Hello Silly

At The Dentist's Office

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn) — Wed, 02 Dec 2009 21:41:00 +0000

10 a.m. this morning. It's cold. I've been given four shots on the upper right, and it feels like my eyeball is numb. I'm sleepy and my mouth is full of something plastic that is gouging into my lower jaw which has not been numbed, cotton balls and an enormous clamp of some kind. And hands.

Heath the Dentist: "You ready?"
Me: "Uh huh."
(drilling commences, sound of suction hose. "Fat Bottom Girls" starts playing on the radio station)
Dental assistant Bonita: "Oh, I hate this song. It's just awful. There's no need of it."
Heath: "What is it?"
Bonita: "'Fat Bottom Girls.' I know my bottom is fat. I don't need somebody to sing about it. It's not nice."
Heath: "Fat Bottom...is that what he's saying?"
Bonita: "Yes!"
Heath: "Sounds to me like he likes it." (grinding) "You OK?"
Me: "Uh huh."
Bonita: "Like he likes it? Then why would he call it fat?"
Heath: "How do I know? But that's what he said. Fat Bottom Girls make the rocket world go round."
Me: "Wockin."
Heath: "Rockin world. He likes 'em big-boned, Bonita. There's you a man."
Bonita: "I don't need a man. You saw Tiger Woods' wife is beating him with a golf club for runnin' around."
Heath: "You don't know that. He had a car wreck and that's that."
Bonita: "Right. She oughta beat him."
Heath: "What if it was her doing it? Should he beat her?"
Bonita: "....No. Nobody should beat anybody, but I don't blame her."
Me: "Unghh.."
Heath: "You feel that?"
Me: "Mmhmm."
Heath: "Dang, I done gave you four shots!" (injects more novocaine) "I guess you'll learn to floss better, right?"
Me: "Uh huh."
Heath: "You don't know what happened until he says what happened, and you're just gossiping. You don't even know."
Bonita: "It's not gossip if it's true."
Heath: "Yes it is! If it ain't any of your business and it tears somebody down, it's gossip. Don't matter if it's true or not."
Bonita: "Where does it say that in the Bible?"
Heath: "You have to read it in the Bible to know it's true? You ain't ever had people talk about your family?"
Bonita: "My family is talked about enough."
Heath: "Do you like it?"
Bonita: "No."
Heath: "Well too bad I guess. It ain't in the Bible, so you just have to suffer. I need some suction and some composite."
(suction)
Bonita: "Tell him. Everybody knows what he was doing. It's not gossip if everybody knows."
Me: "Uh-uh. Lee ee ow uh ih."
Heath: "Hear that? Leave her out of it. Some of us don't gossip like you, Aunt B."
Bonita: "I hate when you call me Aunt B. She only said that because your hands are in her mouth. Maybe they have one of those open marriage."
Heath: "Like that swinger's club in Texas. I saw that on TV. If I made 37 million I'd just say, 'Honey, this is how it is and if you don't like it you can leave,' right, Dawn?"
Me: "Hmm. Duh see gehda had a oywhen den too?"
Heath: "I reckon if she wants one."
Me: {shrugs} "Oh ay den."
Bonita: "I saw that on TV too! There was this show, and this couple and they had another girl living with them in the house. Just as happy. I hollered for David to come in and see it. I said, 'Would you look at this trash.'"
Heath: "Two women in the house? I can't stand one most of the time."
Bonita: "Oh he liked it, the husband did. She did too 'cause her door swung both ways."
Heath: "Oh she liked the girl too, huh? Well that's good then. I guess we oughta be glad they're happy. Bite down. That feel ok?"
Me: "Eh."
Bonita: "What? It's the same thing as...well, maybe it's not. I don't even know what you call that."
Me: (Thinking, "It's called polyamory, but there is not a chance in hell i can say that.")
Heath: "I call it none of my business. We're done. I want Chinese for lunch."

Living Purple

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn) — Sat, 14 Nov 2009 18:57:00 +0000

I bought purple sheets this week. Usually I go for the highest thread count cotton sheets I can afford, but this time I went unconventional. I found a sale on sheets made of stretch jersey knit. T-shirt material. There was heather gray, beige, brown, white, sage green...and purple. I found it hard to look at the other colors with the purple beckoning. It was an obvious choice.

As fate would have it, someone pointed out a well-known poem to me that also has a purple theme.

Warning
by Jenny Joseph
When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

That is a great poem. Don't you love old people whose ties to convention break? You know that switch that says, "stop that," or that filter that says, "don't say that." When they've reached a certain age with certain life experience and just say, "Fuck it." You wish you could be like them and not care what the neighbors think. You wish you didn't have to create some acceptable facade for work or for church or for the PTA. But alas, you're tied to convention because you have to raise good kids and have a good job and be respectable and have some sort of status in your social group. The smart people disable that switch and throw out that filter before they get old. They already wear purple.They go to Paris with money they should invest in stock. The live freely and think freely.

I don't suggest that convention doesn't have its place. Manners are important. Following the rules is usually a good idea. Obeying the law ensures rights and safety. I just suggest that worrying over whether or not the neighbors will like your pink yard flamingos is less important than nearly anything. And let them gossip about why you weren't in church or why you don't sell the school fundraiser junk.

I talk big, but I'm afraid I actually still care a bit too much. Tonight though, on my purple sheets and with my bedside table adorned with roses I bought for myself, I will think about how I can let it go and get free. I'm almost 40. The time has come.

We Interrupt This Blog With A Call From My Son

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn) — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 19:24:00 +0000

I have custom ringtones for a few people in my mobile phone. Scooter's ringtone is the Transformers theme. He's into Transformers, big time. If I get a call from my son it is usually about one of three things: He saw a really cool Transformer, he wants to to to Walmart to get a Transformer, he wants to know what is for supper.

Today he's out with my father for their Saturday Go-to-Breakfast/Go-to-Walmart excursion. Sometimes they go to a movie. They do this every Saturday. This means every Saturday I get calls from Scooter.

