sarah's saintly blog

Pep talk.

2012-02-01T19:54:00.003-06:00

*this evening, approximately 6:10, in the church parking lot*

Brett: What now? You wanna hang?

Me: Yeah. But I've got a lot of homework.

Brett: That's cool.

Me: ....I think I'm going to drop a course.

Brett: What??

Me: Dude, I've got some kind of class five nights a week. I'm almost having to schedule brushing my teeth.

Brett: We mostly just hung out and wasted time this weekend.

Me: I know! I could have been studying. But I need some play time, too. I need that down time.

Brett: You could manage your time better and still have down time.

Me: Wait a second. Are you...are you disappointed in me?

Brett: Yeah.

Me: *stunned fury*

Brett: Relax. I just think you're a little overwhelmed and you don't need to be. You've totally got this. You're smart enough. You're organized. We just need to make a little better use of our hang time together.

Me: So if you're sitting there watching tv and I've got my nose up my laptop and I'm barely giving you any attention, you won't be offended?

Brett: Hell, no.

Me: Really?

Brett: Really. There's no reason you can't be productive at the same time you're with me. Has it been a problem when I've brought work over to your place and knocked it out while you're doing your stuff?

Me: ...No.

Brett: Ok, then.

Me: Ok.

Brett: Just think about it.

Me: I don't need to. I'm keeping the class.

*epic, can't-breathe hug wherein my toes left the ground for a minute*

Not dropping any classes.
And not missing out on any sweetness, either.

We're better than this.

2012-01-24T09:17:00.007-06:00

Last night, I watched Food, Inc. You might recall the name. It came out a while back and made a stir. For some reason I can't remember, I didn't watch it.

I'm glad I finally did.

I've been eating clean for a couple years now, and I've made a lot of progress. My motivation has been mostly about improving health and healing the effects of a factory diet, not just for myself but for the people around me. It's not just a hobby. It's a lifestyle, and for me, it's segued into an education in nutrition and hopefully a career as a dietitian specializing in the treatment of eating disorders. So food's kind of my thing...but I've become more focused in the nutritional values of food than the food's sources. I still buy organic when possible, but I don't sweat buying regular meat. That's not how I started out. I used to go out of my way to find the highest quality animal products that I could: species-appropriate diets and humane slaughter practices were priorities. Watching this movie last night was a wakeup call, and I realized how much I've compromised my standards.

Well, that won't do.

I seriously almost started crying about this. I've continued to research the health merits of grassfed beef, but as a product. That was the flaw in my thinking. I kinda forgot that beef=cow. Egg=chicken. Pork=pig. This isn't just about health, not by a long shot. It's about stewardship. I don't remember when I started lowering the bar, but it's been raised back up even higher than ever.

I have no qualms whatsoever eating animal products. None. I personally believe they're an important part of a natural diet, and I'll be happy to back that up. But there is nothing natural about the way animals are raised for food in this country. We like to think of happy, healthy cows when we do think of the origins of our dinner. But if that steak came from the grocery store, the reality is that it didn't come from a farm cow. It came from a diseased cow that not only never ate grass, but rarely if ever even stood on grass. Throughout its life it stood and slept in a foot-deep slurry comprised of dirt and its own excrement. It was fed corn because corn is cheap and will quickly fatten any animal that eats a lot of it (see the 66% of American adults who are overweight, or the 34% who are obese, for a shining example of this). The problem with feeding corn to cows? COWS DON'T EAT CORN. They are supposed to graze on grass, clover, alfalfa. Cow stomachs are specifically designed to digest cellulose. Corn makes them very sick. It alters the pH and the flora of their digestive system. The result is a strain of e. coli that didn't exist until concentrated animal feeding operations did. To keep this sick, manure-covered animal alive long enough to fatten it, it's pumped full of antibiotics. Then it's slaughtered in a way that often only stuns the cow (so it's still alive when the skinning starts), dismantled, and the meat is then treated with -I'm not kidding here- ammonia in hopes of killing the e. coli that is present not only in the manure that was on the cow, but in the stomach contents that end up on the equipment. Hopefully, the toxic chemicals are enough to kill the bacteria that wind up on your plate, because, no matter what, there's shit in your meat.

Disgusted? Good. You should be horrified. E. coli outbreaks and antibiotic resistance are direct bite-you-in-the-ass results of deplorable stewardship. We're even feeding corn to fish.

The good news is that you have a say as to what goes in your mouth. You don't have to eat that meat. You don't have to eat produce that's been sprayed with Monsanto pesticides (the same swell guys who gave us Agent Orange). Understand that complaining will accomplish nothing. Your money will. Your wallet is the loudest voice you have. You don't have to support these practices. You do have options. Enough people choosing another way will force the industry to adapt and hold itself to standards set by consumers. Don't let corporations tell you what you will buy and eat.

Think about it.

Woe to the shepherds who only take care of themselves! Should not the shepherds take care of the flock? You eat the curds, clothe yourselves with the wool and slaughter the choice animals, but you did not take care of the flock! You have not strengthened the weak or healed the sick or bound up the injured. You have not brought back the strays or searched for the lost. You have ruled them harshly and brutally. -Ezekiel 34:2-4.

Once plants and animals were raised together on the same farm -- which therefore neither produced unmanageable surpluses of manure, to be wasted and to pollute the water supply, nor depended on such quantities of commercial fertilizer. The genius of American farm experts is very well demonstrated here: they can take a solution and divide it neatly into two problems. -Wendell Berry

I think of a hero as someone who understands the degree of responsibility that comes with his freedom. -Bob Dylan

If you have men who will exclude any of God's creatures from the shelter of compassion and pity, you will have men who will deal likewise with their fellow men. -St. Francis of Assisi

The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated. -Mahatma Gandhi

There's always another point of view, a better way to do the things we do.

2012-01-09T21:42:00.006-06:00

I'm just a human. There's so much I haven't figured out and won't ever figure out. I don't get what exactly comprises happiness, or what it is, just that it's completely real and really cool without being quantifiable.

For this girl, it comes in these forms:

being, finally, back in school

not apologizing for having no desire to be an accountant

doing well at work and learning to enjoy being a necessary cog in this odd, funny, sometimes frustrating machine

watching and feeling my body become healthier all the time

really great sales at Maurices

having Christmas with a man who will not only kiss me while I wear a Grinch turtleneck and reindeer antlers, but will do so while wearing antlers himself

spending New Year's with said man: we went to the movies (Girl with the Dragon Tattoo), he got me a laptop for school, and we rang in the new year cuddled up at his house and watching Coming to America

giving up caffeine (mostly) and nicotine (totally)

relatedly, sleeping like a sedated ground sloth

the gorgeous neon orange yolk of a fresh farm egg

So, a third of the way through January, and no post-Christmas blues. I'm not sure when I would have time to be or stay blue, anyway. Everything is so fast-paced these days. I have class three nights a week, plus one night devoted to an online course (and homework), and the one night I don't have school, I have RCIA. This schedule requires me to workout in the morning, and I'm actually not bitching about that at all. I loooooove waking early, putting up my hair, and going for a run before the sun's up. It puts a better sense of structure on the whole day. Saturdays are for laundry and homework. Saturday night is my free night. And Sunday, my hip is usually attached to Brett's hip. He's working nights for a big installation throughout January, and Sundays are the only day we can really hang. Mass, brunch, and then being boo'd up on the couch, giggling and chuckling and braying, and occasionally watching whatever's on the screen...usually football or Tosh.0, because we're 11 year old boys. Or anything by David Fincher, because he's kinda the man. Discussions regarding spring break have begun. There will be a vacation. Oh, yes. There will be a vacation.

In Transit.

2011-12-27T13:10:00.004-06:00

Sorry for the total lack of posting lately. Actually, I'm in the process of moving all this over to Wordpress and getting a side blog going. I've been talking about a food blog for months, and it's finally coming. It'll be entirely dedicated to applying clean eating to special diets and particular health concerns; allergies/sensitivities, diabetes, hypertension, hypo/hyperactive thyroid, anemia, etc. I'm not a doctor, so the information is not intended to "cure," per se. Just to give people struggling with these issues the best chance at treatment, as far as food can cover. I'll be posting specific menus designed for different needs, as well as recipes and narration of kitchen adventures.

Like making cheese without milk. WHICH REALLY HAPPENED.

Mostly, I want to watch Sister Act again.

2011-12-07T15:14:00.007-06:00

Kidding. I haven't even seen a nun yet. Singing, flying, or otherwise. I am thinking more frequently about the wedding scene in The Sound of Music and hoping that's how all Catholics do it. Or at least like in The Godfather, so that I can be whirled around a dance floor in too much white satin while some Italian guy sings songs of a questionable nature.

I'm not likely to have the Jewish wedding from Fiddler on the Roof that I always kinda wanted, ok? Let a girl have her dreams. In my dreams, the ceremony is conducted in a giant cathedral, by a very composed priest. After everything's finalized, Groom stomps on a shotglass, the crowd of hundreds ~~goes wild~~ shouts "Mozel tov!,"
and Groom and I are lifted (in chairs!!) and carried outside to an oddly dusty reception area. That's when folks break it down. There will be hand-clapping and line dancing and dudes I don't even know who dance with bottles on their heads, because nothing quite conveys sheer joy like people dancing with bottles on their heads for you. *sigh*

Easy, killah! I'm not getting married anytime soon. I don't even know who Groom is. I could have just as easily been thinking about the interview I'll give to some bright young aspiring writer a couple decades from now, when I'm a seasoned novelist/dietician/midwife/homesteader. Or I could have been thinking, "Mallard...that's a weird word. Mallard. Maaaallard. Mallaaaard. Where did that word come from??"

This is just the kind of stuff I think about when I have a million other things to do and my brain just involuntarily checks out for a few minutes. It's the mental equivalent of sitting down on the curb to happily slurp an ice cream cone. Then a pigeon poos in it and I have to throw it away and get back to what I was doing. I shouldn't be eating dairy, anyway.

We can start with that. Now, I'm not admitting to an allergy (because food allergies are really just in your head, anyway). But, on a whim, I decided to cut back. Just to see what would happen. What happened: The skin I always just assumed was sensitive and ornery started inching toward pristine and airbrushed-looking. I've scientifically tested this a couple times by consuming a lot of dairy for a day and paying attention. Yep. Definitely a negative reaction. How I wanted it to not be true! But it is. Obviously, it doesn't cause me physical discomfort, but it does make my complexion rebel, and I'm enjoying not feeling chained to my makeup bag. Will I live without cheese now? Hell, no. I'm looking into low lactose/casien options, like goat's milk and sheep's milk, and this weekend I'm going to make a big batch of ghee (that's clarified butter; the process removes the casein and makes it ok for even sensitive-tummied engineers). I'm pretty proficient at making cheese at home now, so that's no biggie. The only thing I really miss is having a glass of milk when I feel snackish. Almond milk is super good (and substitutes great in most recipes), but it's just not the same with a cookie.

Grandma Charlie's returned home to California. It was really good having her here, though I know we werent very good entertainment. I had hoped to have more time to hang with her, knitting and kvetching, but those cool times were too infrequent and didn't last nearly long enough. It's hard to delve into juicy conversation when there's so much going on, there's always someone wandering through the room, and there's always some animal making noise. So Brett and I are starting to plan a trip out there for spring. I didn't get to see the rest of my Califolks at all this past year, and that sucks. So I'm going to remove myself from the distractions of home/work/classes, and go spend some real quality time with these people I love and don't make enough time for.

In the good news department, I AM OFFICIALLY A STUDENT AGAIN!!! Classes start January 4. Full time, on top of my full time job and RCIA (I had to quit the second job; it was just too much, especially with school coming up). I've never been so deliciously happy in anticipation of being exhausted. I was pretty disappointed at not being able to attend fall semester, but I was prepared for that. It's all together now and I feel like I've had time to get good and ready. After some hard thinking and some conversations with folks who are already in the journalism field, I've decided to go with nutrition/dietetics. I mean, c'mon. Nothing's going to shut off my writing and I don't have to have a degree to write successfully. But as for creating a stable career based on something I love, journalism isn't the best route...and I hesitate to force creativity for a paycheck. I love nutrition and holistic medicine as much as I love writing, and since that's something I can actually be trained in and rely on for steady productivity, that's the way I'm going.

And in the Good News department, I'm about 80% sure I'll be committing to the Catholic faith in the near future. Not because I think it's the only way, or even the preferred way, but because it's comfortable to me. I'm into it. It's a call I decided to answer and found myself having an unexpectedly friendly chat. I'd like to continue the dialouge.

Latching on.

2011-11-22T15:32:00.010-06:00

So this morning I was scanning msn.com (a ritual I'm finding less and less use for, as the articles linked are rarely this interesting), and stumbled upon this. Basically, a lady in Michigan was awaiting her turn in court (for a boating ticket) when her 5-month old son got hungry and fussy. Sitting in the back of the courtroom, the lady discreetly began breastfeeding the baby. The judge called her to the front and embarassed her, and told her what she was doing was inappropriate.

Bokay.

This really bothered me. I did a little sniffing around and found that Michigan is one of five states that don't permit public breastfeeding. Wait, what? That's a thing? There are actually laws against feeding a hungry baby in public? Yes, there are. Apparently, a lot of people feel that b-feeding violates public indecency laws. Right now, the subject is being hotly debated all across the interwebs...because there are enough people who are offended by the sight of a breast as to create a debate. Even most of the people who are pro-titty hasten to add that breastfeeding should be done in a "discreet" manner, so as not to make passersby uncomfortable. That the mother should use a blanket to completely cover the activity, or turn her back, or even go to a public bathroom to feed her child.

Let me get this straight: you think a baby should have to have his meal under a blanket, where he can't breathe fresh air or see his mother, so that you don't have to see a breast being used for its primary and intended function.

That's effed up, America.

What is it about this that makes people uncomfortable? Is it the skin-flashing? Please. The baby's mouth covers the nipple, and his head obscures most of the breast from view. And that's if the mom has her whole milker out. Most of the time, that's not the case and there's just a sliver of skin exposed between buttons. You see more at the beach, or the pool. Or the mall. Or the grocery store. We don't bat an eyelash about walking past Victoria's Secret ads wherein a woman is depicted in a near-orgasmic state, back arched, head thrown back, bosoms spilling almost out of her bra. A particularly skimpy bikini might raise a couple eyebrows, but it won't cause a public outcry. Let's get to the meat of this issue, if you will. We know why people are made uncomfortable by public breastfeeding.

Because our culture has forgotten that that fetishized and sexualized part of a woman's body actually has a biological function, and folks don't want to be reminded of that. Dudes are way happier thinking of breasts as something pretty and distinctly girly to play with. Ok, they are. They are supposed to entice. Guys are supposed to see a nice rack and be interested, at least on the simplest of levels. It's a visual cue that immediately lights up the "knock her up!" part of his brain. I like to picture that part of his brain as looking a lot like this.

That doesn't mean guys are walking around actively looking for fertile ladies. It's been my experience that most of them get asthmatically freaked out at the idea of pregnancy. No, it just means that nature fixed things so that we would be attracted to each other based on obvious signs of virility and fertility.

The problem is that nobody wants to see a breast being used in any non-sexual capacity. We've gotten so far out of touch with our bodies and their functions that it makes us squirm to see something as natural as a baby nursing. We say, "That's private! Intimate! Out of our sight!" Well, it's not private. It's a meal. It's the healthiest meal for an infant. We don't freak out and tell moms and dads to take that nonsense elsewhere if they whip out a bottle, or a jar of Gerber's. Some of the naysayers claim that something being natural doesn't make it ok to do in front of everyone, and compare it to defecating in public. That's...too stupid a comparison for me to spend any time on, other than to shake my head. No, what's at the bottom of this, is that we've been brought up in a world where breasts are pretty, airbrushed accessories, with no purpose but to titillate. They're lifted up, pushed together, even cosmeticized with bronzers and sparklies, but they are, under no circumstance, to be actually utilized.

Preposterous. To all the above, I say: STFU...and grow up.

Grace like rain.

2011-11-15T14:58:00.013-06:00

Jesus was walking along one day, when He came upon a group of people surrounding a lady of ill repute. The crowd was preparing to stone her, so Jesus made His now-famous statement, "Let the person who has no sin cast the first stone."

The crowd was shamed and one by one began to turn away. Then, a lovely woman made her way through the crowd. Finally getting to the front, she tossed a pebble towards the woman.

Jesus looks over and says, "I really hate it when you do that, Mom."

So I'm about a month into RCIA classes. My head's all kinds of full with new ideas, some of which shed light on issues I've always had with certain religious doctrine, and some which make a tangled mess of drawers I thought were neatly organized and firmly shut. You know, the drawers where you keep the linens you will never, ever use and you get irritated when someone suggests that maybe they're not exactly the pattern you (kinda?) remember them to be. I was raised mostly in the South, by a from-the-cradle Baptist mother and born-again Assembly of God father. (They both now attend a Baptist church.) My grandma Charlie taught Sunday school at her Presbyterian church. My granny Cora? Also Baptist. I've attended all of these, plus Church of Christ, Pentecostal, and non-denominational churches over the years. It's safe to say I'm firmly ensconced in the very Protestant culture of the mid-South. Sometimes it's good for a chuckle. Sometimes it's good for scaring the daylights out of you. A lot of the time, it's good for making you just shake your head and think that whatever the Good News once was, it's been lost in squabbles over pianos and uncut hair...and in the actions of people who decorate their SUVs with fish stickers by day and flirt with your husband at the bar by night. I decided a long time ago that the only way I could hold onto the faith I so desperately wanted was by limiting my involvement with church, because all church had brought me was disappointment in the people around me. Church was a place I could go to sort of recharge my spiritual battery, get a little insight. But I never really felt at home, and the black and white rules didn't seem to work well with the fuzzy gray space that is human nature. But that is what's given; most Protestants believe that the Bible is the living, literal word of God and that everything in it must be taken as complete and whole, factual truth. But that's pretty hard to swallow. The earth is only a few thousand years old, despite all the evidence to the contrary? Jonah sat, undigested, in a plankton-eating whale for three days and walked away from it? These things were bothersome, but it was taught to me by preachers that not believing in every word as indisputable fact is tantamount to willful separation from God, or worse, blasphemy. I mean, people used to be put to death for blasphemy. Depending on where you are and how you do it, shunning for it still totally goes on. Talk about the message getting lost. Catholicism is a little easier on the THIS IS FACT preaching, understanding that a lot of the stories are metaphorical or that they are true without being fact. You can say it's raining cats and dogs outside and be telling the truth, but not talking in facts. There's a lot of the OT that should be taken as such. I've always felt that way, and having a church tell me that's not only not shameful but probably right feels a lot like leaning against the back of one's chair and taking a big, relieved breath, which is exactly what I did.

I started attending RCIA because I was curious about Catholicism and wanted to see how it actually compares to the Protestant teachings I was raised with. People around here have a lot to say about Catholics, and most of them have never set foot inside a Catholic church. I didn't want to get any information from them, because the general consensus is that Catholics are idolaters (as if anyone whose motorcycle or clothes or television or job is more important to them than their relationship with their creator isn't an idolater) at best and anti-Christ at worst. I wanted to get information straight from the horse's mouth. I knew the goal of RCIA is to convert, but I was ok with that, and decided to treat it as a sort of religious studies course, taken by a not entirely neutral/objective student. I have faith, after all, and I've known for some time that I'm craving more of it. So I decided to go and see what these folks had to say. Do they really worship Mary and the saints? Why do they cross themselves? What, exactly, is Purgatory? The function of the Pope...and how did he get that job? Why is confession necessary if you talked to God already? What's up with not using contraceptives? How much of what they do is Scripture-based?

I'm gaining the answers to those questions, slowly. It's been very informative so far, and I've enjoyed learning about the history of the Church and how Protestants grabbed this and that, left that, and ran for the hills. I'd say the split was silly, but I can't, when I think about how many people on both sides were murdered over it.

Extremism in any context is terrifying, and if you find that your religion is causing you to argue and hate...you've missed the boat, brah.

There's a sense of clarity settling in. I'm finding it easier to say "nah" to things and people that I know aren't good for me, and easier to reach out and be a little nicer. My energy lasts a little longer, my patience runs a little thicker. (I totally vent on twitter, though.) I've never been good at holding a grudge, and I find it impossible now. I don't think I'm angry anymore.

That doesn't mean everything's sunshine and kittens. What it does mean is that when I start to feel overwhelmed, I've learned to shut up and be still, and NOT try to fix it. If I'm quiet long enough, there's a little poke at my heart that tells me without words what to do...or to do nothing but maintain my trust that I, 28 year old Sarah Saint in Mississippi, actually don't have all the answers. I have a gift of very keen intuition, humbled by an utter lack of prophecy. I have no clue what's going to happen tomorrow, and what I hope for today might be disastrous for me or someone else if I actually get it. I shudder to think where I would be now had some of the previous years' hardest prayers been answered affirmatively. Probably dead. If not, certainly miserable. As it is now, I have more blessings than I can count, including full-time work and a roof over my head, and a family I can always count on. I feel closer to my creator, and my faith continues to grow. It just might decide to settle in a Catholic church, because it's surprisingly comfortable there. It might not. I think the truest truths hang out in the pretty, grassy areas between churches and temples. Where it's quiet.

Oh, sinners, let's go down
come on down, don't you wanna go down?
Oh, sinners, let's go down
down in the river to pray

What is certain is that I'm very much enjoying the nights Brett and I lounge on my couch, both of us reading from my RCIA books, his arm around me and his fingers idly playing with my hair. We read quietly, one of us pausing here and there to read aloud this or that, and then we discuss; frankly, thoughtfully, hilariously. We don't always agree. I'm still having a difficult time understanding why Mary and the saints would have to even take my texts now that they're in heaven, or how someone else's prayers can change your soul's status once you've died. I may never get it, but I'm trying to understand, at least conceptually if not with my heart.

What is also certain is that of all the things for me to be grateful for, grace is the biggest. It's a concept I've managed to grasp, and I'm not likely to start understanding it less. It's a gift I didn't earn and don't deserve. I think I'll name my first daughter Grace.

In which I get cozy with camels.

2011-11-12T08:41:00.003-06:00

Because it's that time again! Tonight, Corinth remembers the casualties of the Battle & Siege, with the placing and lighting of 12,000 luminaries throughout downtown and the historic district. A lot of work goes into it, and it's Dad's baby, so if you're reading this before tonight, come show some support. The 43rd Mississippi Camel Corps will be at the Interpretive Center, so if you've ever wanted to pet a camel, now's your chance.

Seriously, this is a gorgeous event.

In other news: Amendment 26 got voted down!! Mississippi women are still allowed to make choices concerning their own reproductive organs!

My car has broken down. Tuition remains unpaid. These two factors collided, with the very distressing realization that in order to have my car fixed, I would have to forgo school next semester or get a loan, something I'm very reluctant about doing.

And then Brett stepped in. He's been in D.C. and Wisconsin for most of the past couple weeks, and we decided that was a good time to take a step back and really start considering things in terms of seriousness. It turned out to be very beneficial. We found out that we missed each other a lot more than we thought we would, and thought about each other more than we had anticipated. He nearly got tackled when he got home. And now he's assured me that my car is getting fixed and that I am absolutely continuing my education. And that I don't have to pay him back. I will, of course. But it's really nice that he offered to make a gift of it. That's too big a gift for me to accept, and I will cover as much of the costs as possible and then pay him back the remainder. But I'm floored by his generosity. It seems lately that I've been taking blow after blow (car stuff, old bills, etc.), and sometimes it's hard to stay chipper and smiling. I succeed most of the time. Knowing someone has my back is...beyond comforting. When he walked into my bar at The Mango's Young Professionals party, I just thought he was a nice guy with a great smile. I had no idea what a wonderful friend he would turn out to be.

