Can't Title Now, Must Pee

I was just listening to a particular Gillian Welch song, "Wrecking Ball," to be exact, that reminds me of the sore, sensitive end of a relationship that I shall not speak of in any detail. Even though I was the one who weaseled my way out of it, when I hear this song, I always think of a day when I was driving to work (down the highway from Murfreesboro to Smyrna, to be exact), and I heard it and my face crumpled up and approximately 3 hot wet tears escaped down my cheeks. That was pretty much all I could muster; I'm not trying to be cold, but lots of times if I am blue about something, I will have these bouts of near-crying, usually while driving my car. It's just enough crying to make you look ugly, not near enough to make you experience any sort of relief. I can no longer seperate the idea of what I look like when the cry is breaking from this:


Claire Danes, you are an ugly crier.

And this lady has noticed, too.

I have been having some pretty decent times lately. This little lady scampered into my life:

She is pretty damned awesome, and growing like a weed. Her name is Lucy, and I am sorry if we are Facebook friends and you are having to see these for the tenth time. I am slacking on my new puppy photography. Everybody is in love with her except for the cats, and they hate my stinkin' guts for bringing her into the house.

I had a lovely weekend with some really good old friends. We drank champagne and talked shit and went swimming, a little bit. The weather has been the most fantastically gorgeous thing that you could ever experience in Memphis, TN in July. I GOT COLD LAST NIGHT. YES, COLD. Keep in mind that we don't have any AC in our bedroom, only a fan. I was very happy that Mr. Dill was back from his bachelor mountain adventure.

Bachelor Mountain Adventure... if this was a reality show, what would the plot be? I imagine a diverse group of bachelors, from overly-groomed & coiffed slicksters with waxed eyebrows (oh God, I cannot handle that shit), to the kind of guys who you bought pot from in college, who only wear band t-shirts and live in houses in which the toilet hadn't been cleaned in 3 years. They're all doing challenges and co-habitating, and then they punch each other.

Excuse me, now I have to go buy tofu for dinner. B is detoxing from Bachelor Mountain Adventure. Apparently, they had beer and red meat for every meal.

you thought that you could outrun sorrow

I have been running back and forth ferrying clients from the waiting room to my desk, my desk back out to the waiting room like a crazy person all morning. With the sun emerges all the people who need to recertify their Food Stamp cases do as well; what you may not realize is that people who ride the bus or have unreliable transportation do not keep appointments on rainy days. I learned this some time ago, and when I wake up to thunder and lightning my first thought is no longer "O Goddamn, I wish I could stay in bed all day," but "Yay, I will have so many no-shows and can catch up on work hardcore." Needless to say, the rainyness of this week has had me spoiled. Not to mention the fact that I called out of work Tuesday based primarily on the uneasy night's sleep I had, which was most notably punctuated at around 3:00 AM by a dream in which my bed and home were completely infested with a particular species of black ticks that had a white dot on their backs. I awoke from this dream scratching my arms and legs and chest and neck frantically, and immediately took the cat into the bathroom to inspect him for fleas. I found none. I believe this dream was a message that I need to buy Frontline for my cats.

But it costs $60 every other month!

But you need to buy it. Or else you'll get fleas. Like you did last summer.

(The sound of hysterical crying)

I have been abstaining from coffee in the morning, which may explain my notable absence from LTA as well as Twitter. When I'm not unbelivably jacked up on caffeine, I find myself with notably less to say.

After several tragic and annoying debacles, nearly every one of our precious tomato/zucchini/pepper/basil seedlings were destroyed. This culminated in our landlord somehow chopping the tender top off every potted plant on our front walk with brutal, careless weed whacking. But you know what I said? I said "FUCK THIS NOISE. YOU CAN KILL ALL MY PLANTS, LANDLORD, NEIGHBOR'S DOG, REGULARLY FLOODED FLOWERBED IN THE BACKYARD, BUT YOU'LL NEVER KILL MY DESIRE TO GROW THINGS." And I went to the nursery and I got an orange pepper plant and a Green Zebra tomato and another heirloom variety, and then I went to Home Depot and I bought some ridiculously large pots because Martha said that when you're growing vegetables in pots, they have to be at least 15 gallons, and I planted them. And I think they're growing. I can't say for sure.

