Beach Baby

My nephew Ben is very particular when it comes to the beach. Like for instance, he only wants to be there when he is unaware that he is there.

In Jamaica, Laila had to keep him distracted with building sandcastles and we only got him onto the sand with shoes on. He was not interested in the water one bit.

It looks like he may just be growing out of that beach-hating phase of his life because the other day, while we were splashing around in the surf, the words "This is so much fun" flew from his lips with the same excitement he uses to say "I wanna watch Cars." And then we all collapsed in disbelief.

Gigi and Dude Build up Ben's Courage


Mommy Helps Ben out of His Comfort Zone


Auntie Am Just Keeps Him from Drowning

Courage. Exemplified.

For the last ten days I've only paid attention to very high level stuff about Iran. I've heard about the election, about Ahmadinejad winning, about protesters. But last night, feeling completely irresponsible when it comes to current events, I went to the New York Times online to piece together what exactly is going on there.
I learned about Neda, the young woman who was filmed dying on the street, shot for simply being at a protest. I heard her father scream her name and watched another man try to stop the blood from pouring out of her face.

I peered into the walled courtyards of civilians, normally a place of refuge from all the rules and social scrutiny, and watched as a camera sneaking over the ledge made a record of those who'd used their voices being carried away.

I looked through photos from the streets of Tehran, where men were hurling rocks at police officers and women were respecting Islamic dress even as they were shouting and pumping their fists. I noticed the prevalence of green wristbands, which has come to signify support of Mir Hussein Moussavi. I was touched by the protesters who rescued a policeman from the crowd before he was killed, even though he was there to shut them up.
I remembered the time I visited Iran. The way the headscarf made me feel like I was suffocating at first and then made me feel exotic. The way Mack's grandmother looked in my eyes to tell me things about being a wife that words couldn't communicate. The way his grandfather rubbed my head and commended me for being sturdy. The way everyone danced.

I also remember how, on our wedding day, I walked from the salon to the car without a headscarf on my head, wondering if I could get in trouble for that, or worse, get my new family in trouble. How that same night, I had to run from one courtyard to the other to have our wedding dinner and then back without being caught in public disrespecting Islamic dress. How the next day Laila and I were walking in slow motion as a game and had to stop because we were getting too much attention for walking provocatively.

When I think of the protests happening in the same Iran I experienced, I am left breathless. If it takes guts to run from the salon to the car without a headscarf on, can you imagine the courage it takes to congregate in the street, shout at the establishment, risk your life and your freedom for change?
I like to think that if I was faced with the same responsibility to revolutionize, I would act accordingly. But I wouldn't. I am too spoiled by a freedom I take for granted. I am too afraid.

But what I would do, and what I will do for those heroic, courageous men and women finding strength in numbers, is publicly applaud those who are doing the right thing, thank them for getting the information to the rest of the world and verbalize my support for their fight at every opportunity. Which is more than they're safely allowed to do in Iran right now.

Oh, crap.

Look. I know this is gross. Unless it's happening to you and then it is freakin' troubling.

I have a friend who has not taken a crap in 5 days now. This friend of mine is a vegetarian who eats lots of roughage voluntarily and, because she is doing Weight Watchers at the moment, she isn't eating any gut clogging cheese. The other day, after helping her sister move, she went out for Mexican food -- we're talking BEANS EXTRAVANGAZA -- and still, no dookage. If Mexican food doesn't work like Drano on your guts, what will?

Seriously. She has tried everything. Citrucel (twice daily), Miralax, coffee, cigarettes. Even libraries. Nothin.

She's not having any pain with her condition, but she does have her weekly weigh in tomorrow and she's getting a little tired of this bloated gut thing making her pants extra tight. (You'd think tight pants may help get things moving, but they don't.)

Plus, it's just weird to think of all the things you've eaten in a week hanging out in your abdomen like it's some sort of mostly-digested food convention. At least that's what she says.

So please, offer up some suggestions, home remedies, miracle cures, witch doctors, whatever. This girl needs some #2.

It's a nice day for... Walt's wedding

Mack is buddies with this guy Walt, a super nice but quiet guy with a decoratively checkered past who says "Oh, snap" just the way it ought to be said.

Well, this weekend Walt married Joni at Lake Cumberland and I got to meet all of Mr. T's friends, including the ones he lived with that one time he pooped in the corner.
Do you see how remarkable it is that these people were still excited to see him despite knowing of his pooping episode? That is true friendship.
The groom's cake was a robot. Complete with treads and grippy pinchers. I've seen cakes for certain sports teams, cakes with poker cards, even an X-wing Fighter cake, but I'd never seen a robot cake so I asked Mack to explain the symbolism.
"Walt's a robot," was his response.

