baby, we'll ride in style

I have been neither a dependable blogger or cook lately. Some vague form of uninspiration must be the cause, but I can't pinpoint the why of it. I have often expressed that cooking in the evening when I get off work is therapy for me, but as of late I have been more prone to convenience foods. Maybe that means that I'm so well-adjusted that I don't need the therapy anymore?? Who knows. I'll be back in the saddle, eventually, I'm sure. I'll just blame it on hormones, that's so easy and since I have a complete lack of knowledge regarding hormones, it's a mystery diagnosis that can't be questioned.

I'm getting all juiced about Obama. I was only vaguely interested in the election during the primary process because at the root of it, I'm one of those pessimists who feels that the country has gone so far down the shitter that no mainstream candidate would or could engineer the sort of change we really need. However, my little Democrat heart has started to rat-a-tat-tat with the hope that evil motherfucking Republicans will be ousted after these eight long years of hell, and I like it. I was reading a blog by my ex, who has been seized by a great shining hope in the light of the convention, and he mentioned our 2004 post-election slump. Our anniversary was Nov. 3 or 4, we could never settle on which, and that year we'd both taken off work/school to celebrate together. W was recrowned the night before, however, and I remember us moping listlessly around the Blockbuster video together, unable to muster any energy to pick out a movie, or care about anything. More than anything I wish my dad could have outlived the Bush regime; he was a self-professed "Yellow Dog Democrat," and after his retirement discovered the left wing blogosphere and became obsessed with anti-Bush rhetoric and conspiracies. He drove my mom fucking crazy.

Anyway. Every time I talk about my dad I feel weird about it, like it's too heavy or I'm trying to garner some sort of sympathy. This "Daddy's Girl" tattoo I have is the perfect example; random people in public will ask me about it, and then I have to say, "Oh, he's dead," and then they get all awkward. It's kind of weirdfunny, but to be honest, sometimes I just act like he's not dead. For example, when a fireman in the Whitehaven Kroger was asking me about in order to hit on me.

I'm doing a case in which a 70-year old couple are raising their daughter's six children, ages 13-5. Can you imagine? For God's sakes. My mother would fucking kill me.

I want to leave y'all with a fantastic tune, the "first rock'n'roll song" EVER, "Rocket 88" performed by Jackie Brenston & His Delta Cats. This is some mystery video that I found on Youtube, but you get the picture. There is some bonus Bette Page, meeeyeow!


All right, I hope everyone has a positively lovely holiday weekend!

Blood from his heart spilled out onto my dress and was warm

If my body's slow recovery is any indicator, My So-Called Drinking Game party was a rousing success. It is a very hilarious and intoxicating thing to do, but it has unfortunately clued me in to the fact that I just can't drink like this anymore. Over the past two months or so, anytime I have had a hangover, it's been a total body experience that last well into the next day and after being a complete lush and ignoring the obvious for all this time, I think I'm going to finally listen to my poor wrecked tummy and head and just take a little break. I mean, this is a beer hangover for God's sakes, it should not be so vicious. It is unfortunate that I must take a hiatus from my wino ways right after discovering the delight of this game, because it's a real crowdpleaser. Oh yeah, and high school? It's a battleground for your heart.

We're riding the Megabus to Chicago Thursday night to spend the long weekend with the adorable Simon Strikeback. His band was opening for the Indigo Girls the weekend we got married, so he couldn't come to the wedding. I don't know when I became the kind of person who gets so excited about exploring cities, but I'm really anticipating wandering Chicago with Simon & Brandon since the last time we were there, New Year's 2006, I got a huge blister on my heel and could barely limp. That's what you get for trying to be cute. Anyway, it's apparently swimming weather so maybe we'll hit up Lake Michigan? I'm sure we'll have some fantastic pizza, we did the last time. The crust of that Chicago-style pizza is like freaking pastry; tender and delicate. All my trip planning revolves around eating.

So, Neko Case is coming to Oxford, MS in September. I could not be more ecstatic. I love her.

Brandon has to go with me because no one I know really gives 2 shits about Neko; well, Simon does, actually, but he lives too far away for it to matter. B will have to suffer through it with me, unless I go alone, which is possible. He does not care for her "suicide music."

Best phrase I've heard all day: "Enigmatic scats," used to describe mystery poop that may or may not come from the ass of Bigfoot.

A Call to Drink...