This weekend will be full of fun because Brandon's brother and his fiancee (God, I hate that word I hate that word) are coming to town, and we wish to squire them around and show them why we love Memphis. We're going to the farmer's market and the symphony (free tickets) and maybe to Mud Island. Hoping to hook up with Bette since she'll be in town for Bands Not Bombs. So, Go Away Rain! You can come back on Monday and give me a vacation from interviews.

One more thing: I have been using Tom's of Maine apricot-scented deodrant, and I find that at the beginning of the day, my pits smell like apricot. The middle of the day? Apricot flavored BO. By the end of the day, straight up BO. Which is kind of fine with me, because I think we Americans are an oversanitized lot, and I'm not one to squelch the natural workings of my body. But it is pretty funny to smell like a piece of rotting fruit by 3:00 every day.

MZM 09

Another week, another post with pictures where my words should be.

Last Friday we went to the third annual Memphis Zombie Massacre downtown. Last year I was knee-deep in wedding preparations and couldn't make it. Since my husband is an avowed zombie enthusiast, and I am a fan of odd social happenings that are seemingly pointless, nonetheless compelling, we met at Handy Park after work and stood in line for a couple of hours in order to get zombiefied.


I haven't heard any kind of count, but I know there were at least a couple of hundred people there. Here's some highlights.

This guy was offering a zombie cure of some sort. It was odd because I recognized him from his blog, which I had just discovered that very day. I think he's pretty hilarious, and as I later told Lindsey, anyone who executes an idea like that must be at least one quarter amazing

Do you know what the deal is with this whole thing? You can either go dressed as a zombie or in old ratty street clothes with a duct tape X on them. When the zombies see folks marked with the X, they attack them and they get zombiefied. Which is incredibly fucking creepy the first few times you see it:

This zombie was my favorite. I was near him during nearly the entire thing, and he never broke character once. I was lying. This zombie is really my favorite.

I'll close with the loveliest of all images: Undead Lovin'.

Even more pics here & here, if you haven't seen enough fake blood and wounds yet.

You can call me "Perky Dumplin"

Last night I when I got home from LT's, Brandon and Alpha were talking in the living room and I took to the bedroom with the laptop with the idea that I'd check my e-mail/google reader real quick and then read. (Yeah right. I never get on the internet real quick.) I saw that Chrystal, my BFF from high school, had a new post and when I started reading it, I began laughing. Quietly at first, then louder and louder. It was a kind of laughter reminiscent of hiccups, rising in small unpredictable bursts, and growing with intensity until I had to go read the entry aloud to the boys in the other room. They thought it was funny, but not as funny as I did, since I have met Mama Ann and heard various accounts of her through the years that I'd define as "tragically hilarious." The blog post reminded me of why Chrystal was my best friend all the way through high school, because she was the most hilarious person I knew, and could tickle my funny bone relentlessly. She was so ballsy about it, and the best evidence I can think of would be the time in which she drove her ex's huge truck into a old car that his parents owned, several times, just to entertain the both of us. I think this incident might have made me pee in my britches a little bit.

We've been taking a lot of walks in the afternoon on days when the weather's lovely. Yesterday was the kind of day that makes living in the South so satisfying. Maybe it would be more appropriate to say it was the kind of day that makes living satisfying, but something about the route we took felt so deliciously Memphis to me. We scrambled up the rise to the train tracks right around Central & Cooper and were happily surprised to come across thick curtains of blooming wisteria, which is heady with the most amazing perfume this time of year. We were right around the area where Brandon took this picture a couple of weeks ago:

There are similar pix from the same day here, if you're interested.

Because I was ingrained with a healthy (unhealthy?) sense of fear by my parents, at first when B suggested walking along the tracks, I was skeptical of imminent death by trains and homicidal bums. I couldn't help but remember the opening of Fried Green Tomatoes, in which Buddy's shoe becomes stuck in the tracks and he meets his maker at the tender age of 17. However, like the many times when my dear husband's lack of fear has trumped my overly cautious nature, we strolled leisurely along without incident and had a lovely time.