And now we're going to go get my car fixed, and I'm going to make a hot meal to enjoy after we walk around downtown and look at the pretty luminaries.

The 26 issue.

2011-11-01T17:05:00.001-05:00

A lot of my most surreal moments happen in the Kroger on Hwy 72, and I kinda blame the strangeness on that particular branch's insistence on playing the Embarassingly Likable Tunes of the 80's mix at such a noticeably loud volume. Maybe there's something about striding through the fluorescent-lit aisles, cantaloupes and paper towels balanced impudently in your arms, to the rising crescendo of Toto's "Africa" that brings out the misguided confidence inside. Folks get to thinking their opinions are wanted. I still bristle at the recent memory of a morbidly obese woman who had the tardacity to tell me that the cigarettes I was buying would kill me. I glanced at the sugary neon carnival of her cart and said nothing back, reasoning she'd probably be dead sooner than me anyway. I've had people comment on my reading material (I'll read an Us Weekly now and then. What of it?), vent their frustrations about food stamp abuse while the person in front checks out with an EBT card, and offer me some of their unpaid-for grapes to munch on while we wait. Hungry strangers can be weird.

I was standing in line to not buy cigarettes a few days ago, staring into space and genuinely enjoying the Yacht Rock flowing smoothly, so smoothly, into my ears (Rich Girl, by the incomparable Hall and Oates). I was aware of a conversation going on behind me, but had no idea what was being said. Don't you knoooow, don't you know, that it's wrong...to take what he's giving you, so far go-
"Miss? Would you like a flyer?" I was rudely pulled away from my revery. There was a trim, fiftyish woman trying to hand me something. I looked down and recoiled a bit. A flyer shouting "Yes on 26!" was being offered to me. I smiled politely and shook my head no. She blinked and said, "Amendment 26 is Mississippi's chance to be first at outlawing abortion." I just smiled again and said, as simply as possible, "I don't support 26." She then shuffled through the stack of angry-looking, multicolored papers in her arms and handed me a cute FAQ. She said, "You may want to have a look at some facts. It might change your mind about killing babies." Whoa.
"Ma'am. I've never killed a baby. I'm not going to kill a baby. I wouldn't even have a problem with 26 if it were just about abortion, but it's not. It's about birth control too. The only thing that needs to change about birth control is that it needs to be more available to anyone who wants it."
She giddily pointed at the FAQ. "It says right there that birth control won't change."

"I've read it. It says that it won't outlaw most forms of hormonal birth control. Which forms, exactly? The wording's unclear, and it calls for declaring personhood at fertilization, not conception. I know how birth control works, so I can't get behind that."

She rolled her eyes and walked away, shaking her head at my unreachableness. I moved up and purchased my items, while the clerk gave me the stankeye. Just to add to the sudden bad vibe, The Doobie Brothers came on. Ugh. "What a Fool Believes" has got to be one of the worst songs ever written.

This issue has been weighing heavily on me. My own feelings about reproductive rights have gotten increasingly more conservative as technology advances and shows me pictures and studies that make it impossible for me to say a 12 or 14-week fetus is not a baby (especially when it's heart has been beating since week 5), but just the makings of one. We keep seeing, earlier and earlier, that that's not the case. Admitting this to myself (and others) has been a very difficult process that's been several months in the making. So yeah. I'm undergoing a lot of changes where my feelings on abortion (and when abortion may still be acceptable) are concerned.

But Amendment 26 ain't just about abortion.

Straight from Mississippi's Secretary of State website : "Initiative #26 would amend the Mississippi Constitution to define the word “person” or “persons”, as those terms are used in Article III of the state constitution, to include every human being from the moment of fertilization, cloning, or the functional equivalent thereof."

Now, I don't expect everyone in Mississippi to be an expert on reproduction and conception. But when we're putting these items on a ballot, it's pretty important to at least attempt to familiarize yourself with what the hell you're voting on. Note that this ballot language uses "fertilization." Not "conception." For those who didn't pay attention in eighth grade, or for whom eighth was a really long time ago :

Fertilization = sperm and egg get together and decide to hang

Conception= fertilized egg attaches to uterine lining= lady knocked up

So, we're not talking about conception. We're not talking about terminating a pregnancy. When we use the word "fertilization," in this context, we are saying that as soon as sperm and egg meet, the fertilized egg is a human being and needs to be protected by the law. Ok. Well, the difference is a matter of hours or maybe a couple of days, right? So what's the big deal? It's almost the same thing as conception.

Well, the big deal is in understanding how hormonal birth control works. Primarily, it prevents ovulation. In a nutshell, every month, an egg manages to get past the gates and run down the hallway, hoping to meet a new (male) friend: sperm. No ovulation means no pregnancy. But sometimes there's a fluke, and an egg goes rogue anyway, reminding us of Jurassic Park's Dr. Ian Malcom warning us that "life finds a way." But while the birth control has been allegedly preventing ovulation, it's also been thinning the lining on the uterine wall as a failsafe. If an egg happens to sneak out and get itself fertilized, it still has to attach to something before anything can happen. If it cannot attach to the lining, it simply gets flushed out with the rest of the riffraff. If it manages to latch on, that's conception. That's a pregnancy.
So an amendment that specifies every human from the moment of fertilization as a person...that's gonna suck. If we determine personhood as beginning at fertilization, that calls birth control into question.

Are you feeling me, Mississippi? Even the most adamantly pro-life types have got to see how that's problematic, and how this initiative, pushed by an organization that clearly says it does not advocate birth control, is deliberately vague. And even the most adamantly pro-life types have got to see how birth control, by preventing unwanted pregnancy, prevents abortion.

Guys...use your heads. If you want to make abortion illegal, push for an initiative that proposes that and only that. Don't support something that's insulting your intelligence by assuming you can't read and comprehend what you're tacking your name onto. This isn't about abortion. Seriously.

I'm going to need a couple minutes alone.

2011-10-27T20:01:00.007-05:00

Because one of my favorite books in the whole wide world...one of the creepiest, most heartbreaking novels, narrated by one of the most multilayered, completely believable protagonists I've ever encountered, is being adapted for the small screen. That's right: this December, Mike Noonan and Sara Tidwell will bust into our living rooms. Bag of Bones. Mothertrucking BAG OF BONES, ya'll.

Fiction is often good. Stephen King's fiction is almost always good. This one is beautiful and haunting. I just hope A&E doesn't muck it up. I do question casting Pierce Brosnan, I guess because I picture Mike Noonan as more like Ron Livingston.

Or, honestly, like Engineer-Beta, whom you likely haven't met, but I assure you is an excellent actor (ok, and physically fits the part of the attractive everyman).

I totally agree with the casting of Sara Tidwell and Joanne Noonan.

And I haven't even seen Paranormal Activity 3 yet.

2011-10-26T19:58:00.003-05:00

I don't even know where to start. I've been too busy to sit still lately, and when I have time to sit still, I generally want to spend that time curled up on the couch with E-2.0, flipping back and forth between Red Wings games and Ghost Adventures, pretending my phone doesn't exist. And while it feels pretty awesome at the time to do just that for entire weekends, we're both simply too energetic and if we don't get things accomplished, we feel bad. So we're navigating the deeper waters of Boo'd Upness, wherein we figure out how to hang together and take care of business. Laying around feels good and all, for a little while. But there comes a point, usually when you realize the legs of your sweatpants are hiked up on your calves and your back is sore from all the total inactivity, that it's just time to get up and clean out your car or answer correspondence or teach your dog commands in Spanish. Whatever.

In one sentence: a presentation about bats, a pumpkin-carving party, a trip to Florence, a friend's epic breakup, a friend's undeserved attack on Topix, bible study (Baptist), RCIA classes (Catholic...duhr), plans to read/blog the Purpose Driven Life with a longtime buddy (sorry, private blog, but I may talk about it here if something cool happens), a haunted house, a haunted hayride, family in North Carolina, political brouhaha in which I am painted as a Godless heathern, continued weight loss, and...cooking, cooking, cooking. Cooooooking.

I have a lot to say, but right now I have to make mashed potatoes to go with tonight's pot roast and plan what I'm going to make for a post-funeral repast on Friday. Grief makes people want soul food. (I'm not grieving. Sympathetic, but I didn't personally know the deceased. I'm there to provide moral support and collard greens to a friend.)

I'm tired. Tired and happy. Looking forward to this weekend, and the giant haunted house Lacefield and I will be going to. Too bad Brett can't make it, since he'll be in D.C. Pfft. Like anyone would rather be in D.C. than Killen, Alabama.

Also: now I know how to prepare bok choy.

Gorgeously.

Just sayin.'

2011-10-17T21:32:00.004-05:00

Anyone who goes out for ginger ale and Pepto Bismol after you Regan MacNeil the dinner he just cooked for you, then rubs your back, pets your hair, and (fearlessly!) puts an arm around your uncontrollably shivering shoulders...

...definitely deserves a high-five. And difficult, wheat-free baked goods.

Stomach bugs suck. People who risk getting sick to make you feel better? They don't suck at all.

I'ma make it funderstorm.

2011-10-15T03:46:00.004-05:00

This is what's up. While I'm actually sitting still in front of a computer, with unstolen wi-fi.

1) You should go to the Rattlesnake Saloon because it's a lot of fun (and hello, it's in a cave). It's also awesome if the friend you go with used to work there and can get the hookup on free noms. I recommend the Duke burger, which is topped with bacon and fried jalapeno slices.
2) There is no reason for me to ever wear anything other than VS khaki miniskirts, textured tights, and tall Uggs. I'm henceforth pretending that pants don't exist. Bonus points for adding skinny scarves. Are they necessary? Heck, no! But I'm girly, and that's that. I accept that girlyness is a social construct. Ok. I enjoy it.
3) I lopped off my hair to remove the last of the old dark color. That brought it to a startlingly shorter length (just past shoulders), but it's worth it to me. Think Zooey Deschanel. (Please, please think Zooey Deschanel when you see me. Please.) Also got new glasses, just to complete the geek-chic. Also so that I can see.
4) The Lions are 5-0. Who ARE these guys? Meanwhile, the Packers blahblahblahblah...
5) Engineer 2.0 has somehow never seen Back to the Future, any of the Indiana Jones movies, Halloween, or Gremlins. Well, he hadn't seen Halloween until this past weekend. I set him straight on that Saturday night. But seriously...no Indiana? No Doc? Sad panda.
6) Last night, E-2.0 and I attended Alcorn County's Republican Party meeting, as Pappy was the guest speaker. He owned it. There were a few regular speakers. They didn't own it. There were refreshments, but between my intermittent food snobbery* and Brett's non-negotiable food allergies, we just glanced longingly at the buffet table and walked on. Actually, I was really looking forward to this, because I wanted to hear about the Amendment 26 issue that's got Mississippians in a tizzy. *deep breath* Ok. I left with a mouth full of blood from biting my tongue. People are entitled to their opinions, but having misinformation about reproductive rights floating around just ain't fly, and I'm kind of kicking myself for not standing up and saying so. This amendment has very broad, very dangerous implications, and a great deal of the propaganda surrounding it has been shamefully misleading. I'm not trying to change opinions on this. But if those opinions are based on intentionally deceptive rhetoric, anyone who knows better has an obligation to set the record straight, and I'm pretty sure a lot of the people who are supporting this legislative catastrophe are only doing so because they are unclear on key definitions. The group who is actually pushing this, Personhood USA, attempted it in Colorado first, where it didn't pass. They immediately targeted Mississippi, and I don't think they missed the fact that Mississippi has one of the five lowest rates of college graduates in the nation. The signs and flyers feature a giant picture of a fetus, and the wording deliberately misleads the reader to assume this is strictly an abortion issue. That's no accident. They're counting on Mississippi being too stupid to understand the difference between fertilization and conception, and so far, they're correct. Amendment 26 is rapidly gaining momentum because of this deception. It appeals to everyone who considers themselves pro-life, and it's become the favorite mission among people who believe women shouldn't even speak aloud in church unless it's in tongues. I don't think any of them are qualified to make decisions relating to my fallopian tubes. I'm sure I'll post more about this soon, as we get closer to November 8.
7) The Corinth Symphony Orchestra is pretty great. Booface (ooh, can't wait til he reads that) and I attended this past Saturday. It was way more impressive than we thought it would be. I've seen them a few times before, for Christmas and their annual concerts for July 4th, but this was...better. They kicked it off with some very familiar but always pretty Mozart (Serenade 13 in G, first movement). Sure, it's probably the first piece of music to be overplayed nearly to death, and you know it instantly when you hear it. But go ahead and give it another listen. It's a really gorgeous piece of music. Know how some Beatles and Zeppelin songs are so iconic and recognizable that you kinda forget how great they really are until you listen to one all the way through again? Then you're like, "Damn, this is good. This is really good." Same thing. Mozart was a rockstar before there were rockstars. He had better pieces (I can barely listen to the first movement of Symphony No. 25 without doing the ugly-cry, and his Requiem in D Minor will only fail to give you goosebumps if you're the deceased), but No. 13's pretty sweet, and it's pretty awesome that most people can hum the tune 224 years after it was written.

That's that. For now.

* See: Duke burger.

Memphis Reunions/Monkeys Riding Dogs

2011-10-04T09:39:00.015-05:00

Pretty much everything since Thursday has been an overstuffed satchel of sweet.

Thursday night, Brett and I were supposed to leave Corinth around 6:15. He was *SHOCKER* running late from work, so I sat at his house while he sped through, Roadrunner style, and managed a shower and change of clothes in about 18 seconds. We left at about 6:35 and made it to Shiloh before 7:00. Don't ask how fast I was going. We made it just in time for Marcus's presentation about owls. He kicked it off with a clip from Bambi (the scene where the owl explains what "twitterpated" is). Awww. The presentation was really informative, and Marcus was funny and at-ease. I got a kick out of my overzealous companion, and got to stock up on chops-busting ammo when he yelled out the wrong answer to a question Marcus wasn't really asking the audience. (By the way, owls are forward-facing, and all owl eyes have pupils.) There was another couple there, and they were clearly not united in their desire to be there. The guy slumped in his seat and silently shook his head while his girlfriend asked questions like, "Do owls mate for life?" and "Well, what if the girl owl just gets fed up with the boy owl, can she leave him? What if the boy owl dies? Does she get another mate?" Then he asked a couple questions like, "Are owls endangered? I mean, can you shoot them? Can you eat them?" Great stuff. I kept feeling an elbow in my ribs and I had to look the other way to keep from busting out laughing. Afterward, we went to The Broken Spoke for a late dinner. I hadn't been there in awhile, and had almost forgotten how great the food is. It's a little pricey but definitely worth it, not just for the food, but for the atomsphere.

Friday, Brandon and Brett came over for Scrabble. Scrabble never happened. Instead, I made dinner and we all sat on the porch. Brandon entertained us with funny stories of the E.R. and I sat, watching. The guys I've dated have felt threatened by Brandon. Not in a romantic sense, but they've felt somewhat excluded, and sometimes jealous of the closeness. (One flat-out said he wouldn't "play second fiddle" and asked that I distance myself from my friend.) So I was interested to see how these two would interact. They've met briefly, but hadn't actually hung out. It went really well. They seemed to get along great, and I was relieved when Brett jumped into the nonstop banter and kept up. Later they both separately confirmed that they really like the other. I can't convey what a big deal this is. Sweeet.

(To any dude I may date, ever: Don't whine about competing with Brandon. If I'm spending time with you, there's something about you that I like. I hang with Brandon because he's hilarious. If you want to make me laugh like that, be that funny. It's not like some stupid competition, and it's not my fault if you're not as interesting as you thought you were. If you want my time, be worth my time. You don't just have a right to it upon meeting me. Knock my socks off and bring the funny.)

Saturday morning, I shamefully slunk out of town and toward Memphis as the Rotary Club's 5k commenced. About 300 people participated. I know, I was supposed to run it. BUT it happened to be the only weekend Lindsey and I have been able to work out for a visit. She's due in six weeks, and something tells me she's going to be a little busy after that, what with suddenly being a mom and all. The shame didn't last long, and I very happily pulled into LT's driveway. We had a lovely time, lunching at Slider Inn and kvetching and catching up. I couldn't stop looking at her belly. It's so amazing to me that my awesome friend is creating this awesome son who's about to be joining us out here in the daylight and oxygen. She had me touch one side of the belly and then the other, noting how one side was way harder because there's a human bottom/haunch on that side. Omigah. I don't have words for how trippy and stupefyingly cool that is. It was soooo good to see her again.

After I left Lindsey's, it was time to haul it home and get ready to meet up with Brett for the Tupelo fair. (He came in second place in the 5k, btw.)And what is so special about the Tupelo fair, you ask? Only this:

Yeah. Not a chance I could pass up something like that. We had a ridiculously good time, eating french fries, riding rattling death traps, and spending a truly embarassing amount of time in the petting zoo. I like cows, ok? I like their big cow eyes and their long cow eyelashes. If I have the opportunity to pet baby cows, I will grab that opportunity and hold onto it as long as I can. I have some moral objections to petting zoos, but I'm not a strong enough person to remind myself of those objections when someone asks me if I want to feed a goat, because I DO WANT TO FEED THE GOAT. So there was that. We rode the ferris wheel, which I believe to be the scariest ride on the planet. The other rides are too fast for the rider to really process fear beyond a fleeting, adrenaline-ish feeling. The ferris wheel? Nah. You've got a loooong time to think about how loooong the fall down would be. I was getting a little nervous up there at the top, looking down at the now-tiny cars and the now-tiny goats and marginially tinier freaky fat fair people (you know the ones). Luckily, Brett grabbed my hand and started singing the chorus to "Dancing on the Ceiling," so I was too busy being simultaneously impressed/horrified to be scared. We finished up at the fair, listened to Tool on the way home, went back to his house, and wrapped up the evening with a viewing of some disturbing Mr. T video from 1984.

Sunday, I cooked ribs and Indian food while the Lions beat the Cowboys. We watched tv in a near-comatose state of fullness and exhaustion. I thought about painting my nails. Didn't happen.

It was an exquisite weekend.

This is how people smile when they've just seen monkeys riding dogs:

Let them eat corn.

2011-09-29T17:21:00.006-05:00

I bounded into work this morning, all chipper and stoked over having lost three pounds over the last week, one pound more than the two pounds I had projected in my plan to get the last of this nonsense off my body. Happily, I spooned my organic Greek yogurt into my bowl, mixed in a little stevia, sprinkled in a generous tablespoon of ground flaxseed, and sliced up a banana on top. I chatted with my coworkers as they prepared their breakfasts: peanut butter on whole grain toast; yogurt similar to mine; plain oatmeal doctored up with stevia, cinnamon, and apple. We ate, scanned the newspaper, got set up for the day.

Soon after we opened, one of our regulars wandered in. She approached the counter and got to chatting with one of the girls she's friends with. I went about pulling reports and such, and half-listened. She was talking about a doctor's appointment she had had last week, wherein she was told that it was imperative for her to lose weight because she was borderline diabetic with high blood pressure. The teller she was talking to said, "You need to talk to Sarah! She knows about losing weight!". The customer looked at me hopefully and I confirmed that I've lost about 80 lbs but that my way is very different from the way most people do it, and she might not like it. She said she'd do anything, and added that she had already switched to skim milk and turkey bacon. I asked her about how much sugar she takes in and she said, "Oh, not much! I only drink diet cokes!" Good grief. Where to start? This lady is really big. She's on a very limited budget, and she clearly has no concept of what healthy food is. It would be basically impossible to help her, right? Obviously she doesn't have the common sense to eat more vegetables and get some exercise.

WHOA. I mentally bitchslapped myself. Aren't I still arguably overweight? This past winter and into late spring, I got within seven pounds of my final goal and then fell into a vat of Cheez-Its and Coca-Cola and re-gained some weight, didn't I? Even though I knew better? And wasn't I once enormous and confused, wondering why I was eating sugar-free, fat-free, lite, low-fat, low-carb, no-carb, whatever, and not losing weight? I was immediately ashamed of myself. I smiled really big and told her that's a great start, and that I don't have it all quite right either, and how hard it can be to figure out what's actually good for you with brand name, doctor, and government entity telling us different things. She nodded and asked what she could do. I told her the best thing to do is read labels. Not the parts that are trying to catch her eye, like "low fat!" or "natural!" but the only part that matters: the ingredient list. If it has any kind of corn syrup or anything that isn't harvested, fished, slaughtered or milked, it shouldn't go in her mouth. I suggested she stop drinking any kind of cola for a week and see how she felt. And that's it. Baby steps. That's how I started. I didn't kick off my journey into clean-eating by reading comparative studies of CAFO beef vs grassfed beef, based on Omega-3, Omega-6, and CLA content. If anyone had suggested that, I probably never would have even tried. But no corn syrup? That, I could do. No dyes or obvious preservatives? Easy enough. I read a little more, and understood why eating a food in its whole form was better for you than anything that's been tampered with; whole milk is healthy food, skim milk is as nutritionally bankrupt as a Capri Sun. A little later, I started learning about the differences in grains and why a 120-calorie slice of whole grain bread is actually better for you than a 35-calorie slice of white made with "enriched" flour.

What didn't occur to me then, or for a long time, is how damn hard it could be to eat clean on a super-tight budget.

Now, I'm not a wealthy girl. But I've almost always been reasonably comfortable. I've never known real hunger or had serious doubt about how I would buy groceries, and for that I am hugely, truly grateful.

I started paying attention to other people's shopping carts. At the time, I worked at a financial institution inside a Wal-Mart, so this was an excellent place for observing what kind of people bought what foods, and specifically what people on the lower end of the payscale spectrum bought. It didn't take long for me to make a huge observation: the poorer people were mostly fat. The people who seemed to have more money were definitely fitter. That was a very uncomfortable realization, and it felt funny, like ill-fitting shoes. I thought about how throughout history, wealthy people leaned toward fat, while poor people were skinny. It was a pretty simple equation: If you have less money or have to actually work to produce your food, you're going to eat less. If you have the means to buy food and don't have to procure it for yourself, you're going to eat more. You also have more time on your hands. It's always been that way, even in times when it was fashionable for certain parts of the body to be small. The cinched, corseted waists that were so popular for centuries were always offset by padding to the hips, butt, and bosom, and in some eras cosmetic tricks were used to make the face and arms look even plumper, as this was a sign of wealth (and, more subconsciously, fertility). This look set one apart from the peasants, crackers, and laborers. This cannot be better illustrated than in the popular paintings of the Renaissance period, which depict women in the ideal state for the time. They is some big ol' girls. Curvy, with wide hips, soft tummies, thighs that met at the top, and long, wavy hair. A far cry from today's standard for ideal, which is basically a dead-eyed, androgynous, waifish thing with hollow cheeks, thighs with three inches of space between them, and ruts so deep between their ribs you could keep spare change in them. Some of them do have long, wavy hair. The only element these vastly different ideals have in common is that they both represent an image that's largely unnatainable for the socioeconomic majority of their eras.

Our models grow more emaciated as obesity rates skyrocket...and income levels plummet. That's...freaky. Isn't it?