It was then that I started to discover this inside joke threaded throughout the event. They had some CDs as wedding favors, and several people were asked to suggest a song for the collection. Among those songs featured: Mr. Roboto, Robots and Build the Robots. Also Stanky Leg, but I'm not privy to that joke and not entirely sure I want to be.

After the wedding and reception, we were hanging out at a cabin with some of his other pals and I got to asking how people met Walt. Some people worked with him, some people knew him through other people, but when I asked Brad about it, he looked at me very sternly and said, "I built Walt in the 3rd grade."

All of Mack's friends were a pleasant surprise. I genuinely had a ton of fun getting to know them, from the people who sat at the reception table with us to the people partying at the cabin at 3 am. I don't mind meeting new people at weddings, but rarely do I ever party with strangers after the main event.

But then again, rarely do wedding guests have a hearse that they let me drive.

What they mean by belated

We have a spring festival of birthdays in my family. It starts in April and it goes through June, and the only people not covered by it are Betsy and Mack. Shan's birthday, which was Saturday, officially brought Birthday Season 2009 to a close, meaning that most of us are officially older and wiser.

Hee hee.

The biggest birthday we had this year was my mom's. She turned the big 50, and as a surprise, Shan and I redid her office so that it was more organized and showed off her little bits of inspiration in a better light. Not that anything is wrong with taped up post-it notes, but she deserves better.

Mom's reaction was so cute it got me all gangbusters for surprises, so I decided we should throw a surprise 50th birthday party. In three days.

We called our aunts and the friends we knew how to get ahold of, devised sneaky plotlines like a 400-mile yardsale, concocted an immediate need for a pedicure, and finally, on her 50th birthday, we surprised her.

It was a blast. We all told stories about her, and I got to learn a lot about my mom as she is as a friend and a sister. We were going to roast her but that's a little hard when you've got nothing bad on a person, so instead we just told our favorite stories and relived old memories.

And we ate decadent cupcakes.

As part of the kickoff, I put together this little video slideshow, and I'm putting it here now mostly so Shan can see it and so I can keep track of it. Better late than never, eh?

Soul Hide & Seek

Yesterday was just one of those days.

I was as bored as a human being could get, bored as most schoolkids will be in the next two weeks. I tried everything to stave it off -- hanging artwork, sweeping the floor, doing the laundry, washing the dishes --but for some reason I made it through all of those tasks before 2.

I haven't felt this way since summers in middle school. Which means I need to get going with something. At this point, anything.

The trouble is, I have toooooo many options. I can do the job I was trained to do, the version I've been doing for the last decade, or I can do something brand new. Something where the industry isn't collapsing under itself. Something skill based and exciting and valuable.

Fortunately, I am smart enough that I really do believe I could do anything if given a couple weeks to get the hang of it. If all I did for 40 hours a week was practice brain surgery, I could probably learn how to do it. But it's this competency that's got me completely stuck.

Being ablt to do anything I want has completely overwhelmed me and sucked the directional wind right out of me.

I have an OCD knack for organization that, when coupled with an inability to leave things undone, could set me up to be a successful personal organizer. I could apprentice a professional, learn the trade, and then market myself and launch a career in organizing. And it's gross that I like organizing, but I do and I'm really good at it, so this could be a quick and easy gig for me.

I also love photography and could return to photographing weddings and engagements and births. I mean, I like photographing staged crime scenes and naked ladies too, but when it comes to making money for photography, there's nothing quite like being a central part of the most important events of people's lives. Being a photographer at weddings and births is like winning front row seats to a Happiness Parade. But since my camera was snatched, I'm sort of in limbo with pursuing that and I feel like I need some better gear to really capture the potential I see in my head.

The creativity that comes with photography and the attention to details that comes with organizing could also be parlayed into a career as an event planner. I love, love, love parties, especially those with themes and interesting menus and understated activities. And I love bringing people together to share experiences. But does my annual kick ass drunk fest Halloween party qualify me to be an event planner? Do people really pay other people to plan events for them?

I'm also thinking about nursing, which would require me to go back to school. I like the hours and the pay and the international need and that it's skill based and patient forward, but I worked at an old folks home for 11 days and had to quit or shoot myself in the face before I hit age 50. I just couldn't stand the depression that comes with caring for other people -- the happy 100-year-old who was full of life one day and then getting her leg amputated the next or the 700-pound 30-year-old who couldn't leave her bed. My mother-in-law is an amazing nurse, and at points in her career she's kept a heart beating with her bare hands, worked as an educator training other nurses and managed an emergency room in Los Angeles, where the nutjobs go to die. Also, she makes bank and you can be a traveling nurse and make bonus bank. And when Mr. T is a doctor, it'd be nice to work at the hospital with him to keep all those skeevy I-wanna-marry-a-doctor whore nurses at bay. But, there's that whole people gross me out and boogers make me puke kind of thing. Do you get over that?