To all my Memphis/West TN peeps:

We are going to be playing "My So Called Drinking Game" tomorrow afternoon/evening at our house, and y'all are invited. Bring your own booze (I think beer and/or wine would be better; if you drink liquor during the course of this, we'll probably be scraping you off the floor). I am not sure what time we'll be starting up, but probably fairly early. Then we can all either stumble home to bed to maybe to Mezcal to soak it up with chips. Just call me or Brandon and we'll tell you when, or message me on Myspace or WHATEVER. It's not up to me to tell you how to get your shit together.

Love,
Amanda

All this and sexy too

A bit of the photographic goodies from Rebecca & Michael's trip to my mother's lovely farm in historic Decatur County, TN can be found here. You will be quite sorry if you don't check them out. They're from the talented lens of Mister Brandon Scott Dill, keeper of my heart and daddy to my future babies.

Lord, hold my tongue, guide my thoughts

I'm not dead; I've just spent the week first relishing the return of my long-lost, long-limbed Californiated husband, then attending two days of orientation at UT, all the while trying to adjust to a big transition at work. This was capped off by a LOVELY pelvic exam this morning, not by aforementioned husband, but rather by a nurse practitioner named Seraphine. She was very nice, by the way, and provided me with exceptional care as well as 12 more months of security against an embryo taking hold in my all-too hospitable uterus. Thank you, Women's Physician Group of Memphis.

After the first 30 minutes of graduate school, I was disappointed to find out that although they have been validated by their GRE scores and essays and transcripts, a lot of my fellow students found it necessary to complain over the unexpected administration of a 30 minute standardized test gauging our critical thinking skills. I didn't know I was so mature until I found this so incredibly annoying. Of course, the possibility that I am just always pouncing at the chance to be incredibly annoyed, especially at people whose presence in my life I cannot control, is a matter to be considered.

I am at once afraid and excited about grad school. It will be hard, I think. I was rather shocked to discover that one of my syllabi was 29 printed pages. But I am very hopeful that it will give me a chance to prove that I am capable of succeeding at school, something I never did @ MTSU, partly because I didn't see the use of any of it, and partly because it's hard to do assigned readings when you have a rather phallic pink Graffix bong surgically attached to your face. Anyway, it's all kind of a big deal and I'm going to have to learn a lot of complicated things, that's my point. Also, I had to have a TB test and glory to the heavens, I found out I will not be going down like Doc Holliday.

Have a good weekend y'all.

Everything a misogynist wanted to tell you about sex

Tonight's selection is from...


...which lives on the back of our toilet. One quick flip through it exposes you to the sexist, racist, homophobic revelations of one David Reuben, M.D. (in this case, M.D. seems to have stood for "Mean Dick".

In response to the rather bizarre question "Do Western women masturbate that way?" which seems to arisen from a discussion of ben wa balls, Dr. Reuben states the following:

"In the early days of the Industrial Revolution in this country, many young girls worked in garment factories. The hours were long, the pay poor, and the working conditions dismal. They operated treadle-type sewing machines which required constant pushing of the treadle with one or both feet. Gradually the girls discovered that by pushing the treadle a certain way with their thighs pressed together, they could rub the labia minora and massage the clitoris. What had been drudgery became almost a pleasure. The long hours at the sewing machine melted away as this new diversion took hold. Fortunately (or unfortunately) electric machines were soon introduced and the pleasure went out of the garment industry. The introduction of electricity was not all bad news, however. It opened up new horizons in the area of masturbation."

I don't think this needs any commentary, really. This book is chockful of misguided stereotype-enforcing gems, and I invite anyone pissing, pooping, or merely passing the time in my humble little bathroom to give it the once over. There's so much crazy shit in there that I can't begin to make you understand. Only a Caucasian, white-collar man could turn a sweatshop into an erotic privilege.

The infrastructure will collapse

Yesterday's moment of shame: I was in Midtown Video, waiting to check out, and Juno was playing on their huge, discolored television set. I saw this movie in the theater, back in December when it came out. It was right after I had started listening to Kimya Dawson a lot, plus it looked cute and cool. And I'm not saying it was a bad movie, I'd watch it again. But Ellen Page makes me want to pop her head like a grape, and the dialogue was a little Dawson's Creek-y. (Speaking of which, some commercial for a new TV drama that stars Joshua Jackson came on at the movies the other night, and before I could help myself, I shouted "Pacey!" Ok, maybe I didn't shout).