[Ringtone blares: "Transformers! More than meets the eye! Transformers! Robots in disguise!"]
"Hello?"
"Hey, Mother?"
"Yes?"
"I just saw a Cliff Jumper! You know what it is? It's red! It's a repaint of Bumblebee. It's usually just a repaint of Bumblebee, but it's a Cliff Jumper! It's freakin' awesome!"
"That's great, Son."
"I love you, Mother."
[click]

I know a lot about Transformers these days. More than I want to know. But he likes them, and there are certainly worse things he could be enthusiastic about. Like girls. I'll take a 12-year-old toy geek over a 12-year-old horndog any day.

["Transformers! More than meets the eye! Transfor–"]
"Hello?"
"Hey, Mother?"
"Yes?"
"I talked to Jenny. She didn't get me that Scorponok. She wasn't shopping for Christmas. She just found it in the socks at T.J.Maxx and wanted to know if I had one."
"OK."
"That means I can get the cool red and black repaint Scorponok! Hurrah!"
"If that's what you like, Son."
"Hey, Mother? Thank you for getting me Swerve."
"You're welcome."
"I love you, Mother."
[click]

Arguably, he's spoiled. Between me and my parents, he gets most of what he wants in terms of Transformers. But in his defense, he doesn't ask for much else. He isn't into brand clothing (yet), he isn't constantly asking for a PS3 or a Wii or some hundred-dollar new video game. He's never once suggested that what we really need is a 15-foot plasma screen TV. And admittedly, I love to get him the damn things. He gets so excited! It doesn't matter if I like them or not. My pleasure is hearing him talk about them. I do worry about myself though. I've lately started to think Optimus Prime is kinda hot. You know, for a giant alien robot.

["Transformers! More than meets–"]
"Hello?"
"Hey, Mother?"
"Yes?"
"Do you have stuff to make spaghetti for supper?"
"Yep."
"Yes! I love you, Mother."
[click]

Love you too, Scooter.

Everything You Thought Is Wrong, But That's OK

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn) — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 18:28:00 +0000

Who can be certain in this life? We get fed a bunch of nonsense as children and then slowly watch all those beliefs get torn down as the years go by. Ideas like lifelong friendship, blood being thicker than water, good triumphing over evil, true love never dying...horseshit. Sure, sometimes it works out like that, but the reality is that you get burned a lot by banking on those ideas. It's enough to make you cynical if you let it. You just need to develop a more pragmatic view of things. Don't expect so much of people. Don't expect too much of yourself. We humans may be the "paragon of animals," as Shakespeare suggested, but don't get caught up in the paragon part of that phrase and forget the animals part.

1. Friends come and go. Friends are transient. The likelihood of lifelong friendship between two people is rare. The likelihood of lifelong friendship between more than two people is nearly impossible. This is just my opinion, but it's an informed opinion. I've seen friendships destroyed over things like jobs or politics. I know that your best friend will screw your wife under the least bit of opportunity or provocation. I know that your best friend will abandon you for somebody "cooler," even when you're grown up and think you are beyond that kind of shallowness. Your friendship might even end due to something less traumatic, like a move that puts distance between you until the friendship becomes more like an acquaintanceship. It happens. I used to lament this kind of thing, not just if one of my friendships was broken, but even when I saw someone else's friendship suffer. Now I see it differently. Friendship is like your favorite television series. It may have a long run, but in time it will probably get canceled. If you're lucky you'll get repeats of the best episodes now and then, and you can always remember those episodes fondly. I'm not suggesting you shouldn't give friendship your all just because it might not last forever. Of course you should. Then if it breaks or fades you'll be in good practice to be somebody else's friend for a while.

2. There is a fine line between love and hate. This is what you get with families. You are born into a family and almost forced to develop love bonds with them due to blood. It's automatic. But the intense love and familiarity that comes with blood relationships breeds opportunity for enmity. The worst fights and most painful estrangements you will see are between siblings. Usually it's money. Property, inheritance. It brings out the worst in people. And because they know you so well, they know best how to hurt you. Maybe that's why the poorest families seem to be the closest. That is, until you have two brothers in love with the same woman. Your family is your family, but figure out that they are no better or worse than anyone else in the world just because they share your DNA.

3. True love is as fragile and breakable as a china cup. An interesting fact about a china cup is that you can turn it upside down on the floor, stand on the base of it and it will hold the weight of an average person without breaking. It's that strong and amazing. But you can tap it carelessly with a teaspoon and break it into a million pieces. It's that tender. And that's how love is. Usually it will endure the heaviest burdens with ease. I think this is because we have a plan for those things. We realize those huge burdens are often beyond our control, and even imagine ahead of time what to do if one of these burdens falls upon us. But it's those everyday knocks that do us in. That little chip. That hairline crack that goes unrepaired. The careless misuse of love until it is barely holding together is its undoing. One day, it will no longer hold the tea and it will shatter. Yes, yes, some people enjoy a lifetime of use from their china cup, and that's great and beautiful. But most people are careless with their teaspoons. The good thing is, you only have to break one to learn your lesson most of the time.

4. The ultimate myth common to all these situations and relationship is the idea that good triumphs over evil. It does sometimes, but you can't count on it. Good gets screwed a lot. I think I have figured out why. The assholes of the world spend a lifetime working the system to their own advantage. They bend the rules until they nearly break, they subvert the system, they burn both ends of the candle, they leave somebody else holding the bag. They get very skilled at it. It's a constant mental exercise. Meanwhile, those of us who try to do good are usually doing what seems most natural. We don't think about it. So the evil people of the world run on cleverness and the good people of the world run on instinct and emotion. Clever usually wins. If you want to even the odds you have to get smart, and the other side is already smarter than you are. They've had more practice. But it's OK. You know you're right to do the right things. Just heal up and move on. And get smarter.

God

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn) — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 07:41:00 +0000

I'm an Agnostic. I think. What I mean is, I don't believe in God the way most people do. I just never bought the all-knowing creator image. It never made sense to me, and still doesn't. And I'm educated and intelligent enough to know that evolution is real. That doesn't mean a God can't also exist, but it doesn't exist the way they taught me at Sunday School.