Back to school sounds kind of awesome. I loved being a student and learning new things and being a part of an intellectually stimulated collection of people. But if not nursing, what else could I do? The thought of getting a Masters in communication makes me want to slit my wrists, and the other academic pursuits I'm interested in -- graphic design or web design -- I can learn through $85 classes at community college. If I go back to school, it won't be until Fall 2010, so oh my god what do I do until then?

I'm not qualified enough to teach fire spinning.

There's no guarantee that I'll be in this position again in my lifetime -- having my bills paid, having all the time in the world -- so I feel like if I want to write something of consequence, now is the time to try it. I'd love to tell stories, to capture the details as brightly as they are in my head, to make minutia matter, but I have zero confidence for actually doing it. If living in Los Angeles taught me anything it's that no one is discovered for their "talent"... some people just work a crapload harder at the things they're interested in. Am I too lazy to be a writer? Probably. I'm also torn between being funny and being bone cuttingly desperate, so my words are having a bit of an identity crisis these days too.

I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. What should I do with my life??? What color is this damn parachute I'm wearing?!!

Just Kidding Around

So, I don't have kids. But I do have a nephew and a niece, and during excursions to delight in their perfection, I get a special insight into the minds of children. And their parents.

A couple weekends ago we went to the Renaissance Fare in Eminence, Ky. Before the festival, I only knew Eminence as a place to buy computer desks off Craigslist for my mom. Now I know it has a huge hunk of land used for pretending we're back in time. And it also has Doktor Kaboom.

Doktor Kaboom pairs science with quick wit and a sassy sense of humor. He was using a catapult to launch bananas at a little girl's face and I don't think I've laughed so hard at middle school assembly content in my life. (He's starting a thing called Club Kaboom where you can get science experiments to do with your kids, so sign up and make summer less boring.)

After Doktor Kaboom, my favorite thing was Ben being totally naughty. First I asked him to take a picture and he demonstrated his ability to out-stubborn even the most stubborn of us.

Shortly after the refusal session, he sassed his momma and got put in timeout. On a hay bale. Next to performing horses. Where he had no problem talking to himself and enjoying his time alone in his own head. Our next little outing was this past weekend to meet Thomas the Tank Engine. Thomas is a sensitive issue around Ben. When he was first introduced to Thomas, he loved him, but then his evil parents took Thomas away and traumatized their little boy for life. Now when he watches Thomas DVDs he gets very upset when they're over and is worried that Thomas is, once again, taken away. I, for one, don't get the attraction. I think Thomas is sort of a prick. He's very competitive, very self-righteous, and prone to depression. He's probably the wrong train to run around with, but for whatever reason, Ben adores Thomas and all of his friends.

The Kentucky Railway Museum decided to capitalize on this little boy fondness and throw a full fledged Thomas event, and my mom and dad, Ben's Gigi and Dude, bought tickets for Ben and those of us lucky enough to watch this little dream come true. The museum had photos with Thomas, a Thomas gift shop, Thomas storytelling and video viewing stations, a chance to meet Sir Topham Hatt, and Thomas tattoos. Then you got to get on Thomas the train and ride through the Kentucky countryside for about 15 minutes before heading back the way you came.The train ride was better than 90 minutes of therapy, but the other stuff sort of brought out the worst in parents and kids. Not Ben's parent or Ben, but all of those other people.

I saw a dad holding his 8-year-old son like you'd hold a 1-year-old while the boy cried like a baby because he didn't get to get his tattoo first. His legs were so long they dangled past the dad's knees and yet he was still acting like a baby. Come on Dad.

And then there were the moms who were soooooo bitchy about getting their kid to take a picture. I want good photos as much as the next person, but yelling at your kid to smile at daddy and then reaching up and scratching debris off his face isn't going to get him to smile. Let the kid be. He's meeting Thomas, for god's sake... He'll smile eventually.

The worst part was when it was time to go all aboard. I don't know why parents use their kids as cattle prods when in large groups, but seriously, Parents, when you are shoving other people to get a good seat/get on the ride faster/get in front, you are teaching your kid how to be an impatient bastard. Please, don't.

While everyone else seemed to struggle with finding their manners, Ben was an absolute angel. Not one meltdown or whining because he wanted something. Not one aggressive act toward the boys who stole the train pieces he was playing with. Not one missed please or thank you. He is a shockingly good boy. And if any of those jerky kids ruin him, I swear...

Comedians of Comedic Comedy Genius

Recently, through the amazing stumbly power of streaming Netflix and the magic of Tivo, we watched a little documentary called Comedians of Comedy. It follows a handful of comedians around on tour and captures them on stage and eating breakfast, doing their acts and living their lives. Both versions are equally hilarious.

