Kitty Fever

Dear Jennifer,

Please give me Milo again. I'm in desperate need of some fluffy kitty sized love and can't guarantee I won't be going to the humane society tomorrow.

I neeeeeed one of these.
Love,
Amber

Shark Attack

I am terrified of sharks. But... I also love them.

This past week was Shark Week on Discovery and oh my god where have I been for the last however many years this awesomeness has been on TV?!! I watched early 1900's reenactments of the New Jersey killings that inspired Jaws, where a shark headed more than a mile into a river off the Atlantic, and lost myself in shows called Deadly Waters, Sharkbite Summer and Great White Appetite.

Apparently I wasn't the only one overly excited about this lineup.


Dude, when you've got journalists being freed in North Korea or an attempted solution to the auto industry crisis up against Shark Week... tough call, right?

I would have eaten the apple. And loved it. And passed its deliciousness along.

I have the National Geographic Picture of the Day as one of the feeds on my Google Homepage. Yes, I did just vomit a whole lot of technological info all over the place.

I've added little coves in Scotland and fabric dying medinas in Morocco to my Must See Travel List thanks to this daily look at the world, and it even inspired me to embark on a color-based monthly photography project last winter.

Today this stunning little snake leaf guy showed up on my screen and for whatever reason, I felt it was magically delicious.
In other words, this is awesome and you should enjoy it. Every day.

Dr. Sexypants

Today, Mack had his white coat ceremony, which officially means he's no longer just accepted to med school but that he's officially in med school. He also got a pin and took an oath, both of which made me laugh because he is so not a lapel pin wearer and oaths make his head explode.
This journey to med school started years ago, with him taking a history class online at WKU with a teacher named Ms. Plummer who was a teacher freak. The class was the required history class, 108 or 109, and it should have been a cake walk... but not with Ms. Plummer. Mack watched so many hours of online lectures that I started to worry he was having an internet affair with someone majorly dorky.

That class led to an online science class where he had to watch animated roly polies walk from one petri dish to another. And then count them. Very complicated stuff.

When we moved to LA, Mack jumped right into school again, this time going full time. Unfortunately, he didn't have a high school diploma, so during his first week, he had to take his GED to keep his spot. Yes, his GED. It was a proud moment for both of us.
Each quarter he would get special permission to take more than 24 credit hours, none of which were easy hours to earn. His schedule was full of chemistry, physics, biology... classes I avoided in college. Then, after his first year, he started studying for his MCAT, an effort that required him to teach himself organic chemistry. Through it all, he kept his focus and maintained a life/school/judo balance that was admirable... aside from the fact that he never did the dishes or made dinner.

Once the MCAT hurdle was cleared, the next step was the applications process. This cost thousands of dollars and almost cost Mack his ego. Singing your praises while simultaneously expressing humility takes a certain finesse, and Mack, who has a lot of brass on him (heard that on Burn Notice recently and really wanted to use it), just wasn't good at essay writing. We emailed draft after draft of his personal statement back and forth, him providing the facts while I added the humanity. Then, once that was finished, it was time for individual school essays... and secondary application essays... and shopping for a pin stripe suit that would make him look doctorly and CIA-grade sexy at the same time... and calls with lawyers to get records sealed... and court hearings... and interviews that involved coffee (and everyone knows what the coffee can do to you).
Basically, this med school pursuit process took FOREVER. So, tonight we will drink champagne and high five to celebrate this surreal accomplishment while we get a good look at each other that will hopefully tide us over for the next four years.

Congratulations Mack. I am so proud of you.

If a tree falls downtown during a thunderstorm and traps a girl, why don't I hear it?

During the storm that turned High Street into an urban river today, I propped open the front door and watched the cars raft past my house. The lightning took that as an invitation to come into the living room, so I ended up holding my computer in my arms and my phone in my hand and looking out the door from the hallway. Basically, I looked tough.
While the rain tore through town, the newsroom people and meteorologists on TV tried to relay that it was freaking serious but there was no cause for alarm. Also that rush hour in Stamping Ground was really going to blow and that a girl was trapped in her car after a tree fell on it while she was driving down East High Street.