Not when you consider what's actually making us fat, and it isn't just calories. A calorie, after all, is just a measurement of energy. Where your calories come from is more important than how many calories you take in. And the very sad fact is that it's getting more and more difficult not only for lower income families to distinguish between good calorie choices and bad calorie choices, it's getting more expensive. In some cases, it's not even about expense, it's about availability. What about the food deserts of inner cities, where there is no access to fresh produce but there is a McDonald's on every corner? Is it really reasonable to expect low-income people to drive or take the bus several miles to load up on foods they will have to haul home, wash, chop, and cook, when they can have a hot meal for a few dollars within walking distance? Probably not. Convenience and availabilty have hampered my own efforts many times in the past, even though I'm able-bodied, own a car, and live only a short distance from a semi-decent grocery store. Sometimes rather than go to the store and gather my breakfast necessities the night before, I'll sit on my tail and then grab a bagel from the coffee shop across the street in the morning. There's a degree of accountability in every bite we put in our mouths...but when we fail to educate and provide options to our less fortunate neighbors, there's more accountability on us than on them.

The fat-judgment has got to stop. A few decades ago, yeah, ok, maybe being fat meant you were lazy and too fond of sweets. In many, many cases, it still means that. It did in mine. I got little physical activity then and had an unfortunate addiction to fresh french bread. I had options, though, and chose to pick some better ones. There are a lot of people who don't have many options.

After that customer left, I asked a little about her and thought about her situation. Without going into too much detail here, I learned that she has physical ailments that prevent her from vigorous exercise. She has a sickly baby and no job, and limited transportation. She and her baby live entirely on government assistance. Because of my job, I know exactly how much or how little people can draw, based on several factors. I see who benefits from the system and who abuses it in ways that make you feel like punching them out into the parking lot. This lady is in a bad way, and I don't begrudge her a dime of the money she receives. It's not much. It's a fraction of what I make in a month, and I only have to support myself. I sat back, and the pieces all fell together. Her kind of obesity is the result of a skewed system. It's government created, government encouraged, and now that it's become an epidemic, the government wants everyone to have a part in paying for it. According to www.cdc.gov, about 33% of Americans are obese, or about 104,000,000-ish. About 50,000,000 Americans are uninsured. You know that bumper sticker, "AIDS: Nobody's fault, everybody's problem" ? Yeah, obesity is a lot like that. It's hitting hard, and the costs aren't just impacting the fatties anymore. It's hitting the poor and the uninsured the hardest, and someone will be forced to pick up the tab one way or another. That knowledge should get the attention of even the worst of the elite; if you can't bring yourself to care about the wellbeing of your fellow humans, maybe you can care about the blow to your wallet.

I don't mean to say that a person has no responsibility or accountability in their own supersizing. Anyone with a Doritos bag in his hand knows he can make a better choice. I mean to say it's probably not just their fault...especially if they're poor. Poor people eat what's cheap. The cheapest foods available are the ones made with corn products, soy products, and wheat...which are also the top three crops to recieve subsidy money. At least one of those three products is in pretty much every processed food, even stuff where it's totally not needed. Corn syrup is in crackers, salad dressings, canned soup, bread, sausage, deli meat and a million other things where there doesn't even need to be a sweetener, let alone one that's been shown to cause 48% more weight gain than table sugar (at least in rats...who, like us, are mammals and, like us, also dig Doritos). To me, these connections are beyond obvious. I'm not getting into what a mess susbsidizing has made economically; that's another post entirely, but to deny that it's played no part in America's expanding thighs is just blind and silly. It's a pretty direct chain from growing massive amounts of corn, to artificially manufacturing a sweetener from it, to artificially lowering food prices on the products containing it, to the poorest people eating the most of it, to the poorest people getting fattest.

So, mix up the FDA *gag* telling everyone that corn syrup is no different from table sugar, a health care system that benefits best from keeping you just sick enough to keep coming back for more pills, and a decrease in availability of healthy food to begin with, and you've got a recipe for a lot of tankasses. Broke tankasses. And we/they need changes, to the ways we're educated about food and in the ways our food is produced and distributed. Not more judgment.

At least it's not like corn is also tied up in, say, fuel. That would just make this all seem so sinister.

Wait, what?

Gearing up for the letdown.

2011-09-26T19:59:00.002-05:00

Little fills me with as much dread and unhappiness as knowing what's coming in the year preceding a presidential election. I know I'll have disagreements with good friends and with family. I know I'll start to get a good feeling about a candidate, only to see that candidate get involved in the disgusting mudslinging. I know that the best things that candidate can say or believe in will be drowned out by blindly rabid supporters who cheer for misguided ideals simply because they think those ideals fall under "their" party heading.

I will feel shame when the bad apples make a stink for the whole barrel. Yeah, I'm talking to you, certain Fox/Google debate audience members. Shame, shame. On you.

I'll roll my eyes and bite my tongue when people who have no idea what they're talking about adamantly and hatefully voice opinions. That's their right. I'll gently correct when I can, and I'll gratefully accept correction from others if I'm wrong. If that correction comes in the form of yelling or condescension, it will have a harder time getting through. I've learned to try to "avoid loud and aggressive persons, as they are vexations to the spirit."*

It makes me sad when people preach humanity in one breath and spew hostility with the next. No one has figured out all the answers yet. Yelling your ideas and calling each other stupid and heartless does not make your ideas any more right.

I have a gut feeling that this is going to be the ugliest election season this country has seen in a very long time. It looks like the worst in people is already surfacing. I don't want to see what else is festering below that surface, but I'm going to. I'll have to watch people cheer/jeer as these jackals in expensive suits tell us what we should think and why we're ignorant/amoral if we don't agree. I'll have to accept that my reluctance to engage in confrontation will be misconstrued either as a lack of understanding of the issues or as a lack of conviction regarding those issues. I'll just have to sigh when otherwise smart people lump millions of individuals together as one of two groups and judge them all based on the actions of a few.

Sucks. I don't have all the answers. Neither do you. But I'm pretty confident that calling each other Nazis and celebrating in others' misfortune ain't getting it.

*Desiderata, Max Ehrmann

Things I learned this weekend.

2011-09-25T17:00:00.002-05:00

1) Calvin Johnson is pretty cool.
2) I can fit my whole fist in Brett's mouth.
3) Not everyone will let you try that.
4) Wheat-free cornbread is hideous but tastes good.
5) Mills are dangerous places to work and I'm happier not thinking too much about it.
6) Office Space is really funny (yup, finally watched it).
7) How to cook ribs.

That's it, I'm buying land and starting a farm.

2011-09-20T17:43:00.004-05:00

A slow day, full of gossip and...stupid. I've no interest in jumping into discussions about people I don't know (and especially not the ones I do know). Keeping my head down and thinking my crazy thoughts? That I can do.

Most of the people who read this blog are pretty sharp, and like to stay fairly aware of what's going on in the world. So I'm sure you guys are aware of what's shakin' in Greece. Mane. I was hoping to take a vacation there next year. Poor Greece.
What's particularly alarming is that Portugal, Spain, Ireland, and Italy are inching closer to defaulting as well. The combined $$ needed to bail them all out is more than Europe can swing in time for Christmas presents. That's the bitch of a "global community". At some point, it becomes everybody's responsibility to bail each other out, with the result being that everyone ends up broke. See how I just broke it all down? Because it's that simple ;)

I don't want to sound like one of those nutty alarmist/militia types (they're all in Michigan, anyway), but I'm getting more convinced that I should buy some land and get to plantin'. I really don't think the current system's going to last much longer. "Things fall apart; the center cannot hold." That's Yeats, in his poem, "The Second Coming". Fascinating piece. Another interesting line: "the falcon cannot hear the falconer." I'm no poet, but I dig words, and I think about those two lines with increasing frequency. Recessions and depressions are natural enough; even simple societies deal with rough times together. But I can't help but feel we're on the verge of huge disaster. Our monetary/food system is too complicated, too big, too interwoven, too based on too little. It's only gonna stretch so far before it snaps, and when it does, the falcon won't hear the falconer; the people most reliant on receiving instruction from the government will be running amok, directionless. As close to chaos as you could hope not to see. The scars of the Great Depression still run deep. Think about how bad that was; and that was nearly a hundred years ago, back when most people still had at least a rudimentary grasp on self-sufficiency. Rural people still knew how to make things grow, and how to raise animals for food. And they were still starving. Obviously, the dust bowl situation contributed to this; our land is still being terribly abused but it's still productive...even though most of it's being used to produce cow corn that humans can't even eat, and which cows shouldn't eat because they are ruminants. (Ugh. Stewardship, people. If you abuse the food source, don't bitch about recalls when *gasp* your food is tainted and makes you sick.) Subsidizing has crowded out the rural farmer and distorted the average American's perception of what food actually is and where it comes from. That's terrifying. When the collapse occurs, what happens to people who rely on government checks to buy factory food? It's not going to be pleasant to see what happens, but I'm getting surer that I'm going to. I feel a lot better knowing I can at least keep a garden. I'll feel much better when I have my own land to do it on, and once I know how to raise my own animals. And it doesn't have to be totally primitive; if you've got a well, you've got a power source. Waterwheels are basic and time-tested. It's not terribly difficult to build simple solar panels. I love my homemaking hobbies, but they're not just hobbies; there might come a day when it's imperative that I can sew, knit, put up/can food, and milk a goat (check, check, check, check). I can also churn butter and make simple cheese...which is necessary to my own survival and happiness. Life without cheese is a life I just can't bear to imagine.

I'm not sure where I'm going with this. I just know I'm tired of watching the buildup. Whether or not the collapse happens in my lifetime, I'm wanting less and less to be reliant on anyone but myself and my own family. It's not just a hobby to be interested in how nutrition directly effects health and knowing what foods and herbs cut a flu short, ease pain, lower blood pressure, slow bleeding, heal infections, give relief to a colicky baby, etc. When this society breaks down, our current concept of health care is going to blip out of existence, and it's gonna behoove women to know about having babies at home. We live in a culture where women are so out of tune with their bodies, they think they actually have to be in a hospital, hooked up to monitors and being poked at by strangers, instead of in their own homes with their families. To me, that's nuts. Women have only gotten used to birthing in hospitals in the last sixty years or so, and in that time, have grown reliant on Big Health's way of doing things. Here's some news: that baby's coming when it wants to, and it doesn't care where you are. If you know something about the process and prenatal/postpartum care (or have a midwife handy), you don't have to be in a hospital. I'm glad to see that the midwife trend is on the rise again; it makes more sense. There are babies in my future. They will be born at home.

Stupid humans. Complicating what doesn't need to be complicated. I'ma buy some sheep, ya'll. And figure out how the hell to turn their hair into shirts.*

*Not today.

Despite having seen The Descent, I'm game...

2011-09-16T14:53:00.006-05:00

...to lower myself by rope into a cold, dark hole in the earth. As part of a group, preferably in a well-blazed system. Because I'm not shetarded.

Yup. E-2.0 and I are planning a camping adventure. Now, most of my camping experience has been pretty sedate. There's always some fishing, a little hiking. But mostly it's been sitting around the fire (which I can build, btw). Now, with the autumn air brisking me into friskiness, and a companion who actually doesn't want to sit on his ass 24/7 like a Newcastle-guzzling, plaid-upholstered land sloth, I'm getting to look into all the stuff I've been curious about. He's up for virtually anything (and, still, can be totally chill and mellow next to the fire at night), so I'm trying to find an area to fit our particular tastes. Must-haves include mountain biking trails (him), good running trails (us), and some kind of aquatic access (me). I like water, and I'm really happy when there's a good chance of voluntary submersion. Since it'll be fairly chilly, I doubt I'll jump in. Fishing/boating works just fine. I'm so excited about this trip. It feels awesome to be tapping into my boundless, border collie-like energy in a constructive way. I so rarely have the opportunity to herd sheep, and that energy can lead to some really bonehead moves if not given a proper outlet.

He likes the idea of the Smokies, but I'm hesitant at 1) the long drive, and 2) the overly kitschy, Gatlinburgish vibe.

I'm thinking more like Cedar Glades Park, which sounds like a hiker/runner/mountain biker's dream, and is only about four hours away. It's in Hot Springs, Arkansas. Did you catch that name? Hot Springs. Not just water, but magic water. Also warm water.

In other news, tomorrow I'll be teaming up with Brandon for the first time in a couple weeks. Depending on how I do at the race, we'll either be sulking at JT's Falafel over a plate of lamb, or celebrating at JT's Falafel over a plate of lamb. Sunday I'll be attending Mass and discussing RCIA classes with the priest, and then cooking up a storm. E-2.0 will be returning from his dudes-only camping/biking trip, and I've promised to have a big dinner ready. (It's not all kindness on my part; he's also changing my oil for me.)

About RCIA: no, I'm not converting to Catholicism (at this time). I'm wanting to learn more about Catholicism, and a Catholic church seems like a good place to do that. There's soooo much that I don't understand and have been conditioned against by Baptist/Church of Christ/Pentecostal culture. I just wanna hear another take on a subject close to my heart. Corralling oneself into a particular sect or denomination has always seemed to me like missing the forest for the trees. Or as my friend Mary says, "Some people get to Savannah through Michie, and some people get there through Pickwick. What matters is that you get to Savannah." Mary's a very smart lady. She also makes killer collard greens.

"The more I see, the less I know, the more I like to let it go"

2011-09-14T17:47:00.002-05:00

Because so far there is nothing, nothing, better to run to than RHCP.

If I win this weekend's 5k, I'd better get a cooler trophy than that.

2011-09-12T13:54:00.007-05:00

Kidding! A mini cotton bale is actually a pretty neat trophy. And I'm totally goofy with admiration. I can boast that my dawg won the Cotton Pickin' 5k! You can't.

I'm also increasingly trepidatious about my own 5k coming up this Saturday. Suddenly it's only a few days away, and I'm growing more confident by the hour...that I will embarrass myself. I mean, I have no illusions about winning or even placing. I'm just trying to gauge where I'm at and experience some healthy competition. A blessing: One of Brett's usually tied-up friends is available this weekend, so they'll be camping far away. Thank God. Not that I don't want his support (or competition) at the race, but this way if I totally suck, I can at least be alone to lick my wounds afterward. I'm not a bad runner, but I'm not a great runner yet. He can (and has) literally run circles around me. He recently participated (and finished) in the redonkulously brutal Tough Mudder event in Wisconsin. He does pull-ups with the ease with which I toss off your-mom jokes. I'm pretty sure he could break me in half if he took a notion to.* So yeah. A 5k isn't exactly a huge deal to him, whereas I've got knots in my stomach already. Can I run 3.1 miles? Sure. At my own pace, by myself (or with limited company), when I feel like it, with my iPod. Can I get out there and comfortably do it on command with a bunch of other people? We'll see. Oooh, I'm nervous.

This is just the first in a series. I've got another 5k October 1, November 24, and December 3-for sure. I may add more. Depending on how I do this weekend and Oct 1, I may attempt a 10k in Memphis Oct 16. This is all leading up to a half-marathon in February.

Why all this, though, when until recently I was content to coast on just-good-enough? Well, I've been pretty lackadaisical about my fitness. I eat more healthily than most of my peers, but I am not in my best shape, for sure. I'm not very strong at all, and I want to see/feel what it's like to be in top condition. I'm very much inspired by buddy Tamara, who will not be stopped from running for any reason, including pain. And of course I'm inspired by Brett. We share the same ideals concerning eating clean/organic, and he takes it a step further with the way he takes care of himself physically, and the results of that effort are stunning. (I don't say that in a fawning way; but when was the last time you saw a dude in Mississippi or Tennessee whose physique actually looks like a dude's is supposed to? People around here just don't push themselves like that.) It's really cool to be spending all this time with someone who actually encourages me to be the best I can be. So I'm steppin' up my game. I'm very curious to see what kind of healthier Sarah develops. Someone with more endorphins flowing through her system, for sure. Someone with a narrower waist, stronger legs...maybe even a backside, someday, after a lot of lunges. Probably not, though. I don't have much in the way of hips, and I'll likely never have much in the way of a tail that doesn't immediately identify me as 100% white-girl.

What I'm hoping for first is that the revamped me starts emerging as a non-smoker.

*Our arm wrestling is...sad. Well, my half of it. And he doesn't let me win. I guess I'm lucky he doesn't rip it out of the socket.

Selling spooks.

2011-09-10T11:25:00.004-05:00

Recently while enjoying a day set aside for relaxing, I took a break from reading on the porch to come inside and watch TV. I had several episodes of Ghost Adventures, I Survived, and Celebrity Ghost Stories recorded. (Don't judge me.) I also had a few B-flicks from the Chiller channel, and I figured it was a good time to munch on some carrots and (homemade!) hummus and pay vague attention to one of the aforementioned features. What won? Exorcism: The Possession of Gail Bowers, which currently enjoys a 2.7 rating (out of 10) over on imdb.com. I mean, I knew I wasn't sitting down to watch the horror movie that would change my life. But I thought I would at least be somewhat entertained. Nope. I found myself tooling around on my phone five minutes into the film. I played a few rounds of Word Mole, and finally beat my high score. After awhile, I looked up.

The heroine was in the shower, scratching bloody furrows down her face as the camera went up and down from the carnage to her bosoms, whose aureoles had been blurred just enough to leave the viewer uncertain on the question of piercings. Because (clearly) there was nothing interesting to look at, I hit the "info" button and scanned the blurb. The movie was released in 2006, one year after the exquisite The Exorcism of Emily Rose. "Ripping off on the popularity of that one," I thought without really thinking those words. I also recalled that Dominion:Prequel to The Exorcist came out in 2005. I wondered if Dominion might have been more popular if it had been released after Emily Rose. It seemed after that one, America had latched onto supernatural horror again. 2006 hosted a gaggle of ghost/possession movies... most of them not-so-great. Some bigger names signed onto horror movies, which doesn't usually happen. We saw Julia Stiles in The Omen remake. We saw Donald Sutherland and Sissy Spacek in An American Haunting (don't get me started; that movie makes me feel stabby and...cheated). We saw Nic Cage in The Wicker Man remake. A stream of low-budget exorcism/angry ghost movies spewed from Hollywood's sore throat. Just what the devil had happened? Why was this a theme that was suddenly so popular that stinkers like The Grudge 2 were making big money, when only a year before, a freaking prequel to The Exorcist, arguably the most well-known and influential horror movie of all time, had went largely ignored? Why the sudden hunger for demons and haunts? My mind wandered over to The Shining, which was released in 1980. I thought about Kubrick's pioneering of the Steadicam, and how he used it to make the viewer feel simultaneously watched and voyeuristic, and I thought about how the movie reflected well on the economic state of the time; Jack's difficulty in finding a good job not only because of his drinking problem but because it was a crappy time to find work in general. How there's nothing like a hotel full of spooks to take your mind off day-to-day things like paying unmanageable bills.

Ping.

The Shining was released during a recession. Hmm. Emily Rose was released in late 2005 and didn't do so hot at the box office, but exploded into popularity six months later in DVD rentals...about the time the housing market crashed and panicky homeowners started jumping on the foreclosure wagon. We've been in a pretty crappy place financially since then. And we keep shelling out money to see ghosts. Coincidence? No, I don't think so. I looked back at the major horror films to come out over the past several decades, movies that were popular with the American public. There is a very clear trend: not only do horror movies enjoy increased success during times of national economic shakiness, supernatural horror specifically trumps. Starting with Dracula in 1931. Smack in the middle of the Great Depression, this movie sold over 50,000 tickets within two days of its theatrical release. I thought, "Well maybe it's just any horror." No. A comparison of release dates/economic situations reveals that slashers are more popular in times of excess. Whoa. Pop culture always reflects the concerns and attitudes of the times, right? So does this mean that the high body count and one-dimensional characters of slasher films reflect attitudes of expendability when we're financially comfortable? And what is being reflected when we dig into our pockets to see ghosts? When we want to see good and evil duke it out over souls and sanity? I texted a friend about it. He said, "fear sells." Well, yeah. But I think there's a bigger picture here. I think that cinematic horror remains one of the best forms of escapism, and that when our national wallet is whimpering, we all feel the anxiety...and want to know that we're gonna get bailed out. We want to know that this situation that we're individually unable to fix, will get resolved by the higher-ups we've entrusted to handle these things. I think it's easy for that to translate into a film wherein relatable characters are suddenly the focus of more powerful beings on a different plane of existence. We're not expendable; we're very important, important enough to warrant the attention of outside intelligence. Something undefinable but definitely Bad is after us, but if there's a Bad, there has to be a Good that has our back, and Good will win...won't it? If we believe, that is. Unbelievers don't fare well in supernatural horror.

I mean, I'm spitballing here. I can't officially nail down why a certain type of a genre blows up the box office when we're strapped, or why a different type of the same genre does equally well when we're flush.

But I do know that we're all full of doubt and nervousness about our country's piggy-bank, and that Paranormal Activity 3, which I can almost guarantee will fiercely suck, is about to be released next month. And I can also almost guarantee that America is going to buy it.

That's the biggest leaf I've ever seen.

2011-09-06T17:35:00.005-05:00

This weekend, I attended Catholic Mass for the first time that I can remember. I attended with a friend once, back in like sixth grade, but I don't recall much about it other than that it felt foreign and uncomfortable. This Sunday, it still felt foreign, but much more comfortable than I expected. The priest was out of town, so the service was handled by members of the congregation, with the result being somewhat awkward and messy. After the service, Catholic Friend and I skipped on over to First Baptist, where I usually attend. I think he was a little overwhelmed by the, uh, pomp and circumstance, as was I, which is why I usually only go on Wednesday evenings. I can do without all the singing and effects; I'm there for a lesson, not a Vegas floor show. Wednesday night bible study is my preferred night because there is zero showiness, zero singing, and all study. We sheepishly told each other not to judge based on these particular Sunday morning services, and that we'll give it another shot this week. We returned to his house for grilled steak (awesome) and scary-movie viewing that turned into kitchen-chatting that went on until we realized we were sitting in almost total darkness. So we lit a hurricane lamp and kept talking. The next day, we set out for BFE, Alabama, for the Labor Day festival at the Coon Dog Cemetery. He assured me that this was to rock my world.

He was incorrect. But it wasn't his fault. After making the very long drive down there, against my whining that, "It's cold! It's rainy! Let's just stay in!" we arrived at the cemetery to find that the festival had been cancelled due to the (cold, rainy) weather. I maturely resisted the urge to jump out of the car and swagger around yelling "What's up?" and "Who was right?" frat-boy style. Instead we took a sudden, unplanned mini-hike into the woods. We discovered a spring and the biggest leaves that have ever existed. Like, dinosaur-big leaves. This walk did not suck at all. We got pretty wet and pretty cold, but we also discovered a really beautiful spot high up on a hill, where we were somewhat protected from the rain but able to clearly see the sky with its low, fast-moving Tropical Storm Lee clouds. We hung out there for awhile until the elements forced us back to the car, where we jacked up the heat and headed back to Corinth for Mexican food and a viewing of Don't Be Afraid of the Dark.

The movie...I'm still not sure if I really liked it. Apparently, Guillermo del Toro did not direct it. He co-wrote. Ummm...well, it didn't stun me. There were a couple of genuinely unnerving scenes that had this seasoned horror vet and her companion nearly grinding each others' hand-bones into dust, but they were more of the gross-out type than really-scary type. And I'm not sure why Katie Holmes was allowed to speak or move in front of a camera, ever. When you do finally see the monsters, they look like miniatrue cave trolls from Lord of the Rings. More piteous and humorous than scary.

The search continues. I guess I'm just going to have to write the story I want to see.

And speaking of writing, it's been happening. A lot of it. I've been working on several items, for myself (and this blog), and for my editor friend to take a gander at. I'm really nervous about this; letting a real professional of the field I want to break into take a look at pieces I've put real effort into is intimidating (what if they suck??). But I'm more curious than nervous, so I'm gonna go ahead and do it. Have to start somewhere, right?

Done-zo!

