A Vague Disclaimer

Nobody knows anything about anybody.

2012-01-17T11:35:00.014-05:00

So I’ll ignore my 3.5 month absence from this blog, and just jump right into things: J and I recently returned from a trip to Miami. I had never been there before, which is kind of strange since my Dad’s family goes back three generations there. Of course it’s completely different from when my Dad lived there, but here are my first impressions:

We were staying in Miami Beach, which reminded me of Vegas in a way. Lots of people with lots of money and ridiculous cars. However, it lacked the self-awareness of Vegas (Vegas seems to understand that it’s tacky and ridiculous…which is part of its charm, if you ask me). So, it was beautiful, with lots of great restaurants and nice hotels, but overall it was…pretty douchy.
Miami wouldn’t know a good beer if it bit it on the ass. I understand that no one wants to drink a dark beer when it’s 90 degrees outside, but can’t you do better than Landshark??
It was quite cold (for Miami) the first couple of days we were there…but I still think that winter hats and gloves are overkill when it’s 55 degrees outside.
I am a pasty, pasty woman. No wonder the Scots-Irish migrated to the WNC mountains instead of Southern Florida.

Naturally, this being my first trip to my Dad’s “homeland,” and me being a huge history geek, I took the opportunity to drag J through historic cemeteries, looking for my great-great grandparents’ graves. (There was also apparently a football game going on in town…but we’re not going to talk about that).

I know from my G-G-Grandparents’ death certificates which cemeteries they were buried in. First off was the Miami City Cemetery, to search for the graves of the Singletons. Unfortunately, the cemetery is actually run by the City, meaning there was no office on site…so, J took one side, I took the other, and we walked it row by row. What did we find?

Nada. Zip. Zilch.

There were so many older gravestones still standing—but for some reason, not the ones I was looking for. I mean, J and I could have missed them. Or maybe my ancestors were just really cheap and picked the economy model. On the bright side, I managed not to step on a fire ant hill, which was my biggest worry.

On to Woodlawn cemetery, where we were greeted by the lovely sight of a modern office. I inquired about my Great-Great-Grandfather Goodwin, and was presented with a map and a section number where he was buried. Again, J and I split up the area and walked the rows. Again, nothing. J returned to the office, asking for more details. He ended up with a plot-by-plot map, complete with plot numbers. We located plot #42…which was a blank space. So here I am, standing on the now-unmarked graves of my great-great-grandparents, looking annoyed (no disrespect intended, Great-Great-Grandma and Grandpa).

Still, I’m keeping everything in perspective: our cemetery wanderings, while probably not the highlight of the trip, were still way, way better than that football game.

If you don't eat them now, they'll be waiting here for you at dinner.

2011-09-29T14:06:00.003-04:00

I’m working from my parents’ house this weekend—I’m on the clock from 9-5, then I’m free to visit with them. Which I love, but it’s a little weird working from here…my Mom seems to be regressing. Neither Mom nor Dad really grasps how the “working from home” thing works, so that doesn’t help. Anyway, I’m constantly peppered with questions – Did your boss call yet? Are you busy? Can I fix you a hot breakfast? Do you need a nap? You’d think I was procrastinating on my Algebra homework rather than performing my job!

I went to the coffee shop yesterday morning for a change of scenery. When I got home, my Mom asked if I had eaten. I said yes, but of course she wanted more details…what did I eat? “Oatmeal,” I responded. Her response? “Well, you could have had that at home!” By my mother’s reasoning, one could never eat out unless it was something truly bizarre that would never, ever be found in one’s own kitchen.

After this conversation, my Mom told me that she had done my laundry. I had packed for the whole week! I didn’t need her to do my laundry; she just went into my room and grabbed the pile off of the floor. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I was careful with your blouses.”

Yeah, those “blouses”? $8 t-shirts from Target. But I won’t tell her that (she’d probably think I spent too much, anyway).

I love you, Mommy. (But if you could refrain from running the vacuum during my conference calls, I'd appreciate it.)

Someday the mountain might get 'em, but the law never will

2011-08-29T16:26:00.005-04:00

I haven’t been feeling focused enough to write in the blog lately. There was a great-but-quick trip to VA Beach with friends, where we floated in the ocean and came up with some good (and some not-so-good) literature-themed bar names, including:

Fahrenheit 45Rum
Tess of the Daiquiris
Dom Quixote
Pinot-nocchio
A Cocktail of Two Cities

Oh, I’ve forgotten so many good ones already. We did decide that our bar would have a late night pizza joint next door called “War and Pizza.” On the downside, the name makes absolutely no sense, but on the upside…it makes me giggle.

There was Vancouver, which is freaking gorgeous. So pretty that I even dared to rent a bike…twice. Jeremy and I have decided that if we have a ‘President Perry’ or a ‘President Bachman’ (I threw up in my mouth just typing that), we’re moving to British Columbia, where the hoboes pick up litter and they sell earflap hats shaped like mystical creatures—one day you could be a unicorn, the next day a yeti! It’s a magical place.

One strange moment that I must share from our trip: I have started watching Supernatural this summer, which shoots in Vancouver and features a ’68 Impala. I saw that car on the streets of Vancouver (the actual one—they were setting up a shoot), and Jeremy admitted that it was cool—but not as cool as seeing, say, the General Lee. I held myself back from making cracks about the South Carolina native wanting to see a car with a big Confederate flag on top (OK, OK…I didn’t), and the debate continued over drinks at an Irish pub. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the live entertainment starts playing…wait for it…"The Good ‘Ol Boys," which is…wait for it…the freaking Dukes of Hazzard theme song. The musician couldn’t have overheard us. And so I reluctantly gave Jeremy the ‘win,’ based on cosmic intervention. Which I feel is kind of cheating, but whatever.

And now, there is my new job. Which is awesome. And my new home office, from which I work…every single day. Yes, that’s right…I have a ten second commute. Tilly is not so happy that I spent all of today upstairs in the office, but she stuck close by:

That’s the foot of my office chair you’re seeing. She stuck REALLY close by. Although she did move around a bit:

Those Canadian doctors bandaged me up, put my shoulder back in its socket, and reset my jaw, and they didn't even bill me. Idiots!

2011-08-06T13:43:00.002-04:00

So I am in Vancouver, BC with Jeremy, tagging along during his annual “Geek Conference” (computer graphics conference). Yesterday was a loooong day getting here, but after a good night’s sleep and a plate full of fruit (to combat the complete lack of fruits/vegetables and all the beer from yesterday), I set off to explore the area around the hotel.

No exaggeration, there is a coffee shop on practically every corner. It’s also ridiculously clean. I saw one homeless man going through a garbage can, but I also saw him pick up litter off the ground and throw it away. In DC, if a homeless person is going through a garbage can, it’s usually followed by some kind of disgusting bodily function (peeing, spitting, etc.), not random acts of community clean-up!

There are dogs everywhere. I actually saw one dog walking itself – not merely off leash, but with the leash folded up neatly in its own mouth. Most dogs are just off leash completely, however. You can tell they’re Canadian, because they are so freakishly well-behaved and nice.

In short, I’m really looking forward to the next week and a half here. In other news, this will be my last “unemployment adventure” for a while—I start work on August 18. It was the first (and only) job I applied for, and it’s an educational consulting firm with a “virtual office,” meaning—I’m working from the comfort of my own home! Which was the dream all along, really.

I got the news about the job exactly 6 months to the day that I left my old one. A lot happened in those six months, both good and bad, and I feel blessed to have had the time and opportunity to travel a little bit, to say goodbye to a few loved ones, and to (as cheesy as it sounds) find myself again. I’m feeling stronger and happier than I have in quite a while.

Cheesiness aside, my main focus right now is drinking good beer and doing some quality people watching. I’m sure there will be some highly-mockable folks in town, so stay tuned!

What's Your Contingency Plan for a Crap Storm of This Magnitude?

2011-07-20T16:53:00.004-04:00

I had some more bad news last night--my Uncle passed away suddenly. For those keeping track, that's two grandmothers, one aunt-in-law and one uncle since November. So God...my family would like to stop losing people now, OK?

To distract myself, I headed to the genealogy section of the library (I know, I know...dork alert). I wasn't even looking up my own family, but trying to find more info about the photo album I purchased at an antique store back in April. And while I came up with a big goose egg on that front, I did find some late 19th-century examples of fine, fine journalism, which I feel compelled to share.

First off, you have to understand that obituaries and the like were insanely detailed back then. Waaaaaay TMI...generally followed by the deceased's or heir's home address. Also, an amazing amount of people died by getting hit by trains in 1890s St. Louis. Newspapers also had detailed accounts of freak accidents, whether the victim died or not. Here's a good one from December 3, 1895 about poor Mary Bird, who fell down an elevator shaft and was stuck for 10 hours:

During this period Miss Bird was able to watch the rats come out of the cracks in the wall at the bottom of the elevator shaft and creep toward her, where they played through her hair and dress. The rats began biting her in the face, body, arms, legs and other body parts, causing bleeding.

Gross, right? But wait, it gets better! On December 5, 1895, the newspaper noted that Miss Bird was "slowly recovering," and also that:

She was greatly surprised to learn of the report that had been given out that rats had gnawed her flesh as she lay at the bottom of the elevator shaft all night, and both she and her parents vigorously deny that such is the case...she greatly deplores the report that she will be disfigured.

And, from the same day, another errata--not as gross, but highly amusing:

Dr. B Metcalfe wrote the newspaper to say that he was not dead as we had reported yesterday. The Democrat erroneously reported that he was pennyless [sic] and had to sell cough drops on the streets of Chicago to survive...He was never sued for malpractice, he is still alive and he is no where near 80 years of age!

My favorite part of that one is the "selling cough drops on the street to survive" bit. I mean, where in the heck did that information come from? And as for poor, non-disfigured Miss Bird--did they ask a nine year-old boy for his account of what might have happened down in that elevator shaft? How else would such a rumor get started?

Not that any of this journalistic mess compares to what's going on in Britain, but still--I have to think that December 5, 1895 was a helluva day at The St. Louis Democrat's offices.

Five minutes. Ten if they got dranks.

2011-06-30T14:19:00.005-04:00

Today we got rejected by the Salvation Army. Being a total nerd, I expected the organization to be much like the “Save-A-Soul” mission in Guys and Dolls. However, the surly man who showed up at my door to collect used furniture was sadly not in uniform, and there was nary a bass drum in sight.

Apparently our dresser, which has survived 40 years, 10+ moves, and two different, highly impatient females slamming its drawers, is “not resalable” due to some insignificant cracks in its back cover. Of course, this in no way affects the functionality of said dresser; but perhaps people shopping at the Salvation Army have higher standards than, say, my husband and I? Anyway, while Jeremy and I ponder just how in the hell to get this gigantic piece of antiquity down the stairs and out of our house, I would like to proffer some alternative uses for a piece of 100+ pound, six-foot wide, solid oak furniture:

Ferret high-rise. Everybody knows a wacko with a ferret. Some cash-poor ferret wackos could pool their money together and watch their beloved pets/rodents enjoy communal living. We’re talking nine drawers of urban high jinx here, people!