OK, back to the story in which I am a total stereotype of a woman approaching 30... The birth scene begins, which is accompanied by Cat Power's cover of Sea of Love. And my face starts doing that crumple cry thing, because a baby is being born on television. And my uterus wants a baby inside it, Goddammit! And then I'm like SHUT THE FUCK UP UTERUS, YOU'VE GOT TO GO WITH ME TO GRAD SCHOOL AND THEN WE'LL TALK ABOUT IT.

Am I the only one who wants to have sex immediately upon hearing this song??


The kind of sex you have with someone you at least sort of love, in a room that is dark but slightly illuminated by a streetlight shining in the window. Lots of intense eye contact sex.

None of these thoughts are helping my dedication to my work this morning.

Breastmilk: Better than mangoes??

OK, without any hint of judgement, I am going to post this. You might pretend you aren't going to watch this, but you really will.

BEHOLD THE EIGHT-YEAR OLD THAT STILL NURSES

"I'd rather have lots of breast milk than a million melons."

All right, so I'm really pro-breastfeeding. I plan on breastfeeding our children, when/if we have them, for at least a year. But boy oh boy, eight! Wowee zowee. There's an infamous story in our family about my great-grandmother Keeton's youngest brother; there were lots of kids in that family, and you know back in the day the idea was that if you continued to breastfeed, it would act as birth control. Apparently all the Keetons were pretty fucking hilarious, and one of the older brothers taught the youngest to ask to nurse in a rather rude way. One day their mother had some company over -- I'm sure they were sitting in the parlor -- and the youngest son came in and said to his mother, "Goddammit, maw, give me some titty."

I can hear the eerie sounds of "A Day in the Life" floating across the cubicles...

I had a client come in yesterday whose middle name was Pecola. I was reminded of Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye and the stage version of it I saw in Hartford during my girls' bachelorette Yankee weekend. Look, Liz, I even found a picture!

I have not seen too many plays, to be honest. It's kind of a form of entertainment that I just forget about. But this version of The Bluest Eye was so masterfully done, it was a real treat. I had read the book years ago in high school, and I was really happily surprised when L&R told me we had tickets to see it. It was just perfect.

So my dear husband is in California for the week; his brother works in Sequoia National Park (I think that's the one) and he had been wanting him to come visit him so that they can go hiking and bond over cans of beans and beef jerky. That leaves me at home by myself, free to loll around the bed watching episodes of Intervention and eating cereal for supper. That was yesterday; I plan on being more productive tonight. We'll see. I've got a can of Red Bull worked into the plan that may help.

El Tee and I (God, don't these cute nicknames make you sick!) went and saw Gonzo on Monday night. I really didn't know that much about Hunter S. Thompson; don't tell anyone, but although I lived in Murfreesboro for 5 years, I never read or saw Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. I'd have my M'boro citizenship revoked for that one. The recreational drug patrol will go back in time and remove all psychotropic goodies from my sweaty palm before I get the chance to swallow/chew/snort them up, and only Jesus knows how my present will be affected. Probably I'd wake up a lawyer.... jeeeez.

Anyway, I liked the movie. Basically, if someone's past involves any illicit activities, I want to know all about them. Also, the whole element of Thompson committing suicide because he felt he was obsolete was interesting to me. The suicide note: "No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun -- for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax -- This won't hurt." I've been having little conversations with myself about all this (bear in mind, I'm not that well informed; I hear there are some conspiracy theories). On the one hand, I do think that although suicide should never be glamorized and all that hoohah that you, of course, have to say regarding it, Jesus Christ, it does kind of take some balls to succinctly end your life. But maybe not?? Maybe if you never bought into the heaven/hell scenario and you don't give a shit what may or may not follow, you can end it without fear. The argument arises then that it's selfish. Selfish because of his wife & son and everyone else who cared about him. But what kind of life is lived with one who doesn't give a shit anymore? None of this is very enlightening, I know. As far as euthanasia goes, I do think that people should be able to end their lives when they choose; but this made me think about that idea as more than just something that applies when a person is terribly ill, but if the same laws should be applied when one is merely sick and tired of living. Hmmm.

I guess the point really is: Damn, HST was a hottie.

We had a great weekend all together in Decatur County. My mother was the consummate Southern host, preparing approximately 2.3 tons of food and trying to deny anyone's help in cleaning up the messes. I was so happy to be surrounded by my lovely friends; they are so smart, so funny, and so mature. I love it! These women are confident and, most importantly, low-maintenance. Their husbands aren't half-bad either. I would give anything to have a big weeklong retreat every year at my mother's house for all our dear friends. Hammocks would definitely need to be installed.