2011-09-06T10:29:00.006-05:00

As I approach two 5ks and begin training in earnest for my first half-marathon (13.1 miles), it's become more and more obvious that I really need to quit smoking. I've tried many, many times, and each time I've made it three or four days and then found myself charging, crazed and zombielike, into a gas station and demanding Marlboro Menthol Lights (in a box, please). Then it all starts again and I find myself smoking on the porch, staring at the lit end of the nasty thing in my hand, and wondering why the hell I'm doing this to myself.

Enough. It doesn't matter if I'm "ready" to quit. It doesn't matter if I still sometimes really enjoy it. It's just time. I've done this too long. It makes no sense to buy expensive moisturizer to keep my skin pretty if I'm inhaling something that's just going to make me age faster. It makes no sense to complete a long run and feel awesome, and then light up a cigarette on the way home and feel not-awesome. It makes no sense to wrinkle my nose as smokers walk by, and be offended at the smell, and then do the very thing that creates that funk.

Oh, and I do plan on living into old age and having my own family, so it's not really fair to cheat that family-to-be out of a healthy wife/mom just because....what? I'm weak? Pffft. I'm the stubbornest person you know. So I'm gonna turn that bulldog-like relentlessness on quitting this icky and dangerous habit. So there.

This is how projects get built.

2011-09-01T17:43:00.007-05:00

Me: We're not supposed to have our phones out at work, 'cause theoretically we can take pictures of the vault combinations or something.
Brett: But...every time I walk in there the vault is wide open.
Me: Not the important part.
Brett: We're not supposed to have our phones out at work, either. Theoretically someone could take pictures of our designs.
Me: Your designs?
Brett: My designs as well.
Me: The innovative young engineer becomes a victim of corporate thievery.
Brett: Ha! Something like that.
Me: You should have kept your old phone, then. I'm pretty sure it was manufactured before cameras were invented.
Brett: No, no. It had a camera. I just had to throw a little black cape over my head to use it, and have the subject sit still for an hour.
*giggles ensue*
Brett: I wonder how those things work.
Me: Cameras? Couldn't tell you. My first guess would have something to do with tiny gnomes.
Brett: I hope that's what it is.
*he leans back against the counter and rubs chin, thoughtfully*
Me: You look innovative right now.
Brett: How hard could it be?
Me: What, making a camera? Probably not very.
Brett: I mean the oooooold cameras, with the plate-film.
Me: So? That can be made, obviously. Someone did it with raw materials once, I'm sure it can still be done.
Brett: Right, it's not like people back in the 18-whatevers hitched up the buggy and went to Wal-Mart for film.
Me: Are you thinking...?
Brett: Yeah!
Me: Oh, this is gonna be so cool.
Brett: Let's do it.
Me: We're gonna build a camera! Yaaay!
Brett: Oh, I have something for you!
*reaches under cabinet, sets object on countertop with a proud flourish*
Me: ... coconut oil?
Brett: Yeah! It's clean. Non-hydrogenated. Cooks like butter, but no dairy, so you can keep cooking for me.
Me: I tell you I like daisies, and you get me oil.
Brett: Would you have preferred the flowers?
Me: Actually...no.
Brett: That's what I thought.

So, yeah. We're gonna make a camera. How? I have no idea yet. But it's going to be a lot of fun. Either ironically or just for documentation, pictures of the process will be taken and posted.

This is gonna be awesome.

Don't come back for me; don't come back at all.*

2011-08-29T13:42:00.006-05:00

This past weekend, I came a little too close to letting someone from my past back into my life. It didn't happen, but it did trigger some thinking. He's a cool guy and all, in the way that we all have our good points. He's hilarious and has great taste in music (for the most part). But he's not good for me. I don't think he knows much about how to value other people, and I'm too old to be teaching old dogs that kind of new trick. It's kinda funny; I used to think of him as being so wise and mature. Nah. Just several years older and carefully selfish. No, while I enjoy chatting with him from time to time, his presence is not one I want frequently or for long stretches. I doubt he'll ever be really good for any woman, and I know he's not good for this one. So I'm really, really glad that we didn't end up hanging.

I'm learning more about value every day, and what it's like to be valued, slowly and surely and deservedly, based on my real merits and quirks rather than a catch-that-butterfly! feeling.

Wanna know something about sudden lightning? It's painful and unpredictable, and it's over before you know what the hell just happened. I'm getting to really dig the cloudless sky I'm looking at. You can do a lot with that kind of weather, and at the end of the day, you're still smiling.

P.S. Several topic-posts on the way.

* Every now and then, a pop song can kinda rule.

Hot wings and b-horror make everything better. Backrubs help, too.

2011-08-25T09:06:00.007-05:00

Ok, so The Help (movie) was actually pretty good. I really enjoyed it, and thought everyone did a great job. Was it trite? Naw. Saccharine? Not really. Were there a couple overbaked humorous parts? You betcha. Does the score let you know what your reaction is supposed to be, in case you can't figure how you feel? Oh, yeah. Did a couple scenes stray from the book to make characters more dynamic and to inject more of a "you go, girl!" vibe? Duh.

It's still better than most of the other stuff that's come out this summer.

Now I can't wait to see Don't Be Afraid of the Dark. Even if it's not scary (and that may be one of the lamest titles I've ever heard), I know Guillermo del Toro won't let me down on lush sets and dreamy cinematography. Usually the best horror works by not showing the monster, but he flips that in a way I'm really into. He always shows the monster, and the monster doesn't disappoint. Remember this guy?

The back pain has faded, thanks to a lot of inactivity performed mostly on the couch. E-2.0 has been very helpful, providing killer backrubs, hot wings, and humor. (This pampering, after putting in over 100 hours at work over the past week/weekend thanks to a machinery malfunction and a big project. Not many people are that cool.) Last night we watched a gem on the Chiller channel, entitled Death and Cremation. It's a heartwarming tale wherein a bullied teenager gets a job at a crematorium and finds that the owner (Brad Dourif) kills people who piss him off, burns them up, and keeps their ashes. It doesn't take long for the teenager to join in. It's campy and predictable, but it's also a lot of fun. There's a sweet, soft place in my heart for Brad Dourif, and it isn't just because he's the voice of Chucky in the Child's Play franchise. Before I was aware of that, I saw him in John Huston's brilliant 1979 adaptation of Flannery O'Connor's Wise Blood. He's really, really good. For a special treat, rent the unfortunately discontinued Deadwood and watch him as Doc Cochran. The guy gets typecasted so much, it's like seeing a dog walk on his hind legs to watch him play a not-creepy character.

And who doesn't wanna see a dog walk on his hind legs? That's amazing.

The Decision.

2011-08-23T10:55:00.006-05:00

Awhile back, Lindsey posted some prompt-sentences for short stories and I called dibbs on this one. I forgot about it until last night.

Caitlin had kept her eyes closed for ten seconds, just like Dr. Smoltz had told her to, but when she opened them, it was still there, looking at her and not blinking.
Not that she expected her kindly therapist's advice for anxiety to work for this. Sometimes she stressed herself into small panic attacks, and she found that, usually, if she closed her eyes and took deep breaths for ten seconds, the panic would disappear and she could then set about rationally resolving a given issue.
But no amount of deep breathing was going to make that ring just disappear. Indeed, there it sat, on her dresser where Alfred had lain it and walked out when she was unable to say "yes".
She looked at it, dazed. A diamond flanked by two sapphires. She had to admit its beauty, but over the past few hours, it had begun to look froggish to her. Those sapphires looked like patient, wide-set eyes, silently wheedling for an answer. They stared at her, glittering and unblinking. Accusing? No. Just patient and expectant, like Alfred himself. He wouldn't force an answer from her, she knew. He would be sweet and supportive, through "whatever process you need to go through," he had said. And that was the biggest problem, wasn't it? What she couldn't explain, what had made her throat tighten up and refuse to cough out some kind of answer. His unflappable patience. He never got angry with her, never set his foot down. Here, he had presented her with a gorgeous engagement ring, a family heirloom. When she stalled and stammered, he just looked at her with that sweetness and nodded, asked her to think it over, and quietly left. If he had looked hurt, or slammed the door in anger, she probably would have gone after him and told him she'd marry him. But he didn't, so she didn't. Her reaction had been pure, classic Caitlin bull. And he hadn't called her out on it. Maybe he was at home now, banging things around and swearing at the cat, having genuine human emotions. But if he was, she didn't know it. And probably never would. Her eyes wandered over to the ring again and locked with the dark blue eyes already staring at her.

Taking another deep breath, she picked up her phone. Alfred deserved an answer.

There's a lotta holes in the desert.

2011-08-22T19:27:00.003-05:00

My back hurts.

I mean, it hurts. Bad.

All I want to do is hang with Ben and Jerry.

While watching Youtube videos with names like "Giant centipede fights snake".

Or "best coyote attack ever".

(That one was pretty cool.)

*grumble, grumble*

Now I'm going to get on the couch. Maybe I'll face the back. I'll decide when I get there.

Ever notice the background music in Fried Green Tomatoes? It does kinda make you hungry.

2011-08-19T15:10:00.006-05:00

Tonight I'm joining forces with Rachel and Co. to go see The Help. I'm a little trepidatious about it. People are saying it's soooo good and touching, but when the general public says that, it usually amounts to trite and saccharine, which is pretty much what you can expect from a movie adaptation of a book that same general public has embraced.

I read it. It's aight.

See, the general public doesn't read much. That's fine; reading isn't for everyone. Periodically, a book comes out that's ok, but there's something maybe a little different about it that makes a few people say it's pretty good. Then someone like Oprah comes along and declares it, oh, enlightening or powerful or whatever. Then, it's an explosion and all these people who don't usually read are reading This Very Important Book and saying it's, like, one of the best books ever. Case in point, even comparing it to the incomparable To Kill A Mockingbird. Because people who don't regularly read for pleasure don't see the miles and miles between the layers, candor, and depth of TKAM and the too-safe-to-be-truly-provocative The Help.

I don't say that as a book snob, because I'm so not. (If anything, I'm a book slut; two covers and some pages between? Yeah, I'll hit it. You only live once, right?)I'm just sayin'. The same people who are going bananas about this book are the same people who went bananas about The Bridges Of Madison County a few years back. And they likely haven't read anything in between. If you've read five books for pleasure in your life and two of them are The Help and TKAM, well, you're going to compare the two and find them similar just because they both deal with race relations in the rural South. And they're both going to be AWESOME.

But, I read it, I did enjoy it for what it is (a tasty and largely forgettable snack consumed in between the somewhat heartier meals of Foucault and Melville), and now I'm going to go see the movie. Emma Stone usually charms my socks off, so there's that.

______________________

Also: dinner last night was wildly successful. I made flourless peanut butter cookies, and tried the chocolate cake recipe again, adding carob chips and milling the rice flour longer to refine it more. I decided to wait until Sunday to try the custards, because I want time to play with them and do a test batch. Maybe I'll get crazy and create a caramelized crust. Make creme brulee out of them.

E-2.0 went back for seconds, and took a plate home. Man, I'm good.

Can't we just get some ice cream? No. No, we can't.

2011-08-18T13:03:00.007-05:00

Combining the regulations of a clean-eating diet with the regulations of a wheat-free, dairy-free diet is a lot like putting together a jigsaw puzzle without the border pieces. Yeah, it can be done, but not without some frustration.

Especially for desserts. This new beast basically amounts to clean-vegan, two words whose combination summons mental pictures of organic celery dipped in melted carob chips (or something) and listlessly eaten by pale, shaky-handed waifs who keep telling you how great they feel now that they live on compassion rather than meat.

Fortunately, it's not that dire. In fact, everything I've made has been delicious. The only "Weeelllll, I wouldn't ask for leftovers" I've received was in regard to last week's chocolate cake, which was, in fact, very tasty but had a peculiar, grainy texture. I'm told that this is because I didn't use xanthan gum with the rice flour. I'm still hesitant about xanthan gum, mainly because I don't trust ingredients that start with "x".

Tonight's menu:

Grilled Lime and Basil Pork Chops
Mushroom Risotto
Roasted Asparagus with Balsamic Reduction
Baked Almond and Raisin Custard*

It's not that difficult. It's just that a lot of dairy-free recipes are a slap in the face to "clean". A lot of recipes are the same recipes we're all familiar with, only they use margarine instead of butter, or, worse, Tofutti products. For the uninitiated, Tofutti makes dairy replacement products (sour cream, cream cheese, etc.) that are soy-based and use hydrogenated fats (trans fats). That stuff all the fast-food restaurants have been under fire about because it's undeniably horrible for you? Yeah, that stuff. Clearly, I can't use a product that combines industrialized soy (because I don't want breast cancer) and hydrogenated fat (because I don't want heart disease) to replace wholesome, delicious, perishable butter. But-oh wait-I can't use dairy, either.**

It's cool. I can be into forced creativity.

*Using almond milk, of course, which is actually pretty awesome.
** Don't think for a nanosecond that my own eating habits are changing. Asking me to give up dairy is like asking me to give up oxygen. I ain't the one who's allergic, dammit. But for shared meals, I'm taking one for the team.

This is probably the first of many Elitist-Meets-Allergic posts to come.

Give me flowers, because I dress appropriately.

2011-08-15T17:20:00.004-05:00

(Spooky house on Pontotoc)

My vacation ends tonight. It's been wonderful; I've accomplished next to nothing over the past seven days. I've read a lot, written some, and worried little. Most of my time was spent in the front porch swing, absorbing sunshine and reading whatever caught my fancy at the time. I stayed up late, slept in late (well, late for me, a natural 7 a.m. riser). I spent very little time on the internet. At first, the decision to sort of digital-detox had me feeling a little anxious; what would I miss? I found the answer to that pretty quickly: not much. I slipped into relaxation easily, and stayed there. It proved to be very good for me. Not only was I more mellow than I've been in some time, all that stillness and quiet led to some big revelations about things that had been gnawing at me. Some old hurts were finally laid to rest, and some questions that had been nagging me just sort of answered themselves. Usually I travel during my vacations, and while I have a great time doing that, I always get home tired and not ready to go back to work. I go back to work tomorrow morning, and I'm looking forward to it. I feel refreshed and energized from my time off, and appreciative of the structure that shapes my working days: I rise at this time, I make my bed, I eat yogurt and berries, for this number of hours I work, I come home and wash off my makeup, I do some tidying, I eat, I talk to/spend time with my friends, I read, I go to bed. Structure is good.

The only out-of-the-ordinary thing I did this weekend was on my birthday. Engineer 2.0 and I hit the road Saturday afternoon and headed for Memphis. We arrived on the corner of 2nd and Beale just in time for a two-hour walking tour about Memphis history and its ghosts. The plan was to do the tour, then go to Ernestine & Hazel's, a former brothel that is now a bar/restaurant reputedly haunted by soiled doves of yesteryear. The tour was a lot of fun. I learned a few things about Memphis that I didn't previously know, and saw a couple of places that I would file under "Creepy, Legitimately". (Also a couple I would file under "Creepy, Kinda, If You're A Toddler.") I was a little disappointed that the tour didn't give more actual history, since, as anyone who's at all familiar with the basics of Memphis's past knows, it is pretty disturbing on its own. The tunnels under downtown weren't mentioned, nor were the mass graves for yellow fever victims. The Gayoso House and the popular steakhouse that was once used for storing the bodies of said yellow fever victims until they could be buried, weren't brought up. It was all very enjoyable, though. The tour finished up at Ernestine & Hazel's, which was unfortunately closed for a private party. The owners were very cool, however, and let us come in through a side entrance to go upstairs and poke around up there. It's kinda hard to get riled about the supernatural while you're with a group of people and joshing around with your companion, but there's definitely something spooky going on in that place. I can't wait to go back on a regular night and go back upstairs for a longer look. The place hasn't been renovated, but is still up to code. Meaning, watch your step and don't do jumping jacks up there. It's still sectioned off into the little rooms where the ladies once plied their trade, and it's very easy to stand there and imagine it as it once was. I don't think that kind of establishment can operate as long as that one did without some freaky energy settling into the wood. I look forward to returning, and maybe next time I'll be able to get my mouth on one of the Soul Burgers I've heard so much about. As touristy as Memphis can be, it says a lot that the locals like to hang out there.

After the tour, we caught the trolley back to Beale and settled into one of the nondescript bbq restaurants there for a late dinner, then lazily meandered up and down the street, merrily chatting and people-watching. It's always quite a show down there. We sat in Handy Park and talked awhile, and then an older gentleman who was selling roses approached us and gave Brett two of them to give to me. He said, "You have to give these to your wife, I can't give them to her, you need to. She's calm, and she's dressed appropriately. Give her these flowers!" We laughed and I blushed and tried to correct his mistake, but he was already walking away. So Brett handed me the flowers and thanked me for dressing appropriately, and for being so calm. We were still giggling about it when we were approached by another gentleman, who told us that for five dollars, he could tell us how many children our daddies had had. This gentleman was considerably deep in his cups, so we declined the offer and moved on. It was pretty late by then, so we moseyed back to the fairly-swanky Courtyard-Marriott, stopping for a few minutes at the fountain in Court Square. The only other people there were two young folks pawing at each other on a bench. Other than that, it was completely deserted and still, silent except for the night birds chirping. This is the Memphis I love, sultry and historic and beautiful. When you catch her in her quiet moments, its impossible not to fall in love with her.

It was a lovely cap to a wonderful week. Now I'm getting my laundry done, looking over my planner for the next week's events, and watching the days fill in with obligations and appointments. I'm ready to go back to work.

And am I happy? Oh, yes.

For Tamara.

2011-08-13T14:50:00.000-05:00

Unexpected nostalgia.

2011-08-08T20:57:00.003-05:00

For a little while, my life felt like how the first minute of The Cure's Just Like Heaven sounds. And who doesn't want to feel like that? It's all sparkly and fun. It's waking up in a great mood and having a big country breakfast. It's jumping into cool water on a hot day. It's that clear way the air feels after a rain.

Sometimes, that feeling comes with spectacularly, destructive bad timing, and it causes a hurt.

Then a while later, it doesn't hurt anymore, and there's just a sense of coulda-woulda-shoulda.

And that passes, too. Except for the occasional cosmic tugging you feel when you know, without doubt, you're being thought about by someone you used to think a lot of, and it makes you lift your head and look into space for a moment. I always look toward Memphis.

Then it's gone.

2 days til vacation.

2011-08-03T17:35:00.003-05:00

Not a second too soon. There's all sorts of goodness on my plate lately, and I'm enjoying it. But I can use a little break to relax a bit, get caught up on some pleasure-writing (which sounds dirty but isn't). And canoeing.

That's right! For my birthday/vacation week, I'll be spending a lot of time in the water, which is natural and right. E-2.0 and I will be "floating the Buffalo", which means paddling through mostly tame water with only an occasional canoe-flipping. And really, when it's so hot outside, getting tossed in the water is kind of the best part. I've done this once before, and it was a lot of fun. Other best part? No cell service out there in the boonies. Oh, I can't wait. Swimming, splashing, broiling under the sun, pushing my companion into the water when we stop for lunch. It's gonna be a hoot.

I'll also be doing something watery with Brandon. We haven't decided yet; maybe a separate canoeing trip, maybe a long drive to the nearest water park just for the hey of it. On the days I'm not involved in some kind of outdoors adventure, I'll still be outdoors, parked at Tasha's pool and slowly getting so dark as to be unrecognizable by my enemies.

Oh, and I'll be pulling together a few pieces I'm submitting to a bigger-than-Corinth newspaper. I've received some unexpected encouragement from one of the editors, and I'm really excited about it. *crosses fingers*

Just a blupdate. I'm working on...something about lard.

Audacity.

2011-07-28T15:23:00.003-05:00

I'm no real financial advisor. Sure, I can help you figure out what kind of account is best for you. We can look at CDs versus High Yield Money Markets, and I can analyze your needs and tell you how you'll make the most money off the money you already own. I can calculate your interest over time so you'll know what your $30,000 today will be in five years. I can help you understand the rules so you can keep as much of your hard-earned money as possible without it being unnecessarily taxed to death.

But I'm no guru. I can't comfortably sit down and talk shop with the Investments boys yet. It would be unethical and illegal for me to advise you on stocks. It's fair to say I know a little more about the financial world than many of my peers. Just a little, though. And having intimate knowledge of HYMMs is a damn far shout from being able to weigh in on the current debt ceiling crisis with any kind of of authority.

But I can say that the suggestions in this article are pretty insulting, and I can say that it's a pretty shitty situation when SSI-dependent 80 year olds are being asked to cut off their phone service and shower less frequently because our fine leaders (most of whom are in the top tax brackets) apparently can't be expected to stick to a budget themselves.

Engineers really do have all the good ideas.

2011-07-22T16:04:00.007-05:00

Each Labor Day, the Tennessee Valley Coon Hunter's Association hosts a celebration at the cemetery to remember faithful coon dogs, and to enjoy buck dancing, a liar's contest, music and barbecue. More than 200 graves are freshly decorated for the event.

Yup. I've been invited down to the Coon Dog Cemetary this Labor Day. Somehow, I've never been.

But it's on this year. Brett has big ideas of winning the "liar's contest", and I have big ideas of watching my Yankee-raised friend spin yarns for Alabaman old timers. There will either be uproarious applause, or crickets (maybe a wailing baby). Either way, it's gonna be a lot of fun for me. Who knows? Maybe I'll buck dance. I will definitely eat barbecue, and pay my respects to all the the departed Reds and Spots and Jakes whose bravery and loyalty made this event possible.

Sometimes, I love the South so much, I can't imagine wanting to live anywhere else. Events like this, The Slugburger Festival, anniversary weekend at Shiloh, the 4th of July at McFarland Park or Point Mallard...all these opportunities to see unbridled Southern insanity in a good way. Everyone's in a good mood, the old folks are acting silly, and there's usually a talented banjo player nearby. It's so charming and sweet and magical. If we were like that all the time, everyone would like us. Unfortunately, all that gets shot the second you walk into the Savannah Wal-Mart and all the South's ugliness is on display: the poverty, the ignorance, the racism, and, worst of all: the apathy toward all of the above. For every sweet granny playing a dulcimer and singing lilting bluegrass lullabies, there are five homophobic 'necks revving their trucks in grocery store parking lots to prove their masculinity. It's disappointing and disheartening.

But at least we've got the Coon Dog Cemetary.

I will never stop snickering.

2011-07-22T11:23:00.001-05:00

There's something about this that feels so wrong. But that doesn't stop me from laughing at Kitler.

Goodbye, horses.

2011-07-18T12:15:00.009-05:00

Last night, after a particularly stressful weekend, I had a series of dreams that left me baffled. They weren't all bad dreams, in fact, only the first was unpleasant. Just very different from any I've had before. Unfamiliar symbols, unfamiliar feelings, etc. I've always dreamed vividly, and my dreams have always had more than a touch of prophetic value, which I've successfully tuned out over the last couple years as my faith has taken blow after blow. I don't know if anyone receives signs in dreams from an outside force anymore. Usually I think what we consider prophecy is no more than tapping into areas not frequented by your waking mind. The brain sorts out information at night, kinda cleans house. Maybe the revelations we find in dreams are just...the little janitor in there is sweeping into darker corners and pushing forgotten stuff out into the light.

Or maybe sometimes the Universe throws us a bone when we need it.

Now, I had a pleasant evening last night after dinner. I went to Brett's and we watched an absolutely ridiculous movie, and talked into the wee hours. I went home feeling much better than I had when I arrived. I walked into my room, changed into my pj's, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and crawled into bed, mentally and physically exhausted. I had been lying there for a few minutes when I was suddenly accosted by the Hag. I haven't seen her in some time, but I knew what was going on, so I didn't get scared. I just focused on flexing my fingers and toes until I found I could move my legs and sit up. I laid back down, and it happened again. Three times, she showed up, the last time so violently that I thought I felt the bed move and thought Clarice had jumped up and maybe slid back off. Anyway, that was it as far as the Hag last night, and I mercifully fell into real sleep, where I saw this:

Yeah. My brain has been astral projecting and hanging out with Lisa Franks.