What? I'd been staring at East High Street for the last 30 minutes and I'd missed that?!
Apparently so.

It's a Bird! It's a Plane! It's a Mid-Lift-Off Colllision!

My brother-in-law, Bubba (no joke), is a pilot. He is also one of the funniest people alive and once tricked me into walking full force into a tree.

Well, check out what happened to Bubba yesterday as he was zooming down the runway about to lift off and a blue heron decided to do the same thing in the same place at the same time.

(I know he says it's a buzzard here, but he later found the bird's head,
which, you know, cleared things up.)

I've always sort of thought Bubba was pretending about being a pilot. It's not that he hasn't had the training or doesn't have the brains... it's just that when the people you know well become professionals at something, the eliteness of that position is erased and you're like, they trust Bubba to fly a plane?!! The same guy whose preferred brand of relaxer is the one with the smiling little black girl on it? What's next, Mack becoming a doctor?!!

Camping, Front-Yard-Style

While my dear Elijah was in town for a visit with her adult man toddler Sam, we headed to Gravel Switch for a few days to take in Emily's log cabin, creeks filled with chrinoids, hiking loops around lakes, four-wheelers, competitive matches of Corn Hole, and even a round of front-yard-camping.
My front yard has a road called High Street running through it, so even though Tommy, Emily's son, was completely unimpressed by front yard camping, I was in full nature retreat mode. There were picnic tables, a fire pit, benches, an already pitched tent, and a stack of firewood. It was like all the work of camping had been done for you and all you had to do was spray on some Deep Woods Off and get to making a fire. And S'mores.

Sam brought the mallows.

And got a lesson from the pros.

Do you remember how good S'mores are? I think they've got to be one of the best desserts ever made, and I'd forgotten all about the extent of their deliciousness until this camp out made me an addict. At one point a chocolate square came down to me or the baby, and I seriously thought about stealing it. Sam removed any say I had in the matter by just taking it right from me and plopping it in his drooly, gooey mouth.

After our sweet binge, Sam played around on a rusty old tricycle and in a gravel filled sandbox hours past his bedtime. Liz and I drank Budweiser and kept an eye out for lightning bugs and chatted about whether or not the lightning and thunder would actually bring rain. Tommy played with a lighter. Liz and I are up for Babywatchers of the Year.
Liz really wanted Sam to see the lightning bugs, and man, does she know that baby. He loved them. Tommy and I would catch one and bring it to him and he'd poke at it and watch it crawl around, and when it would inevitably fall to the ground or fly away, he'd ask for more. I showed him this old trick I learned when I lived at a seedy apartment complex growing up, where you rip the butt off and write your name on your arm and watch it glow. It didn't work as well as I remember, probably because now I feel guilty about it. We also used to pluck their butts off and put them on our ring finger and pretend they were diamond rings.
Since it was a couple hours past Sam's bedtime, Liz put him down after all the lightning bug excitement. Tommy and I hung out up by the house, looking at the stars and talking in a whisper so the baby wouldn't be too jealous. We took breaks to tend to the fire and I decided to break out my poi stuff. Tommy got pretty excited about seeing fire spinning, mostly because "of the chance of death associated with it."

The best part of the front-yard-camping experience, though, was that when the rain -- and by rain I mean holy jesus thunderstorm -- finally did roll in, all we had to do was grab the baby and run up to the house, where we could shower and enjoy climate control while we slept soundly on our beds.

Southern Comfort

Sitting on my counter right now are two jalapenos, six yellow squash, one zucchini, and one tomato.

Sitting there the other day were three cucumbers and a fresh loaf of homemade, garden-sent zucchini bread.
As much as I'm hating the mosquitoes living off my ankle blood, the poison ivy trying to crawl through my front door, and the thick air that makes jeans feel like a modern form of torture, I am loving the sharing of the harvest that comes from the South.

Holy Freaking Boring

Wake up, sometime between 9:30am and 1pm.