Reviewing yesterday, I think it was nearly the perfect spring day. Sunshine, simple delicious food, a reminder of the intellectual & comical prowess of women I am lucky enough to know, and spiritual & physical communion with my dear, dear partner.

Signed, Mary Sunshine

Why can't I ever get my sugar?

Everyone reading this will be glad to know that I have moved to a new desk at work and am now in the part of our building that can be called cozy. In fact, yesterday afternoon, after I got settled in, if I had wanted to, I could have described the climate in my cube as "stuffy," but after bringing a space heater back from my lunchbreak with me last week, I didn't dare breathe a word of complaint.

By the way, do y'all know where I work? I mean, I'm pretty sure you know what I do, but do you know precisely where I drive to every day to do my clickity-clackity?

That's right, my humble office is right next to the Crystal Palace. WHICH WAS FEATURED IN HUSTLE N FLOW. Yes. We rented the movie not long after we moved here, because I had never seen it, and I was pretty excited for about 30 seconds. I have no idea if the parking lot is as jumpin' on the weekends as the film makes it look, but this guy's Flickr caption is funny and makes it seem like it could be true.

(I just reread this paragraph and I'm pretty sure I have written about this before. I'm like a senile grandmother in the fact that I repeat all my stories over and over again all the time. But I'm pretty sure that last time I didn't go to the trouble of stealing a picture from someone's Flickr to illustrate my point, so Goddammit, I'm letting it ride. Just like a granny does.)

The wedding this weekend was just smashing. The combination of Matt (gosh he looks so attractive in those photos it causes me to feel embarrassed)+ Kerry (the cutest person alive, I'm pretty sure)+ Earnestine & Hazel's really could not be beat though, you know? They had sausage from the Rendezvous. Vivian, one of the people who reopened E&H in the mid-nineties was upstairs telling stories about Ray Charles fucking whores and lots of other incredibly interesting things that I was a tad too buzzed to pay the appropriate amount of attention to. All of my favorite Memphis family of friends were there, except for David and Amy, who are in Goddamned Hawaii. There was a moment late in the evening when Ben made me dance with him and it was a little bit like some mid-nineties teen comedy in which a ugly duckling blossoms into a swan. Except every time I make a 180 degree turn on the dance floor I lose all focus of what my body was doing in the moment before. It is my personal dance reset button. Plus, at the end of the night, when legendary Nate, the upstairs bartender, was going to work, I shook his hand.

I'm sure anyone who looks in on this beastly thing from time to time remembers just a few weeks ago when I was whining and complaining about my job. I hated doing it, but it felt like it had to be done, or else I was going to go batshit ratshit crazy. When that was going on, I decided I needed a creative little project to take my mind off my troubles, so I started working on a zine. I had never made one before, just been the recipient of ones made by cooler friends. So I typed and cut and glued and now it's very nearly done, I just have to stick in a couple of more things and make a trip to Kinko's. As a reward for the pain and boredom you must have felt when reading a middle-class white woman's woes over a career she chose for herself, I am offering you, dear reader, one free cooking zine entitled "Beans & Cornbread," to be delivered to your home via USPS. All you have to do is send me a little email with yr name and address to longtallanimal@gmail.com, and I myself will incur the expense of copying and mailing a copy of the little booger into your open arms. I know that sometimes people charge like $2 for a zine, but who's gonna buy a zine from me? It's not like I'm Kathleen Hanna or something!

I fear this last comment has showed my age a bit. Oh well, I wasn't fooling anyone anyway, was I? By the way, my friend used to be pen pals with Kathleen and the letter she'd received from her would always be written in crayon. Bitchin.

I am off to work some more, and also to listen to some Bikini Kill. I will close with a Youtube video of the BK song "Carnival," one of my favorites of all time. The first mix CD I ever made for B Dill had this song on it, and I think I got cool points for it. The opening of this song is possibly the most compelling thing I've ever heard, lyrically. Heh heh heh. NSFW (the song, not the video).

a spook, I tells ya

Yesterday in a vain attempt to burn maybe 35 calories, I asked Brandon if he wanted to go for a walk after work. When formulating this sentence it occured to me that I should try to think of a more exciting way to get exercise, and immediately I sprung (heh heh) upon the notion that 45 minutes of strenous sex per day might fit the bill. And that's possible right? I mean, I am IN A RELATIONSHIP. But I digress.