I dreamed that I was trying to shoe this horse, in the middle of a terrible night-time storm. There was no rain, but there was constant lightning, lighting up the sky in brilliant blues and purples. The horse was bucking and trying to break free. I don't think he was so much pissed at me as he was scared of the lightning. It was a brown horse. I finally got him shod and led him inside the barn. Then the storm was over and I was in a restaurant with friends I've never met in real life, except one. The only person I recognized was the last person I saw before I went home. Maybe they were his friends. I ordered calamari. The rest of the dream...and hang on, because this is about to get all Raising Arizona...was a mishmash of happy montage and home video, like I was old and watching taped segments of a life that hasn't been lived yet. I'm not going to go into detail about what I saw (just believe that the detail was incredible), but everything about it felt real and warm, and I couldn't wait to be the old lady looking back over all the happy memories. I saw myself in my 30's holding the babies I haven't had yet, I saw the husband I haven't married yet, I saw my own parents, increasingly older and older but still healthy. I've gotta say, it's the only dream I've ever had where I wanted it all to come true.
Some googling has provided me with this:

To see a horse in your dream, symbolizes strength, power, endurance, virility and sexual prowess. It also represents a strong, physical energy. You need to tame the wild forces within.

If you dream that you are horse shoeing, your success is assured. For a woman, this dream means a good and faithful husband.

I'm not sure how those conclusions are arrived at, but I'll allow them.

Some huge changes have occurred/are occurring in my life recently. New people are coming in and people I've known a long time are being asked to leave. Although there are some changes that are utterly breaking my heart, I'm accepting them and even welcoming them as being in my best interest. Loving someone doesn't make them good for you. Habits and people that have hurt me for years are being kicked out and I'm scared to death of what my life looks like without them, but I know that whatever comes, it's got to be better than it's been. I've been examining my faith more closely than I have in a really, really long time and I'm finding that it's still there. It's about believing in what you haven't seen yet, and trusting it. These changes have been coming for months...years, in some cases.

I'm not angry with anyone. I'm forgiving. But I'm not forgetting, because I can't. That doesn't mean I'm holding a grudge. It just means that some people won't have access to me or my life anymore, and that's all there is to it. Maybe all there was to last night's dreams was hoping to see my future like that. Maybe I was actually allowed a sneak preview so I know I've got good stuff coming as long as I trust the decisions I'm making and stay the course.

I don't know. Maybe it was Utah.

Shameless kin promotion.

2011-07-17T13:42:00.002-05:00

Cousin Eric's awesome and artsy wife made this poster for Hopscotch Music Festival. If you've got a second, do me a solid and vote for her.

Simple as this, I'm in love with the risk, I know what I've done, but tell me what did I miss?

2011-07-13T14:43:00.003-05:00

This week has brought a few big changes, all good but one. The good first:

I've committed to a school for the next year. It seems smartest to finish up at Northeast. It's close, it's cheap, and it's only a year.

I've enrolled and am officially a student again!!! Yaaaaay! Classes start in about three weeks. I'm so excited, I can't sit still.

The not-so-great: I also decided that moving north is not in my best interest at this time. And really, in all likelihood, I'll be transferring to U of Memphis once I'm through at Northeast. I know Memphis, I love Memphis, I have friends in Memphis, and my family will still be close enough for regular visits. Now, it's entirely possible that I may change my mind about Memphis over the next year...but I kind of doubt it, and it's not fair for anyone to put anything on hold while I work toward the point where I need to decide anything. In light of that decision and all the common sense I'm actually capable of tapping into, the manfriend and I have agreed that it's best to not continue a relationship. That sucks. It's been a very successful relationship. But this had to be done. Having him in my life has changed my life for the better, and I'm so thankful for the great time we had. We have no intention of halting communication, and I look forward to being even closer friends.

So there's that. In other news, I'm legitimately tan for the first time in years, things are finally smoothing over with BC, and I've recently acquired a new Scrabble buddy: a local engineer with the best vocabulary I've encountered in this town.

Megan and Brandon are super excited about my going back to school, and I think there will be karaoke in Memphis this weekend to celebrate.

Oh, yeah? Well, I'm starting a petition to make Jennifer Nettles illegal. Federally.

2011-07-10T08:38:00.006-05:00

Every inbox I regularly check (ok, both inboxes I regularly check: hotmail and FB) are flooded with forwards asking me to tack my name onto an embarrassing, misspelled, inflammatory "petition". The goal? To make felonious the failure to report a child missing, in a timely manner.

Yeah, I choked on my coffee, too. This lump of well-meaning but completely tretarded hogwash is snowballing and now hurtling across the interwebs at an alarming pace, getting folks all excited and rowdy. More importantly, I'm getting alerts on my phone every time someone emails or messages me this drivel, or every time I'm "invited" to "Help Us Make Caylee's Law Real!"

I'm no more pleased about the Anthony trial than most people. IMHO, the prosecution eschewed a solid, winnable manslaughter or negligent homicide charge and went instead for whole-hog: capital murder. A fine media circus, but then there's that much more pressure on a juror to make damn sure there's enough evidence to back up that charge before sending a woman to Death Row. The jurors did their jobs. The prosecution gambled on all or nothing. They got the latter.

And joining the throng of people who are failing to see that and choosing to talk smack about the jurors, are the people who are forwarding this annoying pseudo grass-roots plea for new legislation, without considering how incredibly specific said legislation would have to be, what a pain in the lawmaking ass it would be to make it happen, and the myriad ways such a law could be twisted and abused.

I don't expect too much to come from this. But I don't want the aggravation in my inbox. And I'm not leaving my porch light on, either, unless someone explains to me how it will change anything other than my utilities bill.

I'm moving to Colorado, where I can be skinny.

2011-07-07T18:18:00.002-05:00

According to this article, Mississippi is, again, the fattest state in the nation.

I'm going to have a lot to say about this as soon as I get back from the Slugburger Festival.

Lady Justice is sitting on the steps, smoking a cigarette and staring into space.

2011-07-05T15:30:00.005-05:00

When my cousin Megan was pregnant with her son, she had a terrible nightmare. She only had it once, but its memory still bothers her. In it, her child had already been born, but had somehow gotten lost or stolen. She went completely insane and ran outside looking for him; under shrubs, inside vehicles, clawing at loose dirt. She couldn't find him and she knew it had driven her completely mad, and she couldn't stop looking. It's the worst dream she's ever had. She says now that that's pretty much how it would go down if something happened to him today.

This afternoon, Casey Anthony was acquitted of the murder of her two year old daughter. I'm not going to linger on this, as the people who have been interested are already aware and the ones who were not interested in the case aren't interested in its outcome, either. When the verdict was reached and announced, Megan sent me this text:

What about the decomposing tissue in the trunk? What about all the partying while her child was missing? I wouldn't be able to shower, or eat, or sleep. I'd literally walk off and search until I was dead.

That seems to be the general consensus.

I mentioned it to a friend earlier and was surprised to find that he had no opinion, and virtually no knowledge of the trial. We all have different interests, I suppose.

This morning in Silver City, MS, 60 year old Mary Grandberry was sentenced to 10 years in prison and $3,000 in fines after being convicted of sexual battery. See, she was arrested in 2004 and charged with murder. She molested her 4 month old granddaughter so brutally that the infant died of internal hemorrhaging. After seven years of the state-funded Capital Defense Group throwing up motion after motion and successfully bogging down the process, the prosecution finally allowed charge bargaining "to get it over with". So instead of Grandberry facing punishment as a monster who raped an infant to death, she gets 10 years on an assault charge.

I genuinely wish I could check out into a book sometimes and just decide to not care about the things that are actually occurring around me in the world I presently live in. But I can't.

I'm thisclose to being able to triumphantly blare the theme from Flashdance in my car.

2011-07-03T14:59:00.009-05:00

Take your passion, and make it happen. -Irene Cara*

Me: Well, what was your drive? Was it your job? Were you passionate about it?
Grandma Charlie: Sarah, I was an accountant.
-Conversation, circa 2009

Yesterday, my body officially declared rebellion on this new schedule and tossed a stomach bug at me, which I caught before I knew what was happening. I had been at work at the Mango a little over an hour when -BAM!- I was channeling Regan MacNeil. So I went home, chugged some Pepto, and spent the day and evening reading, watching shows about ghosts, painting my nails and toenails, trying out new hairdos, and talking on the phone with the boyfriend.(All of that is true. And no, I have not regressed back to 16. Sometimes you just need to not be, you know, on it.)

My body's just going to have to suck it up and adapt, because my schedule isn't likely to get any less busy over the coming months. I took this second job to pad my accounts and get a little closer to school, but a plan quickly formed and I've been volunteering for every available extra shift, hostessing and bartending into the night. It's paid off pretty quickly, and it looks like I'm going to be parking my rapidly shrinking self in a classroom this August rather than having to wait until January. I should know for sure next week.

Keep your fingers crossed for me. I want this bad. Now that I'm no longer even slightly entertaining the notion of going back to school to be an accountant, it's suddenly a lot more exciting and desirable. I'm a very stubborn person, and I have to figure things out for myself. You can't tell me. It won't work. I didn't feel a huge yearning to go back to school for a long time, simply because I knew I would be going back to accounting. That's just not something I could get excited about. It doesn't matter if I'm good at it; I don't like it. I'm never going to jump out of bed with a grin, anticipating the columns of numbers waiting for me at my beige office. So eff it. I have two passions that I always come back to: writing and food. Ya'll know about passion, right? It's a wonderful thing. Its absence is keenly felt, if not immediately identifiable.

Those close to me know I went through a terrible sickness last year. It was a sort of cancer of the spirit. Getting over it required finding my passions again, and not just clinging to them as ideas, but actively pursuing them and making them part of every day. I've been doing that, and then it just clicked that that's what I should do for reals. And that's what I'm going back to school for. Journalism and Nutrition. And now that I know what I want to do, I don't want to waste any more time getting there to do it.

So I'm busting my ass. I'm tired, overscheduled, and I rely too heavily on my day planner. But there's this little fire keeping me going. I wake up excited, and I'm genuinely happy.

Getting well was just the beginning. I'd forgotten I could glow like this.

*Hehehehehehehehehe, etc.

Gay pride. Straight pride. We all look like idiots sometimes.

2011-06-24T14:42:00.008-05:00

So if you're at all aware of what's going on in America this weekend, you've probably noticed that it's time for everyone's favorite polarizing parade, in which the queerasexuals band together and strut around in stillettos, leather, bright colors, and whatever silly gear they can find. For what purpose? Depends on who you ask. Answers range from "to remind straights that we have a voice" to "just to have fun!" to "so the damn gays can shove their beliefs down our throats". If you happen to reside in a small country-fried town, you'll hear a lot more of that last one. Being around the public about 15 hours a day, I overhear a lot of opinions. Sometimes I'm asked for mine, and depending on my geographic location at the time, I often stay politely neutral in order to avoid total ostracization (or in some cases, stoning). What I've been hearing a lot of the last couple days is along the lines of "How can gays expect to be respected and taken seriously if they insist on acting all flamboyant and freakish to shove it down our throats??". (I repeat that phrase there because it's such a favorite among straights and other people whose rights are already in place and whose way of life is in no way threatened by sharing titles and benefits with their fellow citizens.)

I'm not going to launch into a discussion of right/wrong here. I'm not going to expound upon the danger of allowing your government to legislate based on the preferred religious text of whatever group happens to be in the majority at the time. I'm not going to point out all the questionable ways people cherry-pick contradicting parts of said text to base their politics on. It's Friday, and I'm tired, and a blog post isn't going to change anyone's mind. I also have several conservative friends and family members who read what goes on here, and I don't want to make it sound like I think they're stupid for their beliefs; they're not, and I respect their right to those beliefs.

No. What I'm doing today is politely requesting the Pride parade bashers to please shush if all you're gonna do is hate on the fags because some of them choose to sashay around looking like idiots this weekend. This is a special event. It is no different from any special event where everybody involved is basically trying to out-dumbass the person next to them in the name of spectacle. Gays don't have the monopoly on silly public behavior.

Anyone who wants to bitch about it is encouraged to speak up and defend a certain beloved event wherein women show their tits to straight men in exchange for plastic jewelry.

In conclusion:

Just sayin'. Unless you can tell me which of these are Pride-related and which are Doo-Dah, St. Patrick's Day, and Mardis Gras, please just keep words like "sanctity" and "freaks" out of your arguments against Pride parades.*

*Haha! Tricked you. None of these pics are from Pride events. Agree to not refer to Pride weekends anymore when we're discussing grown-up politics? Sweet.

Wonder why they do that.

2011-06-21T09:21:00.005-05:00

It was nearly time to go. Schaefer slowly rose to his full height, taking as deep a breath as he could manage. He looked around the small room, scanning over the faces of the clan. His children, his brothers and sisters, cousins, friends, and even a few rivals. His weak eyes fell on his wife, Denise, standing tall next to the exit. Her face was unreadable, and it crossed his mind to speak to her, and he almost did, but it wasn't quite time for that yet. First he had to walk. He took a step, hoping nobody saw the trembling in his skinny legs. Another step, and another. He looked straight ahead, passing the faces, not wanting to see their pity. Without a word, he continued down the narrow aisle his clan had formed, until he reached the doorway. He stopped, and looked at Denise, suddenly at a loss for words. She spoke first, breaking tradition and drawing gasps from the room.

"It's been a good run, Schaefer. I suppose I may even miss you."

He smiled. It was a shadow of a smile, but his eyes twinkled for just a moment.
"You're still very young," he replied. "You will forget me in time, and find someone new. Our children will forget me."

"Never, my love. Your children will know who their father was."

"These ones will. I'm sure I have others scattered across this region with no understanding of their lineage. I was a little reckless before I met you."

Denise laughed at that, and Schaefer managed a chuckle that quickly turned into a deep, racking cough. It finally passed, and he grew somber as the room suddenly grew brighter, as light flooded in through the narrow crack in the wall that served as a door. Behind him, he heard the quick shuffling of many feet, his companions backing away farther into the shadows. Someone whispered and was quickly hushed. He saw none of this. He had been in that formation many times. He looked down at his old, tired feet, and then up at Denise again, longing to touch her one last time...but that could not be. Her speaking first was one thing, and forgivable. To touch a loved one at the end would be too much. He could not bring shame upon his family, now, at the end of his walk. Denise nodded, understanding without speaking. He turned and faced the doorway, and forced his feet to move. It was the only time he had ever known real fear, and it took all of his strength and will. Taking a last breath from his home, he slipped through the exit and into the blinding light. Staggering across the floor, he began coughing again. Still he continued. He could not see at all now. He clutched at his chest and stumbled, falling to his knees. The pain was growing, and he could not get a full breath. At last the coughing stopped, but he still could not get enough air in. He crawled forward a few more steps, and fell onto his back, unable to go on. He stared upward into the white light, gasping shallow breaths. He was vaguely aware of a heavy rhythmic vibration and pounding, and knew The Tall Ones were nearby. His legs and arms slowly and involuntarily drew inward, curling and stiffening. He closed his eyes, and it was over.
******

Jake was startled out of his doze by his wife's shrieks. He jumped out of the recliner, tripping and almost falling over his very startled terrier. He followed the sound into the kitchen, where Sheila stood, pointing at the floor.

"Ew! Oh, ew! Get him out of here!"

Jake looked where she was pointing, and heaved a sigh of combined relief and annoyance.

"My Lord, Sheila. I thought you'd cut one of your fingers off. You really needed to wake me up to come pick up a dead cockroach?" He grabbed a roll of paper towels off the counter and squatted down, examining the corpse for a moment. "Big one, ain't he? Bet he was old."

Sheila shuddered in revulsion. "Get him out. I didn't know we had roaches. I hadn't seen any til now!"

Jake shrugged and picked up the carcass with a paper towel. "I'll call an exterminator." He wadded up the paper towel and tossed it in the trash. "Weird, though, ain't it? They stay hid, but they come out into the light to die in the middle of the floor... wonder why they do that."

"I'm not really a waitress" is one of OPI's best colors.

2011-06-20T09:58:00.004-05:00

This afternoon after work, I'm heading straight to the restaurant for my first shift there. All I know is that I'm starting out by hostessing and seating. I have no idea what to expect, or even what my schedule this week will look like. I do know I'm excited by the idea of making extra money while being in such close proximity to Tom Kka soup. It's been a long time since I've worked in a restaurant.

I'm just really, really happy that they don't have a salad bar. I'd rather endure watching Grease or listening to Michael McDonald than break down a salad bar ever again.

In other news, I was reunited with old friend Fowler over the weekend. We met up in Olive Branch and were soon joined by Megan. It was a lovely evening, and I can't wait to see both of them again.

In which my dad continues to be awesome.

2011-06-19T07:56:00.003-05:00

Having just this weekend received confirmation on old suspicions regarding my ex husband's fidelity, I found myself talking to Pops about it.

Me: I just thought we had that one thing, you know? That we had that little bit of dignity, we could say we were never unfaithful.

Pops: No...you had dignity. He never did. You have dignity.

Tell me about your mother breakfast.

2011-06-15T10:22:00.007-05:00

Earlier this week, a coworker mentioned aloud that she had been losing her hair. It isn't noticeable to anyone else yet, but it's understandably really bothering her. She's right on the edge of menopause, and starting to experience hot flashes and night sweats. I've been listening to her talk about this and thinking, "Man, that's gotta suck." Yesterday she talked to her doctor and agreed to start a new medication that's supposed to help. She's already taking meds for high blood pressure and acid reflux.

She had a Lean Cuisine for lunch, and mentioned that she would probably make sandwiches for dinner.

I, being that annoying health nut (the really annoying one because she's still arguably overweight...but not for long!!), blurted out that those Lean Cuisines are hurting her and that I could probably come up with a menu for her that would encourage hair regrowth and naturally lower her blood pressure.

(Yes, I gained weight over the winter. Why? Coca Cola, that's why. I started enjoying one in the afternoon back around November, which was around the time... know what? I'm not going there. That slight slip off the clean-eating path sent me tumbling and rolling down a hill covered with convenience foods, HFCS, additives, and "enriched" white flour. I landed about a month ago, heavier and feeling like a slothful land beast. Eff that. I resolved to do what's best for me in every capacity, including what I put in my mouth. Eating clean shaved the equivalent of a first-grader off of me last year. I only need to lose maybe an 18 month-old again, or a Boston Terrier. In the last couple weeks, I've lost...about a Bichon Frise, and I've got so much energy I could re-shingle a roof by myself.)

I'm a huge believer in clean eating, and that before going on medications, one should always try to find a natural way to treat a problem. I'm making it my personal goal to get my coworker's blood pressure down, ease her acid reflux, help her lose a few pounds, and hopefully get her hair growing again, so that her doctor can OK her throwing away those damn chemicals with their heinous side effects (and heinous price tags).

This is going to be a lot of fun. I've got a lot of ideas, and I can't wait to ask her about her habits at home, her schedule, and what foods she likes and doesn't like. It's like a big jigsaw puzzle, only when you finish putting it together, someone gets to enjoy a better quality of life.

Intermission, take 2.

2011-06-14T08:53:00.002-05:00

I've been approaching this with the wrong attitude entirely. I've been sad about giving up my apartment and saying, "Well, I don't have to do this." Which is true. I don't. But here is where my attitude shifts: I can.

I've been looking at this like, "Poor me, poor me", which is a truckload of horse hockey. I am damn lucky. Instead of having to struggle my way through school and be uneasy about rent the whole time, I have this awesome family who's willing to let me crash for a couple semesters. This is a great opportunity. A lot of people don't have this kind of option. It's going to allow me to save a lot of money while finishing up at Northeast, so that when I'm ready to move on to _____ and continue my education there, I'll have a nest egg and not have to slum it. It also lets me spend more time with two of my favorite people in the world before I move to a different zip code and only see them once or twice a year.

In other news, yesterday I made one of the few really mature decisions I've made in awhile. It occured to me that if I don't take another trip to Chicago this August and use that money in a wiser way, I'll be back in a classroom in January. It sucks that I won't be able to see the manfriend until autumn, but this is how it's gotta be, and he agrees 100%. I got lucky there, too. What a great guy.

And in other, other news, tonight I'm going to one of my favorite restaurants to see about a job waiting tables at night. Cross your fingers.

Intermission.

2011-06-13T09:37:00.003-05:00

I wouldn't necessarily call it a funk. I've just had a lot on my mind lately, trying to make some really tough decisions and mentally map out where each decision might take me. I can't shake the feeling that I'm hurtling toward a dead end no matter what I do. But I guess a lot of people in my position feel that way. I've been doing one thing long enough that it's basically the only thing I can do until I get more schoolin'. My alternatives without further education are not good. Even if I stay in this business, I'm pretty much hanging from the highest rung I can climb without official initials after my name. And it's not like I haven't been wanting to go back to school. I've just kept allowing obstacles to stop me, rather than suck it up and climb over them. One of those obstacles is my pride. It's convinced me a couple times over the last couple years to move out and get my own place, even though the education-hungry part of my brain shouted "Bad Idea!!". I make enough to comfortably live on my own, sure. But not comfortably live on my own and pay the remainder of an unpaid tuition in time to enroll for spring semester. I thought I could deal with that when I got the place on Maple Rd a few months ago.

I was wrong.

My pride's taken a lot of blows over the last year, almost all of them as a result of my own lack of critical thinking. So I figure it can take this blow, too, since deep down I know that it's really for the best. Living on my own comfortably in Corinth is not a good option when I step back and see that that's likely where I'll stay. I can see how I could let this semester and that semester pass, faster and faster, until education is no longer a priority because I've...settled. Settled for less than what I'm capable of, and certainly less than what would make me happy.

Back to Polk St.

So I've been pretty quiet lately. My conversations have all been superficial, and I've only read light things, and I've watched a lot more tv than usual. A lot of people would say those are symptoms of depression, but I'm not depressed. A little blue, but not depressed. I've just needed to take a few days to enter some new information, monkey around with my hard drive, and finally reboot with a new purpose.

I can't hit the ground running. This is an issue of patience and diligence, two things I usually run very short on. It's my way to look at a problem, size it up, and start pawing and snapping at it, poking at it, and getting angry at it. I'm always in a rush to fix things. I want to move NOW, I want to go NOW, I want to make up NOW, and why won't you cooperate now that I'm ready??

Once when I was little, my Grandma Charlie said, "Sarah just pushes and pushes until she can't stand it anymore." Very accurate. My way is childish, and rarely works.

So I'm sitting back and learning some patience. There is nothing to push right now. I'm in a period of waiting. This is a positive thing. I will get back in school faster, and in the meantime, I may even finish my novel.

Part 1 : "By the power of three times three, make them see, make them see."

2011-06-03T18:30:00.010-05:00

If you owned a uterus and were under the age of 40 in 1996, or even if you didn't own the uterus and just hung out with humans who did, you probably immediately recognize that quote from The Craft, one of the silliest (and most enjoyable) movies ever made about witchcraft. Come to think of it, there aren't really a lot of movies about witchcraft that can be taken seriously. Even the really good ones are either more along the lines of dark humor (Sleepy Hollow, 1999) or not actually about witchcraft at all (The Crucible, 1996). It seems when the subject tries to take itself seriously, we get gems like Witchboard (1986), and oh, what a heap of fun that was. I'm not hatin'. Watching that movie is a truly fantastic use of 90 minutes.