Growing up in the South, believe me, I had plenty of religious education. As an adult, I have found it illuminating to learn about the belief systems of others around the world, from various Christian denominations, to Buddists and Hindus, or Muslims and Jews. I find religion to be a fascinating subject and I'm not against it at all.

I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure nobody has it quite right. Not 100 percent. But I appreciate that we seem to be trying to get it right. No, not "organized religion" so much. Organized religion just wants converts and needs to be "right" all the time. I mean individuals. Whether or not God is real is beside the point. Mankind has created religion as a means to transcend. It gives us something to aspire to, guidelines for good living. Who can dispute the wisdom of The Golden Rule or the Four Nobel Truths? It gives me great hope that we humble humans have devised such guidelines and attempt to follow them, however poorly we may do so at times.

The Hindus have a greeting, "Namaste." Roughly translated, it means "The god in me honors the god in you." I have come to embrace this idea as the single tenet in my own personal religion. God does exist in every one of us. You see it in those people who give and love without asking for anything in return. You see it in human creativity, in literature and art and music. You feel when it is near you, and you feel its absence. We have the Devil in us too, and it's easy to spot when it rears its ugly head. The trick is cultivating god and choking down the devil. The choices we make and with whom we associate determine our success in that endeavor.

So no, I don't believe in a God that has the magic powers to bestow happiness and prosperity upon us nor take it away. I believe we have that power in us. So go be God today. Namaste.

None of Your Business: The Path to Happiness

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn) — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 06:40:00 +0000

There are things about which a person should care. Their job, their family, their health, their home. The essentials. In fact, we should care deeply about those things at the expense of everything else. Regrettably, we spend too much time giving a damn about stupid things at the expense of the essentials.

I blame my favorite thing in the world, the internet. Every day we are bombarded with things to care about that we would otherwise never even know if not for the world wide web. Oh sure, TV can bear some blame too, but the inundation of "news" and other minutia we get from the internet may be the single largest source of distress the world has witnessed since the Black Plague. We simply know too much and most if it is worthless. And "social networking" in the form of Facebook and internet forums is yet another flea on a dog's ass that keeps us scratching ourselves raw. We give a damn about stuff that is not important at all, like Some Fool's post or any number of things are None of Our Business.

So let's clear the slate a bit, shall we?

1. Obama's Nobel Peace Prize
Why do you care? Some Scandinavian committee arbitrarily gives out awards every year which do nothing to create peace nor destroy it. This award is no more significant to the lives of you and me than an Academy Award or the Piquipsy Rotary Club Man of the Year. I suppose unless you are from Piquipsy. Also, it's their committee. They get to pick. Therefore, it is None of Your Business. Stop caring.

2. The News
Don't watch it. I gave up watching the daily news a few years ago, to my great happiness. Sure, I still hear about things. Random stories of interest will appear on my home page, or Some Fool will post a link to something he gives a great big damn about, and I'll know it then. Not that it's any of my business to know it. And I promise you, if something really big happens, like a terrorist attack or a dramatic change in hemlines in the spring fashion forecast, you'll know it. So stop watching the news. Go have sex or watch a ball game. You'll be much happier.

3. Some Fool
I used to be like you and care very deeply about what Some Fool thinks of me on the internet or down the street. I have a long-standing and deeply-seated need to be accepted and loved. This has not served me well and I am trying to overcome it. I have figured out that what Some Fool thinks of me privately, or even says about me among his or her friends is actually None of My Damn Business. People are free to think whatever they like about me or you, and rarely will anything they say about us have any real affect on our lives. You know why? Nobody gives a damn about it except you and me. So why should we?

4. World Peace
Are you crazy? It's not gonna happen. Ever. You can fret and care and worry yourself sick about what the French think of Americans or what the Israelis and Palestinians think of each other or if the Italians elected another porn star to Parliament, but it isn't anything you can control. I understand that you worry you won't have as good a time on your trip to Paris if the French hate the U.S., or that the price of oil may rise if there is trouble in the Middle East. But it is still None of Your Business. We have the mistaken impression that the world is small, and it is not. It is big and full of all kinds of people. They are not under your control. Do you want them minding Your Business? Quid pro quo. They stay out of Yours. You stay out of Theirs.

You know that cliché Serenity Prayer? The one where you pray for the wisdom to know the difference about things you can control and things you can't? A cliché may be annoying, but that doesn't mean it isn't true. Figure out for yourself what things you can actually control. Those are the things you care about. The rest is None of Your Business. Don't worry about it.

Zero Tolerance for Lazy Thinking

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn) — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 04:34:00 +0000

In the past week or so we've seen a Cub Scout and an Eagle Scout suspended from school for carrying knives. Poor little Zachary Christie, 6, faces 45 days in alternative school for bringing his eating utensil to campus. It was one of those spoon/fork/knife combos. He wanted to eat his lunch with it. And now Matthew Whalen, 17, is being suspended for 20 days for having a 2-inch knife inside a survival kit in his car at school. You see, these boys are clearly terrorists in the Zero Tolerance world of today's schools. Never mind that Zachary is an A student who wears a shirt and tie voluntarily, and never mind that Matthew is an honored senior who is already a soldier in the United States Army with aspirations of going to West Point. These children are a menace.

Zero Tolerance policies do not get the results they aim to get. They do nothing to prevent a violent attack on a fellow student. Those still happen every day. They do nothing to stop a person from committing an act of assault or murder if that is truly their intent. People with criminal minds do not follow laws, so your Zero Tolerance policy means nothing to them. So what are they for in the first place?

The real reason for ZT policies is to spare administrators and teachers the job of using their brains and assessing each situation on its own merits. It's the same sort of one size fits all justice that created the "three strikes" laws that removed judicial discretion from the hands of judges and placed it in the hands of bureaucrats. It's lazy thinking, and simply a way to disown any responsibility of leadership. It fails to prevent anything bad and punishes children who are no more a terrorist than I am.

Wait...I do carry a pocket knife.