Barricade during a gunfight. Believe me, if Bonnie and Clyde had had this sucker stashed along that fateful rural road, they’d have had another 50 years of robbing banks in front of them.

Anti-theft system. Don’t trust your deadbolt? Gather twelve of your closest friends together to push the dresser in front of your door! Ain’t nothin’ getting in now! (Note: also, nothing will be getting out. Be sure to have a fire extinguisher at the ready).

Horse coffin. Cut out the middle of this baby and you’ve got a mighty fine place for Mr. Ed to spend eternity.

See? The possibilities are endless! The real tragedy here is the Salvation Army’s lack of imagination (not to mention their lack of marching band. Really, really disappointing. Hey, we ALL know you have bells, at the very least!)

For My Mammaw

2011-06-21T18:40:00.002-04:00

I was a little “wine weepy” back in November when I wrote about my Grandma passing—so I’ll try to keep this short and sweet. I could write for days and not cover it all, anyway.

My Mammaw was 96, and I wouldn’t have been at all shocked to see her surpass 100.

She made the best macaroni and cheese in the world.

When I was little and we’d stay with Mammaw and Pappaw for a week during the summer, dessert was always a small Corningware dish of popcorn (the old-fashioned kind, of course) or PET ice milk.

One time when I was 11 or 12 and in the throes of adolescent sarcasm, I mouthed off to my mother in my Mammaw’s presence. Big mistake. My Mom was making me do the dishes (no dishwasher at Mammaw’s and Pappaw’s…to this day), and Mom said she was letting me do the dishes “out of the goodness of her heart.” I responded with, “There IS no goodness in your heart!” And my Mammaw stood up, wagged her finger at me, and said, “Don’t you talk to her like that, she’s your Mama!” And that was all it took for me to burst into tears, run out the door and hide behind the doghouse (which, looking back, it would have been more apropos if I’d hid IN it) and cry for a half hour or so. But of course she was absolutely right. And I know she would have stuck up for me in the same way if the occasion arose.

She was sassy as hell. She once refused to go to her doctor because she was “in no mood for his cuteness.” And imagine a 96-year old referring to someone as a “butthole.”

Is it any wonder I was crazy about her?

And come off that dumb hillbilly act!

2011-05-27T19:46:00.002-04:00

I’m down south this weekend, visiting my parents and helping my Dad (who is currently walking with a cane) prepare for the church’s “Charity Chicken,” which is part of the town’s Memorial Day Weekend “White Squirrel Festival.” (Does it get any more small town than that, I ask?)

I spent this afternoon lugging industrial-sized foodstuffs, raising tents, and crawling in the grass to hammer in stakes. It was me and the “Men of the Church,” meaning me and a bunch of southern senior citizen males. They were forever worrying about my ability to lift heavy objects, which was both kinda charming and REALLY annoying—particularly since I heard several of the Men talking about participating in tomorrow’s Memorial Day parade…as World War II vets. I’d like to think that I can do more heavy lifting than, say, your average 85-year old.

After the church was all prepared, I dropped my parents off at square dancing and drove my daddy’s pickup (a manual, natch) back up the mountain to the house. I was covered in grease and grass stains, and there was banjo music playing through the radio. I think I definitely earned some “Country Girl” cred today…although now I’m sitting down with a glass of Pinot Grigio, watching Jeopardy.

So much for that.

Pimples are the Lord's way of chastising you.

2011-05-05T14:07:00.002-04:00

I’ve never been one to have qualms about going to a movie by myself…but I will admit that I had a smidgen of shame when I walked up to the counter all alone yesterday and asked for a ticket to the matinee showing of “The Prom.” In my defense, I had a gift certificate and a need to see something incredibly light and clichéd—plus I’ve always had a thing for teen movies. Still, when the cashier kind of smirked at me, I was glad my face was partially obscured by the hat I was wearing. And then I got annoyed that I felt embarrassed in front of the chick who runs the mid-day, weekday shift at the Regal Cinemas. Who is she to smirk at me? (OK, yes, she has a job and I don’t, but I’m also not swathed in maroon polyester. Perhaps we’ll call it a draw.)

Anyway, after hitting the concession stand (with the same judgmental cashier, I might add), I headed to the theater. (BTW, one matinee ticket, a small popcorn and a small soda? NINETEEN DOLLARS. Thank God for gift certificates). For the first time in my life, I was the only one in a movie. The glee I felt at the notion I could pull out my cell phone and text at any moment (take THAT, “Please be courteous” promos!) was quickly squelched the creepy vibe an empty, mid-day theater apparently emits. But I got over it.

The movie was exactly what I expected, and thus exactly what I wanted. It fulfilled every teen movie cliché (apart from “kids from different groups bond over alcohol/pot”—this is a Disney film, after all). Mostly, though, it just made me feel old. My prom will be fifteen years ago next week—most of the stars of this film were in diapers then. Oy.

Plus, the “bad boy with a heart” had a mother played by none other than 90210’s Emily Valentine (the original 90210, kiddos, not that travesty they show on The CW now). And Emily Valentine has NOT aged well. On the plus side, she seems to have gotten over her mental issues (burning down the homecoming float) and turned into a sensible, hardworking single mother.

I felt slightly placated when The Cranberries’ “Dreams” (a song that very likely played at my prom) started playing at the movie prom. Granted, it was a cover of the song by a band I’d never heard of called “Passion Pit,” but nonetheless, I will cling to that mid-90s reference as I sign that I am not completely past my prime.

Didn't your mother never teach you no manners?

2011-04-29T09:24:00.003-04:00

First things first: since we all know that royal weddings are mostly about the clothing (at least for Americans, anyway), here's an in-depth description:

I chose to wear my "I'm a business lover" t-shirt (which was given to me by a former employer who got it for free at a train station), because I had slept in it the night before, and at five-bloody-AM in the morning I had no desire to change. In a nod to tradition and the chilly temperatures, I accessorized with my blue plaid Gap flannel pants. Topping off the look were grimy spectacles and headwear consisting of dirty hair arranged in a "Good God it's early" fashion. And because I recently had a pedicure and my nails are a lovely shade with the non-lovely name "Cajun Shrimp," I went barefoot.

I was planning to watch the wedding coverage on TLC because I love that they had chosen Clinton Kelly and Randy Fenoli as their correspondents (because clearly a royal wedding must be reported on by well-dressed homosexuals), but they weren't constantly showing live footage, and seemed to have pre-recorded a lot, so I switched to NBC, where Matt Lauer apologized for the "Kiss Countdown Clock" to the random Brits they seemed to be interviewing (seriously, was there anyone with a British accent not on TV this morning? Do we need such riveting commentary as, "In Britain, we call soccer 'football'!").

I missed most of the congregational arrivals, but did catch a glimpse of Posh and Becks. Isn't Victoria Beckham supposed to be heavily pregnant by now? She just looked like she has a "cheese baby." And why was she wearing a sprig of licorice on her head?

I also loved the procession of shuttle buses: "Please, obscure royalty, adjust your $500 hats and board the short bus!" Also, they kept describing Kate Middleton's mother's dress as "sky blue." Um, maybe that's sky blue in Britain, but here in America we call that "gray."

I did enjoy the chiming of bells and the trumpet fanfares, and would like to be greeted with same throughout the remainder of my life. I'm glad I didn't get married in Westminster Abbey, though...that's a lot of pressure to walk through a huge church where you could accidentally step on, say, Sir Isaac Newton or Lord Alfred Tennyson.

The vows were surprisingly mainstream, but I had to chuckle: Does anything think "for richer or poorer" will ever really be an issue? The reading was actually the same one that Jeremy and I had at our wedding, although I think the phrase "Do not be haughty," rings a little differently in Westminster Abbey than it does in, say, the First United Methodist Church of Brevard, NC.

Here are a few of my favorite quotes from the "random British correspondents" on the Today Show:

"It's a shame about Sarah Ferguson--I mean, the Crown Prince of Swaziland is here, but the Duchess of York wasn't even invited!"

"Charles and Camilla are a great love story. He's been in love with her for 40 years! She wasn't his first wife, but nevertheless..."

"Later they will have the private reception, where they can 'boogie' or 'funk it up,' or whatever you Americans call it."

And finally...

"We call ourselves a civilized people, but I just saw someone dressed as an otter."

And now, a photo from my royal wedding. Here I am, being waited on by the royal butler. Oh, wait...

You know, I'm getting input here that I'm reading as relatively hostile.

2011-04-25T10:11:00.003-04:00

First off, a very happy birthday to my favorite husband today! I have been teasing him about adding his name to the wait list of a nursing home. Of course, if he makes such a comment next year, when I turn the age he is now, I will ~~show him a less pleasant use for a birthday candle~~ not take it as well. Thankfully he is slightly more tolerant than I am.

So my big adventure last week was to show up unannounced at a performance of my old piano teacher. My piano teacher married my clarinet teacher, although when I last saw them they were both married to someone else (scandal!). I thought I would show up and let them see how well I turned out, but I swear I walked into the room and saw them, and was immediately transported back to my teenage awkwardness (the one difference between my teenage awkwardness and my adult awkwardness? I can now hide it better). I remembered that my clarinet teacher had once told me I had "the brain of a squirrel." I don't even know what that means, but of course it has stuck with me. Still, they seem to have remembered me fondly. Plus my piano teacher complimented my shoes, which in my mind translates to "Your footwear is fabulous and thus so are you."

J, Tilly and I have been in SC for the past few days with family. Tilly, being the most neurotic in our little family (and that's saying a lot), is slightly freaked at being in a new place. She needs to know where everyone is at all times, and if she doesn't, she basically won't eat or be still. Plus, the stairs are wood, and she has had to learn that she can't charge up and down them like she does the carpeted stairs at home. After a few slips, she has perfected a technique that's reminiscent of someone with a club foot walking across hot coals.

So what does the upcoming week hold? Well, tomorrow will be dominated by hours in the car and fast food. And Friday I'm just going to have to watch the royal wedding hoopla, if only for fodder for this here blog. I did enjoy this quote from a Briton in The Washington Post:

“You [Americans] had your whole revolution to get rid of them!” bellows Michael Urwin, who owns a pub in central London. “And now you want them! Take them! Just take them!”

I have many leather-bound books and my apartment smells of rich mahogany.

2011-04-19T15:07:00.001-04:00

From a webring I was involved with many moons ago:

If you were to form a gang right now, what would it be called? What would it do? What would your personal nickname be? What would you be known to be especially "hard core" at in your gang?