A couple weeks ago, I made an offhand remark to a friend, joking that I had been hexed; I experienced a series of mishaps that week that left me with a sore toe and a broken phone. He asked me if I actually believed in curses, and I responded that I don't necessarily believe in the power of a curse based on its elements. I don't believe that roots or herbs or chants can directly affect me (unless said roots or herbs are poisonous, ground into powder, and slipped into my food, presumably from a giant ring worn on the witch's knobbiest finger). I do, however, believe in the power of suggestion, and that if you really think you've been cursed, it becomes a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy. This is the principle at work in hoodoo, and make no mistake-hoodoo charms and curses work pretty well...as long as those being charmed or hexed know about it and believe in it. (Note: I refer to the casting here as hoodoo rather than Voodoo, to differentiate between the magic and the religion. Hoodoo is a relatively new term, and American in origin, and is magic without a defined religion, whereas Voodoo is a religion...and a fascinating one. We're not getting into the Vodun religion, where Voodoo is rooted; that's a thesis, not a blog post.)

I got to thinking about folk magic and superstitions, and how prevalent the latter are in our everyday lives. Asking around, I found that most people hold at least one or two superstitions that they weren't really aware of holding, and which in some cases directly contradict their chosen belief system. Take for instance the practice of knocking on wood, which I also discussed with my friend that day. Basically it's to thwart the mischevious tree sprites who live in the wood. Apparently, these malicious little buggers continue to live in wood after it's been chopped down, sanded, shaped, and fused together with other bits of wood, sat on display at a furniture store, and finally delivered to your home. (Stop snarking. It's the principle. Or something.) These sprites are just hanging out, waiting for humans to mention something they wouldn't want jinxed, so that they (the sprites) can wreak some havoc. The theory is that if you clobber their homes while you're talking about whatever it is that you want left alone, the sprites can't hear you, so you're safe. I don't think I need to describe how trying to appease spirits from pagan belief systems is in contradiction to, say, Christianity. Or how the idea of luck in general is contradictory to any monotheistic faith wherein the source of your safety and good fortune is your deity...but we still knock on wood, toss salt grains over our left shoulders, don't tell bad dreams before breakfast, and attach significance to certain numbers. 13, 7, and 3 seem to be favorites. In fact, no one I asked favored any even numbers. Hmm. The number 3 in particular is attached to all sorts of superstitions and beliefs. It's a constant detail in ghost stories and stories about demonic attacks and possession. Even a casual few minutes on Google will show you that a majority of people who wake up in the night from a terrifying dream, or awake to see "a figure at the foot of the bed!" will say they woke up at three a.m.

There is some meat to that, if you hold Christian beliefs. According to Matthew 27:45-46, Jesus died at about 3 p.m. "45-Now from the sixth hour darkness fell upon all the land until the ninth hour. 46-About the ninth hour Jesus cried out with a loud voice, saying, “Eli, Eli, lama Sabachthani?” that is, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?". Jewish daily timekeeping back then started at six a.m. The third hour was nine a.m., the sixth hour was noon, the ninth hour was 3 p.m. It has been suggested that the increase in demonic and paranormal activity at 3 a.m. is a way of mocking the death of Christ. (This was touched on in one of my very favorite movies, The Exorcism of Emily Rose, based on the real-life 1976 exorcism of Anneliese Michel.) Again, we come back to the power of suggestion. Once you've heard that you're more likely to be scared out of your wits at 3 a.m., don't you think it's possible for that little information time-bomb to embed itself in your subconscious and detonate at 3 a.m., waking you up with a creepy feeling? I do. Absolutely, I do. I've had more experiences with Old Hag/sleep paralysis at that time than I care to count here.

The number 3 has long been associated with bad omens, and death omens. My mother told me a true story about my step-great-grandmother Mamie, and I found it pretty interesting. This was in 1942, and Mamie was pregnant. My great-grandfather Erskine was out of town for work, and Mamie was sleeping alone in her bed. The children, including my granny Cora, were all in their rooms. A the time, thick glass bed coasters were used to prevent the bed from sliding or marring the floor. Mamie woke in the middle of the night (time was not specified) to the sound of something under her bed...or rather, under the floor. It sounded like "someone under the house, hitting upward at the floor with a sledgehammer". There were three very loud blows, and then silence. Mamie, terrified, jumped out of bed and ran into Cora's room, where she stayed the rest of the night. The next morning, after telling the girls what had happened, they all went in to inspect the bed and found one of the coasters broken into three pieces. This unnerved Mamie, and convinced her it was a bad omen concerning her pregnancy. Whether she was correct on that is pure speculation. What is certain is that she went into labor not long after and delivered twins; one was my great uncle David, and the other was his unnamed sister, born dead.

Are superstitions and belief in omens neccessarily in contradiction with the Christianity my family professed? Probably not. But what about Ozark magic, Appalachian Granny Magic, wise women, folk medicine that relied as much on certain spoken words as on the healing powers of whatever plants or other ingredients being used? When my grandpa George was a boy, he was told that burying his mother's dishrag under the light of the moon would rid him of his warts. He did it. (I don't know if it worked...I don't remember him being warty, though, so I guess something worked between his childhood and when I knew him.) I know that when my uncle Dan was a toddler, he was roughhousing and slid hands-first into the fireplace, his little hands crashing right into the bright-hot coals and suffering terrible burns. My grandparents did not rush him to a hospital, but to a local wise woman who could "blow out the fire". The woman said words over his hands and blew on them. I don't know how long the healing took, but I'm told it was a fast healing, and his hands never showed any trace of the scarring that should have been permanent. We see here the curious kind of treatments that almost certainly fall under witchcraft, performed by people who self-identify as Christian. Also popular in folk wisdom: palm reading, tea leaf reading, coffee grounds reading, scrying mirrors. Divination, strictly prohibited by the Bible they otherwise follow. Is reading the coffee grounds at the bottom of your cup witchcraft? Probably not. But it is divination, for sure, and that's a big no-no. So why is witchcraft "bad", but folk wisdom/healing is ok, even though the practices are pretty similar? Is this a question of semantics? Yeah, I dunno.

To be continued...

A lot of ideas.

2011-06-03T08:26:00.001-05:00

And too much on my mind to sort through them.

It's coming, though. Something.

Why he's the Manfriend. Also some stuff about books.

2011-05-27T12:36:00.026-05:00

"I read like sharks swim. If I stop for very long, I will die." -Bjorn

So, I was supposed to get my zombie on in Memphis tonight. Lacefield and I had big plans to haul ass westward, get splashed with fake blood, and happily lurch along Beale, loudly and ineloquently discussing BRAAAINS.

However. As all of the purchases I made in Chicago and didn't bother to record are now showing up and announcing that they do, in fact, exist whether or not I wrote them down, I have decided to stay home this weekend (and shove my wallet in the freezer to think about what it did). While I am disappointed that I don't get to stagger over and reunite with my old buddy Lindsey after a too-long hiatus, this isn't terrible news. Now that Memphis, dining out, going out, entertaining others at my home, and buying anything at all have all been knocked off the table, a quiet three day weekend yawns before me. And I am into it.

There are things that need doing. I still have to get caught up on laundry and (shamefully, yes) finish unpacking. I have a lot of ideas for reorganizing the shelves in my bathroom. I may get around to replacing a few light bulbs. Mostly, I'm going to devour what I can of a stack of unfinished books. The very thought is making my brain salivate (ew?), and I keep glancing at the clock, anxious to get home, pour an ice-cold blueberry-pom & tonic, and settle on the patio. On the menu:

Dead Man's Walk, Larry McMurty (This is the first prequel to Lonesome Dove. Don't hate; it's a great series. Well-written, exciting, and occasionally very funny.)

My Thoughts Be Bloody: The Bitter Rivalry Between Edwin and John Wilkes Booth That Led to an American Tragedy, Nora Titone

No-No Boy, John Okada

The Madness of Mary Lincoln, James Emerson

The Things They Carried, Tim O'Brien

Many Lives, Many Masters: The True Story of a Prominent Psychiatrist, His Young Patient, and the Past-Life Therapy That Changed Both Their Lives, Brian L. Weiss

Mayflower: A Story of Courage, Community, and War, Nathaniel Philbrick

Old Souls: Compelling Evidence from Children Who Remember Past Lives , Tom Shroder

And no, I'm not turning into a reincarnation-crazed hippie...but the thought is certainly intriguing. And who doesn't like the idea that if you mess up in this life, you get another crack at it in the next? It's attractive, for sure. I'm going to rein this in before I segue into a meandering, possibly offensive post that will probably show up here sometime this weekend.

Definitely the best decision I've made today.

2011-05-26T15:04:00.003-05:00

Cooking my quinoa in chicken broth instead of water...and adding celery seed while it was simmering. There's no end to my madness and depravity.

Sigh.

2011-05-25T16:19:00.002-05:00

Severe Weather 5/25/24

10 pm
74°FStrong Storms
74°F

11 pm
72°FStrong Storms
72°F

Thursday, May 26
12 am
72°FStrong Storms
72°F

1 am
71°FStrong Storms
71°F

2 am
70°FStrong Storms
70°F

As always, we are under the biggest threat between 10pm and 3am.

Well, it would make an artillery demonstration that much more interesting.

2011-05-24T17:53:00.002-05:00

Dad: I almost shot your cat while you were gone.
Me: You don't have a gun.
Dad: No, I almost shot her out of a cannon.
Me: You don't have a cannon.
Dad: Yeah? I know where to get one.

A very special episode of "As The Saint Spins".

2011-05-24T10:31:00.008-05:00

"You make me feel a little older,
like a full grown woman might" -The White Stripes, Cold Cold Night

Over the last couple months, I've been experiencing a sort of renewal. I recently described it to someone as feeling like I've been napping for a long time, and I'm starting to wake up. I feel all the signals firing in my brain, sometimes coordinating and producing thoughts that other people seem to be interested in, which surprises me. I also feel another part of my brain lighting up like a switchboard: the part that decides what I'm interested in and what's best for me, and moreso, the part that's decided that I don't have to care how all that is received by others. I've really hurt myself and thrown off my timeline, allowing myself to curl up into a stifling mold that's never, ever been a good fit. There are a lot of contributing factors for this: a very poor choice when it came to a spouse, an even poorer choice regarding timing and importance of education, deciding I was pretty much trapped here and that I might as well shut off the part of me that wants more.

Assimilation. Stagnation.

Eff it.

It doesn't matter how many contributing factors there were or how many obstacles are still there. This life I've been living here in Corinth simply isn't good enough for me, and I'm not going to be ok with it anymore. I don't mean I'm not going to be happy while I'm here (I firmly believe that happiness is 75%attitude), but rather that I'm not going to be satisfied to stay here. This is not where it ends for me, under fluorescents and being forced to listen to pop all day and watching the light in my eyes dim a little more every morning when I brush my teeth.

So I'm currently in the process of looking for an additional job in order to pay off the last of my debts even faster. It's crucial to 1) get this brain to a real city, and 2) get this brain back into school and give it some formal feeding. Untapped intelligence isn't cutting it. I've been coasting on potential for a long time. Enough of that. It's time to see what I can do, and what I want to do with it. The more I talk to my eloquent, scary-smart boyfriend, the clearer all this becomes to me. Ditto Tamara and Lindsey. I'm so jealous of Tamara and her back-to-school goings on, I can barely see straight. (I ain't hatin', lady. Just sayin'.)

It's time for some major changes. The first big change, I think, is the decision to act like the adult that I am and stop making excuses as to why I haven't pursued excellence until now.

Changes to follow: my body and how I treat it; the way I organize everything in my home, my car, and my skull; choosing a school, and relatedly, choosing a city toward which to haul my ass as soon as possible. And to aid in those last two, I'll be securing a nights&weekends job within the next two weeks. I want to make this move happen by January. A lot of decision making to do during that time, but I'll at least have a nest egg ready for when the final decision is made.

I really, really like Chicago. It's big and exciting, and some parts of it really remind my of my beloved Midtown (Memphis). I particularly dig the transit system and the mind-boggling concept that maybe I don't have to own a car and the corresponding lifelong car payment, gas money, and maintenance headache. I love that there's something really fun to do in a five minute's walk in any direction, and that if you know how to look, said fun is free. People were surprisingly friendly and helpful, there are unlimited dining options, and don't get me started on education options. That's another post entirely. And while I would not consider moving to another city solely because of a man, it certainly helps that there is a man I'm nuts about in that particular city. Just as when I was considering moving to Buffalo, the one big thing holding me back is the godforsaken climate. I have been raised mostly in the south. As our comparatively mild winters come to a close around March every year, all I want to do is lie still out on a flat rock and absorb the sunshine like a lizard. When the temperature cruelly dips to anything below 40, I burrow into layers of cuddly long sleeve t-shirts and homemade socks, guzzle gallons of hot tea, and pat myself on the back for making it through when the sun smiles down on me again. I like the feeling of my bare shoulders starting to sizzle in April, when the mercury starts hitting the 80's. I go through June, July, and August, prettily glistening and happy. I am assured that there is indeed of brief window of terrible, suffocating heat every summer in Chicago, and the idea of that is what I know I'll cling to all winter, should I decide to head North.

I know that the weather seems like kind of a dumb reason to move or not move somewhere. But I really, really hate being cold.

This was how Buffalo was described to me, and why I decided not to move there:

Let me just make it clear, in case I haven't, that it gets COLD here. Bitterly, finger-eating, face-shattering COLD. We are situated right next to the largest collection of fresh water in the world, and the winds that come off Lake Erie and Lake Ontario are f*cking blustery nose eaters. The low pressure systems that move across the lake suck moisture as they travel and when they make landfall on the metro Buffalo area they vomit snow in torrents. It's a weather phenomenon called the Lake Effect. There are beers and diners named after it. For at least three solid months a year you deal with mass quantities of snow, and for six months out of the year you deal with the cold. You MUST have special clothing - padded, insulated socks, shoes big enough to accommodate said socks, thermal underwear, insulated wind-resistant gloves, scarves, ear muffs AND winter hats. None of these are optional. Your heat costs will be astronomical if you're not okay with sitting at home in four layers, two pairs of socks and slippers, a winter hat, and never feeling your nose. Snow is heavy. It looks fluffy and light, but wait until you start having to get up at 5AM to shovel the stuff out of your driveway for 2 hours so your car doesn't get stuck / can movie. It is cardio, and it is work. Ordinarily simple tasks - like taking out the garbage / recycling, running to the grocery store, going to work - take on whole new worlds on complexity when there is snow on the ground. If your gloves get wet with it and they're not waterproof, you're f*cked. If you're cold natured or get cold easily you will freeze your ass off all winter long. Ice can be invisible and you will bust your ass if you're not totally careful. If you have a dog, taking it out multiple times a day will a tremendous amount of work to your daily tasks.I just want to make sure you fully realize what you might be getting into. --Tamara

Yeah, I know it's milder in Chicago than in Buffalo. But you know what? They're both damn cold.

If my name was Natty Bumppo, I'd be all, "Yeah, my friends call me 'Hawkeye'," too.

2011-05-15T08:25:00.012-05:00

So the other night, I watched Last of the Mohicans with buddy Brandon.This sparked a slew of decent ideas, and I got to typing. Then I realized that no one really wants to read a book report, or a comparative essay. The book and the 1992 film are very different. That's what you need to know. Really, all that needs discussing is Cora's dumbassy decision not to marry Duncan Heyward. (I'm not just saying this because of my well-documented thing for gingers.) Attractive, uniformed, sincere Duncan. I mean, he's going places. And they've known each other since childhood, so there's an excellent foundation in place. He's civilized. Educated. Not prone to showoffy behavior. Aaaand on the other hand, we have Hawkeye, who fancies himself something he's not on so many levels, is hot-tempered, and develops a very unhealthy infatuation with Cora in like eight minutes, when his mind should be on other things. Seriously, they've been hanging out for, what, two days, and he's willing to risk being hanged just so he can stay close to her? Not sweet. Creepy. And really, really dumb. Duncan wouldn't have done anything so stupid. No, he waits until the end to pull his self-sacrifice card, and it works. Because he, you know, knows the girl. It's a lot more effective than Natty "oooh, look at me jump over a waterfall" Bumppo's foolhardy antics for a chick he can't possibly have real feelings for. Cora just got distracted by all the fringe and that big ol' gun, I think.

Here, Hawkeye attempts to lure us in with a smoldering gaze and a low-cut blouse.

To our right, a cool and in-control Duncan negotiates...oh, who cares what he's doing? That's a hot plate of sweet ginger goodness, and that's what matters.

Living Dead Girl.*

2011-05-10T10:15:00.010-05:00

*cracks knuckles*

I just know I'm going to get some guff over this one. But it's stuck in my head, and I will Have. It. Out.

"Two necrophiliacs are standing outside a bar. One says to the other, "Hey! Let's go in and get a cold one." -old joke, retold by Tom Parson this morning over coffee

I'd like to preface this by saying, no, I am not a necrophile. The idea grosses me out, and it makes my moral compass start spinning in flummoxed outrage. I don't care much for dead things. Romantically, the living still very much do it for me. Even if I had the inclination, I wholly lack the motivation. I can be a physically lazy person and grave digging sounds like tiring, smelly work, and I'm just uninterested. Plus it's *%&#ing gross.

Actually, this idea was planted a few months ago, when I watched a ridiculous horror film entitled "Necromentia", with my good buddy Sean. It was one of the more disturbing movies I've seen in some time, mainly because I was completely unprepared for it. I had a few interesting conversations on the subject of necrophilia over the next couple weeks. The responses I got mostly ranged from "Ew" to "EW!!", and each response included, "Um, what got you thinking about this?". I got distracted by other subjects (as usual) and forgot all about it, until this past weekend, when the idea for a horrific short story popped into my head. I found my interest...reanimated, if you will.

So this week, I have been "researching", which actually translates to "devouring handfuls of Cheez-Its while clicking from one shameful webpage to the next and strongly hoping that no one is tracking my internet activity". I've found out all sorts of interesting things I didn't previously know. For example, that Herod was a rumored necrophile. He kept his first wife preserved in honey. I knew that unprocessed raw honey will keep pretty much forever, and that still-edible 5,000 year old honey has been found in Egyptian tombs. But I never thought about it having such a nefarious purpose. Preserving her corpse in it...ok. But I guess he would have to pull her out now and then to dip the comb, so to speak, and that sounds incredibly messy and cumbersome. It also calls for "Sweet Caroline" to be playing in the background, and that isn't always a great thing.

I've also found out that, at this time, there is no federal legislation against getting your skank on with a carcass. Several states have their own laws against this (Connecticut: Class A misdemeanor; Alabama: Class C felony. Bite us, North. The South's got it right on this one thing, ok?). I read an interesting case in which three young men disinterred the corpse of a recently deceased woman with the intention of a particularly disturbing group activity, and at the time, Wisconsin had no laws against violating a corpse in that manner, so the young men were charged with Attempt Misdemeanor Theft and Attempt Third Degree Sexual Assault, and the latter was dismissed. This has since been rectified, but still.

I've been reading about the fascinating Dr. Carl Tanzler, a German-born radiologist who in the late 1920's, fell in love with Elena Milagro de Hoyos, one of his tuberculosis patients the United States Marine Hospital in Florida. Although his beloved never showed any sign of reciprocation, the man was completely obsessed. He tried everything he could to keep her alive, but she died...and he saw no reason for that to get in the way of wooing her. No, a couple years after her death, he decided that people were starting to talk too much about his frequent visits to her mausoleum (for which he paid), and figured it would be better just bring her on home. So he did, and kept her for most of a decade. During this time, of course, Elena sort of lost her youthful good looks and Carl had to constantly renovate, refinish, and revarnish her with assorted waxes and silks. He made a wig for her, a plaster of paris face, and gave her glass eyes. He also reworked some lower plumbing with a tube in order to continue having relations with her. (In addition, he went through tremendous amounts of disinfectants and perfumes.) It's not all formaldehyde and dry-heaving, though. For all these years, he wrote her daily love letters, which he read aloud to her. He had a telephone installed in her room, should she want to call him when he wasn't there. It's kind of a sweet story, really, except for the parts where he preserves a corpse and has sex with it for nine years. It's rare to find love like that. (I hope I never do. This gives new meaning to "Tainted Love".)

...which leads me to this question: is necrophilia really all that bad? Hold on, hold on. Don't get your underpants in a bunch. It's repugnant, sure. It's physically icky and probably pretty damn unsanitary, and there's something about it that makes us instinctively wrinkle our noses and declare "wrong". Ok. On what grounds? The corpse has no opinion. Is it still violation if you're not violating an actual person? I think we can all agree that it's not like there's a soul or spirit or even an energy still in there. It's basically the equivalent of violating a side of beef: gross, but not technically morally reprehensible. The living attach all sorts of meaning and feelings to earthly remains, and I can't figure out why. We flush out their blood and pump them full of preservatives. We sew their mouths shut. We groom them and do all sorts of medically freaky things to them to make them more...palatable (not in the edible sense; that's a post for another day), but angrily shout "let them rest in peace!" when the subject of necrophilia arises.

Interesting. Is it the sex part? Would we be so offended if people had, say, an uncontrollable urge to cover the corpse in toy unicorns and sing to it? Ok, still pretty weird, but not as offensive. To us. The corpse, as stated, has no opinion.

I don't know. I can tell myself these facts, I can rationally sort through the heap, I can understand that when it occurs, the other half of the tryst is not actually being harmed in any way. But it still makes me queasy and I still want to declare "wrong."

Ok, I think it's out now. I need to watch Pollyanna or Bambi.

*I realize that I chose the most obvious possible song title for a post of this nature. But it's just such a darn fun song. And honestly, there are sooo very many songs/movies/books/poems that deal with the subject...you know what? This post is going to need a sequel just to cover necrophilia in pop culture. I'm starting with you, Tom Petty, and your creative homage to Poe's Annabel Lee.

Things I apparently don't get.

2011-05-08T18:47:00.003-05:00

1) Why anyone would attempt to turn left onto Shiloh Road from Madison at 5 p.m.
2) Balut, or why anyone would put in their mouth.
3) If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it...
4) White Sox schedules. Or maybe I just have a poor memory.
5) Why catfish is listed in the "seafood" section of grocery circulars.
6) Precisely how car engines work, or don't work.

BC: A shout-out.

2011-05-08T17:31:00.010-05:00

American Aquarium- Lonely Ain't Easy

A couple months ago, I had a falling out with with one of my very favorite people. I've been hoping the situation would resolve itself, but it hasn't yet. I can't say how bummed I am about this. We have been buds for several years now, and we've had a lot of fun and been there for each other through all kinds of gnarly stuff, including our divorces. I tried texting him today, to no avail.

So here's my very unorthodox way of going about this apology.

Bill, I know you still read my blog, so I know you're reading this now. This sucks. Can we please make up already? There's so much to catch up on. I miss you.

*I chose this video because 1) it features him prominently, and 2) it's a really great song. That's another thing, BC: I can't listen to my favorite band's albums right now because your bass is all over them and it makes me sad. I'd really like to listen to Dances For The Lonely sometime soon, so let's bury the hatchet.

Hold on, I'm angry again.

2011-05-06T08:54:00.004-05:00

Women who don't want to be raped shouldn't dress provocatively.

At least, according to this asshat cop in Toronto.

Women get sexually assaulted under a lot of circumstances. A rapist can be a "normal" guy, taking advantage of a very drunk friend (and just because she doesn't scream "no" and fight you with her fists does not make it consensual, buddy. You can go ahead and write off a semiconscious woman as off-limits, mmmkay?). He can be the guy in the Lifetime movie, the serial rapist lurking around the corner, having no acquaintance with his victim. He can be your husband. He can be anyone. The varieties are endless, and it's pointless to try to list them here. Perhaps even harmful, because cataloguing the types sort of makes them caricatures, and that makes it easier to forget their very real threat. It doesn't matter what kind of rapist he is, because there remains one constant: he has a damaged chip in his processor that cripples his ability to regard his victims as fellow human beings, deserving of rights and space and privacy. Whether he's motivated by lust, power, humiliation, straight up insanity, whatever. The constant is that damaged chip.