UnaMUSEd

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn) — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 04:09:00 +0000

Yeah, yeah. It's been ever since I wrote anything. But since I'm experiencing yet another ban from a sports forum, I'll try to get back into the habit. I mean, I can't let down all seven of my followers.

Over here to your left is Calliope, the muse of epic poetry. She's not much help. I've never been much of a poet, though I think every writer wishes to be such. Perhaps Clio, the muse of history, would be a better choice. I suppose blogging is a sort of record of history in a way, though not likely a history many people are very interested in learning.

But I will endeavor to persevere with or without the help of a muse to inspire me. Sometimes you just have to be your own muse.

Part of the Problem

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn) — Thu, 02 Apr 2009 21:10:00 +0000

It used to be that friends and family only harassed you by telephone or with unannounced visits. My own family tends to just walk in because I almost never lock my door. Then I get greeted with statements like, "You're not dressed!" That's right. I might have been had you rang first, but you didn't. Now when I remember to lock the door they still arrive unannounced and pound until I let them in. The question then is, invariably, "Why is your door locked?" To keep you out.

But thanks to the wonder of technology, you can and will be harassed through email, text and instant message. Chronic harassers prefer these methods because they can't be rejected. You'll never actually block your dear friends' or your mother's emails, so they have a clear shot at you. Chain emails are my favorite, by which I mean they are the things that make me want to spill blood. Not mine either.

Guardian Angels, Friendship Roses and Good Luck Prayers clutter my inbox daily, all of them urging me to forward them on to at least 10 other unsuspecting schmucks, all of whom have probably already received this same email from somebody else. A few of them even urge me to forward the thing back to the person who sent it to me! I can't imagine such an idea. I didn't want the first one, so why in the hell would I send it on to 10 other people with the hope that all 10 of them will send the same damn thing back to me again?

It's not that I don't appreciate the thought that I'm included in someone's "forward to" list. Some of the emails are even cute, but most of them are stupid and none of them will I forward on to another individual. I will not do it because I have enough people and situations in my life that force my hand, and I will not be ordered around by an email. Threaten me with disaster and financial ruin if you must, but it's getting deleted. The other day I got one that said, "If you don't forward this message you are part of the problem." Good! Delete.

I've called my T-shirt guy and he's screening me a shirt that reads "I Am Part of the Problem." I'll take a picture of it and send it to all my friends and family with the plea that they forward it along to everyone in their address folder. If they refuse to do it, well, they're just part of the solution.

Left Out

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn) — Tue, 17 Feb 2009 14:30:00 +0000

I don't drink coffee. More than just not liking it, I am put off by it. Years ago I could at least say that I liked the aroma of coffee if not the taste, but when I was pregnant 13 years ago my sense of smell was heightened to such an extreme that even scents I liked before became noxious. Coffee was one of those, and I have never recovered from it.

The problem this poses for me is that I am totally left out of the Great Coffee Social that seems to thrill the rest of the world. All the time people are "going for coffee," or chatting it up on their coffee break or talking about how you "just don't want to see me before I've had my coffee," and it makes me feel like a loser. I think, "Wow...I wish people were scared to see me before I had coffee! That must kick ass." Hell, "Coffee" is the first entry on one of my favorite blogs ever, Stuff White People Like. See how important it is?

I've tried coffee every conceivable way, and it just doesn't work for me, so there I am, the one non-coffee drinker of the bunch. Oh, I've tried to fake it. I've done the hot chocolate instead. I've even gone exotic with a vanilla soy steamer or something equally ridiculous, but it's like I'm the one guy drinking a Fuzzy Navel when everybody else is doing Jåger Bombs. It's just pussy. You don't do it.

But the worst are the incredulous looks I get when I say I don't drink coffee. It's not astonishment even. It's more like horror. "You don't drink coffee? Are you kidding me?" No. Not. I'm just a vanilla soy drinking loser. Sorry to offend.

This is a manageable malady though. In time people come to accept my deficiency and some even find it charming in that "isn't she weird?" kind of way. I can live with it. I just have to remind myself never to mention that I also don't like Led Zeppelin. That would really mark me as a total freak, and I just don't know if I can deal.

Sexy Weather

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn) — Wed, 14 Jan 2009 18:53:00 +0000

Don't let the map of Ohio fool you. It was just too good not to use, but rest assured nobody has sexier weather than Alabama and no people get a bigger boner for the weather than people in the South.

I know what you're saying. We don't get blizzards down here and we rarely suffer major floods. It's true, our weather is fairly temperate. What that means is any weather incident is newsworthy and likely to cause great excitement and widespread panic. For example:

Heat and Drought
Amazingly enough, Alabama can go eight weeks straight with no rainfall and yet maintain a humidity level of 100 percent. This is typically accompanied by dramatic reminisces of the "Drought of '64" in which the earth was so parched and cracked you could stare straight down into the yawning mouth of Hell itself. It is also marked by comments on how dead the grass is, water use restrictions and fantastic weather graphics on the nightly news indicating the Deadly Heat Index. Eventually, it will rain, and this is always celebrated with a rash of car accidents as soon as the first drops of moisture hit the asphalt.

Tornados
It is hard to get sexier than a 250-mph funnel of doom. This typically causes a frenzied circle jerk among the weather persons in the state. All regular television programming is suspended on a night in which tornadoes are forecast so each station can run competing maps of their Mega-Doppler 3000 Accu-Cast. There is exciting talk of "hook echoes" and discussions of "straight-line winds" and "super-cells." Midway through the night, the weathermen will remove their sport coats, loosen their neckties and roll up their sleeves to better indicate their tireless efforts to bring us the news that "no tornadoes have yet been spotted on the ground, but folks we've got a long night ahead of us." My feeling is that these guys are all reciting voodoo incantations in front of their radar, praying for the worst to happen.