*RECRUITMENT NOTICE*

The High Stringers
Bringing You a 'Type A' Smackdown Since 1978

Feeling superior? Want to impose your rigid personal standards upon the populace at large? The High Stringers are looking for a few good tight-asses to enforce some persnickety criteria upon the poorly-dressed, bad-mannered, inefficient masses erroneously dubbed "humanity." If you lie awake at night planning "Lady, you need a bra!" interventions, spend your time editing personal ads, and become physically ill at the utterance of "supposably," we may be the gang for you. Send all inquires to "Spell Check" Maryment. Submissions must be sent via FedEx no later than 3:34 p.m. Friday afternoon, and must be printed on 11x17 inch, 20 lb. bond, goldenrod paper, single-sided, double-spaced, in 12 pt. Estrangelo Edessa font. Warning: Confuse 'its' and 'it's' at your own risk. Violators will be dragged into the street by "Spell Check" and beaten voraciously with the Hodges' Harbrace Grammar Handbook. Thank you for your interest! Now straighten your tie, clean your glasses, and dispose of this notice in the proper government-approved recycling facility.

No one's gonna really be free until nerd persecution ends.

2011-04-11T14:07:00.002-04:00

Apparently the Hollingsworth family motto is "Disce ferenda pati," which translates to "Learn to suffer that which must be borne." Great! Our family motto is basically "Life sucks and then you die."

The past few days since my trip have been pretty quiet, but I'm trying to post more often, so I'll share something I wrote a few years ago:

After failing to consider the caffeine content of Starbucks ice cream, I am sitting at my desk, staring at the stack of papers that goes largely unnoticed during waking hours. As I reach for the pile, thinking for once that I will be productive instead of catching up on my reality TV, an old picture falls out—the old picture that everyone has, the one that makes you think back to your adolescent years and cringe.

As far as I can tell, there was no special occasion, so I can only assume my mother had deemed my appearance worthy of documentation—and certainly not because of my staggering beauty. I am 11, tall and gangly, resembling a newborn giraffe. My outfit is a cornucopia of late-eighties horror: a tacky denim shirt; a denim skirt over what should be leggings but appears to be pants (or perhaps my little chicken legs weren’t enough to fill out the leggings); white patent dress shoes; and two socks on each foot, one pair powder blue, one pair baby pink, with a blue foot and pink cuff on the right, and, of course, vice versa on the left.

But the most cringe-worthy moment of all is not my appalling outfit or my rangy, gawky body. In evidence of an adolescent’s nonsensical tendencies, there I am, in my dress shoes and skirt, perched atop a bicycle. It’s a wonder I wasn’t more popular.

I’m not sure how the picture came to rest in my to-do pile, but every few years it inexplicably pops up. Sometimes it makes me feel better about my current self, other times it has the opposite effect. Nevertheless, I fear I will forever be haunted by the low point of my own physical appearance.

Thanks, Mom.

I think I had better be where other people are not.

2011-04-07T10:26:00.004-04:00

I am always amazed at how quickly you can get out of DC and into “the South.” I am loving Winchester, VA—but I think it’s above and beyond even Southern hospitality! Everywhere I go, people go out of their way to be helpful and friendly. I was walking down the street yesterday and, I kid you not, someone actually said “Howdy” to me. I hope the guy didn’t take my stunned silence for rudeness…I think I managed to smile at him.

First stop yesterday morning was the Civil War Museum. When I arrived downtown, I was slightly annoyed to find there is no free parking in Winchester. The idea of me parallel parking the Equinox is laughable, so I bypassed the parking meters and headed to a parking garage…where I learned that parking was a whopping fifty cents an hour. With a maximum of $4 a day. I told you this place was awesome!

At the museum, I got another solo tour. Normally this kind of one-on-one attention would make me uncomfortable, but not here. People find out I’m a descendent of the Hollingsworth family and they get all excited! I’m like “genealogy geek royalty.”

There are lots of relics at the Civil War Museum, but the coolest part is the graffiti on the walls—the old courthouse was used as a prison and a hospital during the war, and the city passed hands something like 72 times, so there’s both Union and Confederate scribbles. My favorite was the “Jefferson Davis Curse.”

After the museum I walked through Old Town Winchester and stopped at a pub for lunch (grilled cheese, tomato soup and a Smithwick’s…heaven!). Then I headed to an antique mall, because I could spend hours wandering around in those places (just ask Jeremy). Once again, I got amazing personal attention. I had only been there a few minutes when an employee walked up to me and apologized for not greeting me sooner. I asked her a question about an item that didn’t have a price, and she then offered to call the dealer directly to ask…and came back with a 50% reduction. I am totally moving here.

So what was this item? A crumbling Victorian-era photo album, complete with family photos and related newspaper clippings someone had saved and tucked in between the pages. Someone’s family history was just sitting there in a corner! I just couldn’t let that happen, so I bought it and am hoping to track down a relative who might like to have it.

My next stop was the archives at the local library. I think I totally made the librarian’s day when I walked in and said I was researching the Hollingsworth family. He kept pulling resources for me and telling me stories, such as one about Mary Hollingsworth, a six-foot-two woman (hmm, I didn’t get that family trait...but my Grandma did) who posed as a man and moved out west to make money working in the lumberyards. She apparently did a really good job of posing as a man, because she ended up engaged to her boss’s daughter, then freaked out and ran back home to Virginia before the wedding. The boss then sued her for breach of contract, or some such. (This story leads to a lot of questions—first off, you don’t just end up engaged to someone. Wouldn’t Mary have had to propose? Perhaps she really loved this other woman, but freaked out as the wedding approached because certain…issues…might arise on the wedding night?)

Anyway, I did a few hours of research at the archives, then walked across the hall to a meeting of the local genealogy society. As expected, and I am not exaggerating, I was the youngest there by 25-30 years. In fact, my entire time at the library I was referred to as “young lady,” and not in a “you are in big trouble” kind of way. Someone even asked if I was still in school.

The theme of the meeting was ““Coffin Maker, Undertaker & Funeral Director: The Other Death Record Sources.” I now know more about the history of funeral homes than I ever thought I would. Can you name the Father of American Embalming? I can! (Dr. Thomas Holmes, BTW).

And now, sadly, my solo adventure is coming to a close…although I am planning another one! I’ve got to head down to Conyers, Georgia to explore my more recent Hollingsworth ancestry. Mystery! Intrigue! Hiding the cattle from the Yankees! Arsenic poisoning! There’s a lot more to learn, and many, many creepy/strange/geeky things this 32-year old still wants to do.

This is a narrative of very heavy-duty proportions.

2011-04-05T19:00:00.003-04:00

My solo adventure has begun! After vanquishing the "Evil Stinkbug of 2011" and spending $80 on a laptop charger to replace the one currently in the floor of my foyer at home, I seem to be back on top of things.

So, what am I doing? I'm embracing my inner geek on a genealogy-inspired trip to visit the home my 7th great-grandfather lived in, which is now a museum. Since my Grandma passed away back in November, I've renewed my interest in her side of the family, which she would never talk about. This is her mother, my great grandmother:

Maybe it's just me, but the more I look at this picture, the more uncanny her resemblance to me becomes. High forehead, big eyes, same mouth...and you can't tell from the picture, but it's not entirely ruled out that she has my cleft chin (or rather, I have hers).

When I arrived at the ancestral home, I certainly didn't expect a Smithsonian-during-spring-break atmosphere, but I really wasn't expecting the woman who sold me my ticket to grab a key ring from behind her desk and lead me on a one-on-one tour. The house was completed around 1754, and while this woman was clearly a new volunteer and didn't know a ton of details, she did share some tidbits such as, "See this bench in the front entrance? That's where they laid out the dead." Which is, you know...disturbing.

The family is Quaker from way back. I recently found a few of my relatives in the Society of Friends' "Disownment" records. They were kicked out for such things as "driving a wagon in military service," "scouting after Indians," and "singing and dancing." I couldn't help but wonder what my ancestors would think of me driving away from their home while singing along to Rihanna's "S & M."

After the house tour I set out to find the "Early Quaker Cemetery," where many of my relatives are apparently buried. I say "apparently" because 75% of the tombstones were unreadable, but it was an interesting experience nonetheless. The cemetery is in disrepair and surrounded by a stone wall. It is also behind a Maaco, next to the train tracks, and adjacent to a factory yard. As I maneuvered my way to the only access point, a spot right next to the train tracks where a part of the wall has crumbled, I could just picture the next day's headline: "Creepy Brown-Haired Girl Who Likes to Hang Out in Cemeteries Hit by Train."

The cemetery was covered in small purple flowers, and was quite lovely for a small plot of land between a car shop and a major transportation route. However, for some reason the ground was replete with holes about 2 feet in diameter, and deep enough that you couldn't see the bottom...which, for a cemetery, is pretty unnerving. I could only picture the man from the Quaker Oats canister in Zombie form.

So what's on the geek-genda for tomorrow? Civil War museum, archival research, and a local genealogy society meeting! Be jealous.

Six bucks and my right nut says we're not landing in Chicago.

2011-04-02T12:58:00.004-04:00

Continuing on the theme of "Mary's wacky solo traveling adventures," I thought I'd share a post from my old blog about my first business trip. I was young, fresh-faced, and not yet on Zoloft. Wackiness ensued:

So, my first business trip, over and done. As per my usual, it was full of oddities and chances to embarrass myself. First off, Chicago seems lovely. My hotel was lovely...at least, the bed was comfortable. However, I didn't get a chance to leave the realm of the gigantic conference center/hotel...the closest thing to a "happy tourist" moment was catching a glimpse of the sunrise over the lake...from the windows by the elevator, as I was on my way down to a 7:30 a.m. staff meeting. My flight in on Sunday morning was at 6 a.m. Meaning I got up at 3:30, and yet still arrived at O'Hare ungodly early on a Sunday morning, with no shuttles in sight and a 10 a.m. meeting to make. I hop on the subway, having been instructed which stop was closest to my hotel. I ask directions from the subway attendants to the street my hotel is on. I then promptly headed down that street...in the wrong direction. Not only that, but the Chicago marathon is going on...right through the street I needed to cross (well, the street I thought I needed to cross, my going the wrong way and all). Enter me, in new pointy-toed heels, with a laptop bag and a rollaway suitcase, running through the Chicago marathon. Oh, yes. It happened. And of course, once I made a frantic call to Jeremy and realized I was, indeed, going the wrong way, I had to cross the marathon track again. Then, upon my arrival to the hotel with 5 minutes to spare, I realized that my fly had been unzipped throughout the whole debacle. It was like the perfect storm of high humiliation.

As for the Conference itself, there was really no reason for me to be there. It was nice to get to know my colleagues a little better, but the icky thing is that when you're just about the youngest Conference attendee by around 20 years, creepy old men hit on you. A lot. My flight home was scheduled for 9:00 p.m. Monday night...meaning I spent all of 36 hours in Chicago, getting up at 3:30 one day and not going to bed until 2:00 a.m. the next, because of course the flight home was late. With not one, but two screaming babies, one of whom’s parents didn't realize for quite a while that their apparently steroid-packed newborn was kicking the hell out of the back of my chair.