One of the comedians is one of those genius nutcases who will probably drink himself to death or need to be committed before it's all over. His name is Zach Galifianakis, and he is freaking insane... in the good way.

Here's a clip from the documentary that officially made me laugh my ass off.


And here's some of his work on the piano, where he does his best crazy.



And finally, here's just something that's amazing.


Check out more of Zack's funnies at Funny or Die or on the show Comedians of Comedy on VH1. Who knew there was a show???

On eating your fruits and vegetables.

I went to the grocery store the other day for the second time since moving back to Kentucky, and my god people.

We are two for two for the cashier/bagger remarking on how healthy we eat. Every time they mention it I look down and think, What? You see those powdered donuts there, right? And you rang up the beer, right? And those three bags of chips, you got those? And that Nestle Crunch that I just put in my purse that you handed me?

I think they think we're healthy eaters because we buy fruits and vegetables. Several varieties of fruits and vegetables. Fruits and vegetables that are apparently too exotic to be brought up during cashier training sessions. Fruits and vegetables like eggplant and grapefruit.

I'm not kidding. My last cashier had to ask me what type of orange my grapefruit was.

We try to be healthy eaters. We don't eat meat so we spend that money in the produce department. I try to buy lower fat or higher fiber versions of things as long as they're not overly processed. We read labels and won't buy anything that has trans fats except tortillas because we can't find flour tortillas anywhere that don't have trans fats. We try not to buy things with high fructose corn syrup listed in the first three ingredients. We care about how we feel now and how we'll feel in 20 years, assuming that bus doesn't come along and kill us today, so this little extra effort is important to us.

But are we so consumed with healthy foods that we are exceptional and remarkable? Should our purchases be so out of the ordinary that the cashier makes a comment about them? Are the powdered donuts that are an occasional treat for us a staple for others? If so, America, we have a problem.

Adventures of Milo, the Curious Kitten Cat who's Lazy & Sweet

Jen & Mike went to Hawaii and since Jen's other cat, Sophie, turned into a terrorist after moving in with her mom, Milo couldn't stay there. Rather than have Jen pay a kennel $20 a day, I told her to bring Milo over here and promised her we wouldn't lose him like we lost my mom and dad's cats that one time.

The first day Milo paced from room to room, probably looking for his mom. His favorite spot was under the sofa in the study, but every now and then he'd come out of hiding, tell us like it is, and then retreat.

I guess under the sofa just stopped being interesting to him because on the second day, he decided to spend some time with us in the living room. Well, maybe not with us, but at least in the same room with us. He crawled his manly kitten body up on my knitting basket and has spent a couple of hours every day since laying there.
It is very cute when he's up there, especially because his body is a little too big for the basket lid so sometimes he has to dip his head into one of the side compartments (which, since my knitting basket is actually a picnic basket, is usually where the wine goes).
On Day 3, Milo was starting to warm up to us. We felt like we had a good sense of his personality at this point, so I asked Mack what type of job he thought Milo would do if he worked. I was thinking something like interior design, but Mack felt he was better suited for massage therapy.

He found a new spot on a shelf in the coffee table and was content to lounge around in there while keeping an eye on us. Sometimes he would even let us rest a toe on him but only if we were very still and he was very tired.
After those first few days, Milo became a bonafide member of the family. The sweetest, funniest, softest, most wonderful member of the family. And while I know that his mom is going to swoop down and rip us apart in just a few days, I'm coping by looking for pet-friendly plane tickets to Mexico with Milo.
This is how life is with Milo now.

He comes in and walks on us at around 10 a.m. instead of coming in and meowing at us at 6 a.m. like he did those first couple of days. At around 10:30 I wake up and give him food, water, his pill, and lots of pets. Our early morning affection session has become one of my favorite parts of the day. The little big kitten is such a lover, and he likes to be held like a baby and nuzzle noses and just be a lump of special. Then while I get dressed, he talks to me, telling me about all the things he thinks live in the fireplace and explaining that he's been staring at that spot on the wall because it's where the creepies come in.
We go about our day, and while I'm in my office, he'll come in and sit on the back of my chair. Then he'll lay under Mack's computer chair and wrestle with his feet. Then we'll give him some fish and watch him go fish crazy. I think he prefers tuna to cod... at least I prefer tuna fish crazy to cod fish crazy.

At night, when we curl up on the sofa to watch Daisy of Love or Burn Notice, he settles in next to us, sometimes taking up most of the couch and sometimes making a nest out of our bodies.
Last night while he was sitting on top of some pillows, he took a gentle bite of my hand and slept with it in his mouth for probably 15 minutes. When it fell out, he re-bit it and did the same thing all over again. And then I took a look at his little finger and thought, "Damn, how did I get there?"