Snow and Ice
As exciting as a tornado is, nothing quite gets the juices flowing for an Alabamian like the threat of winter precipitation. This is of course because we rarely get any significant snow or ice and even the smallest amount will close schools and interstates and any state office, because God knows a bureaucrat will look for any excuse not to work. The most interesting thing that happens is the Bread and Milk Run on the local grocery stores where old ladies will tussel like mud wrestlers over a loaf of rye that they would never normally ingest. For some reason, people in the South feel that any winter storm can be weathered as long as one has enough bread and milk. I've always thought that if one is to be snowed in for a week and possibly frozen to death it would be more enjoyable to have lots of soft drinks, snack cakes and bacon. You know, something worth having for a last meal. Whole wheat and 2-percent just doesn't fire me up.

I don't watch the weather. I don't have to. I can walk outside to see if it is hot, my mother will call me at 2 a.m. if there is the possibilty of tornadoes, and if I walk into the Piggly Wiggly to find all the bread is gone I know that somebody mentioned snow. So I buy Twinkies.

Birthday

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn) — Sat, 03 Jan 2009 17:26:00 +0000

In a little over a month, provided I live that long, I'll be 39. I'm not particularly looking forward to it, though I'm not really dreading it either.

What is a birthday? I was excited to turn 16, but it was because that was the age for a drivers license. I was excited to be 18 because that meant I could vote. Typically, I was excited to be 21 because that meant I could legally buy alcohol. Beyond reaching those landmark years of increased privilege, birthdays don't really count for anything significant other than the passage of time.

This doesn't mean you don't notice them. When I turned 36 I fell into a significant depression due to a number of things, but as the year progressed I realized that a big part of it was that I dreaded my 37th birthday. I wondered why. Even turning "the big 3-0" hadn't bothered me at all. Perhaps it was because, at 36, you can still claim to be in your mid-30s, but at 37 you have moved into the late 30s area. And then there was that damned Marianne Faithful song, The Ballad of Lucy Jordan: "At the age of 37, she realized she'd never drive through Paris in a sports car with the warm wind in her hair..." Lucy ended up in the nuthouse, which is probably where I need to be half the time, but the good news is that once I actually turned 37 I was over it. As it turned out, it wasn't such a big deal after all, Paris notwithstanding.

So now here comes 39. People seem to put a lot of stock in this one. I have an aunt who used to tell people for years that she was 39, even when she was 60. "Thirty-nine and holding," she'd say. I think I may take the opposite approach and tell people that I'm FORTY-nine, so they'll be compelled to say, "My God, you look so fantastic!" and I can reply, "Thank you, yes I do."

Orange and Blue (Really, Really Blue)

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn) — Wed, 17 Dec 2008 16:00:00 +0000

While there is still hope for my Browns to find a decent new coach in the off season, all hope is lost for my Auburn Tigers. Talk about a blue Christmas for us.

Our esteemed athletic director Jay Jacobs (the man who built the Olympic-size swimming pool a foot too short so Auburn can't host any events in the sport in which we hold the most national titles) and our dear old meddlesome asshole booster Bobby Lowder have given us a new coach. Gene Chizik, a man who managed to make Iowa State worse in his two years there, ending with a 5-19 record as a head coach.

Now, in fairness, Chizik was Auburn's defensive coordinator during the 2004 undefeated season. But he was also the defensive coordinator in the previous 3-9 season. He left Auburn and went to Texas where he also was defensive coordinator on an undefeated regular season. I don't discount his knowledge of defense. However, both Auburn and Texas continued to thrive after Chizik's departures, while Iowa State got worse the second he arrived. It begs the question: how much of the success at Auburn and Texas should Chizik be credited with? Or should most of the credit go to the head coach and the rest of the coaching staff as well as Chizik? And does being pretty good on the defensive side of things make you a head coach? Ask Romeo Crennel.

The most disturbing and disappointing thing about our coaching search is that our leaders passed over Turner Gil, for whom the Auburn Family was salivating. The rumor is that it was partially because Gil, a black man, is married to a white woman. If there is any truth to that rumor--and many sources close to Jacobs and the Board of Trustees believe there is--then how can one in good conscience continue to support the program? Even if Jacobs worried that some backward members of the fanbase might not like it, a university is supposed to be above such things. It is supposed to bring enlightenment and broaden the culture. It is supposed to be a community leader. And from my view, in reading fan forums and listening to sports radio, the majority of the fanbase was screaming for Gil, didn't care about his or his wife's race, and never even mentioned Chizik. I'll withhold judgment because there is yet no proof, but should anyone reveal that racial issues were part of the reasoning behind this ridiculous hire, I will turn Tide faster than you can say "Hail Saban."

And speaking of Saban, his arrival in this state caused an immediate and catastrophic change in the demeanor of Auburn. Here we were, having beaten Bama five straight and on the way to the sixth, and having an undefeated season under our belts with a real argument for a national championship, and yet our leaders panicked. How else can you explain the ousting of a coach who averaged 9 wins a year during his tenure at Auburn and the hiring of a man who has to this point been a failure as a head coach? Jacobs will insist that Tommy Tuberville resigned, but then explain why Tommy got a $5.1 million payoff? Jacobs is either a liar or an idiot. Neither is good.

I'll be blunt. I don't like Gene Chizik. I listened to his press conference Monday when he was introduced as coach, hoping that my initial reaction of shock and dispair would be changed to one of hope and happiness. It did not happen. I have never heard such rambling arrogance from a coach before, not to mention that he used the phrase, "at the end of the day," about a dozen times. Well, Gene, at the end of the damn day that kind of swagger is best worn by people who have proven they can do the job of head coach. You haven't.

I predict that Gene Chizik will last no longer than two years at Auburn. My Tigers will be playing musical coaches for the next decade, and there will not be a Saban to pull us up and turn us a around. Thank you Jay Jacobs and Bobby Lowder. Your influences on the Auburn program can not end soon enough.

Being Brown

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn) — Sat, 13 Dec 2008 04:38:00 +0000

I couldn't have picked a better two years to become a Browns fan. I've learned so much, not just about the team's history and the NFL in general, but I've actually scraped the tip of the iceberg on what it's like to be a fan of this team.

2007 was my first season as a fan. It was great! We were 10-6 when nobody thought we'd win more than four. Young players had breakout years. Old players showed they still had the goods to compete. I followed every play as best I could, which is pretty hard in Alabama where the Browns were almost never shown in my television market. I relied on horrible bootleg video streams and the NFL Gamecenter graphics on NFL.com. When I was lucky, a game would be replayed on NFL Network and I'd get to see it after the fact. But it was all good. It filled me with hope for this season.