We finally get off the plane, and head to the requisite Dulles shuttle (can't get ANYWHERE in Dulles without riding a stupid shuttle). I squeeze in, accidentally rolling my suitcase over someone's garment bag in the floor. My thought process: Whoops, I ran over that guy's garment bag. Hey, the leg that goes with that garment bag is wearing what is clearly a very expensive suit. Wait a minute, I know that guy! And finally...Holy crap, I just ran over Joe Lieberman's garment bag with my suitcase. That is the great thing about DC - you never know who you're going to be crammed into a small space with. Although, to be fair, the man was taking up two seats and enough floor space for two bodies with his stuff. And since I was 2 feet from him, I could tell that he is not a man of any substantive size. What's up, Sen. Lieberman? Aren't you supposed to be a public servant? Then move your crap outta the way! So, that was my "holiday weekend." And of course, I had to get up at the regular time this morning and drag my sorry butt to the office, since everyone else was still in Chicago (having actual sensible travel schedules and all). I threw together what is possibly the crappiest newsletter of all time and headed home to rest. Really, I should not be allowed to exit my safety zone unescorted. I'm a mess.

It's called a sense of humor. You should get one--they're nice.

2011-03-31T08:40:00.004-04:00

I've had a brief "blog hiatus," but now I'm refreshed and raring to go. I had my own Pretty in Pink moment the other night, when I showed my face at the proverbial prom, just so Steff and his overly-coiffed cronies could see that they didn't break me...and now I'm ready to move on with what I had planned when this "unemployment adventure" began two months ago.

So, I'll be taking a small solo trip next week, the details of which I'll share in a later post. However, to get into the spirit of things, I thought I'd share this personal essay, which details the first solo trip I ever took. This is from a graduate Creative Non-Fiction class, and it's a little stiff in parts, but I think it captures the overall experience well enough:

Reflections on Facing the “Worst”

I’m still not sure how I ended up walking the streets of Charlotte and approaching strangers for money. I had shown up for a trial interview as a “management trainee” for a non-profit organization, expecting to put my degree in Social Services to good use (finally), when suddenly I found myself in a van with a scraggly New Yorker, a ditzy Irishwoman, and a box full of polyester pumpkin bags. It was the summer after my senior year, and instead of saving the world, apparently I was to peddle trick-or-treat bags throughout the city (supposedly I was helping to find missing children, but the details of exactly how I was doing this are still unclear). Basically, I was in my own personal hell.

I had always strived to avoid strangers and awkward situations ever since I grabbed the wrong daddy’s legs during a trip to the zoo. Not only did I wrap my arms around an unknown pair of knees, I clearly remember singing about zebras and dancing an impromptu jig around said knees seconds before hearing my father’s amused voice call me from a distance. A tendency to blabber before the opposite sex and my penchant for falling down in public (usually for no particular reason and in front of the object of my desire) further cemented my belief that unsolicited conversation and I didn’t mix. But even though a phone call to the pizza man could be quite distressing, I mustered up all my courage and placed a call to a non-profit organization that had advertised in the paper. I was going to succeed in the real world, earn good money, and make a difference! I was going to be a “management trainee.”

The next evening, full of youthful promise and with visions of the Nobel Peace Prize swirling in my head, I drove to Charlotte. Since my interview was early the next morning, I rented a room at the most luxurious of all highway-side accommodations: the Super 8 Motel at exit 7 off of I-85. After catching up on my Indian soap operas in the lobby during check-in, I hurried to my room to place a phone call. But there was no dial tone, only a sticky, grimy film on the earpiece. The Super 8 Motel, being the fine establishment that it was, required a separate deposit to use the phone. It was my very first independent woman adventure, and I couldn’t even figure out how to call my mommy.

A couple of hours later, after a brief conversation with the snide hotel clerk and, eventually, a drive to a pay phone, I was in my room with a can of Pringles, Must See TV, and my nerves as my only companions. I had always found myself to be great company—a slightly geeky, but trustworthy, associate—and spent the evening (between bites and commercials) convincing myself what a great impression I would make the following morning. Of course, it didn’t work, but it did pass the time.

Self-confidence had never been one of my strong suits. A world-class worrier, I could easily spend ten times more energy fretting about something than it would take to actually do it. It was never a matter of whether the glass was half-full or half-empty; it was a matter of my dropping the glass, cutting my foot, and winding up in the emergency room. Occasionally the rational woman that lived within my head would make an appearance and say something encouraging, but the neurotic woman within would be right behind her, baseball bat in hand, poised for a fight. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep well that night.

I woke early the next morning in order to have some extra time to worry and to iron my best (and only) suit. I arrived at the Missing Children Help Center about ten minutes ahead of schedule, ready to be whisked into the executive director’s swanky office and introduced to the benevolent workings of an illustrious organization. Instead, I walked into a dank room resembling the lobby of a roller skating rink, with worn-down burgundy carpet and plastic chairs lining the walls. In those chairs were dozens upon dozens of people, of all ages, shapes, and sizes. “Who can all these people be? They can’t all have missing children,” I thought stupidly.

We all had interviews, every single one of us. Like cattle, but with less dignity, we were shuttled in and out of the director’s office two at a time. The executive director was unshaven and wearing corduroys. He smacked gum, took phone calls, and quoted Austin Powers during the interview (although I took his exclamation of “Yeah, Baby!” as a good sign). With little or no conversation, I was told that I seemed like a good candidate and offered a chance to “go out in the field” with a couple of employees. I naively assumed that my résumé, the highlight of which at the time was “Library Student Assistant,” had impressed the director so much that I was being streamlined through the interview process. I had yet to learn that, in some professions, being “impressive” and being “a warm body” are one and the same.

I drove home from Charlotte with hope in my heart and plans to drive all the way back the next day. Upon my return for what I assumed would be akin to a second interview, the director started calling out names and assigning us to an employee with whom we would go out in the field. I was extremely surprised just how many candidates were deemed “impressive” enough to continue on to this stage of the interview, but this was soon forgotten as my initial anxiety resurfaced. I was hoping to be assigned to one of the less threatening-looking employees, but instead I got Ray, a loudmouthed, grungy, chain-smoking New Yorker with an attitude problem. Either my inner plea of “Dear God, please not him,” went unheard, or else God has an odd sense of humor.

It’s easy to have faith in God when nothing really wrong ever happens to you. Sure, I had failed a couple math tests in my lifetime, but in all fairness that may have had more to do with my study habits than with being smote by God. So I couldn’t figure out why He would punish me with the insufferable task of riding around in an old van all day with a dirty, not-so-friendly stranger. Surely Job had never faced a trial like this!

I was pleased to find out that Ray and I would at least have a non-threatening companion, a doltish Irishwoman named Erin, whose pantyhose pooled around her ankles and whose mouth never stopped yapping. As I rode through Charlotte in that beat-up Chrysler, the details of what we were going to be doing becoming painfully clear, I listened to Erin babble on and heard a discourse from Ray about why strip clubs were the best place to solicit donations (apparently it was helpful to have a large pool of would-be donors with small bills handy). I had almost forgotten about the task at hand until we made our first stop at a hair salon on the outskirts of the city.

Thus began a long, painful day of running to and from the car, hauling a box of tacky wares over to any stranger who happened to cross our path, and sticking a flyer with the faces of missing children in that person’s face. Thankfully Ray and Erin did most of the talking. I silently held up the pumpkin bags, imagining myself to be some kind of twisted spokesmodel, sort of the Vanna White of the street corner. We didn’t stop for lunch because we might miss the opportunity of a $10 donation, $3 of which naturally went into Ray’s or Erin’s pocket, and we did not skip over anybody or any place: businesses, private residences, hospitals, it didn’t matter. If there were warm bodies about (preferably with wallets handy), Ray asked for money.

Eventually the intense need to be swallowed up by the Earth passed, and, with jaw clenched, I trudged onward. Nine-and-a-half hours later, after being stared at, glared at, ignored, and taunted, we returned to the office. There my car appeared miraculously before me, a mecca of personal freedom on a day when I had to quash my fears, aversions, and the very foundation of my personality. If someone had asked me the day before to delineate the worst possible scenario, I, even in my most neurotic form, would have had difficulty imagining the torment. When it was finally over, I practically vaulted from that horrendous van into the warm air of the southern summer evening.

I didn’t go back into the office, or even say goodbye to my “charitable” companions. As I traveled down I-85, I could hear the neurotic woman within me start to stir. She was wondering if this was all that was out there, if I would be forty and still living with my parents, if “Student Library Assistant” would be the pinnacle of my career. But for once, the rational woman picked up the baseball bat and pounded me with reason: could I really take a day of peddling pumpkins so seriously?

Sometimes even a neurotic has to laugh.

A brief post script--it's 6-7 years later, and I now know that my avoidance of strangers and awkward situations was because of a whopping case of Social Anxiety Disorder. I also know the joy that is Zoloft, a medication which I'll probably take for the rest of my life (I've tried going off it before, and the results are not pretty). I may have been embarrassed by all this at one point in my life, but not now. I know I'm pretty awesome...Steff be damned.

Let’s Make History Our Bitch!

2011-03-15T11:05:00.004-04:00

I am constantly amused by the side-panel advertisements on Facebook. I’m always getting offered great deals on waxing (not sure how to take that, BTW), or crap-tacular Clemson merchandise (no, I don’t need a bejeweled orange and purple sunhat, thanks). I also get tons of ads having to do with babies—I assume because people my age are procreating like crazy. My favorite ads, however, are the Living Social “Bucket List” ones.

The tagline is always “365 things to do in DC before you die,” although if I’m down south long enough the city changes to Greenville. I’ve never actually clicked on the link, but the tagline is always accompanied by one of several different images (and, as far as I can tell, they don’t vary based on the city). The image I see most often is of two people covered in mud and kissing. I don’t know where such things occur, but I do know that it strikes me as utterly disgusting. Who wants mud in their mouth? Or in…other places?

Another one I see quite often is of a girl in a bikini dancing with a chimp. Perhaps this is on the bucket list of, say, an acid-tripping schizophrenic, but again, this doesn’t appeal to me. (Food for thought: Googling “deadly chimp” results in 282,000 hits. If you must dance with a chimp, just be careful not to step on its foot.)

And finally, there is this image:

This one is perhaps the most inane of all. Sure, it’s cute, but what bucket list item is this fulfilling? Wrestling a piglet into some Wellies? That doesn’t sound fun, easy or life-enriching. Plus, I kind of feel sorry for the pig. Don’t pigs like mud? Why would you want to deny them one of the quintessential elements of their being?