And it has jack to do with whether or not you're wearing a short skirt.

This backwards way of thinking makes me so angry, so hurt, so frustrated. It's flawed and screwed up on so many levels. It doesn't just bring back the archaic, sexist and dangerous "she was asking for it" mentality, though that's enough to piss off anyone with half a brain. What else does it do? Say it with me: It takes the responsibility off men and places it on women. It asserts that a man is just a big dumb animal, and that if he's provoked, he just can't help it and gosh darn it, lookit what happened. She shouldn't have worn such a low cut top. She shouldn't have danced like that. She shouldn't have drank. She shouldn't have flirted. She shouldn't have exhibited any hint of sexuality in any possible way. She shouldn't have gone out. She shouldn't have gone out on Thursday. Because, after all, he's just a man and is thus in no way accountable for his own actions, his desires, or his reactions to those desires, regardless of what motivates them.

Yeah, I'm not buying it. It's sexism, any way you frame it. It's sexist against women to make them responsible for their own victimization, and it's sexist against men to let them slide on the rationalization that because they own testicles, there's an invisible and subjective point of provocation after which it's permissible to dismiss his self-control.

The fact that this asshattish thinking is in the minority doesn't make me feel much better. There are still way too many people who feel the same, as the comments on this article show. This particular worm of sexism is unfortunately deeply embedded in our culture, and it's going to be awhile before we root it out and kill it.

Things like this make the sun come out again.

2011-05-06T08:20:00.001-05:00

Ornery hormones are no match for finding out someone found my blog by googling
"powerful lightning lady sarah ".

On top of the world again.

In 12 days...

2011-05-04T20:33:00.008-05:00

I will be on a plane to Chicago, where museums, boat rides, unfamiliar architecture, and the guy I'm stupid for await. We've discussed several places I can go to amuse myself during the day while he's at work, and of course I plan to spend some time here so I can get my nerdy on and be even more jealous of his job than I already am. (Seriously, Universe. You present me with a fella who's into history AND books at the same time. Good form. I owe you a cake or something.) We've also discussed several places we can go in the evenings. I have quite a hankering to see this:

...perhaps after we go to the swanky French restaurant he was telling me about.

I think the black taffeta 50's cocktail dress will do just beautifully.

This post is decidedly tangy.

2011-04-29T14:34:00.010-05:00

So the big company picnic is coming up in a couple weeks. We're all looking forward to having a rollicking good time. There will be games, which I'm told are fun. I've never been big on organized physical fun, though. Seriously, look at me. Do I come off as sporty? I'm pale to the point of translucency. I own one pair of running shoes, and they are strictly for running (by myself). I think a person is only dealt so much hand-eye coordination, and roughly 78% of mine is all about page-turning, fork-to-mouth, and nimbly navigating multiple browser windows. I can also chew gum while engaging in two of those activities. Your pick.

Horseshoes? Volleyball? It would seriously behoove all those involved to NOT LET ME PLAY.

Oh, well. At least there's going to be food (outstanding fork-to-mouth aptitude: check!). And I, stepping up in an unprecedented show of generosity and responsibility, have accepted the task of supplying the mustard.

Just mustard? you scoff. Where's the responsibility in that? you sneer. Clearly, you haven't given enough thought to the importance of this noble and irreplacable condiment. Let me enlighten you.

A longass time ago, the Romans mixed up a batch of unfermented grape juice (known as "must") with ground mustard seeds. This mixture was called "burning must", or mustum ardens. Hence, the word mustard. This sassy concotion has been tweaked, added to, deconstructed and reconstituted with so many variable ingredients, there are now thousands of mustards out there, from the ubiquitous yellow table mustard we associate with hot dogs, to the fancypants black olive mustard and Maui onion mustard. I mean, I have a lot of decision-making to do. And then I have to consider pairings, so I have to schedule a consult with the chef and the ~~sommelier~~ soda person... What a horrible faux pas to show up with a savory honey mustard only to find out that the main course is beef (hamburgers) served with tepid Dr. Pepper, and clearly I should have chosen a spicy brown, or perhaps a coarse stone ground.

Someone has to think about these things. That someone is me.

This just in: Kroger has announced a sale on its Private Selection yellow mustard. 4 for $5.

We have a winner.

P.S. I like to offer a lyric or imagined soundtrack to my posts. If only I knew a band who had a Mustardy album.

I'm only happy when it rains.*

2011-04-27T10:09:00.016-05:00

All I want to do is relax and read this book, a gift from the manfriend (whose awesomeness increases about every eight seconds or so). The weather has had different ideas. Late Monday night, I was startled out of a pleasant shucks-he-likes-me glow by a text from Brandon, alerting me that Corinth was under a tornado warning. Sure enough, the sirens immediately started shrieking, and kept shrieking. I spent a good chunk of the evening hunkered down in the basement, hoping the ghosts weren't judging me for freaking out (or for my bunny-emblazoned pajama shorts). Last night another wave of severe weather hit. I had decided to stay the night with the folks, and we basically went back and forth between the house and the cellar all night. In total, I've had about 4 hours of sleep between the two nights. I'm fussy. My feeding schedule is off. I'm about as sagacious as a hubcap. And I swear to Gaia I will effing SLAY the next person who mispronounces "sirens".

The storms are supposed to continue until around 3 or 4 this afternoon, but now the bigger concern is what the ground is going to do with all this rain. I'm hoping we don't have a repeat of last May, with its horrible flood damage. We'll see.

*This is not true. But how often does one get such a great opportunity to quote old-school Garbage, from back when Shirley Manson was still pretty cool?

***UPDATE 4/29***
Parts of the South are completely devasted. 300 people are dead, as of last count. Close to a million people are still without electricity, and now the survivors face months of cleanup and rebuilding.

Thankfully, every source of news media is doing a bang-up job on covering the real headline: the royal wedding. Because while so many Americans are hanging out in shelters and relying on the kindness of strangers, it's pretty imperative that we hear all about the wedding menu.

Equally cute are some of the comments on the CNN articles about the destruction in the Southern states, ranging from total apathy to unabashed glee that all us Neocon, sister-screwin' rednecks got what were comin' to us. My personal faves are the ones suggesting that Mother Earth is sticking it to us because we're all Birthers and Climate Change Deniers, and our Jesus is mad at us.

Sometimes my fellow Americans make me a little queasy.

Lady. Ladylike. Ladymusings.

2011-04-25T14:02:00.005-05:00

Back in 2004, I took on "Saint" as a last name. Somewhat prematurely, as the wedding was not until 2005...but seriously, if your name would soon be as cool as "Sarah Saint", wouldn't you want to put a rush on it, too? I did. This necessitated a new email address. I had long been ashamed of my old one, ophelia_dear@hotmail. I chose it when I was 13 and I had sort of a thing for Hamlet. (Ok, I still do, but I no longer have Waterhouse prints shouting that love from my walls.) I was terribly dramatic at that age. I made sure everyone knew I was reading Victor Hugo (the unabridged Les Miz). I may or may not have had a cat named Danae. Basically, I was begging for a beatdown I never receieved.

I digress.

There wasn't enough thought put into the new email address. Brandon had started referring to me as "Lady Saint", so I just tacked that together to form ladysarahsaint@hotmail. *sigh* I regretted it almost immediately. One, it sounds like I hang out at the Renaissance Faire. A lot. (And I probably would, if I had that option more than once a year, but to sound like you hang out there a lot and you really don't, is so very much worse than actually hanging out there.) Secondly, there's this: Nocturnal Admissions.

Which is a now-defunct blog (c'mon, Lindsey!).
And I know nobody goes there anymore. But that picture pops up if anyone runs a Google search on me, with the caption "Lady Sarah Saint", and I look like a *$%#*@# dominatrix.

I'm not.

In which I geek out. Even more so than usual.

2011-04-20T08:19:00.013-05:00

When you're young (as in, high school-to-college young), horror movies are where it's at. Everyone likes them. It seems perhaps particularly among my generation, wherein irony is everything, we love horror. Especially if it's "so bad, it's good". The gorier, the more outlandish, the more ridiculous, the better. (See Evil Dead 2 for an example of an oft-referenced and beloved movie that is actually a very funny movie. See the 2010 Night Of the Demons remake for an example of trying too hard to nail that sweet spot that is the apex where grotesque and funny meet. There are hundreds of other examples of this. That's just the first one that came to mind.) Anyway, at some point, the charm seems to wear off for most people. Being a horror fan becomes less "heck yes!" and more "um, sometimes" and you have to scramble to explain that you're not down with torture porn (Wolf Creek, Hostel, the Saw franchise). You still have a fondness for the old favorites. ED2, The Exorcist, The Changeling, The Omen, Nightmare on Elm Street, Poltergeist, maybe the original Last House on the Left. Maybe the The Uninvited (1942) and The Haunting (1963), if you're someone I would probably like.

For some of us, the charm doesn't wear off. And we probably liked the first Saw or two.

My own love affair with horror films began with The Haunting, Robert Wise's brilliant treatment of The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson. My mother and I watched it when I was probably about 9 or so. I had seen horror movies before (mainly 80's gorecoms like Troll and Ghoulies, which have their own place and are totally enjoyable) but never before had one actually frightened me. This movie was effective on so many levels. The eerie, dreamlike score. The quiet build of tension until you can almost feel the characters' panic. The use of lighting, camera angles, and disconcerting sounds to parallel Eleanor's back-and-forth flirtation with madness. 48 years after its release, it's still effective. I got lucky in viewing it so young. One movie, and I was hooked on the scary. I've been on a search for that cinematic high ever since. I've found it a few times.

Along the way, I've been exposed to a lot of terrible movies, a great deal of mediocre movies, and a handful of great movies. I've explored gore (anything D'Argento), the aforementioned torture porn (the first and second Saw aren't bad, ya'll, and seriously, Funny Games is pretty good), ghosts (see: Japan), aliens (Alien, The Fourth Kind), demons (see: America), mutant animals (Night of the Lepus!), mutant bugs (Mothra!) mutant humans (The Hills Have Eyes, Freaks, ...ok, and Deliverance), psychological thrillers (Seven, M, Silence of the Lambs), slasher favorites (Halloween, Friday the 13th), and the newer in-betweens (Jeepers Creepers, The Haunting of Molly Hartley...this non-genre usually produces very forgettable movies. No offense to Justin Long...rawr. Of course, I have a soft spot for him because he co-starred in Drag Me To Hell, which is one of the best movies to come out in years and is helmed by a remembering-his-roots Sam Raimi.)

This isn't a post about the history of horror....because that can't be done in a post. That's an entire book, and one I may even write someday, just to add to the many that are already out there. This is a post about unabashedly loving horror, well past the age that most of my peers have pretty much lost interest. Automatically scanning the new-release shelves (or screen, since we're usually renting from Netflix or Redbox these days) for the new scary movies. That nudge your subconscious gives you when the previews are over and the screen goes black for a second, and This Is It. It's starting. This could be the scariest one you've ever seen.

Usually, it's a far cry from the scariest you've ever seen. But sometimes, you get surprised. That's what happened to me when I went to see Insidious, the latest haunted house movie. Some of its tricks were expected, some were not. A few of the effects were hokey. A couple completely unhinged me. It's probably the best new haunted house movie to come out in a long time. (The haunted house subgenre is my personal favorite, and as it's a frequent theme of the stories I write, I feel it's my duty to read/view all I can within the field.)

I'm going to be straight here: it's a very narrow field to play on. There are only so many ways to work things-that-go-bump, and most of them are pretty tired. It's entirely in the delivery. You can't just make something super weird and expect it to scare. You have to present a comfortable reality, a believable normality, to contrast the weirdness with, and if you do that well enough, something as slight as a whisper can be terrifying because it offends. It's not supposed to happen. That's not supposed to be there. There's a great sense of wrongness in well-executed horror, and I think that's why it's such a favorite form of escapism. There are plenty of people who say, "Oh, I hate scary movies, why would anyone want to scare themselves?". They just like a different kind of escapism. (They usually like romcoms with insipid dialogue and semi-hysteric, materialistic women who trip over things a lot and the dashing, rich men who inexplicably fall for these dingbats, but to each their own. You like your dingbats wooed, I like mine skewered. To-may-to, to-mah-to.)To that, I answer: because it makes our own lives that much simpler when we walk out into the sunlight, when we flip on the light, when we switch over to the Weather channel. We may be struggling to make ends meet. We may be going through a divorce, or desperately wanting but unable to switch jobs, wanting to finish school. We may be cripplingly lonely, or slowly wading through the viscous bog of this-isn't-what-I-wanted boredom. Ok. At least there's not a maniac hiding behind the couch with a machete. There isn't a demon suspended from the ceiling, waiting for the right moment to jump into our bodies and make us beat ourselves up or kill people or Riverdance or whatever's most horrifying to us. We aren't going to open the fridge and have a swarm of mutant bats fly, shrieking, out into the kitchen to devour us with their (serrated?) teeth.

Well, probably not.

We can be reasonably sure that those things probably aren't going to happen. But if a movie can make you believe a reality close enough to your own: the smarter than the flock high school girl, the single mom barely hanging on, the overwhelmed young dad, the pretty happy family, the unhappy family...if you can feel the characters, it's got you. If you can put yourself in their shoes, you'll find yourself scared when that first bump-in-the-night starts to bump. When you feel the goosebumps, the knot in your stomach. That's the illusion at its best.

And if you're still thinking about it later, if it's really disturbed and permeated your evening, well, that's the magic.

I don't want to go in the cart.

2011-04-17T09:55:00.006-05:00

103.6 degree fever.

Fight with the roommate.

Sporadic cell service.

Sporadic communication.

Wishy-washy weather.

Spent the morning in the ER because there are no clinics open on Sundays in Corinth. What was a little sore throat and low grade fever (and seriously, my natural body temp hovers around 100 or 101 anyway because I am a freak of nature) has escalated into a full scale attack on my respiratory system and ears. Attempts at taking a full breath end in violent coughing and swearing and fist-shaking at the sky.

I am not in bed. I have to wait on the pharmacy to open, so I can drive myself out there, sit, and then come home and not be able to sleep because I cannot sleep during the day.

On the bright side, I will get to stay in my pajamas all day and watch something like Gettysburg or Beetlejuice. Maybe both.

P.S. It's not all bad. I had a great time with the gang last night. We stuffed ourselves with sushi and went to see Insidious (which I had already seen and couldn't wait to see again, and now I still wanna see it again) and Hanna. Hanna...I'm still not sure how much I actually liked it. It was pretty well made, though. And hats off to the Chemical Brothers for that score! Fantastic.

Last Day Of Magic

2011-04-15T10:40:00.005-05:00

I haven't yet mentioned going to see The Kills in Nashville next weekend. I'd like to do that now.

I'M GOING TO SEE THE KILLS IN NASHVILLE NEXT WEEKEND!!

I'm so unbelievably excited about this show, I can't stand it. And the cherry atop this magnificent music sundae: I get in for free, thanks to a good buddy.

New house, reunions, a man I can't get enough of, and a concert I'm stupid-excited about.

April, you've outdone yourself. Best. Month. Ever.

For love or money. Or, in which I let pop culture infiltrate.

2011-04-13T12:01:00.005-05:00

A couple years too late, but I've had other stuff to think about. Like a divorce. A presidential election. Major flood events. Libya. And my thighs.

Last night, I purchased a gym membership and put it to immediate use. While I slogged along on the elliptical (and remembered how much I love/loathe the elliptical), I got to watch cable on the fancy schmancy screen built into my machine. Options were limited, but I found an old rerun of Sex and the City to settle on. I was initially pleased with this; I remember being completely in love with the show while it was still on the air. The first movie was well-executed. The second left me nauseous, offended, and disappointed. But the show...I could come back to the show and still love it, right?

No, not really. Apparently, I've changed somewhat since 1998. Which is good, since that's the year I started high school. After I got home from the gym, I dug out my old SATC boxed set and perused for awhile.

Ok. There are a few things I never even noticed when viewing these episodes the first time. For one, I'm not sure how Carrie's incredible whinyness didn't force me to take a baseball bat to my tv set. I'm not sure why I didn't have a problem with Miranda's hair, or her depressing bitterness toward men, and am fairly certain that the two are related. (Seriously, if you insist on keeping a scary haircut and automatically angrily dismiss every guy you meet because they guy before him pissed you off... it's unlikely you'll ever have a great guy blowing up your phone. You can only expect so much.) Samantha, to me, was always a very unrealistic character and I never paid her much mind. I still like Charlotte. She can stay.

One particular episode got me thinking about the role of money in relationships. Carrrie's on-again/off-again love, Big, is getting ready to leave for a business trip to Paris. She shows up at his ridiculously swanky apartment wearing a beret and holding a bag of french fries. Cute. While they discuss the trip, Big causally drops it on her that he may just stay in Paris and live there. Carrie, being the emotionally mature grown-ass woman she is, heaves the food at the wall and screeches, oh, a lot of stuff. Two things stood out to me here:
1) While her delivery of how she was feeling would have made any sensible man (or woman) run for the hills, there was a huge truth in her message: the disappointment of investing oneself in a relationship and knowing your partner remains detached.
2) Big's jaw-droppingly douchey behavior, and her acceptance of it until that point. He's just standing there, wide-eyed, while she demands to know "why you wont make me a part of your life in any real way." She's right. He never has time for her. He's wishy-washy at best, and slow to tell her how he feels about her. For years, he has strung her along, putting off commitment, patronizing her, and treating her as girlfriend-on-demand rather than a human being he's agreed to be in a relationship with. She's absolutely being disrespected.

And I wonder how long she would have put up with that disrespect and chilly treatment if he didn't have that swanky apartment, a chauffer, and regular comparisons to Donald Trump. Yeah, I went there. I find it very difficult to believe that she would have stuck around long if he were renting a one-bedroom while withholding his affection. It's not like their attraction was based on much to begin with. From what I see, they don't really have any mutual interests or shared ideals. They disagree more than they agree. They don't play much. I'm thinking that for a lot of women, money still covers a multitude of sins. Me, I'd rather live paycheck-to-paycheck with a guy who makes time for me and doesn't hesitate to let me know I'm important to him. The age old love vs. security question isn't a question for me. I can make my own security. What I can't make is a good time out of a one-sided conversation.

I dunno, readers. I'm just trying to figure it out like everyone else. I do know that a relationship takes communication to grow and thrive. And I know, as someone more notable than me said, money can't buy me love.

She should have dumped his neglectful ass a long time ago.

That was unexpected.

2011-04-10T16:05:00.005-05:00

And I'm digging it.

I'm about to become very well acquainted with Orbitz, I think. I'm also about to have my world rocked by a new city. My only impressions of Chicago are based on John Hughes movies. I'll be up there for a visit at the end of May, and I absolutely cannot wait. Oh, I love going to new cities. New faces, new food, new everything. Then I get to come back to Corinth and feel impossibly cool and metro.

According to Google, it's a 9-10 hour drive. OR, I can shell out $200-$250 and take an hour and a half flight out of Memphis. Clearly, that's a much more attractive option. More time to explore and, you know, see the guy I'm crazy about.

I'm trying to contain these butterflies...but I'm pretty damn happy.

"If the shoe doesn't fit, must we change the foot?"*

2011-03-18T17:56:00.005-05:00

Yesterday while enjoying an afternoon run in the park with some good friends, I relayed an anecdote about a guy I recently had a first and only date with. The guy was more than a little creepy, and I made a joke about having to get out of there fast before I wound up with my feet in his freezer. (Hey, I never claimed to have tasteful humor; except around parents. Don't worry, your mom will love me. 'Cause she loves errbody, knowumsayin? Heh heh.) Anyway, the joke was met with appropriate snorts and winded chuckles, but I furrowed my brow for just a second as I filed away a troubling, involuntary thought to be chewed on later: that the second the words jumped off my lips, I immediately thought, "I haven't even had my first spring pedicure yet. My feet are not pretty enough to be seen!" Yes. As if my attacker would look at my off-season feet and be like, "Oh, wow, lady. Nice OPI polish, but ever heard of cuticle cream? I don't even know if I wanna do this now." I came back later to graze on this fresh patch of mental crabgrass and found that that twinge of uglyfoot-guilt was still there. Just for the teeeeeensiest fraction of a second, it was there. I didn't want anyone to see my feet, be it a suitor I liked, or my family doctor, OR the guy who (hypothetically) was only interested in getting said feet into a freezer. My brain is clearly a victim of the patriarchy. I'm not going to wonder too hard why I'm using a cow as a metaphor for my train of thought, but from there, it lifted its head, caught of whiff of something interesting, and slowly ambled over to...pokeweed salad. Which can be deadly when consumed incorrectly. That is to say, I got to thinking about femininity. Particularly the idea of inherent femininity vs feminine markers. What is femininity? Is it something I should want? I'm pretty sure I wasn't born with it, but that it developed early on thanks to the culture in which I was raised. Same thoughts for masculinity: does it come with the package, so to speak? Or is it learned? Is my own femininity something I should try to shake, or something I should exploit to get what I want, seeing's how the system itself is flawed and just by owning a uterus, I'm already going to have to fight harder for the same respect, job, dollar, and deal on a new car that a man gets with a fraction of the effort? What determines my femininity, and, in a flawed system, am I wrong for using it to my advantage, to rock the infantilization with which I'm still largely treated in this rural South until the right moment when I can unsheath my claws (cat reference!) and claim what I want? Why does it matter whether I'm a lioness or a big-balled lion? I just want some of the wildebeest. Whatever that means.

And then I read more about the history of foot-binding. After legitimately choking up with real tears at some of the pictures and recollections of women whose feet still only measure four inches in length because some man decided it was cute and girly for a woman to break her own bones...

I'm getting off the computer for awhile.

*Quote- Gloria Steinem

Easing tensions.

2011-03-17T07:50:00.003-05:00

Now that a date has been set for my moving out, things are a lot more chill back at the ranch.

Mom: You should wear a ponytail and big jewelry today. That would look so pretty!
Me: I'm a grown woman! I do what I want!
Dad: That suggestion was for me.

Para mi esposo.

2011-03-15T09:00:00.008-05:00

Last night I dreamt ~~I went to Manderley again~~ that I was engaged to a very traditional Puerto Rican man. Our wedding was only a few days away, and Megan and Brandon were my maid/man of honor. As per family tradition, I was given the task of preparing a huge celebratory feast for my familia-to-be. My mother in law-to-be insisted that I use plantains and wild rice extensively. This dream was very vivid and very happy. Instead of being stressed, I was elated, and eager to please my beloved's mother, and the overall vibe of the dream was one of warmth and gratitude and feeling very loved. Megan and Brandon were helping me cook this feast, and there were a lot of warm colors and dried chili peppers, and there was a lot of laughing and kitchen tomfoolery. Basically that movie Tortilla Soup, but with this big happy engagement thrown into the mix and vaguely ethnic women telling me how to spice this or that. I didn't see my other friends, but I had the feeling they were all there, maybe in the next room. I also didn't see my groom-to-be, but I know I was totally in love with him and I couldn't wait to start my new life with him.

It was a great dream. I told Brandon about it this morning and he said,"I hadn't thought about it, but you would make a great wife in that family. You would totally run the house and have a lot of kids and do all the cooking. Your marriage would be passionate and fiery! Your arguments would be hot!" This is a ridiculous statement on a lot of levels, but he kinda did nail what I want. To have a husband I can't get enough of and be surrounded by my babies and high-quality produce.