Longtime fans told me not to get excited, but I did anyway. They warned me I was destined for a fall, but I didn't listen. They knew, but I'm new. So I got more and more excited as the 2008 season approached.

But I wasn't the only one. The NFL was hopeful too. I was overjoyed when it was announced that the Browns would have FIVE nationally-televised, prime time games this season, including three regular season games on Monday Night Football. This was going to be a great year. We could win the AFC North. Everyone said it was possible and a few brave souls even predicted it outright. And we'd definitely make the playoffs.

With only three games left this year, playoff hopes long dead, and the organization in a dramatic shambles from top to bottom, we'll be lucky for real this time to win more than four. Our coach and maybe even our GM will be fired when the season mercifully comes to an end. Players who thrilled me last year and disappointed me this year may be traded, making way for new guys who may or may not produce. There is an awful lot of uncertainty in the air in Cleveland, and the sign on the door is about to say, "closed until next year."

It leaves me asking, "WTF happened? How did I get involved in this?" Well, that's neither here nor there. I am involved now. I've caught the Next Year Virus, a highly communicable disease spread by other fans who have been sticking it out with this team for decades. But it's OK. There are worse things to be sick with, and the treatment for this illness is actually pretty sweet. You get a dose of Free Agency, followed by seven rounds of Draft, a little physical therapy in the spring, and then you'll be fully renewed come August.

So I'm closing the door on this season. Not all the way. I'll peek through the crack to see if we pull out a win over Cinci, and peek again at the inevitable train wreck that will be the season finale in Pittsburgh. Oh, who am I kidding? I'll watch every second of this week's Monday night game and hope for an improbable victory. I'm fully contaminated at this point, readying myself for years and years of manic-depressive fandom. Others have survived it, and I can too.

Speaking of Connected

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn) — Thu, 11 Dec 2008 08:30:00 +0000

Not to diminish tangible, physical things, I had an interesting experience the other day resulting from an eBay transaction.

I ordered a pashmina shawl. Silk and wool blend in the loveliest shades of pink and lavender, it was a great deal for about $18 including shipping. It came from India, naturally. Just to make note, it was far better than the pictures suggested, with scattered beading and tiny jingling bells on the fringe. And so soft! But that wasn't the cool part.

The mail carrier brought my package to the door because I had to sign for it. It was in a large, white envelope which looked slightly unusual and when I touched it I knew why. It was linen. The envelope itself was linen. Upon close examination, it had been stitched together by hand, and the corners tacked with wax for extra durability. If you click the picture you can see it in more detail.

I sat on the sofa looking at it, and just became amazed. Someone I don't even know took time to create it so meticulously. My little purchase of less than $20 warranted this care. I felt a strange connection to this unknown person because I was holding in my hands something that had been created just for me by their hands.

Practically speaking, I know that it was a business transaction and the envelope was merely the way that seller packages his goods. It probably didn't give them a second thought. But for me, that extra work and care made an otherwise ordinary purchase into something more like a gift. It was a very interesting surprise.

Connected

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn) — Thu, 11 Dec 2008 08:00:00 +0000

We aren't connected to people the way we once were. Electronic communication via email, cell phones, text messages and the like keep us seconds away from contact with each other, yet often over vast distances. It also opens us to the possibility of new friends we would never have met otherwise.

Some people haven't yet embraced this phenomenon. They think it's downright weird to have friends you have never met person-to-person. They distinguish between "internet friends" and "real friends." I have come to make no distinction in value. Just this week an "internet friend" helped me begin solving a problem that not a single one of my "real friends" had the experience or empathy to address. If I didn't value that connection I would have missed out on his gift, and I am very grateful that I did not.

It's actually very old fashioned. In the days before planes, trains and automobiles, many a great and enduring friendship was conducted primarily through letters. Couples would court, fall in love, become betrothed, often before ever laying eyes on each other. It wasn't considered strange then because there wasn't a more efficient option. Just because there are options now does not diminish the power of written words to forge true connections with others. To limit the value of a friend merely due to lack of a physical presence is to limit the capacity of the heart and mind. If what we think and how we feel are the true essence of who we are as people, and those things can be experienced by whatever means available, the ability to split a plate of nachos becomes entirely inconsequential.

My White Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn) — Thu, 11 Dec 2008 07:41:00 +0000

About a year ago the day after Christmas my mother rang the house and said, "Your father is at Lowe's and he's found a sale. He wants to know if you would like a white Christmas tree."

She had to ask? I'm the person with pink flamingos in the yard and season-appropriate window clings on the car. I am the Queen of Tacky. Of course I wanted a white Christmas tree. Maybe she was asking rhetorically. In any event, the tree was purchased. Regular price was $48, and I think he gave six bucks for it. A true bargain.

The fact is, I like unorthodox Christmas decorations. The orange and black of my beloved pagan Halloween is being manhandled by red and green in the stores by mid-October these days. Enough!

Before anyone gasps, I did put up a perfectly ordinary green Christmas tree too, but it is hardly worth mentioning compared to the gloriousness of my white tree! Just look at it, shimmering in blue ornaments! I may forsake green trees altogether.

If only they made pink plastic Christmas trees. Then I'd really be in business.

Following...what?

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn) — Thu, 11 Dec 2008 07:28:00 +0000

Lo and behold, I click onto my blog and discover that I have followers. Three of 'em! That's one follower for every week that has passed since I last wrote anything.

I am shamed. The very idea, that there are people kind enough to declare themselves a follower, which is a very thoughtful affirmation for me, and yet I give them nothing.

This will not stand. I promise no brilliance, as I have been experiencing a distinct lack of inspiration and some writer's block, but I will forge ahead bravely. We'll see how it turns out.