In short, I think I’ll stick with my more traditional bucket list: seeing if I can knock out a pigeon by throwing a penny off a tall building; teaching my dog to speak so we can reenact classic Buffy moments; vanquishing my enemies; etc.

Can you Photoshop your life with better decisions, Jerry?

2011-03-10T12:08:00.001-05:00

Yesterday, as the technician continued to prod the most sensitive spot on my gums with a sharp implement, I had a revelation: I actually used to like to go to the dentist. Why? Because I got to sleep in a little and arrive at work a little late. Pain and discomfort be damned—it was better than a full day at work! I’m pleased to say that I discovered yesterday that I actually hate the dentist now…that, and I have no cavities. Yay, me.

In other news, I was at the gym, wearing a Clemson t-shirt and Clemson shorts…which naturally prompted the woman next to me to ask, “Are you a Cavalier?” Instead of whacking her about the head with my People magazine, which was my first impulse, I merely responded, “No, I’m a Tiger.” Which, when you think about it, is kind of a weird statement. I regret not following up with a growl and a snarl. How would you follow the statement, “I’m a Cavalier”? A swish of a fake sword and the fluff of an imaginary hat feather? Now that’s just sad.

And finally, there’s this adorable little girl in the Starbucks who is So. Very. Excited. to be wearing her pink rain boots and carrying her flower umbrella. Wish I could be so excited about the rain, but for me a rainy day just means that the house will smell like wet dog. Although the dog would be cute in pink rain boots…

Thirty-two, Brute?

2011-02-24T13:06:00.003-05:00

I am visiting my parents in North Carolina this week. Although where they live now isn't the house I grew up in, I did spend a couple of summers and the year after college here, so there are piles of my belongings strewn about. I was going through some of my old music books, when a battered copy of Julius Caesar fell down from the top shelf of the closet. Written inside the back cover was the following note (original note is in italics, my current thoughts are in bold):

I am so bored I think I'm going to cry. Someday when I'm thirty (darn it, I'm two years late!) I'll find this book at the bottom of a box (or the top of a closet) and read through it. And I'll remember what an unpatient (um...impatient?), silly girl I was (the use of past tense is really not necessary). Except that I probably won't be able to read it because my handwriting is so terrible (terrible, but familiar (terribly familiar?)). But after I look through it, I'll show it to Antonio, my loving husband (I assume this is either Antonio Banderas (who was much hotter then) or Antonio Sabato Jr. (who played Jagger on General Hospital), and he will laugh at me and ruffle my hair (apparently at 15, my dream man would laugh at me. Jeremy, I dare you to try it).

Monday, May 16, 1994

2:04 pm

Mrs. Reier's English class

My sincere apologies to Mrs. Reier, who overall was a fine, fine teacher. In my defense, this was likely my last class of the day...and I think Heather, Sara and Dan were all in this class with me, so I'm sure when I wasn't bored, I was distracted.

Also, my apologies to Shakespeare for defacing his work with such silly, adolescent ramblings.

However, kudos to my 15-year old self for having the foresight to write a blog entry 17 years in advance (I never was much of a procrastinator).

How Can I Miss You if You Won't Go Away?

2011-02-16T10:24:00.003-05:00

My dog likes to greet me in the morning by running up to the bedside and snorting in my face. And yet, this is still better than being awakened by the alarm clock at 5:30. Tilly of course has to adjust to my new schedule, too. After many failed attempts to teach her to tell time (I don't care if it's 2 pm, you're home and thus it must be walk/supper time!), I've given up and gotten used to her glaring at me until she gets what she wants.

For both our sakes, I am spending the morning at a Panera. I'm trying to be productive, but I chose a seat facing the menu, and every time I look up I find something else that I'd like to eat for lunch...two hours from now. Darn you, soup in a bread bowl!

I continue to find amusement (or at least bemusement) in the kinds of people I find out in the middle of a work day. Not too many obvious stay-at-home moms at Panera...rather, this seems to be the hangout of the slightly-addled-yet-charming old person. Perhaps, instead of my Baby Bjorn and Cabbage Patch Kid idea, I could adopt a slightly-demented grandparent and have them accompany me to coffee shops. Who knew unemployment would afford me so many different options? Outstanding!

And I've just eavesdropped on a conversation between the manager and the health inspector. They received an A-, so it looks like it'll be safe to order lunch here (two hours from now).

I have all these thoughts, and I'm pretty sure they all contradict each other.

2011-02-11T12:43:00.003-05:00

Being home during the week is a completely different world. Everywhere I go, I'm surrounded by stay-at-home moms. And I'm not dissing these women at all, but I am considering purchasing a Baby Bjorn and a Cabbage Patch Kid...just to fit in. I mean, Tilly is my baby, but I don't think she'd appreciate being strapped to my chest and taken to Target.

I have done some work this week--both on writing/editing and around the house--but I have also spent a great deal of time acting like a 14 year-old boy. I opened up two new races on MarioKart and defeated a new level on Monkey Island, plus I just ate a box of SweetTart Hearts (finding a single serving-sized box was the highlight of my day...possibly my week).

I began cleaning out the office yesterday and discovered that I apparently hadn't filed anything since the spring of 2009. Clearly I am an organizational mastermind.

Obviously nothing too exciting is going on--except that I am happy. And for me, that's pretty exciting! Full credit for this must go to my quitting my job (that, or the SweetTarts. Let's face it: they're awesome).

Unemployment, Day One

2011-02-08T10:33:00.001-05:00

The battle between me and the DVR began in earnest:

Gossip Girl: You know you want to watch me.
Mary: I can’t! Must…be…productive!
Gossip Girl: Ha! We both know you can’t resist bad tween television.
Mary: But the laundry situation is so dire that I had to resort to my strapless bra today!
Gossip Girl: But you’re unemployed…you don’t need clean clothes! And don’t you want to know if Chuck and Blair get back together?
Mary: Yes…but I haven’t been to the gym since the Bush administration…
Gossip Girl: You are powerless over me.

And so it continued. And yes, I watched Gossip Girl, but I did do laundry and go to the gym, so it’s a draw. (And, dammit, just remembered that yesterday was Monday and there’s another Gossip Girl sitting there on the DVR, tantalizing me with its teen angst and ridiculous-yet-captivating fashion).

In all seriousness, I do think I need a small mourning period before putting the freelance plan into action. Because you can do a good job, and be well liked, and still, as my former co-worker put it, “be served a shit sandwich.” And Good God does that piss me off when I think about it.

So, to recap: Day One: Great American Novel not written.
However, Day Two: Wearing a real bra again!

Small victories, people.

Life is a bore I always say.

2010-12-18T14:33:00.004-05:00

Dear "Real World,"

There's no easy way to say this. We've been apart for a while now and, well...I think I'm just better off without you. I'm like a different person -- taking helicopter rides, going on sunset sails, attending luaus, drinking before noon -- and I haven't worn long pants in weeks!

You and I, we were just going through the motions. After some time passes, I think you'll realize that you're better off as well. It's not you, it's...

Oh, who am I kidding? It's totally you! You suck. Hard.

Please don't call me anymore.

With Disdain,
Mary

For My Grandma

2010-11-06T17:39:00.003-04:00

You had this habit of saying, "Hiya, Kid!" and grabbing us grandkids by the back of the neck. It kind of hurt, but we didn't mind.

You were the ultimate grandma in so many ways--you always had Snickers in the fridge, and you were a hell of a cook. Cheeseburgers and lasagna were your specialty, even though you didn't like cheese (I often wondered how we were even related!).

You gave the world's worst Christmas presents--but the fact that you were consistent made your presents some of the most looked-forward to.

I always looked forward to your visits, even when I was in Kindergarten and you were visiting Germany all the way from Florida. We always had an ancient electric blanket that came out only when Grandma visited. You could never handle the cold, but the pictures of you bundled up in my dad's winter coat are priceless. And numerous.

You took my brother and I to the beach, which must have been so frustrating, because we were definitely indoor kids who got sick of the beach within 20 minutes. So you'd take us home, fix us dinner on TV trays, and we'd watch Charlie's Angels on the couch. You made everything special.

When you got sick, and finally had to go into the nursing home, you would hallucinate that you were babysitting me and my brother--even though we were both over 30. I can't tell you how guilty that makes me feel. I'm sorry I was a long-distance granddaughter.

One time when you were visiting, when I was around 10, my Dad was participating in some kind of cross-dressing fundraiser pageant at church. He borrowed your bra, which he proceeded to fill with giant pinecones and wear. You were happy to help. I love that my dad and I got that stupid sense of humor from you.

Like I said, you were a hell of a cook. One time, Jeremy and I came to visit on our way to Disney World. You asked, "Are you hungry?" I said we'd eaten already, to which you responded, "There's a ham in the fridge." And no, not ham slices...an actual entire ham. And you were still surprised when we didn't eat it.

You lost your parents when you were young; you would never talk about it. and I regret not pushing you harder. But in later years you were happy to talk about my Grandpa, who died when I was 4. You truly were the "greatest generation." He was in the Army Air Corps, and would have been sent to Okinawa if he hadn't have been involved in a serious crash in Columbia, SC during a practice mission. And still, he and the pilot, who was his buddy, posed for these ridiculous pictures in their full body casts--with the bellies cut out, because it was summer in Miami and, of course, incredibly hot. He went to U of Miami on the GI bill, and when he graduated, my dad and his twin sister were in the audience. "That's my daddy!" my dad apparently called out. If I had a time machine, that's one of the moments I'd travel back to.

The last time I visited, you were lucid, but couldn't hear (you'd been deaf for a long time). The rest of us were looking up at a light fixture, talking about how someone had hooked it up so that furniture could be moved around. All you saw was your family looking up at something, and so you asked, "What is everyone looking at?" And even when it must have been so frustrating to not be a part of the conversation, you still got the joke.

I love you, Grandma.

It's Time to Kick Some Asteroid

2010-06-22T13:53:00.003-04:00

Update!

Following my rediscovery of what I now refer to as the "Hippie Mary Photo," I confronted my mother and demanded an explanation. She conceded that the mustard yellow turtleneck and matching bell bottoms were, in fact, part of my regular wardrobe ("They were hand-me-downs from the neighbors," she said. Sure, play the "we didn't have much money" card.)

"But what about the hat?" I asked. Her response? "You did that yourself!"

"What?" I replied. "Look at the jaunty angle--a toddler can't capture that jaunty angle!"

"I'm sure you did it yourself," Mom said. "I wouldn't have taken the time to do that!"

As for the furry shawl-slash-curtain-tassel, the only thing I discovered was my grandmother made it for my mom as a gift--thus cementing the family lore that "Grandma gives weird-ass gifts." (e.g., the Burt Bacharach box set I received for Christmas. I was 15 at the time.)