Anywho, I asked him to go for a walk, and he said yes, can we cross Parkway (whichever Parkway it is, those roads are a COMPLETE mindfuck to this ol' girl) and try to gain entrance to Libertyland? and although I'm the type of person who is stricken with terror at the concept of rule-breaking, I reminded myself that this is one of the reasons that I liked this dude to begin with, and remember that time that we were in the mountains and gained entrance to the funhouse of mirrors cash-free by merely running in the out door, and giggled and gasped and lost ourselves in corridors of mirrors? wasn't love young and fun then, and nothing bad happened at all, sissypants! buckup!

So we trotted down the broken sidewalks and he told me about his first day of master gardener school, which was funny because 1) a lady introduced herself by sharing that she had been fired from her job and she'd had to put her dog down, which is not funny in inself, of course, but is funny because who in the world would choose to introduce themselves to a room of fifty people in that fashion? I'd rather say, "Hi, my name's Amanda, and I like to read and watch movies." and b) a man got rounds of applause and tears by merely stating that he was an Iraq war veteran. maybe that's not funny or weird at all but we're commie bastards so we marvelled at it together.

We approach the Libertyland and in case you don't know or didn't click my helpful link above, it's an abandoned amusement park. THEREFORE VERY CREEPY. In my corduroy jeans and checkered vans, walking along with Brandon, who seems to be dressed eternally these days in a red zippered hoodie, I felt as if I was walking into an episode of Scooby Doo which had been deanimated (in some type of exhaustive computer editing process, I'm sure). There was a gap in the fence in the back that made Brandon suck his breath in in excitement and made me do the same in the terror & dread that in order to avoid looking like a pussy I'd have to wriggle in after him. He thought I'd be a chicken, and was happy and proud when I wasn't. We both had the big eye because IT WAS VERY CREEPY IN THERE. My mind immediately created a scenario in which a squatter with the same face/personality/soul as the leper hobo who lives under the porch in the abandoned house in Stephen King's IT who offers Eddie Kaspbrak a blowjob. Unless I've got some part of that wrong. Maybe he wants a blowjob. It's been a few years since I read IT. I thought he'd amble out and offer us blowjobs and then part of his face would fall off.

That did not happen, dear readers. I didn't get a blow job from a leper hobo; rather we wandered around a corner and saw "SKEEBALL PALACE," which I assured Brandon is precisely where I'll go when I die, and then he saw a security car and got spooked and I got to leave Libertyland without contracting leprosy from a horny hobo squatter. The end.

ADDENDUM: When searching Google image for "leper" to come up with a visual aid for this entry, I discovered this gem from the "Cosmic Conservative" Double Yew Tee Eff.

so I'm going back to the place where we met, I'm going to find the beer bottle we left

The hatches have officially been battened; I am sitting under our huge down comforter, nestled on top of the electric mattress pad, or as I like to refer it's "Mama's Gift from Heaven." We inherited my parents' king sized bed and all its accessories, and my mother had invested a lot in the past few years. It has a couple of nice memory foam pads as well as the lifesaving warm-up-your-cold-ass mattress snuggle. Boy, it's nice. 

B & Toby are watching The Fall in the office, but it is too cold for me in there. I really, really want to watch this movie, but I'll do it tomorrow since it's VETERAN'S DAY!! Hooray veterans! Thanks to your sacrifice, I get to sleep in on a Tuesday. Why don't y'all honor me by taking tomorrow off killing Iraqi and/or Afghani and/or Pakistani civilians?? And I'll go buy some outerwear at Goldsmith's. Do you see how everyone wins?? 