Scooter and Mommy Watch Football (And Do Homework)

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn) — Thu, 20 Nov 2008 06:21:00 +0000

My son doesn't care for sports. I don't usually inflict it on him, but since the television has been on the blink in my room, sometimes he has to suffer. And since his mother chose to be fan of a football team that is not in the local television market and can only been seen by purchasing NFL Sunday Ticket (not gonna happen) or when they appear in a nationally-televised prime time game, he has no choice but to suffer on those nights. Such was the case this week when the Browns took on the Bills on Monday Night Football.

There was compromise, of course. I cooked his favorite supper in advance, and endured a screening of Kung Fu Panda, all with the understanding that when the game started Scooter would do his homework while Mommy watched ball. Win/win all around. The game plan was simple: Between snaps, I'd help with the homework. So wearing my jersey and football in hand, we began watching the Browns while working on our pronouns and antecedents and then math.

Those who saw the game know how it went. The Browns were up early, and then sat on the verge of blowing a 13-point lead in the fourth quarter for the third straight game, an NFL record for suckage. The evening went something like this:

"Tackle somebody you worthless idiot! Arrgh!" (Deep breath.) "OK, where are we? To whom does 'he' refer? Raul or Tomas? It isn't clear."

"So it's A."

"Correct." (Looking at TV...) "DO ANY OF YOU KNOW HOW TO TACKLE?!? And will you just shut up, Kornheiser!"

"We're still winning, Mommy."

"I know, baby, but this is the Browns. We will find a way to lose."

As the game progressed I gave up sitting altogether and stood in front of the television attempting to choke the life out of my Official PeeWee League NFL football. But I was still doing my duty as a parent.

"So what is the formula for the circumference of a circle?"

"Pi times the diameter?"

"Yes. No...no, no no!" and Buffalo took the lead. I sat down and closed my eyes. At this point, Scooter began to pray. I told him that God didn't concern Himself with such matters as football, but he insisted. Then we finished the last math problem and waited helplessly for the outcome. For the second week in a row, Phil Dawson kicked his career-long field goal (56 yards this time) to give the Browns the lead. I squealed. Scooter jumped up and gave me a hug. "We're gonna win!" he said.

Alas, I had to explain to him, that we had just completed a 28-yard drive in only about 45 seconds, passing into a constant blitz, instead of letting Jerome Harrison grind out a couple first downs for us and use up some clock. That meant the Bills had all day--1:44--to score, and probably would, because our defense sucks wind by half time, and they sure do in the fourth quarter. The game wasn't over yet. We had to wait for the Bills to go wide right on a 47-yard field goal attempt before we could finally rejoice.

And we did! We jumped up and down. We did the football bugaloo. We had a good night.

Cinematic Plagiarism!

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn) — Thu, 13 Nov 2008 07:21:00 +0000

OK, I watched The Strangers a couple weeks ago, and tonight I watched Ils, a French film with the English title Them. The premise of both of these films, without getting into spoilers yet, is that a couple in an isolated home are terrorized by anonymous strangers. Although IMDB FAQs say that The Strangers (2008) was NOT a remake of Ils (2006) and was written two years before the release of Ils, I cannot buy this. They are the same film. WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD.

Most of the tension in both is created by sounds. The antagonists are masked in TS and hooded in Ils. In Ils, the TV keeps coming back on. In TS, it's the record player. And while TS is longer and has a bit more superflous plot to it, you have to account for the fact that it is an Amerian film with a well-known actress (Liv Tyler), and we demand a longer running time than the 77-minute French film. Both claim to be inspired by true events, but one rings more true than the other. The DVD of TS says that the true event which inspired the film is: "based on a real event that occured during director Brian Bertino's childhood in which a stranger came to his home in the middle of the night asking several times for a person who did not exist. The following day, his family was informed by police that several houses had been ransacked and burglarized the previous night by an unknown assailant." I can see that inspiring a creative mind to a scary story. What if you were mangled rather than burgled? The fabricated ending of Ils says the couple was murdered by young teenagers just having a game basically. A Variety review at the time of the film's release says the "true event" which inspired the film was the murder of an Austrian couple by young teenagers in their isolated vacation home, though it fails to cite a source. Still, Variety is a reputable publication. I would tend to think that statement was fact-checked. And even if it isn't true, so what? TS is still a ripoff IMHMFO.

Though skepticism or cynicism are not my natural tendencies, this really pisses me off. I had no idea that the plot of Ils was the same as TS by reading the DVD box, but it was evident it was the same story very quickly. If I believe the Bertino story of the stranger knocking, I still can't see how he could use that as inspiration and write the basically identical screenplay and claim it is original. And how would a couple of young screenwriters in France know of some young screenwriter in Texas's screenplay to rip it off in time to have a completed and released film two years in advance? And how can we even know if it was written two years before? Because he says so? It doesn't wash. Probability and common sense say it was the other way around. The people who made The Ring gave no pretense that it wasn't a remake of a popular Japanese film, and it was well received. I don't know why this one would pretend, and I just can't buy it. I do realize that very little in the horror genre hasn't been regurgitated a million times, but c'mon. It's the same fucking movie.

If you care to watch either of these films, I recommend them for people who like scary. Both do the job of creating tension very well. But if you only want to watch one, guess which one I suggest? Ils dispenses with the final minutes of gore that TS cheapens itself with just a bit. It's not a ripoff that claims it isn't. And foreign films with subtitles make you feel worldly and sophisticated.

Game Balls

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn) — Thu, 13 Nov 2008 00:07:00 +0000

By my count, this photo contains 44 gigantic balls. That's enough for 11 offensive starters and 11 defensive starters. We actually have some spares, since guys like Jamal Lewis, Josh Cribbs, Brady Quinn and Shaun Rogers seem to have their sets intact. For the rest...grab a pair.

Lewis and Cribbs made public comments over the past week about the Browns' loss to Denver, in which a substantial lead was squandered in the fourth quarter for the second week in a row. They called out unnamed fellow players for ego, and said others simply quit. This was clearly a challenge to teammates to bring their best game for all four quarters, in spite of the rocky season, the quarterback change and the prospects of playoffs all but completely gone.

