they'll make a moving for-tv movie on lifetime about my life

Today I'm obsessed with the song "Underground" by Kimya Dawson. Behold:

Some people hate Kimya Dawson, I'm sure. Like, people who can play guitar really well and bitch about musicians only knowing 2 chords. Last year at about this time Brandon and I discovered the sweet brillance of her album Hidden Vagenda and spent great amounts of time on the road singing along at the tops of our lungs. When I was going through a box the other day I found another CD of hers that I had lost promptly after buying it, and brought it out to my car and have been revisiting it. It's appropriate since it was in the fall when I first got into her music. Anyway, this song has a lyric that is kind of sweet and morbidly depressing at the same time, something Kimya's really good at, that goes like this:

"So I tattoo instructions on my ass, that say don't ever put this body in a casket, burn it and put the ashes in a basket, and throw them in the Puget Sound, I don't ever want to be underground, oh no"

I agree with Ms. Dawson, please, please, burn me up. I am a little torn as to what to do with the ashes, however. I am sure that by the time I die, there will be a lot of places I've gone that I could feel very confident about being scattered. But what if my family wants to keep me with them? That would be just fine. I feel like when someone dies their loved ones are so overwhelmed that it would suck to leave them with a decision to make. I was OK with seeing my dad in his casket, but after the funeral I had nightmares about his body underground and I still do sometimes. Including one in which I had to hire a cleanup crew to dig him up and like, clean the moldering moss off his body? Yeah, maybe that is TMI.

Somebody please comment and tell me what you want them to do with your body when you die. I am morbidly curious.

Last night I went to Mezcal with Toby and Brandon -- this is our Monday night, post-school tradition -- and sometime during the meal I got a phone call from this ex-friend (God, I hate using that term, it makes me feel so DRAMATIC and IMMATURE, but it's honestly the truth). I didn't know I got the phone call until I got home, since my phone was on silent, but I also had a follow-up text from her that said something about her calling on accident and not to worry because she'd delete my number so it would NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN. This is someone who I had been friends with since high school when things went South, and I thought the text was the most pointless, immature thing ever. Pretty much like saying "Please don't be mistaken. I still cannot stand you and will never be able to stand you again." I find that the friends I had in high school, on the whole, when worse came to worse with our friendships, acted much like we would have at 17. I have to include myself in this appraisal, too. Has this been anyone else's experience, that if you've known someone since you were a kid, in your interpersonal dealings with this person, there's some sense of arrested development?

I feel pretty confident that since I have asked pointed questions to readers today, that no one will respond. That will show me.

The Brandon Dill birthday spectaular phenomenon is planned for Thursday night. I am having his little friends over, and buying him soda and making pizzas. Also possibly ordering wings? Ugh, I just realized that there's an obvious connection between events in our lives in the past 6 months and my desperate attempt to mother him this Birthday day. I am not sure that I like it, but caring nurturer me cannot -- must not!! -- be stopped.

Also, I just caught myself choking myself a little bit at my desk. I'm a pervert.

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!

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.

Shitshy: One Woman's Tragic Struggle

Although anyone who knows me is aware that pooping is one of my favorite topics of conversation, and anyone who has spent time with my husband and I has been either inundated with, or possibly even chosen to take into their own lives overuse of the word "shoo shoo," some might not be aware that I am afflicted with a common affliction I like to refer to as "shitshy." Just this morning, I had an attack of shitshyness, when, upon approaching the bathroom, I was disheartened to find another woman entering at the exact same time. The situation was further impacted by the fact that there were only two stalls that had toilet paper in them and they were right next to one another. I can't make this stuff up people. I locked myself in the stall, unable to do my business because not only had she seen my face, we were in neighboring stalls. I mimicked doing my business, noisily putting down a paper seat cover, sitting down briefly, and then even unrolling toilet paper and even wiping, although there was nothing there to wipe. She was going about her merry way next to me, using the ol' flush-to-diguise-the-sound-of-plopping routine. I had to go back to my desk, wait 10 minutes to ensure the coast was clear, and then return to scratch the shoo shoo itch the large McDonald's coffee had delivered upon me this morning.

I know that pooping is normal, and for God's sakes, every man, woman, and child on earth does it every day, but I cannot help but feel enormous shame when someone knows I am doing it. I want to be at home, alone, with the door closed, reading Southern Living quietly when my time to shit comes.

Onto other, not-poop-related topics: so long Estelle Getty.


I remember that in high school, my tight group of girlfriends and I would watch umpteen episodes of The Golden Girls and always argue over who we were. No one was ever happy to be assigned to the role of Blanche, the slut, or Rose, the airhead, but among our friends, the stereotypes were evident and too hard to deny. When it came down to it, I always wanted to be Sophia, but was forced to be Dorothy because of both my height, and, I suppose, my awkward unattractiveness at the time.

Ok, I have to process cases and listen to the news now. For some reason, every time I try to listen to Democracy Now, I cannot concentrate. Too stupid, apparently. Maybe I'm just an optimist and the truth about the imminent destruction of everything good in the world make me unattentive.