I'm super excited to be going to the vigil @ Graceland this weekend, and to have my lovely friend Claudia visiting for the weekend. I am hoping to show her a good time. Is anybody else wanting to go to the vigil? I don't know why in the hell you wouldn't.

Eaten alive + puppy video = I am bored/boring

Not much to say @ this point in time, other than an itchy bug bite on the areola? Yeah, nothing sucks quite as much.

We've got a lady pilot; she's not afraid to die

It is suspiciously quiet at work today. But, as soon as I type this, I can hear the ladies in the row next to me crank up their daily unending yammering. If they would shut up, for even a few minutes at a time, I could have my morning quiet time, getting wildly caffeinated in peace.

Also, I have both a "Delicious," and a "Iguana" on my schedule today. That is all I will say about that. It writes itself, really.

When I came home from work, it was so hot outside and in our apt. that, it wasn't that I wanted to die, but I just didn't want to live anymore. I wanted to take a hiatus from life. I eventually mustered up the energy to got some clothes back on, since the first thing I do every day upon entering the house is take off all my clothes, and we ran errands, including our good deed of the week, which was taking a man from Walgreen's down to Ike's to get some gas. His woman had tricked him into taking the car out when she knew it didn't have any gas in it, apparently. Because I am a Crazy Mooney,* while he was pumping the gas I imagined that the whole thing was an elaborate ruse and, in fact, his plan was to immolate himself in my backseat while we both freaked out and I wrecked the car. This did not happen. Instead, we engaged in a completely boring, predictable conversation about high gas prices. Our friend predicted that prices may rise to as high as $12 per gallon by Christmas.

We watched The Last Picture Show last night.

This is a movie that I remember that my parents both used to talk about as a favorite, so I picked it out at Black Lodge. Also we both like Paper Moon a lot, and that is another Bogdanovich film from the same time. Anyway, Picture Show did not disappoint, it was really sexy and weird and depressing, all at the same time. Plus it had a young Cybil Sheperd (a Memphian, how 'bout that?) in it, and she is super easy on the eyes:


So, put this on your "Movies To Watch List." It's in B&W, which also scratches my current constant desire to watch old movies. Larry McMurtry wrote it, and he is also responsible for, in no particular order: Terms of Endearment (which is playing at the Orpheum this evening, in an odd coincidence. I will not be seeing it, I don't think; I don't want to invite the whole parent-child/death from cancer theme into myself today), the mini-series Lonesome Dove, and the screenplay for Brokeback Mountain. What a weirdo, huh?

This weekend, our great friends Rebecca & Michael are coming to Tennessee, to my mom's house in Decatur County, actually, to be more exact. They live in Massachusetts, and Rebecca is a performance artist originally from Knoxville. She misses the South a lot and when they were down for the wedding, decided that she wanted to shoot some pieces down on my mom's land. I think it's going to be video, but I'm sure B will shoot some stuff too. Liz & Dusty are coming as well, so we're going to have a rural southern couples retreat on Saturday night. I'm terribly excited, and probably going to make the following dessert. We ate this when WWOOFing at the Sunshine House in Greece last summer, and I ripped the recipe off Takis. I've never attempted to make it; I'll have to figure out the metric equivalents of all this shit.

Takis’ Chocolate Avocado Cake
½ kilo oats (soaked for 2 hours)
juice of 2-3 oranges
½ cup sunflower seeds
½ cup pumpkin seeds
½ cup chopped dates (soaked with oats)
½ cup raisins or chopped figs (soaked with oats)
2 spoons of flaked coconut
cinnamon
water
2 tbsp. honey
½ kilo nice dark chocolate bars
rice milk
zest of one lemon
zest of one orange
2 avocados, pureed very well
Various fruits for topping

Mix oats, orange juice, sunflower and pumpkin seeds, chopped dates, raisins/figs, flaked coconut, cinnamon, and let sit for one hour. If not think enough to form crust, add more oats (unsoaked).

Oil 9” cake pan very well.

Pat oat mixture firmly down in pan. Bake at 180 degrees Celsius for 30-45 minutes.

Melt chocolate bars with a small amount of rice milk. Add to this the lemon and orange zest, as well as the avocado puree, and combine thoroughly. Top with sliced fruit (fresh cherries and peaches are primo) and nuts while chocolate is still warm. Chill until firm.

Celsius??? KILOS?? WTF?

*Oh, yeah. The Mooneys are my mom's side of the family, and they are definitely crazy. The particular shade of Mooney crazy that this fear of immolation in the car came from is probably Cousin Joy-flavored. She, who once plead with her pregnant daughter-in-law not to go outside during fireworks because "one might light on your belly."