I Am Apparently a Heartless Automaton

A Facebook friend always asks questions as her status updates. Today's was, "What makes you smile?" I responded this morning, and have been receiving other responses throughout the day--responses that make me feel about as loving as Mr. Burns. Their answers? Children, grandchildren, pets, nature, etc. My answer? The movie Dodgeball. I mean, come on, people--what's your beloved offspring compared to grown men getting pegged in the groin with a rubber ball? Am I right?

Premiering after "Mother, May I Sleep with Danger?"

It's hot as Hades here. Yesterday, in order to preserve my sanity and my Scotch-Irish skin, I caught the commuter train a station earlier than I normally would, just so I could wait inside. Hooray for self-preservation! The flaw in the plan? This necessitated me getting on the red line. Now, I'm not the type of girl that expects men to open the door for me or let me pass first, but is it too much to ask that you not shove me??? After a mere two stops I was clenching my fists in a strained effort not to kill someone with my bare hands.

Crisis was somehow averted, but Jeremy, having seen the state in which I arrived home yesterday, forbade me from riding the red line today. Still, as the thermometer creeps up throughout July and August, how long can I hold out in the Sophie's Choice of "skin cancer vs. commuter violence"? I fear I'm only one pushy commuter encounter away from having my own special on the Lifetime Movie Network.

Tonight at 9 pm: Homicide on the Red Line: the Mary Barron Story.
Tagline: 'This commute's a real bitch.'
Starring Meredith Baxter Birney, Lisa Rinna, and Mr. T.

Hay HAY Hay!

2010-06-08T15:09:00.006-04:00

Can we discuss this photo for a moment? One might take a quick glance and think, "Oh, surely she's playing dress up!" That knit beret? It lived in our "dress-up drawer" for many a year. And that fringy shawl thing can't actually be an article of clothing, can it?

However, as my loving husband pointed out—those plaid bellbottoms and that mustard yellow turtleneck actually fit. I’m not playing; I'm merely a toddler in the late 1970s. Meaning…my mother did this to me. How could this ever have been considered OK—even on a child as adorable as I was? Was she taking me to audition for What's Happening?

Occasionally I'll hear stories from my parents that seem completely out of whack with who they are today. For example, my Dad recently told me about how he used to feed the family dog beer at parties. I can only HOPE that this outfit is one such incident—ill-advised, out-of-character, and merely a "snafu" on the path to respectability.

But for God's sake, Mom…MUSTARD YELLOW???

To the Douchebag who Stole My Wallet

2010-03-20T23:34:00.003-04:00

I was in Chili's. Because my mother-in-law had given us a gift certificate. It's not a fancy place--there aren't hooks under the bar for your purse. So the bag went on the floor. Little did I know that the bartender would actually card me--leading me to reach down and pull up my bag with one strap. Was that the moment my wallet fell on the floor? I'll never know.

What I DO know is that, if I found a wallet on the floor of the bar, I'd hand it to the bartender and say, "Hey, I found this on the floor. We should take care of it so that some douchebag doesn't abuse it."

So, hey, douchebag who took my wallet and used my check card, then my credit card, then my other credit card...

I volunteer with my church's youth group. I donate to ASPCA. I work for an organization that strives for affordable housing. No, I'm not perfect...but I gotta think karma's on my side. So, "Gird your loins," Douche Bag. We're on to you.

And I'm cuter.

They said I was a valued customer. Now they send me hate mail.

2010-03-09T12:11:00.000-05:00

Have we discussed how annoying it is that Ann Taylor only has one hook per dressing room? I mean, never mind if you have so much stuff you need two hooks-—what about the sorting system? This hook for keepers, that hook for “crap that makes you look like Martha Stewart on a Cheetos bender.” You wind up juggling piles of clothing in an attempt to make some sense of order out of them, and end up buried under a pile of sensible slacks and merino wool sweaters. I bet they don’t put up with such crap at Bergdorf’s (but I wouldn’t know. I don’t think they let people like me in there).

In other news, I've finally decided what I will wear to the Oscars, should I ever live out my fantasy of winning an award for a behind-the-scenes category such as "Art Direction," then being so charming and beautiful during my acceptance speech that I am pronounced "America's Darling" in the following day's People magazine. (What? It could happen!)

David Meister and Bvlgari:

Sadly, they don't sell those at Ann Taylor.

I don't like the dark here, it keeps eating my pencils.

2010-03-04T09:37:00.003-05:00

I had some blood drawn at the doctor’s office the other day. No big deal. So when I heard the message on my voicemail that asked me to call them, instead of them just leaving the “don’t worry, everything’s good” message, I freaked out a bit. Good God, what’s wrong with me? Cancer? Leprosy? Hemorrhoids?

Turns out I have a vitamin D deficiency--no big deal, just have to take a prescription supplement. I do wonder if this deficiency has contributed to my general depressive state as of late--it'd be nice to have an excuse, anyway.

Still, I'm baffled. Even in the dead of winter, wearing SPF 28, this chick's pale, pale skin can suck up the sun. In spin class the other day, the instructor was trying to help the class gauge when they're working too hard. "When you look in the mirror, and your face is bright red...then you're working too hard." Yes, pretty simple. And yet, she continued, "Unless, of course, you are Scottish or Irish in origin."

And, I am not exaggerating, the woman looked directly at me while saying this. Anyway, good news! I'm not out of shape--I'm merely Irish. That's a relief.

Bring on the potatoes and the Guinness.

Ah, hon, ya got Arby's all over me.

2010-02-10T13:38:00.006-05:00

I think the diminished number of weirdos in Las Vegas says a lot about the current economic climate. There weren't many sightings beyond what Jeremy dubbed the "strange, old, rich people." Jeremy was lucky though--he spotted an Elvis impersonator in the CVS. What was he shopping for? Perhaps some "Hunka Hunka Burnin' Hemorrhoid Cream"? Apparently the drugstore chain is a favorite among the Elvis-wannabe set...quite the "Love Me Vendor." (OK, OK, I'll stop now.)

The pictures are few and far between, but I think this one speaks for itself (OK, not at all, really, but I enjoy its bizarreness too much to try to explain):

We did go out for a nice dinner one evening...

...aaaaannnd here I am the morning after, attacking the leftovers:

Lovely, I know. Sorry, guys, I'm taken!!

Naturally, because we spent 5 days in sunny, temperate Las Vegas, Mother Nature decided to make us pay with "Snowmageddon 2010." Yes, the storm has a name. It also has a little-known slogan: "When you run out of beer, not even the snow plows can hear you scream."

We'll just say that supplies are dangerously low. It's Beer v. Blizzard, 2010...who will win out? Stay tuned.

No, but a four-hundred-pound wino offered to wash my hair.

2010-01-29T12:02:00.001-05:00

Some Drive-Bys:

* Last weekend I went to Rehoboth with my dear friends La and Signe. There was outlet shopping, hot tubbing, wine drinking, light-hearted mocking…I heart my giggly friends. What I did NOT heart was being the first to arrive at the beach house, which was cold, dark, and interminably creepy. I ventured throughout, turning on lights and thermostats. I was even brave enough to go down to the basement, where I flipped what I thought was a light switch—turns out it was for a fan in a room I couldn’t see. Thus, some lovely chug-chug-chug noise started up, scaring the bejeezus out of me.

That’s when I went upstairs and opened the bottle of wine.

I huddled on the couch and watched Friends until the real-life ones showed up to rescue me from whatever sinister force was clearly lying in wait for me in the Beach House of Death.

* Jeremy flew up to Boston for work yesterday. I had left my car at the VRE station the night before; he suggested I drop him off at work so he wouldn’t have to park at the airport, and I could drive his car for the day. All well and good—until I got in the driver’s seat and realized that the warning lights for gas, windshield wiper fluid, and engine were ALL ON. That’s three (3) warning lights, people. Thankfully we stopped by the gas station, and Jeremy took care of two of them. I begrudgingly pulled into a parking space in front of his office and let him out (I had suggested that, to save time, he could merely tuck and roll, and I would toss his suitcase out after him. I think four warning lights would have pushed me over the edge on that one…)

* We’re off to Vegas on Sunday, so expect some bizarre people-watching-related blog entries (last time we were there, a dude in a cow suit was parked at the slot machines at the MGM Grand). Also expect that, if I hit the jackpot, I will retire at the ripe old age of 31 and spend my days in secluded luxury, quietly mocking passersby from my custom-made hyperbaric chamber.

Sometimes I think you ain't got the sense God gave a lemon!

2010-01-12T12:31:00.003-05:00

So lately I’ve been enjoying the Barnes and Noble eReader on my iPhone. I have a long commute, and a high tolerance for crap novels, so I’ve been working my way through the eBooks they offer for free. The other day, having grown tired of Harlequin romance novels (see note re: high tolerance for crap) (and also, their “military-themed” romances with the tagline “The Few. The Proud. The Sexy as Hell,” always makes me giggle out loud.), I downloaded a book that didn’t have a synopsis, but that I was pretty sure wasn’t a cheesy romance novel.

I was right. It wasn’t. What it was, was gay erotica. Now, I have no problems with gay erotica per se, but it doesn’t do much for me. Also, I felt a little weird reading it on the train. Still, the worst thing about it was the GRAMMAR. I am shocked—SHOCKED—at the low grammatical standards for pulp gay erotica. Also, dialogue exchanges such as this made me want to pluck out my eyelashes:

“Thanks Mr. Austin You da man”.

“Nah, you da man Pauli” I said pointing at him as I walked in to the bar.

That’s exactly as it’s written – I take no credit for the grammar or content of the above. It made the Harlequins look like Tolstoy.

On an entirely different note, who decided that the years 2000-2009 would be dubbed the “Aughts”? As if I didn’t feel old enough already, I have to tell the story of my twenties sounding like a grumpy old fart??

**Gross throat-clearing noise**

“Back in Aught-Four,”

**adjusts ratty bathrobe**

“Janet Jackson sang a ditty with that Timberlake feller during the SuperBowl…”

**shuffles slippers**

See what I mean?

Would you please put some pants on? I feel weird having to ask you twice.

2010-01-05T11:58:00.002-05:00

So what happened to the rest of November and December? Well, mix the holidays with two ailing grandmothers, horrible news from dear friends, and a wee bit ‘o seasonal depression, and you get…a lady who doesn’t feel much like writing. So, here are some niblets going a ways back:

1. Communion at an unnamed southern church: At our home church, communion is prefaced with “the table is open to all who proclaim Jesus as lord,” or some such statement. However, this church we visited had the longest list of what Jeremy dubbed “fine print” that I had ever heard: you had to be confirmed, repentant (really, truly repentant – if you’re not completely and totally 100% sorry, don’t even think of taking communion), able to walk on water, dressed by joyous songbirds in the morning…it went on and on. And my favorite part: if you weren’t worthy, “don’t worry about skipping communion, nobody’s watching.” Which pretty much guarantees that everyone is watching.