Take care of responsibilities such as washing dishes, watering tomatoes, brushing teeth, checking email, looking for jobs, listing mini-fridge on Craigslist, etc.

Study fire fans and wish I had even a modicum of dancing intuition.

Make coffee.

Check TiVo suggestions.

Make a giant salad of mixed greens, a cut up tomato, and some intensely delicious salad dressing made by Annie, whoever she is.

Wait for Mack to wake up.

Kick laundry to the corner of the bedroom.

Feel concerned and impressed that we rarely ever have enough for a full load.

Check the mail.

Download podcasts.

Take a walk.

Research cameras, both SLRs and point and shoots.

Secretly wish for more money.

Make popcorn.

Feel annoyed that popcorn always burns in one spot in the middle.

Curse Orville Redenbacher.

Start making noise so Mack wakes up.

Save the lives of snails.

Sweep the porch.

Read Thomas Paine essays.

Have a glass of kefir.

Perform a frontal lobotomy.

Articles

When we moved from Kentucky to California, there were two collections I just could not bare to pare down.

My books and my artwork.

I don't own anything worth anything in the way of artwork, but I do have things that I love, things that hang on the wall and remind me of people I love, experiences I've had, places I've visited. Some of them are beautiful, some of them are scary, and some of them have penises. If you really want to get to know your guests quickly, hang a penis in your kitchen.

The most I've ever paid for a piece of artwork is $350, which I paid to the artist Bill Santen in three installments because I didn't (and still don't) have hundreds of dollars waiting to be plopped down on a piece of art. I like dingy art, stuff that is imperfect and dusty and could cut your fingers if not handled properly, and I prefer knowing the artist I buy art from -- maybe not personally but at least knowing something interesting about the person. All this is to say my art needs to have a soul behind it and not be more than my rent.

With the rebirth of DIY screenprinting and the launch of Etsy.com, affordable art is more accessible than it's ever been. And because it can be hard to choose art -- and because buyer's remorse can sting if you've paid a couple hundred bucks for a penis that you end up not really liking -- here are some places you can go to make that place over the mantle a little less Garden Ridge.

20X200 -- I just found out about this site, but I love it. Artist Jen Bekman is offering 200 pieces of art from different artists for $20. Every Tuesday and Wednesday a new piece is offered up. So you've got PostSecret on Monday, 20x200 on Tuesday and Wednesday, and now I just need some Thursday and Friday highlights.

Kids at Play, Dusk, Kashgar, by Raul Gutierrez

Cricket Press -- a husband and wife screenprinting enterprise in Lexington. I worked at the dollar movies with the wife, Sara, when she was in high school and she was basically who I wanted to be. We reconnected in photography at UK, where she'd evolved her awesomeness. I've bought prints from them for Jen and Betsy as gifts, and have a few of their originals in my own collection. If you live in Lexington and have seen really awesome band posters, these are probably the brains behind them.

The Red Dress, by Sara Turner

Decor8 Blog -- with the tagline "fresh finds for hip places," this blog is more like a Real Simple pleasure than an online art collective, but they do find some pretty amazing artwork sometimes that will definitely jazz up your pad. And be by relative unknowns with brilliance and a believable price tag. They also have Etsy Take 5 Tuesdays, where they turn you onto Etsy artists you are probably totally unaware of.

Carrousel by Irene Suchocki

UGallery -- when an art student graduates from college, where do they go? to work as bank tellers, nannies, junior editors. and that's just sad. At UGallery, you can shop for work by emerging artists, most of whom are recent college graduates, based on pricetag, color, or style. And if you find someone you like, you can actually follow their career, much like you would a band or actor or... your stocks.

Hundreds of Years Ago, By Maryam Gaber, School of the Art Institute of Chicago

Miss Kitty Goes to Heaven

A little while before we moved to Kentucky, we were sort of forced to give Miss Kitty away to Mack's parents. We were pretty sure we were going to be moving, and the little old lady cat just refused to use her cat box. We needed time to air out the carpet before we gave up our apartment, and it seemed like every time I shampooed it, it would only be pee-free(ish) for 3 minutes before Kitty would christen it her toilet again.