Fiddle dee dee

So, I laid out of work yesterday, feeling poorly (ahem). Calling in sick makes me feel both triumphant and guilty; I lay there trying to go back to sleep after making the phone call and my stomach twists up in a knot as I imagine that something dramatic will happen on my return, such as being quizzed on my exact symptoms or called into my boss's slightly larger cubicle for a Serious Conversation regarding my responsibilities in the world of benefit determination. Nothing ever happens, of course, pretty anti-climatic.

The weekend with my mom and niece went well; it was pretty low key. On Friday night, we went downtown a little bit early and rode the trolley all the way down South Main to the Arcade and then back up to the little Court Square park. My mom has memories of eating lunch in this park when she was a young hot secretary; it has a really gorgeous fountain that we admired before walking back down to the Orpheum and settling in for 226 minutes of Gone With The Wind. Now, I was excited because neither B nor my niece had seen the film before, and I thought it was a really nice experience for all of us to be seeing it together in the incredible Orpheum. Goddamn, I love that place.

GWTW did not disappoint; I could, of course, spell out a lengthy diatribe regarding the film's racism and sexism, however, everybody knows that shit and it would just be boring. I would describe myself as a movie snob, and my love for good film has only been heightened by my relationship with B, because he is extremely picky when it comes to movies, and fast to call bullshit on any combination of factors that make a movie a stinker. Anyway, watching GWTW reminds you why the phrase "golden age of Hollywood" was termed; it is so big & beautiful, and over the top with epic scenes of post-battle fields littered with the dead & dying, fiery explosions, and lavish parties rich with all those ridiculous hoop-skirts. So, needless to say, I enjoyed myself. Not so sure about the niece; she looked terrifically bored at times, although I'm sure 3.5 hours of Hannah Montana would have left her happy as a clam. (Vomit on that, by the way).

To make a long story short, the family evacuated our apartment on Saturday afternoon after some Indian food, visits to The House of Mews, Viet Hoa, and Flashback, a game of Scattergories, and many flash games shared on the internet between B & niece. I swear to God, I think she could have just played flash games the whole time and been happy. Also Webkinz. I don't know exactly what this is, but apparently children's satisfaction with virtual pets has not died. Do you remember Tamagotchi? Umm, that shit is stupid, obviously. Get with it children of today! Or at least the ones I know.

All right, also I must mention that we had a small gathering on Sunday night (hmm, could it be possible that this event might have lead to Monday's absence from work?). It was a nice time, and I'll tell you that it is a nice feeling that we are developing a circle of friends in Memphis. We officially failed to do so in our brief time in Nashville, and actually disassociated ourselves from the few friends we did have there, all of which leads to the conclusion that for now, we are supposed to be here and are succeeding at life. I love it when that happens! Now for the pictures. If you are in them, then you've probably already seen them, so I apologize in advance for the redundancy. The internet'll do that, you know.

We made Summerbrew, and somehow a half-full glass was left on the dresser in the bedroom, found toward the end of the night and consumed quickly by the industrious Kerry Crawford:

Next up, we've got Dave and Amy. Aren't they cute? I think that seersucker dress is *quite* becoming, myself.

I made some homemade pizzas, and Zach made incredible quesadillas. Incredidillas, if you will. Below we see evidence of food, and Zach, and Alpha. See, I'm not lying about any of this.

B and I were discussing how in both of the above pics, Zach Whitten appears as Worldly Observer. He can't really say as to why humans act as they do, but he'll gladly provide a prop to facilitate their ridiculous behavior. Also, he provides that mega-photogenic moustache.

So, I had a great time y'all, and I hope you did too. I apologize for going to bed kind of early and, in the process, possibly exposing my panties to anyone, but it's really no less revealing than a bathing suit, so I think you'll be okay. I think I need to develop some sort of espresso shooter to combat my alcohol-induced narcolepsy.

ETA that, of course, all photography is courtesy of my brilliant husband. Please, hire him, fuel our adventures. 

Prepare for your mind to be blown

Ok, this is probably old news to everyone much more media savvy than me. But can I just say that Girl Talk makes me shake my head and mutter "Oh shit" with disbelief at each ensuing track? He makes me want to have the most badass party ever and have the most perfect drunk ever, in which I am totally buzzed but do not slur my words like a stroke victim.

Thank you, Gregg Gillis. You are my PERSON OF THE WEEK.