My stubbornness almost prevented me from taking the juice and bread when it was passed, but I did so to keep the peace. Of course, I inhaled a bit of flour when eating the bread and started coughing. My first thought? “Ack! It’s rejecting me—I’m not worthy!”

2. I started a spinning class last night. Let’s just say that “hovering” is not as fun and sci-fi as it sounds.

3. I got to spend a little time with my niece and nephew on Thanksgiving Day. There is nothing as great as hearing a 2.5 year old girl attempt to say “Spongebob Squarepants.” This exchange was a close second:

Me, upon being presented with a plastic bag full of little toys: Oh, look, what a neat car!
My niece: No, it’s a Transformer (pronounced ‘Twansfowma’)!
Yup, she’s definitely my brother’s kid.

And finally,

4. I have been known to rant about the occasional clothing trend (gladiator sandals—ick). Now, this is not so much a popular fashion trend as it is an unfortunate “DC worker bee” trend. I give you what I have dubbed the ‘sleeping bag coat’:

For the love of God, people. This is not Alaska. It’s not even Maine. If your coat doesn’t cover your ankles, you’re probably not going to die. However, if your coat does cover your ankles, it makes something inside of me die. So please, invest in a nice, wool peacoat. Do it for me.

Just Watch Your Mouth, or I'll Sit on You

2009-11-19T09:33:00.003-05:00

So yesterday's Facebook status, in case you didn't see it, was:

Mary's work day began with someone asking her if she was pregnant, on account of her "pooch." No, just fat, thankyouverymuch. Now please go lick an electrical socket.

Now that I've had 24 hours to stew over this, I'd like to add on to my suggestion that she go lick an electrical socket...and I'm including my dear, beautiful pregnant friend Sara on the "Vindication List." Why do people think it's OK to touch/comment on your body when you're pregnant? If I'm ever pregnant and some stranger walks up to me and reaches out for my stomach with their hand, they're going to lose it. All I'm saying.

Anyway, this lady can also lick:

-the subway pole
-the inside of the office microwave
-the football-sized rats running around the alley behind our building
-Glenn Beck

Jeremy had suggested I punch her in the face. Tempting, but I like to think a little more creatively...say, emptying the contents of a Ped Egg in her tea, or replacing the contents of her iPod with this.

I am open to other suggestions, as long as they are nefarious.

And now, evil co-worker who will forevermore be known as "Evil Co-Worker," me and my "pooch" are going to get a cup of coffee, glaring at your office as we walk by. Suck it.

That'll Do, Pig.

2009-10-23T14:50:00.003-04:00

So Jeremy and I have long suspected that our shelter dog, Tilly, is a Lab/Border Collie mix. She mostly looks and acts like a lab, except she has longer hair and hates the water. So when we took her with us to the junior high lock-in last weekend (we're adult supervisors for the youth group at church…man, I feel old writing that), we expected a lot of this:

The girls especially (and there were a lot of them—I think 14 girls and 3 boys, bless their hearts) loved Tilly. And while Tilly loves attention and kids, I think it was a pretty anxiety-ridden night for her. Why, you ask? Well, it turns out her "herding instincts" are MUCH more prominent than Jeremy or I knew.

Imagine trying to keep up with and herd 17 tweens. I think cats would have been easier.

Every time a kid left the big room we were all in and went to the bathroom, Tilly would hop up and follow. She would then wait outside the bathroom door until the kid emerged, and escort them back to the group. If there were two people in the bathroom, she would escort one back, then return to the bathroom to fetch the other one.

When the kids started playing Manhunt in the dark, empty church, I thought her little head was going to explode. As it was, any time a kid ran by, Tilly would run after—not in an aggressive, nip-at-their-heels way, but I don't think she was really playing, either. You could almost hear her saying, "Hey! HEY! You get back to the flock!"

The only time she stayed still was when Jeremy closed her into the office he was sleeping in for the night. Needless to say, my puppy was beyond pooped the next day. Still, I can't help but have a certain amount of pride in owning a dog that is almost as Type A as I am.

No, no, it wasn't a wax thing--it was moving and it was freaky looking!

2009-10-14T14:47:00.001-04:00

So it turns out that receptions in wax museums are simultaneously incredibly creepy and incredibly entertaining. First, all I could think of while walking through the closed museum was how it must get even creepier when all the lights are off. Second, we walked through some of the museum, but most of the food and drink was congregated in one small area. This was highly confusing for all…I kept staring at real humans and wondering, "Who's that supposed to be?" (until they started moving, of course). And some of the more inebriated attendants started talking to some of the wax figures. And then there was the inappropriate touching…someone bragged to me that he had felt up Carrie Underwood for a photo op. Dude! If you're going to feel up a wax figure, how about Britney Spears, who is hanging from a stripper pole over there? Don't manhandle the chick that sang "Jesus Take the Wheel!"

A Daily Show bit involving goats (don't ask) reminded me of one of my favorite stories to tell from college. Clemson is, somewhat aptly, known as a "Cow College" (meaning there's lots of agriculture/animal husbandry stuff). My roommate and I had an apartment off-campus, up behind an old stone church and pretty isolated from the main drag. One day we look out and realize, "Hmm…there's a goat in the parking lot." Discussion ensued. Where did this goat come from? Should we approach it? Who do we alert to the fact that there's a farm animal out front? Barbara finally decided to call the "non-emergency" police number. After explaining that there was a goat in the parking lot, we both expected an incredulous response…but instead, we got, "That durned goat! We been chasin' that thing all day!" Ah, Clemson. And to head off some of the redneck jokes…no, I DON'T use the word 'varmint,' I've never milked a cow, and I am NOT my own grandmother.

On a completely different note, I'm planning an itinerary for a visiting Israeli delegation in a few weeks. One of the delegates is strictly kosher, which would be no problem if they were staying in Montgomery County, but in the city? I can find only three options – Eli's Restaurant, the JCC Café, and the cafeteria at the Holocaust Museum. What fun that would be: Hello, welcome to our country! Let us eat among stark reminders of the genocide of your people!

Yeah, my job is weird sometimes.

Dear Stinky Man at the Gym

2009-09-22T15:01:00.002-04:00

Editor's Note: This is a reprint of something I wrote a few months ago.

Dear Stinky Man at the Gym,

Hi! We've never formally met, but you'd probably know me as the bleary-eyed brunette on the elliptical machine in the mornings who yawns excessively (sorry about that--it's a side effect of my medication). Now, I understand that people aren't supposed to smell good at the gym--no pain, no gain, right? However, your odor is unique in that it is all-pervasive even before you begin to exercise.

It's not a typical body odor smell, either. I can't quite put my finger on it--maybe like a sea otter that has bathed in Aqua Velva? Or the love child of one of those discount perfume stores and the floor of a bus? Maybe you even have some weird medical condition. Whatever. The origin of your odor does not concern me.

Here's my issue: your unfailing proclivity, no matter how empty the cardio room may be, to hop on the machine right next to me. I know I'm being a wuss when I move to a machine across the room--hey, I try to be polite and wait at least a couple of minutes so that you don't pick up on the correlation between my leaving and the arrival of your all-consuming stench. Still, because I detest the treadmill and must flee the row of elliptical machines like a right-wing Conservative flees reason, I end up on the stationary bike, which is not a great calorie burner.

Thus, I must come to the conclusion that you, Mr. Stinky Man at the Gym, are the root cause of my recent weight gain. I'm going to have to ask you to make some changes. Of course, I am not a dictator! You naturally will have several options, put forth by me, in containing your malodorousness:

1. Stop coming to the gym for your exercise. How about an outdoor activity? Perhaps a sport that requires you to be out in a large body of water all by your lonesome?

2. Replace the cologne you hose yourself down with in the morning with Febreze.

3. Devise some sort of self-containment system--something akin to wearing one of those hamster balls to the gym. I recommend watching The Boy in the Bubble for inspiration.

And finally:

4. Soap: It's Not Just for the Ladies.

I do hope you understand that your cooperation is necessary for my continued health and fitness. I wish you only the best (as long as you keep your distance from me). I'm sure that somewhere out there is a colony of olfactory-challenged villagers who would be glad to welcome you into their fold.

But still: Soap. Seriously.

I've been around... Well, all right, I might not've been around, but I've been... nearby.

2009-09-17T10:56:00.003-04:00

Sometimes when I get bored, I make up scenarios in my head. Like, "What if I'd been born in a third world country," or "What if my dog could talk," or "What if my feet weren't so huge." Does anyone else do this?

Lately one that's been roaming around my head is, "What if I was single—where would I meet people to date?" (And Jeremy, to be clear—I don't want to be single!) Because I look around, and there's not much out there that I run into in my day-to-day life. I spend a great deal of time commuting, which is, first of all, a weird way to meet people. Second of all, there are probably two single men under the age of 40 that ride the VRE. And thirdly, I'd have to abandon my much-beloved "Quiet Car" for a regular car, thus subjecting myself to numerous loud and inane cell phone conversations. All this assuming that I would actually go up and speak to a stranger (which, as those of you who know me know, would really never happen).

Then there's walking the dog. It is a great way to meet people who already have a dog (something in common!). But assuming my fictional single self would be living the same place my happily married (see, Jeremy?) self is living, I'd meet mostly stay-at-home moms and single women with little girly dogs. It is a plus that I have a friendly, non-girly, able-to-roughhouse dog that I imagine would appeal to a lot of guys. On the downside, about 50% of the time I'm out walking Tilly, I'm also holding a bag of poop. Which may appeal to some guys...but not guys my lovely fictional self would want to meet!

Then there's church. Sadly, it seems that most churches that have active singles groups are also the huge mega-churches that tend to be on the conservative side (I could throw in a snide comment about how it's hard to attract a mate around here when you're slightly to the right of Attila the Hun, but I wouldn't do that).

Work? Fraught with difficulties, of course: policies about fraternization, the whole "what if we break up but I still have to make his copies" thing...and, once again, assuming there's someone around that you'd actually want to date.

So, what's a fictional single girl to do? I guess she'd turn to the internet. I haven't been single since the eHarmonys and Match.coms of the world became mainstream, and I have to admit I'm incredibly curious what they'd come up with for me (I mean, fictional single me). I'm doubtful that they would put me and Jeremy together, although I have at least two friends who met their spouses this way. It's an unknown world to me, and always will be.

So the conclusion I've come to? Fictional Single Mary would be...the Cat Lady. Except with a dog. And bigger feet.

And I'll Never Have That Recipe Again

2009-09-09T15:22:00.003-04:00

So I’m listening to Avril Lavigne in the shower this morning. And yes, I can hear you mocking. It's not that I like most of her stuff, it's that I knew it would be pointless to try and find a better option. There's the Jack Diamond Show, which best I can tell is a tiny room overflowing with interns whose sole job is to guffaw loudly at his "jokes." DC 101 always seems to be talking about someone's STD. The guy on 100.3 seems to get his material directly from People magazine, with the extra annoying benefit of ending each "news tidbit" with a long pause followed by a bad punch line. Ergo, Avril Lavigne.