The first Brown to respond to those comments was Coach Romeo Crennel. RAC, clearly displaying the most glaring lack of a man-sack in the entire organization, said,

"It seems like the word 'quit' has taken a life of its own and grown a little bit bigger, and now the Browns are quitters and the coach has lost control of the team and there's division in the locker room, and that's not the case," Crennel said. "These guys are going to play and play together. Whether we play good enough remains to be seen."

Crennel also said that he talked to Lewis and Cribbs, and that they basically recanted their accusations. For his part, Lewis doesn't seem to be backing down at all.

"Everybody wondered, 'Who you talking about, who you talking about?' It doesn't matter. I will address it. I address everybody, that's just the type of person I am," Lewis said. "I don't bite my tongue and I just tell it like it is. At the same time, I talk to everybody and just try to keep everybody on the same page."

The collapse of the Browns this year can be put on lack of balls at every level, and Jamal is right. Phil Savage didn't have the balls to answer staph infection questions, so he let Kellen Winslow endure nasty rumors for 10 days about an "undisclosed illness." Neither Savage nor RAC had the balls to start Quinn sooner. Owner Randy Lerner didn't have the balls to take control of his foundering organization until Staphgate and yet another divisional loss. Braylon Edwards doesn't have the balls to confront the media and his own demons regarding his league-leading drops.

Grow a pair, gentlemen. This is professional football.

Pick-me-up

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn) — Tue, 11 Nov 2008 19:51:00 +0000

I was feeling a little glum this week, so I got a new lipstick. It's pink. It made me smile.

A new lipstick is one of my stand-by items for a glum week. Cheap earrings are good too, and since I like to write, a new, really cool ink pen is also a winner. Sometimes it's serious enough that a haircut is in order.

It's pretty typical for women to do this sort of thing, and my choices are very typical too. You look a little different or you have a fresh notebook and good pen, so everything is new again. Perspective. It's a cheap psychological trick, but it's usually effective.

I wondered what men do, or if they do the same thing, so naturally I consulted a few men I know and the Browns forum. I asked, "What do you treat yourself to when you're feeling sad that always makes you feel better?" I got a half dozen responses that were either "hookers" or "beer" or both.

While beer is probably a legit answer for many, one good response was "something for my 1989 Bonneville." That makes sense. It's stereotypical but true that guys love their cars, and fresh Armor All on the tires is probably a guy's equivalent to fresh gloss on the lips.

Another great answer was playing a round of golf. "I like being able to distill all my problems into getting a ball into a hole in the most efficient way possible." This one makes a lot of sense. Golf requires focus and concentration, and in the end, provides a sense of accomplishment. Too bad I don't play. Seems like good therapy.

Change We Can Believe In?

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn) — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 13:47:00 +0000

Yeah, yeah...we elected a president this week. But that is not the only momentous change of interest to me. The Cleveland Browns have benched starting quarterback Derek Anderson and Brady Quinn will start this week against Denver.

Now the stadium will echo with the cheers of "Bra-dy! Bra-dy!" for a new reason. They got their wish. Gunslinger out, matinee idol in. So now what? It's fine to be pretty, and God knows he is, but what can he really do as a starting quarterback? Just like with presidents, starting quarterbacks are subject to close scrutiny, blind support or utter hatred. The fact Quinn went to Notre Dame is enough reason for half the country to hate him. Oh well. He'll survive.

The change does come on a short week. After playing Sunday, the Browns turn around quickly to play Denver on Thursday. This gives Quinn essentially one full day of practice and one walk-through day to prepare with the rest of the offense. Some have criticized making this big change on a short week, but receiver Braylon Edwards made a good observation. The timing doesn't really allow the team to waste energy on the whys and wherefores of the change. There's a game Thursday and that's that. I'm very excited to see what happens!

Full of faith as ever, I anticipate a good game from all. Browns 34, Broncos 13.

Yes We Can?

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn) — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 13:03:00 +0000

So it will be President Barack Obama.

Although the landslide victory was predicted and expected, it still seems fantastic. My country elected a black man as president. I knew that would happen one day, but the suddenness of Obama's acceptance as a candidate and now as a president-elect is stunning to me. It gives me a good feeling that the fact of his race was rendered to interesting rather than impeding.

So now what? Can he deliver on the Hope he so eloquently promised during his campaign? He should have no obstacles for a considerable length of time. His party also owns the House and Senate, so the Obama agenda should begin being ushered in quickly, and we will see if it bears fruit.

Whether a person voted for Obama or not is now inconsequential. He will be the president. A good American must hope that he will actually be a good leader, and that the policies he drives and the bills he signs into law will be more good than bad and make our country stronger rather than weaker. The level of bile and hatred directed at George W. Bush should not remain the status quo, only now from the other side. People said Bush divided our country, but that isn't true. A president is only one man. We divided ourselves, and it isn't healthy.

So here we go. Let's see what happens.

Pull My Finger

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn) — Fri, 24 Oct 2008 20:22:00 +0000

It is said that potty humor is the oldest form of humor because everyone does it. This is true. Unless you're female. We just don't talk about such things.

But we should! Men get to have all the fun. A guy can walk into a room and, with no preface or segue of any kind, announce something like, "I just dropped a deuce he size of a gopher."

His mates will then respond in many predictable ways. There will be congratulations, a polite golf clap, an empathetic "been there, done that." Someone will offer him a beer. And all will be well. No one will be offended. Men somehow fully grasp the idea that, yes, shit happens. And so do farts.

But let's say a woman walks into her Jane Austin Study Club meeting and, with no preface or segue of any kind, announces, "I just dropped a deuce he size of a gopher." Can you imagine the results? Gasps of horror. Chastisement. It's possible that an extremely elderly member of the group, whose "I shouldn't say that" switch has long been broken, might inquire about the consistency and recommend a good doctor. But our friend would not be invited back. Her children would be labeled "undesirable," and the JASC meeting will be mysteriously relocated to an undisclosed venue.

It's yet another thing that separates the sexes and yet another weakness of the female. It is great source of amusement to me that if any male, be he three years old or 73, can fart and trap you under the covers with it, that will be the funniest thing that happened today.