I have to do homework & start packing tomorrow. We did the application process today for an apartment in Cooper Young, which is slightly old & busted, but quite a bit cheaper than our current place, and has a washer/dryer. And... drumroll please... heat that (supposedly!) works. Works well, even. Time will tell, but I feel all right about it. The dangerous part is that it is within eyeshot of Black Lodge and I feel that our movie rental bills could possibly sky rocket. 

All in all, we had a really nice weekend. On Saturday I met my mom in Jackson, and we watched The Secret Life of Bees, which I thought was worth the $5.50. Well worth, possibly. My mom and I had both read the book not long after it came out, and meeting her in Jackson for a movie has been something I've meant to do for a long time. It's about 1/2 way for both of us, and it's nice for us to spend a couple of hours together. The movie portrayed the South in the way it should be: slow, sweet, & golden. Oh yes, and pervasive racism, and hate crimes! (Nervous laughter!) That night we first went to Ashley & Will's, then to Leslie & Mark's. God I'm hotlinking like a whore. I'm all "Look at the people I know! Behold their internet presences!" At the end of the evening I realized a) we weren't totally wasted; b) we hadn't offended anyone; c) no one had offended us. All in all, a success. It is weird to consider yourself mature simply because the thought of spending time with others that you may or may not know very well doesn't fill you with incredible fear & revulsion. 

For some reason, every night by 9:00 p.m., my back seizes up with this weird stiff pain that makes it tough to bend over. What in the hell will become of me if I'm having back pain of this sort at 27? I carry every bit of tension around in my neck, and when Brandon touches it to feel the muscles, drawn taunt in the manner of rubber bands, he wrinkles his nose with disbelief. I don't know what could ever fix that. Are chiropractors just a big screw?? In Decatur County, there was one, and my daddy used to call him "The Rubbing Doctor." I'll leave you on that note. 

Dobamanuts for Democracy

I'm back at work today after waking up on Wednesday morning with a splitting headache and calling in sick. I'm sure it's a brain tumor, not the Franzia. Yes, I'm absolutely chockful of class. From what David told me the other day, the husband and I share sophisticated drinking tastes with one Ms. Janice Fullilove. I don't know about Ms. Fullilove, but I have great appreciation for the "Chianti" variety.

Election night turned out to be really awesome. I made spring rolls, and Brandon cooked up some dumplings from the Viet Hoa and we gorged ourselves while listening to NPR. I had fallen victim to the liberal paranoia, which I'm pretty sure sprang from flashbacks to 2004, and B and I agreed that we wouldn't go out until it was looking good for Obama. I prefer not to let others see me when I'm suffering, that's all. Anyway, after Ohio was in the pot, we threw the wine & leftover rolls in the car and headed to Mr. Whitten's, where there were a lot of merrymaking and excitement and happy voters. Part of us were sitting in the living room, some people were out on the porch, and B was in the bedroom on the phone with Simon in Chicago when the banner popped up on the television naming Obama the winner, and we all just erupted with screaming and laughing and motherfucking relief. It was quite beautiful, and I was really happy to be in a group of people to share it, it made it all the more poignant. When John McCain made his concession speech, there was a cut to a teary-eyed Sarah Palin, and I couldn't help but yell "SUCK IT CLEAN, BITCH" even though everyone was supposed to be quiet.

Like I said the other day, my country making me a little bit proud doesn't happen very often, because I'm an ungrateful socialist, I suppose, and although I don't think Obama's gonna cure AIDS or anything, I'm just happy that a majority of my fellow Americans voted the most liberal of all U.S. Senators to be our Commander in Chief, and an African-American to boot.

It was noted on Jezebel today that Michelle Obama played Barack the Mariah Carey song "Hero" when they were waiting to hear the results, and I was quite touched, as this is a song that I learned in chorus my freshman year in high school, that I punish my husband with at least once a week. He tries to smother me with a pillow when I do it, but I'm tough and I'd never let anything like a pillow-smothering keep me from singing this very very special song to him, especially.

I am officially bored with work entirely, and although my inbox is filling with alarming rapidity, I am finding it hard to give a fuck.