And because I've never cooked with plantains and I've got a free night, that's what I'm going to do this evening. Dreams probably don't mean much, but this one definitely inspired me to get back in the kitchen, which is where I belong. I don't mean as a woman, but as a Sarah Saint. It's this girl's happy place.

**Update**
I think I'm going to make Asopao de pollo con Bollitas de Platano, which means Chicken Gumbo with Plantain Balls, as the recipe calls for both plantain and rice.
Also thinking about Arroz con Dulce, which is a sweet rice pudding made with coconut milk and rum-soaked raisins. Pictures to come.

Hot child in the city.

2011-03-01T15:26:00.003-06:00

A couple weeks ago, I pondered briefly "Should prostitution be legal?". I'd like to say first that I'm not endorsing prostitution, nor do I approve of it. I couldn't do it myself. Like many women, I've already put myself through a lot and cemented my status as "a little different" by managing to recognize my sexuality as a part of my identity, while disentangling and holding it as far apart from my self-worth as possible. Much easier typed than done, and any woman who's ever let a sexy flirtation gone awry make her wonder what's wrong with her or ever used sex in even the teeeensiest way to get what she wanted is encouraged to sit and shush for a second, rather than rolling her eyes and saying, "Um, I've never based any of my value on my sexuality." Yes, you have.

So now imagine what it would be like to throw a paycheck into the mix!

I'd also like to add the disclaimer that none of this topic has to do with the (largely bull) concept of promiscuity. What people choose to do with their private bits, with what frequency they choose to use them, and with whom they choose to use them is entirely up to those people and no one's business but their own. So this is not about preferences or frequency or multiple partners. It's about selling one's private bits for money, and whether that occupation should be protected by legislation in the same way that, say, banks are, and what types of monitoring ought to be enacted to protect the working, the buyers, and the public.

Until I started looking into this subject, I had a misconception about the legality of ho-ing in Nevada. I thought it was this big open thing where a soiled dove could just set up shop anywhere she pleases, or not set up shop at all and just stroll the streets (in platforms and with an odd crossover gait that I, for some reason, tried to emulate after seeing Leaving Las Vegas in middle school. Wait. Real street prostitutes aren't really like Elisabeth Shue? Whatever.). Anyway, I was incorrect. Wikipedia informs me that selling one's ladycharms is legal there only in highly regulated brothels. Also, the ladies have to have weekly paps for assorted STI tests and monthly tests for HIV and syphilis. Condom use is mandatory for everything, and none of the brothel girls has ever tested tested positive for HIV. That's out of aallllll the brothels, since mandatory testing started in 1988. Pretty impressive. (Interestingly, it's very common for the customers to request that no condom be used. This request is denied, but it leaves one to wonder: what is wrong with these guys?? Why would any man intentionally have unprotected sex with a woman who has serviced literally hundreds of men? People are so weird.) An argument can clearly be made that with proper monitoring, legalized prostitution is tremendously safer than the illegal kind for both the prostitute and the customer, at least as far as disease control. In fact, upon my first foray into this halfassed investigation, I'm surprised to find myself more in support of legalized prostitution than I was when I first started thinking about it. From what I'm seeing, it's so much safer for everyone involved, and I dig that brothel prostitutes report their earnings to the IRS like the rest of us (workers, that is). However, I have a feeling that as I continue reading and perusing, I'm going to encounter the dark underbelly of sex-for-money. (That's kind of a no-brainer. I just wanted to type "the dark underbelly".)

To be continued...

Dig on it.

2011-02-21T09:02:00.005-06:00

Apparently someone scored a box of these bottles, which were found during the 2002-2003 Memphis FedEx Forum excavation. They're from Sall's Brewery, an 1860's Memphis brewer. This someone dropped the box off to someone down here in Corinth, and the box sat in storage for years. Until now.

We only managed to get one, otherwise I'd have already ensured that this awesome Memphian receive one to treasure as well.

Valentine's Gay Day.

2011-02-20T11:13:00.004-06:00

I've uttered the usual "Valentine's is so contrived, so commercialized, so fake, blahblahblah" enough times, and I do mean it. For the most part. But I'm a human, and humans love to get stuff, especially when that stuff is from someone you're into.

On this holiday last year, I was sitting at work, all happy and feeling good about my relationship. I thought I may even get a little silly something. A trinket, maybe a bouquet on our date. The guy floored me: he sent, to my place of business (because that's how smart men do it), a huge bouquet of gorgeous long-stemmed roses, a box of quality chocolate, and an embarassingly large bunch of balloons. He also had it set up so that the deliveries would all come separately, so I would keep getting surprises at work all day. Points. He got points like you ain't nevah seen.

And he shouldn't have. I refer, of course, to The Engineer, who was full of "I love you"s but not much to back it up with when it came down to it. I fell for his line of wooing-via-Discover-card, though, fo sho. Starting with the Uggs he got me for Christmas. While his gifts were extravagent and certainly appreciated...they were pretty generic. Which pretty much sums up our relationship. A lot of fanfare and little substance. Maybe because we already knew each other when we met (and if you've ever had that kind of connection, you know what I mean), little attention was paid to the foundation. We had a perfect beginning. Our screwing it up remains one of the bigger disappointments of my life...and his, too, if my intuition is still accurate. But that's done, and I'm scarred, and there's no going back.

Fast forward a year. I have steadfastly avoided becoming entangled in any new committed relationships. When anything has become promising, I've quietly slipped out the back door and shaken off whatever warm fuzzies were developing, and fallen off the social media planet until it's cooled off. I have been committed to not committing. So when Valentine's rolled around this year, I was...curious. I have been seeing The Pharmacist regularly, and despite my warning him that my wall is an extremely difficult one to scale, he seems determined to scale it. So when the first deliveryman showed up in the lobby at work, I smiled broadly, thinking "And here they are." Ha! Not for me.

Lather, rinse, repeat, until every woman in the building has received goodies except for the increasinly ill-tempered brunette working the teller line. (Me.) All day, I received nothing from him. Oh, I was ready to kick ass and take names. I was even saying ridiculous girl stuff like, "Oh, he's in trouble!". Wtf? This is what happens to me when I work around other women too much. No one's gonna get in trouble over some stupid stuff like that. That was the pack mentality talking. I digress. Anyway, he and I had scheduled a date for that night, and I was already over the flowers thing by the time he showed up. I spied a gift bag in the back seat, but didn't say anything. We went out to Pizza Grocery, where we shared fig pizza and calamari and a damn fine conversation. Later in the evening, he presented me with the gift.

It was a book. Bag of Bones by Stephen King. One of my very favorites in the world. It was a very nice hardcover, which I didn't previously have. I was pretty impressed: this dude really has been paying attention. I mean, he picked something actually based on my personality and preferences.

Oh, but there's more: He said, "It's a first edition." Sure enough, a glance at the copyright page confirmed this. Then he said, "Oh, there's some writing in it." *GULP* Sweet sugar, the thing is signed by my man Stephen himself.

To hell with some flowers. I wouldn't have cared it if had cost 38 cents, as long as some thought went into it. It's not a price tag that makes a gift sweet. (Although some Googling and a consult with a friend who collects first-edition Stephen Kings has revealed that a dizzying and wholly inappropriate amount of money was spent on this book.)

He's on the right track. And it has nothing to do with the amount he spent. It's that he knew me and he knew how close to my heart that particular book is, and why.

In contrast, this was a way better Valentine's than last year. And even though I am still keeping this at arm's length for my own protection, I'm thawing. I don't have to wonder where I stand, and that's a pretty bitchin' feeling.

Origins.

2011-02-10T13:19:00.006-06:00

Mom: You need to read some romance novels. For the humor.
Me: I've read one. No thanks.
Mom: You're not supposed to take them seriously. That's what's wrong with you.
Me: Excuse me?
Mom: You say you're incapable of feeling romantic toward people anymore, right? You need some romance novels so you can remember.
Me: Oh, good grief. Romance novels are too ridiculous. Reading them would just depress me.
Mom: How would something so stupid depress you?
Me: One, they raise expectations way too high and no man can ever live up to those expectations. Secondly, they all glorify the damsel-in-distress theme. I don't need rescuing! They're all blahblahblah, gorgeous girl needs handsome man in order to feel happy and blahblah..
Dad: Oh, let's just all drink some herbal tea and re-read The Bell Jar.

A couple hours later, watching TV:
Dad: Ugh. I hate Zales commercials.
Me: Why's that?
Dad: For the same reason you hate romance novels.

Plans to make this blog public.

2011-02-07T08:55:00.005-06:00

...are in effect. So if you notice any rearranging, that's why. This thing started public, and it was interesting and funny (maybe). Since it's been private, it's been a nearly nonstop insight into every dark/crazy/self-indulgent/self-absorbed icky thought that shouldn't have been seen. So I'm going to resurrect Shannon's Fury, which hasn't been used since back in 2007, for my mean thoughts and get this one back to its public roots.

Oh, yeah.

2011-02-07T07:54:00.007-06:00

Received this text:
"I like you a lot. I'm trying to let you lead because I have a history of scaring you off and I don't want to do that. So please don't think I'm not into you just because I've been playing close to the vest. "

I don't know how to deal with this, so I'm going to take a page from the Guy handbook:

AVOID. Ignore. When the texts reach ridiculous volume or I realize I'm hurting another human being with my indifference, I'll give a vague "sorry, I was ____, hope your day got better. gotta go, text ya later!". double points if the ___activity is something that no human would need 12 hours to do and wouldn't have had their phone with them. But if he rightfully points out this disrespect and wants to know why I couldn't have just said "I don't feel like texting/talking about this right now, but there's not a problem", I am required to call him crazy and say he's overreacting. He will then feel more confused and will further seek my approval, which will make this mess bigger than it had to be. I will be about 60% to blame but will still come out on top.

It's a power struggle, see? The bigger jerk you are, the more upper hand you've got. And who doesn't want the upper hand, even if it makes you d-bag of the year?

I'm not serious, of course. I'm a lot of things, but "cruel" isn't one of them. And he's a seriously awesome guy. So I told him the truth: the issue isn't him, at all. It's entirely me and my skittish nature and aversion to meaningful relationships. I'm sorry that he's gotta deal with the baggage the last guy left on my emotional doorstep. But I'm working on it.

I love olive oil, but I'm not putting it there.

2011-02-03T16:20:00.007-06:00

This just in: Casanova used crude condoms made of linen, and called them "English riding coats".

Relatedly, I'm reading up on prostitution throughout history and learning all I never needed to know about primitive forms of contraception. Equally interesting: Lysol was (briefly) a popular means of contraceptive in the 1930's. There were seriously advertisements for it as "a feminine hygiene aid" which translated to "hopeful post-nookie cleansing" to prevent pregnancy. It wasn't so great at that, but it was great at vaginal "scalding", and quickly went back to being touted as a cleanser for the home, and the home only.

There are Egyptian paintings dating to 3000 B.C. that show men wearing condoms. It's unclear whether the devices were meant as contraception or ceremonially. Or maybe those kooky Egyptians just loved to accessorize everything.

This is fascinating.

Should prostitution be legal?

Hmmm.

With a little help from my friends.

2011-02-02T23:21:00.005-06:00

Tonight I went shopping with Katie, and then we met Jacob for dinner at Mi Toro. I'm so happy about her transfer. She's been wanting to move back to Birmingham for a long time. But damn, I'm gonna miss her. I can't believe she'll be gone next week. Guess we'll just have to do more driving to see each other. That girl is someone I can say I care about and know the affection isn't something I've made up or twisted. Jacob, too. He and I have gotten closer than I would have expected. Being around them is so comfortable and warm. I love my zany weekends most of the time, but sometimes the best thing in the world is to stay in pajamas all weekend at their house, watching movie after movie and laughing our asses off.

Guess I'm about to get to know Birmingham better.

Wind chill= 1. One. One effing degree.

2010-12-13T07:47:00.003-06:00

I don't wanna go to work. I don't want to leave the house. No!

Please?

Fine. Let me just pull on eight layers of long johns or something else that I don't own because it's not supposed to be 1 degree in Mississippi.

Ready for summer again. Gimme back grilling out, sundresses, flip flops, and reading on the porch.

It's just dinner.

2010-12-07T23:17:00.004-06:00

With the president of the ___* County Young Republicans.

Super cute. Nice guy.

I love me a nerd.

*County name removed for privacy. He's an elected official, you know.

The Secret Sisters performing "Tennessee Me" on KCRW

2010-12-07T11:40:00.000-06:00

New love.

2010-12-07T10:58:00.004-06:00

I haven't an overwhelming interest in seeing Willie Nelson tomorrow night at the Crossroads Arena....

but these ladies, The Secret Sisters, are opening.

So I am so going.

Nice.

2010-12-06T22:03:00.008-06:00

There's really no other choice for what has to be done here.

Cue: Down with the Sickness

Montage: Sarah running, doing pushups, sharpening stakes, slinging on bullet-belts, kicking a punching bag, making a tuna sandwich, swinging on vines through a jungle, flying over Chicago on a jet-pack, and finally rolling her eyes.

Awesome.

2010-12-06T07:16:00.007-06:00

Despite feeling like my privacy's somehow been violated, and finding out about my ex's brand new fetus, I feel...really good. Sweet! This is a day for a snug sweaterdress and sassy boots.

I'm soooooo excited to be starting the new comic with Tamara!! Yaaaaaaay!! Can't wait to see what she comes up with.

Last night I baked a schmackload of Christmas sugar cookies, and Rachel's coming over tonight to decorate them with me. Good wholesome fun! It's supposed to be 21 degrees tonight, so staying in and cooking sounds pretty great.

And today I'm going to actually return some of these soundtrack-related emails. All of the artists I've talked to are super excited and willing to work with me for the exposure, with the exception of one band, whose manager wants me to make him an offer. He called me a few days ago and we had a kinda funny conversation in which we both danced around the fact that neither of us knows what the hell we're doing in this capacity. He stressed to me that they're flexible/interested and I stressed to him that I'm flexible/interested and that's the extent of our combined productivity. Hehe. We'll work something out. We have to, because I love these guys and I'm not going to wait til my own movie gets filmed to use them.

Happily, Gunter really likes Davis and in fact wants him to perform in the film, which Davis has agreed to. Bless that Davis. Everyone else is just stoked to be involved. Lindsey's made a reccomendation concerning an up-and-coming band in Memphis that's generating a lot of buzz, so I'll be checking them out.

I don't think anything makes me happier than being surrounded by good music and creative people.

Fags.

2010-12-02T19:08:00.006-06:00

Another event from last night.

So Brandon got me addicted to Glee. I spread the fanatacism to Katie and Co., my parents, and my California relatives. Megan remains steadfastly uninterested, but I'll convert her eventually.

My parents purchased the first season on dvd, and we all worked our way through it together in, like, two weeks with Katie and Rachel. We made big nights out of it with lots of junk food. (Which is not lame at all.) So we were all really happy about the second season starting. I continue to be happy with it, but my folks announced last night, when catching up on a few dvr'd episodes I'd already seen, that they've had enough.

The reasoning? "It got too gay and preachy."

I just slowly nodded and wandered back into the kitchen, which, in Hebrew, means "place of peace". Or that may be Shiloh. I spread some herbed chevre on a cracker and nibbled, debating whether to go back into the living room and pick a fight. Over Glee.

Well, shit, I wasn't doing anything else.

I sauntered back into the living room and stood there for a minute, waiting for acknowledgement of my presence so we could begin. The temperature had dropped ten degrees. I casually asked if they no longer enjoyed the music. My Dad, being the default spokesman in All Disagreements Concerning Political/Social Issues, said:

"It's just so in-your-face with all the gay stuff."
"Are you referring to Kurt? You liked Kurt."
"He's not funny anymore! The cheerleaders were better as mean cheerleaders. Now they're lesbian cheerleaders. It's no fun."
(Aside: I am so grateful to The Universe that he said this. Had my father said anything about having a fondness for lesbian cheerleaders, I would have vomited up the last of my sanity and retreated into a cave to hop around like Gollum. So thanksss, Universsse. I owe you.)

I agreed that I didn't like how the last few episodes that featured Kurt seemed to be all about his orientation, but only because I thought it was insulting to portray him as one-dimensioned. It's just as obnoxious to portray someone's sexual preference as being their defining characteristic as it is to knock that person based on that characteristic. He responded that that wasn't it, it was just that Kurt's gayness had gotten so serious. Particularly a couple episodes back when the show took on the issue of gay-bullying in high schools. I said that that was a great episode, and totally relevant and current. I reminded him that the episode aired shortly after a string of bullying-related suicides had cropped up in the news. He said he didn't think it was right to be preachy about it.

So it's ok when a fag acts like a buffoon and prances around, because that makes you laugh, but it's not ok if he stands up to someone shoving him in a locker?

My blood began to boil and I went back to the kitchen. Not in defeat, really, but because we've been at this stalemate for years.

I love my parents tremendously. They are wonderful, kind, brilliant people. But they both have this weird way of thinking about these things that I just can't fathom. I don't know how many times my mother and I have sat on the porch and began a casual conversation about gay marriage that ends in one or both of us slamming a door or getting red in the face. I don't understand how they can be so against something that doesn't affect them in the slightest, like it's an affront to their straightness somehow. I don't understand how these two people who are so incredibly whip-smart in every other aspect, can accept my best friend and refer to him as their adopted son, genuinely love him, but be ok with the fact that he can't marry whoever he wants. Like breeders should have a monopoly on formally declared love and legal benefits. What the hell is marriage, anyway? Don't ask a straight person. Statistically, over half of us have no dog in the sanctity race, having already put asunder our own unions. Even if you really believe that someone is hellbound for finding their connection with someone who owns similar naughty bits, no one's asking you to go gay. Just let other people live as they please, for Pearl's sake. Thankfully, my parents aren't of the crazyass crew who say things like, "Well, it's just a slippery slope 'til we let people marry kids or their pets!". Ugh. Comparing a consensual relationship between adults to child abuse is so screwed up I don't want to know how anyone arrives at such a statement. I digress.

Anyway, sometimes it's just really hard to relate to the people who love you more than anyone on the planet. I respect them so much, and I love them unoconditionally, despite this constant disagreement. I enjoy a good debate as much as the next girl, but I hate seeing them get legitimately upset, and I don't like getting upset like that, either. I wonder if they look at me and think, "Where did we go wrong? How did her thinking get so backwards?". Probably. And they were remarkably cool about it when one night, back in high school, I blurted out during Survivor that I thought I may be bi. We just haven't brought up their feelings on my preferences since. It's a nonissue, like I had never said anything.

Just rambling. It'll never get resolved.

I totally took out the rest of that chevre.

FunFact:

2010-11-30T21:31:00.003-06:00

Speaking of Zelda in Pet Sematary, that role was actually played by a man. Eeeenteresting.

My back is officially the enemy for the next few days. I went ahead and got the rX, so I've stopped this process before the standard shingles-rash will crop up, but the godawful scorched muscle feeling is there with a fury. Imagine lifting a horse (or your mom) using just one muscle in your back, and then having someone poke you repeatedly in that spot with a stick. Then the fun of picking up a Valtrex prescription and stammering out that "it's for shingles" to a blank-faced clerk. It's not the herp, man. I'm just wicked stressed and it's manifesting in my nerve endings. Stop looking at me.

1:30.

2010-11-24T03:42:00.004-06:00

That's when Granny passed this morning. I held her hand.

Kinda makes everything else I've been fretting about seem pretty GD stupid.

Ran my mouth.

2010-11-22T16:01:00.005-06:00

And was handed the responsibility of handling a soundtrack.

I have NOT bitten off more than I can chew.
I have NOT bitten off more than I can chew.
I have NOT bitten off more than I can chew.
I have NOT bitten off more than I can chew.
I have NOT bitten off more than I can chew.

This is a bigger production than I thought it was.

I am not intimidated. I can do this. I have dreamed about doing this. Gunter says he knows I have the talent and now I get to prove myself. Here goes.

TV On The Radio - Wolf Like Me

2010-11-21T16:33:00.000-06:00

I didn't even know this video existed until today! AND. I. LOVE. IT.

Go home, it's over.

2010-11-21T13:04:00.009-06:00

Make my blood pump 7-8-9
make my heart beat double time
Now, I'm the only sour cherry on your fruitstand, right? -The Kills, Sour Cherry

This weekend I have been in Huntsville, Memphis, rage, concern, giddiness, two bars, a butcher shop, a comics haven, and a movie theater. I have been pursued by a man I don't like and a man I do. I have had one conversation with a seemingly apologetic and friendly Engineer. I have not decided how I feel about that.
It's been tiring.

Oh, and filming starts in May and Gunter wants ME to help score investors. Alrighty. He'd better let me assistant-direct. Oh, the disagreements we'll have. It'll be epic and loud and hilarious.

Just sayin'.

2010-11-19T08:53:00.002-06:00

Damn, I feel good.

Owning it.

2010-11-13T10:57:00.007-06:00

Since permanence has been on my mind, Brandon and I are finally getting our Hedwig tattoos tonight. Of course, I'll be getting the one with the green eye and he'll get the blue. I'm excited. We've been talking about doing this for ten years. It's taken me that long to decide I want one. This is his fourth.

*squeal*

You think that luck
Has left you there.
But maybe there's nothing
up in the sky but air.
And there's no mystical design,
No cosmic lover preassigned.
There's nothing you can find
that can not be found.
'Cause with all the changes
you've been through
It seems the stranger's always you.
Alone again in some new
Wicked little town.
So when you've got no other choice
You know you can follow my voice
Through the dark turns and noise
Of this wicked little town.
-Hedwig and the Angry Inch, Wicked Little Town

Courting the muse.

2010-11-10T10:08:00.005-06:00

So Lindsey's started a writing game:

The line I'm working with:
Caitlin had kept her eyes closed for ten seconds, just like Dr. Smoltz had told her to, but when she opened them, it was still there, looking at her and not blinking.

I'm off tomorrow for Veteran's day and despite my only taking the shot and not the prescribed antibiotics, I'm right next to feeling fine as frog hair again. So the intention is to go home, put on a pot of coffee, whip up this Caitlin story and then spring into Bruton After Dark, which started back in 2004 as a collection of dramatized true-tales from Bruton, TN and surrounding areas. It has since evolved several times. Its current incarnation is a somewhat semi-autobiographical collection about a girl who used to live near Bruton. Not all of her experiences are mine, and certainly not all of mine of hers. She's the one who actually has sudden, hot relations with a ginger bassist in the bathroom of a Mississippi bar. I'm the one who just writes about it. And soundtracks it, because this is the one that will actually get filmed first. The Hag novel/screenplay would make a fantastic movie, but I simply don't trust it in anyone's hands but my own. It means too much to me; it's been my baby for three years. I've written it two different ways and poured myself into it. I'd love to see it on film, but I can't let just anybody do it..

Stephen King would know what I'm talking about. He wrote The Shining while he was fighting being in alcohol's nastier clutches, and having serious doubts about himself as a father. There was a lot of himself in Jack Torrance, and he was hugely disappointed in Kubrick's treatment of the story. He expressed that it was a pretty good movie but had nothing to do with his book, and thus the only film adapatation of one of his novels that he hated. There's too much of me in Amy Springer, too much of the men I've loved in Gib Braelin, too much of my own fears of psychiatry and the supernatural. It's gonna have to be done by someone who gets it. That could be a long, long time, if ever.

Bruton After Dark...is candy on paper. It'll be easy to finish and easy to film. I just put it down for awhile, but I've picked it back up and it's trotting along at a healthy pace.