belly to go with my boobs, and I don't think Tyra would let me remain in the running to become America's Next Top Model. That's ok, because now I'm thirty and my belly is beautiful and womanly.
8. Go-Go Dancer. This is also one that's not over yet. I'm never going to let go of this dream.
9. Disc Jockey: I went through Auburn University's DJ class and everything. I even know the eleven words you can't say on-air. I'm not sure what happened. I think they wanted me to raise money for the station, and I just wanted to twirl and dedicate songs to all my friends. It's ok, I still DJ at my apartment. Any requests?
There are others, but I'm not going to bore you or myself with them right now. It's 5:30 p.m. and I need to go out for my born-again, ritualistic 3 mile jog. This is the year I learn to love myself and my shortcomings. I'll even embrace these 36C red headed step children. I'm pretty sure that I'll try on whimsies (like I do shoes on good days at DSW) for the rest of my life, but from here on it will be without Meg Ryan. Sorry Meg. I have an awesome support system right now so I don't really need you anymore. I'm speaking of course about my terrific husband (Whoo Robby!) who tries hard to understand me on a daily basis. He's got a head full of hair right now, but we'll see how long it lasts with me at his side. My best girlfriends and sister are scattered across the country, and I miss you all terribly. It gets lonely being one of the only true weirdos in Raleigh. Karen, you're more than my sister--you're part of my dysfunction. Mel, we are truly from the same stardust little wondertwin. I think one more visit and our dance moves will be perfected. Kellie, we have the same aura--and a photograph to prove it. Sara, no one else could make dolla-wine so enjoyable. Robin and Ash--we are the white trash bitches of the float-n-tote. Lorinda, I'm so glad we've reconnected and quite honestly, there needs to be a therapist among us. Thank you all for being good teachers and for helping me get my feet back on the ground.....
Today's Playlist:
1. Help--The Beatles
2. Runaway--Del Shannon
3. 36D--The Beautiful South
4. Yellow--Donovan
5. Gypsy Queen--Van Morrison
6. Situation--YAZ
7. Lyin Eyes--The Eagles
8. Gone Gone Gone--Alison Krauss and Robert Plant
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