After I recovered enough to go out into the sunlight yesterday, we went apartment hunting. Although B is quite grumpy about it, I refuse to spend another winter in ice house. Due to the delightful combination of high ceilings, complete lack of insulation, and the presence of only two wall-mounted pitiful ass gas heaters in our house, it was pretty much like we didn't have heat last winter. If you put on two pairs of pants and sat directly in front of the teeny heater in the living room, you wouldn't die. Otherwise it was total misery. I'd usually come home from work, turn on the dryer & the stove in the kitchen, and just hang out in between them until it was time to go crawl under the electric blanket, which needed to preheat for a minimum of 30 minutes. Yes, my life was a hell. If anyone sees anything that looks good around Midtown, please let me know. I am looking for a place that's less than $600/mo., I'm totally tired of throwing away money on rent that we could put towards something real & sustaining. But no, we're not going to buy a house here.

According to the ladies in the cube next to me, government cheese was really something, but I'll never know because you haven't been able to get it for 20 years. I wonder about it. Was it processed cheese food? Surely it wasn't, like, cheddar. That seems to swank for the gov't to provide. What's up with American cheese anyway??? I'm sure that gov't cheese was American, and in my humble opinion, American sucks. I'll eat it on a cheeseburger, but that is for tradition's sake only.

In which Amanda exercises her civic duty

Today I early voted for Barack Obama at the Pyramid Recovery center in South Memphis. The whole process took nearly an hour and a half because there were so many people there, and, also, the computer system went down temporarily (Goddamn, these electronic voting machines are a bad idea people. A bad idea!). When I arrived, I counted approximately 30 people in line ahead of me, and when I left, there were at least 50 still waiting, including a huge group of kids that had to have just turned 18 this year; they were all baby-faced and flirting with one another while waiting their turn, but really well-behaved. There were also people there so elderly that they could not walk without assistance; the turnout today in S. Memphis really ran the gamut.

In line, I looked up on the wall to see a trio of portraits: Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X, and Nelson Mandela, and I was seized by my own satisfaction in being able to vote for an African-American man for president in a city, in a region, that has seen so much violent oppression of minorities. My stomach clenched and my eyes filled as I thought about Dr. King and all the other activists who did not live to see this day in America, a day in which it seems (not getting overly cocky here), a majority of people are eager to put a black man in the White House.

Maybe I was relieved because there have been so many stories in the press in recent weeks that exposed the inherent racism that still thrives in this country. I hate it when stories like that become commonplace, and they have, and it makes me so sick and sad that people cling so desperately to hate. Even members of my own family find it easy to toss off comments that reveal their own distrust and distaste of Obama, indeed their own negativity toward anyone Not White, and I'm so pathetic that I can't even find a way to express how wrong they are.

I cannot speak of race eloquently, so I'm not going to try. But when I stepped up to that little machine, I took a deep breath and stared at the screen for a long time; I wanted to register the moment in my memory, and I wanted to really feel it in my heart. Every once in awhile I need a day like this, in which I feel a little bit proud of my country and the things that can be accomplished here, the -- dare I say -- Change that can occur when wrongs turn to right.

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.

He hit me, and it felt like a kiss.

Arrgh my head hurts and all I want to do is dumb internet shit, but the first of the month arrives in two days and I am trying to prepare myself for the onslaught of interviews and having cases up to my neck. It doesn't help when I try to be nice and really help my clients out instead of giving them the bureaucratic runaround, and they do things like roll their eyes when I ask them for the kids' GD shot records. Listen, lady, I know you've brought them before? But that was 2006, and this is 2008 and IT'S JUST THE RULES. I CAN'T CHANGE THE RULES. Be responsible for your shit, in other words.

I got some prints of vacation pictures and the like and put them up in my darling adorable little cubicle. Did you know that the cubicle turns 40 this year? Oh, tis true, tis true. I don't love this cubicle, but I do appreciate the fact that if I start crying from a particularly stirring episode of This American Life, I can just hide my face toward the inside of it and no one will try and ask me what's wrong. People die tragically, that's what's wrong, dumbass. Anyway, as you may have picked up or know, I interview applicants for food stamps daily, and I thought it'd be pretty insensitive to put travel pictures of myself & Mr. Husband on prominent display for people who don't have any money to buy themselves food, so I cleverly placed them to the side of a cabinet, so they won't be like "Goddamned white girl is rich." Because I'm not. I just saved my tax return and some other money, man.