I'm pretty sure I threatened to kill her a hundred times. Mack took her to the vet to see what was going on with her, why she wasn't using her box. Well, she had bowel loops, her kidneys were shriveled remnants of organs, her thyroid was a disaster and she didn't have that much longer to live. The vet clearly did not know of Miss Kitty's defiance.
When I first met Kitty, Mack and I had just started living together. He came back from a visit to his parents' house with this fluff ball with enormous chunks of matted hair, and suddenly we had a new pet. Kitty was a fine addition to our family, even if she was very clear about the fact the Mack was hers and I was number 2. She and Mack spent hours on the porch swing in the carport, she laying in his lap while he slowly clipped and pulled her mats out. I'd never seen a cat so calmly surrender to someone with barber shears before, but Kitty gave her life over to Mack and he delicately freed her from bad grooming. It was trust and tenderness all wrapped up in one unlikely little package. And I was jealous.
She was an old cat when I met her, probably 15 or more years old. Kitty chose Mack when she was younger, probably after she'd already had a litter of kittens or two in her life. He was camping in the backyard when up walks this puffy hunk of sass who decided to move in. His parents let him keep her.

She ended up being pregnant or getting pregnant -- I'm not sure of the details -- and when she gave birth, it really solidified her union to Mack. In the middle of the night, while he slept with her on his chest, she started to deliver her kittens. He says he woke up and froze, afraid to move and hurt her or her babies.

Every night when Mack and I would go to sleep, Kitty would assume her place, perched right on top of his chest, secure in his line of sight. And sometimes, just to really drive home her place in his life, she would lay between us, a 6 pound wall of fur that kept me away from her man.
When we took her to California with us, she rode in the cab of the pickup truck, most often on the center console next to her boyfriend. At night she would walk around on top of everybody and interrupt their sleep. Mack would put her in a little cat box when we stopped so she could do her business, but other than that, she was an amazingly good traveler. I was shocked at how well she did on that trip.
In Los Angeles, she settled right in. Aside from that one time she was arrested, she seemed beyond content with her life. She slept the necessary 20+ hours a day, liked potato chips, and demanded we rub her tits by plopping down on her side and rolling around.
She also liked to have her butt spanked and would often discuss the founder of the People's Republic of China with Mack. When I decided to put a bird feeder outside and attracted a family of cute little mice, Kitty used it as an opportunity to hone her hunting skills and wiped out the entire clan. We tried to make it so she didn't have to jump -- something she hated -- and Mack and she spent hours every day less than 2 feet from one another.
After she went to Mack's parents' house, she seemed to be doing well... not as well as she'd have done had she gone to live with Jen, but well enough. She liked being outside and got endless attention from the neighborhood kids and passersby in their apartment complex. Shahin fed her turkey and Tom gave her milk and that, combined with hundreds of pets a day, made her happy.

She was losing weight, but we knew she was old and sick and didn't have much time left. In fact, we'd been telling ourselves she didn't have that much time left for about 6 months (the vet had said she had a couple months max). When we knew for sure we were moving, we decided to leave her with his parents, unsure she'd survive the road trip a second time.

One day before we left Laila and I were coming home from a walk, and we saw Kitty on the porch. "What is she doing?" Laila asked, and seeing Kitty twisted around with her tongue hanging out of her mouth, I told Laila to go get Mack. I scooped her tiny body up in my arms and rubbed her dirty little nose, and by the time Mack got out, whatever was happening had stopped. She was shaking, disoriented, barely able to walk, but she was back. Her eyes were tired but she was behind them. Two days later, it was like nothing had ever happened. Leave it to Kitty to improve by having a stroke.

We left California a few days later, and knowing that would be the last time we saw Miss Kitty was rough. Mack did his usual hurry-through-goodbyes-so-they're-not-as-hard as we were heading out, but I picked her up, nuzzled her little face, came to peace with my biggest challenge for getting Mack's love and attention. I took her picture, and off we went.
Miss Kitty continued to deteriorate. On June 25, she was put down. She really was an angel of a cat.

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.