Often I'll point out something about a song's lyrics, and Jeremy will say something like, "Oh, I never listen to the lyrics." Well, I do. Most are horribly predictable and silly. Some, however, are more inane than others. I give you:

When You're Gone

I always needed time on my own
I never thought I'd need you there when I cry
And the days feel like years when I'm alone
And the bed where you lie is made up on your side

*OK, uninteresting and cheesy. No surprise there.

When you walk away I count the steps that you take

*OCD much? Do you also make him flick the light switch a certain number of times when he leaves?

Do you see how much I need you right now

*Hello?? Are you listening to yourself? He just walked away. He can't see you.

[Chorus]
When you're gone
The pieces of my heart are missing you

*OK…have you somehow managed to extract your heart, cut it into pieces, and remain living? Did the pieces hold a vote on whether or not to miss him? Is a consensus needed, or just a majority?

When you're gone
The face I came to know is missing too

*Ew. Taken literally, unless this is some kind of Frankenstein's monster situation, this is really disturbing (actually, in both cases it is really disturbing).

When you're gone
The words I need to hear to always get me through the day and make it ok

*Uh…ever heard of a phone?

I miss you

*I think you've made that clear.

I've never felt this way before
Everything that I do reminds me of you
And the clothes you left, they lie on the floor
And they smell just like you, I love the things that you do

*OK, assuming the clothes remain where he left them (what a pig, BTW)…you can smell them from the floor? What does he do for a living—Zoologist? Garbage man? Manage a sulfur plant?

[Chorus]

We were made for each other

*More evidence for the Frankenstein theory.

Out here forever

*Out where? Do you live on a nature commune? House boat? Dude ranch?

I know we were, yeah
All I ever wanted was for you to know
Everything I'd do, I'd give my heart and soul

*All of your heart, or just a few pieces?

I can hardly breathe I need to feel you here with me, yeah

*You're doing a lot of screeching for someone who can "hardly breathe."

[Chorus]

***********************************************************************

Appalling, right? But sadly, still loads better than listening to Jack Diamond. Even more sadly, "When You're Gone" doesn't hold a candle to the inanity that is "Hey There Delilah." It rhymes "good" with…wait for it…"good." And yet, both songs made millions.

Perhaps I am in the wrong profession.

Stop, or my mom will shoot!

2009-09-06T15:11:00.005-04:00

It's Phun with Photos! A random selection from my iPhone photo library:

If you look closely, you can see 5 microphones set up on stage. This is the New Kids on the Block concert. My friend La and I squealed throughout. It was awesome. However, none of them spotted me from a distance, pulled me up on stage, and asked for my hand. Didn't quite live up to the fantasies of 11-year-old Mary.

I stepped out of my car at the VRE one morning, and this is the sight that greeted me. How does this happen??

Earl! The toilet's broken!

Bring the truck around...we'll dump it at the train station! There's a lovely picnic bench there...it'll be real convenient for somebody.

As you can of course tell, here Jeremy and I are in front of Parliament in London. Jeremy is in the process of having his head sucked up by aliens. I am 3 hours into a crystal meth bender...okay, okay, no. It's a really bad attempt at an arms length portrait.

And finally:

My Tilly, rooting for her favorite team (or maybe watching squirrels on the deck while her favorite team plays). I'm sure she was at least listening to the play-by-play.

Well, Now I Just Feel Bad.

2009-09-03T12:55:00.000-04:00

OK, well it turns out that the giant creepy pigeon was trying to build schools in Africa. So I am forthwith issuing a formal apology to Chris the Pigeon. Well done, old chap.

And now, a tribute:

Of course, every time I see Bert and Ernie lately, I think of Rod and Nicky from Avenue Q:

I guess it's a good thing I don't have kids, because after watching that musical I'd have a hard time not pointing out all the gay innuendo on Sesame Street.

How could we possibly hope to fight them?

2009-09-01T15:59:00.000-04:00

I don't share Jen's loathing of birds, but even I found this rather disturbing:

That's a giant pigeon, standing on a platform in the middle of Trafalgar square, throwing something out to the crowd below.

Wanted: Unemployed ninny with no sense of pride. Must like crowds, heights, and tights. Should be able to fight off/run away from possible angry hoard of pigeons defending their territory. Master's degree preferred.

I think I killed a duck!

2009-08-27T15:41:00.000-04:00

Some tidbits from our recent trip to Stockholm & London:

How Not to Behave as an American Abroad...or, "Get away from me before people realize I'm not Canadian, you obnoxious freak."

Since it was August recess for Parliament (those wacky Brits - they steal everything from us), Jeremy and I were able to do a full tour of the Houses of Parliament. In our tour group was a large man, with a large camera, who wanted to talk to everyone. That's fine. Be friendly. But at some point, you should just shut up.

Asking the small child in front of you if she wanted to run for Parliament one day, when she was actually from St. Vincent and the Grenadines?
Asking us where we're from, then proclaiming, "Hey, I know that place - no poor people live there!" WTF?
"Subtly" acting the know-it-all by asking questions such as: "Isn't it true that [insert non-related and obscure British history fact here]?"
And, my favorite - when I try to be friendly and tell you about our trip to Sweden, and you ask if the groom or the bride was Swedish, and I say the groom, and YOU say, "All those beautiful Swedish women, and he marries an American?"And I say, rather snarkily, "Well, she's beautiful too," and you still keep talking to me?

Just. Shut. Up.

Experiencing Flying into Reagan National Airport through the Eyes of a Geeky UK Adolescent...or, "Wedgies transcend continents, don't they?"

He was sitting behind us, and honestly quite a sweet boy (even though you knew he probably spent a lot of time with his underwear pulled over the back of his head). The older lady sitting next to him, who was American and not traveling with him, kept patiently answering his questions and trying to point out the sites. My favorite moments:

Him mistaking an apartment complex for the Pentagon--then calling out "Pentagon, Pentagon!" in this lovely cockney accent when we actually did fly over it a few minutes later
The lady sitting next to him thought he said, "I haven't seen any mountains," to which she tried to explain that DC is not a mountainous area, to which he replied, "No, no, Mountain Dew. I haven't seen any Mountain Dew yet."
Anyone who has flown into Reagan knows how close you get to the river and the monuments. At one point, as we approached the runway, he cries out, "We might have to ditch!"

Other sites seen during our trip include Skansen (think Colonial Williamsburg meets zoo meets gift shop), Stockholm City Hall (lovely but disappointingly young in age--built 1911), Westminster Abbey (with audio tour narrated by Jeremy Irons--think Scar from The Lion King saying, "Welcome to Westminster Abbey,"), the Tower of London (complete with Beefeater named "Dickey"), the British Museum (eww, mummies!), and Avenue Q (Wow. Those puppets are having sex.)

All that, and somehow the only souvenirs we came home with were clothes from the Gap (it was hotter than we expected in London and we hadn't packed correctly), some Christmas ornaments ("Look, cute little Danish people!" I exclaimed, to which Jeremy replied, "Um, I think they're probably Swedish,") and a moose in a Swedish scarf. Using our extremely limited Swedish vocabulary, we named him Hiss Tack (Elevator Thank You).

It was a lovely vacation...but next time, I think we're due for a"lie on the beach and drink margaritas" holiday.

Do you have seventeen dollars and a good watch?

2009-08-26T11:49:00.001-04:00

Lesson the First: The quickest way to London Gatwick airport is not Grosvenor House—Paddington Station—Heathrow—Paddington Station—Victoria Station—London Gatwick.

Lesson the Second: Sprinting across London while lugging a giant suitcase, during rush hour, and on an empty stomach, is absolutely no fun.

Lesson the Third: Lugging said suitcase through the London Underground is particularly not fun given the absence of intra-station escalators.

Lesson the Fourth: If you and your spouse are particularly OCD and arrive at the (wrong) airport 2 hours early, you can still make your flight. It involves a taxi, roundtrip on the Heathrow Express train, the underground, a London-Gatwick train, check-in staff willing to work with you, and a sprint to the gate, but you can make it. If the flight is delayed.

Lesson the Fifth: Both parties should be aware of all traveling details, particularly if one member of said party has a history of air travel gaffes (say, booking a flight on the wrong day and not realizing until you arrive at the airport to fly down South to visit your brand new nephew for the first time). But don't worry, Jeremy, I'm not pointing fingers.

Lesson the Sixth: After such a traveling nightmare, that $8 Budweiser you buy on the plane tastes pretty damn good.

En gång i Sverige

2009-08-25T11:53:00.000-04:00

My favorite quote from my recent trip to Stockholm: "If I've learned anything walking around this city, it's that the Vikings did everything naked." Thanks, Sean. If I learned anything walking around Stockholm, it's that the Swedes never met a legging they didn't like.

Of course, Stockholm was gorgeous. Seventy degrees, clear blue skies, a light breeze…although I am assured that it is not quite so lovely in, say, January. The people are out of this world—friendly, English-speaking (hooray), gorgeous and…tan? How does that happen? As if the women weren't beautiful enough, they're naturally tan? Sweden is also in the midst of a baby boom. I am convinced that they are breeding an army of blond, leggy soldiers to woo us all into submission.

The real reason for the trip was my friend Red's wedding. Everything was beautiful, and a nice mix of Swedish and American tradition. I loved that, since the letter 'V' doesn't really exist in Swedish, the minister led them in an "Exchange of Wows." Also, at one point the toastmaster, who had just finished telling us about some of the Swedish Prime Minister's gaffes in English (thanking someone from the heart of his bottom, etc.), proceeded to tell us to "shave ourselves." I'm still not sure what he was actually trying to say. I didn't think we were a particularly hairy group.

I think the turning point for the festivities was after the white wine course and the Akvavit course (some kind of liquor made from potatoes), but before the first food course was served. Since I had signed up to give a toast, and I didn't know when my time would come, I held back a bit on the alcohol. I could just envision myself launching into a Swedish Chef impression while telling embarrassing stories about the bride. Thankfully my time slot turned out to be pretty early in the evening.

After my toast it all becomes a bit of a blur. Red wine, Bailey's on ice, Swedish drinking songs which required us all to link arms and sway back and forth…not to mention champagne on the boat ride over and seabreezes upon our arrival at the reception site. At brunch the next morning, I had to admit that I wasn't quite sure how we'd gotten back to the hotel the night before. I'm told that the same group that had marched through Stockholm to the pier, following the beautiful bride and groom with balloons and greenery (Exhibit A), had upon its return from the pier devolved into a mad Swedish/American mass of drunkards stumbling about in dress shoes (Exhibit B).

Exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

It was a time that I will always remember (well…mostly, anyway)! Congratulations, Red and Nils!