Those are my heroics for the day.

Also, after letting my birth control prescription run out, yesterday I finally got to replace my best friend, the Nuvaring, in its warm safe home, and next Tuesday it's game on again. FINALLY. Jesus.

I have to go home today and prepare my home for this weekend's visit of my mom & niece, which pretty much means removing any trace that humans live there and have bodily functions and drop things on the floor. Or that I have cats. My mother would never say anything, but if I went in the bathroom while she was there and saw, oh, I don't know, let's say some dust on the floor, I'd be horrified because she had seen it and 9 months from now she'd casually mention that I'm fucking nasty. Which sucks because I am fucking nasty and although we can keep the dishes washed pretty much daily, we don't really notice things like the bathtub, and these are the places in which grime forms and makes my mom puke a little in her mouth.

They're coming to town because I invited them to go see Gone With the Wind at the Orpheum Friday night and do some other city stuff. My niece is 11 and lives in the same little-shit town I was raised in, so I am hoping it will be fun for her to come spend time in a place where you don't have to drive 15 minutes to buy a gallon of milk. Last fall she stayed with us a night, and ended up feeling pretty intimidated by the whole thing, but maybe it will go better this time around.

If there are any Memphians out there who have not experienced the movie series at the Orpheum, you should really check it out. It's only $5 for an adult ticket, and the theater is just breathtaking. Upcoming showings can be found here; we saw To Catch a Thief last week and it was fucking awesome. Things that puzzle me in old movies: the men are always just whapping th women across the face, really hard, and then they kiss, just as hard. Of course I don't approve of this behavior but I find it utterly fascinating.

I know, I know, GWTW is completely racist and inappropriate in a lot of ways, but it's a movie I had a lot of love for as a little girl, before I became politically aware, and to see it at the Orpheum will be some sort of pinnacle of cinema-loving-Southern-womanness for me. Be there or be square.

Josie's on a vacation far away...

In my house, we have a new deep obsession with The Outfield's "Your Love" [The assholes have disabled embedding, so I can't put the cheesey video on here for your viewing pleasure. You will not be sorry if you go to the link above and listen to this song, especially if you like 80s songs that seem to have been written to provide you with a platform to screech lyrics such as "I DON'T WANT TO LOSE YOUR LOVE TONIGHT!!! I JUST WANT TO USE YOUR LOVE, TOOOOONIIIIIGHT!! (YEAH!!!)" in your best eardrum-splitting falsetto.]

What's up with this heat haze in Memphis? It's humidity, I am thinking? I think I've been told it is humidity. They put it on the forecast, along with warnings about not leaving your house. This time of year I start developing elaborate fantasies about living in a part of the world where the peak temperature in the summer is 80 degrees. Our apartment has 3 window unit air conditioners, 2 of which work pretty well (especially if you are sitting directly in front of them, which I am known to do), but considering we live on the second floor of a house built in 1925, with piss poor air-conditioning... well, yeah, it is Hot as Hell. I have tried to tell B that he is going to have to run the AC when he's at home by himself, but he refuses. I imagine that I'll come home one day to find him passed out cold (hot?) from the intensity of the heat. August is coming, be afraid, be very afraid. These are the dog days and senior citizens will start kicking off any minute now.

We are supposed to go to a BBQ this evening and last night I made bettedavislies' Church Lady Creamy Lemon cake to take, and I'll put some presliced & seasoned eggplant slices in a baggie too, for the hosts to throw on the grill. I don't know about you, but I get very impatient when waiting for a cake to cool down enough to spread on the old icing. The afforementioned Mrs. Lies gave me the most handsome, thoughtful handmade cookbook for the wedding, and as of late I have been trying to cook a recipe a week from it. My mother and I recently had a conversation questioning how young Bette maintains her lovely figure with her well-known penchant for sweets, and came up stumped. I suppose her allegiance to exercise could be the answer but the lazy American in me refuses to believe that moving could be good for you.