Category Archive

Before you close this page and vow never to darken the doors of my Small Corner again, rest assured that my prejudices are not related to race, gender, sexuality, or religion. Well, I’m not really fond of the Baptists, but that’s a generalization I’m working through. No, my prejudices have nothing to do with skin color or lifestyle–unless you are, say, a gay Asian Catholic who happens to be OBNOXIOUS. Yep, that’s right, I don’t like obnoxious people. There, I said it. Do you still love me? Can we hug?

Seriously. I suppose I have always known this about myself, but in my insular little world, where I get to choose (for the most part) the people I encounter, I don’t often have to deal with it. I shop at the same grocery store every week, eat at the same handful of restaurants, buy coffee from the same Starbucks. Sure, there are obnoxious people at those places, but I have learned their patterns, because they, like me, are creatures of habit. That woman in the white Lexus SUV is always going to cut into the Starbucks drive-through line without going around like everyone else, and that surly teenage girl at the supermarket is never going to be happy when she sees me coming through the U-Scan line with all of my reusable shopping bags. There are even obnoxious people at work, and I know how to minimize my face time with them. I should note that kids don’t count because they are pre-programmed to be obnoxious, particularly teenagers, and while it’s annoying, I try not to hold it against them. It’s the Obnoxiuos Adult that bothers me, the individual who ought to know better, and probably does, but still chooses to wave his (or her) Ass Flag high and proud. And there’s no place like a touristy vacation spot to see those flags waving. Consider the following scenarios:

Scenario 1: The Restaurant

Last Wednesday while at the beach we had dinner at That Restaurant Owned by the Cool Dude Who Sings the Anthem to a Particular Tequila-based Beverage. We were on the patio where there was great live music and a nice breeze coming in off the fake lake surrounding the place. It was a great. Everyone was having fun–the waitstaff, the people standing in line to get in, even Mia, who was flirting with the waiter and shaking her little booty to the music. She even loved that every 30 minutes the lights would dim, and Jim Cantore from the Weather Channel would appear on the big screen TVs to announce a ”Hurricane Party Warning.” Inside the restaurant (which we could see through a huge picture window) an enourmous fake hurricane funnel would start spinning, complete with lightning and thunder, and a giant bottle of tequila would emerge from the center of it and appear to pour tequila into a giant shot glass. Then Cool Dude Restaurant Owner would sing his tequila drink anthem on the big screens and the entire place would clap and sing along. The first few times it was a blast. Then the Obnoxious People came.

Apparently, unbeknowst to the rest of the restaurant’s patrons, there was a So You Think You Can Whistle contest going on at the Obnoxious People’s table. At completely random intervals and for no apparent reason, one of the Obnoxious People would whistle. By whistle I mean he would insert his index fingers into his mouth and let out an ear-piercing scream of a sound that made people jump, and that is saying a lot considering how loud this place was. And just when everyone had recovered from the last whistle, he, or one of his Obnoxious Friends, would do it again. And every time one of them whistled, Mia would have a total meltdown–a pitiful, startled, shaking, fingers-gripping-my-shirt meltdown. I would have her calm and ready to go back into her high chair when the next whistle was dispatched, and with each whistle she calmed less and less, so that by the time my food came she was a wreck and I had to put my meal in a styrofoam box and go sit with her on a bench outside the restaurant.

Scenario 2: The Pool

You know in cartoons when they play ominous dramatic music to indicate that something bad is about to happen, and then you see what appears to be an enormous menacing figure in shadow wielding what looks like the world’s longest Samurai sword, but then the angle changes and it’s just a cricket in front of a light with a blade of grass in its mouth? Last Wednedsay afternoon at the pool the scene was the exact opposite of that. There was cool music playing on the pool sound system, and I was floating dreamily along in the lazy river with Mia stretched out in front of me. The sun wasn’t too hot, and the breeze wasn’t too cool. And then some people came into the pool area–three or four kids and three grown women who had obviously come in off the beach and were looking to settle at the pool for a while. Groovy, I thought. And then three things happened: they settled right next to the lazy river, they started talking, and they got IN the lazy river. I watched in horror as the cute little cricket morphed into a murderer of peace.

For starters, they took up the entire pool deck area next to the lazy river, part of which was intended to be a walkway, and if someone needed to get by, well tough shit. They weren’t moving. Not even if you said excuse me, or if you were carrying a squirmy toddler. Once they got settled in they started talking–some of them to each other, and some of them to remote parties via cell phone, and some of them to both at the same time. I don’t tend to be one of those people who gets all irate when someone is having a cell phone conversation in public, but there are cell phone conversations, and then there are CELL PHONE CONVERSATIONS. In this particular scenario it was the latter, and there was lots of crowing and hooting and screeching involved, as well as lots of stopping in the middle to repeat to someone at the pool what the person on the line had just said. But all of that was nothing compared to the lazy river.

At first it was just the kids, and as I said before, kids this age (12-15 or so) are often pre-programmed to be obnoxious. Unless their parents are watching them, and then all pardons are off, because HELLO, if your kid is actually knocking people off of their lazy river floats, you should do something about it. But it was soon clear that this was acceptable behavior, because when the adults got in the lazy river a few minutes later, they acted exactly the same way. Yes, people, I watched grown women knock little children into the wall and into the water of the lazy river. I had gotten out by this time, so I had a prime view of the action: the women made a dramatic point of walking into the lazy river with no floats, then decided to get on the floats in the deeper water where there are no helpful steps to aid in the process. There was a LOT of screaming and splashing, and they completely stopped the flow of traffic, and then, oh good lord in heaven, one of them fell off and GOT HER HAIR WET. I am surprised that no hotel personnel or beach lifeguards came running, because her shouts of, “Oh God, my HAIR! MY HAIR!” were so loud and desperate that she might have been saying, “Oh God, my HEART! MY HEART!” Thankfully, the trauma of WET HAIR IN A SWIMMING POOL was enough to drive them back to their rooms for the remainder of the afternoon.

Scenario 3: The Wrong Room

Their rooms, which were on the same floor as our room. Which is how it came to be that the next morning at 7:45 there was a loud insistent pounding on our door. Guess who! It was one of the ADULT WOMEN, and when the door opened revealing total strangers she said, “Sorry, wrong room,” and then turned around and yelled, without leaving the vicinity of our door, “IT’S NOT THIS ONE! TRY 317!!” So yeah, they were just knocking on doors. At 7:45 in the morning. Hoping to find…I have no idea.

And yes, in case you were wondering, my daughter, who slept through a 45 minute alarm and evacuation, woke up when she heard the pounding on the door.

So maybe I am being unreasonable (and I know I can count on you to tell me if that is the case), but there seems to be a definite lack of consideration for others on our planet, especially among the vacationing (is this because people throw their manners out the window on vacation?). I can admit that encountering bad behavior makes me prickle and fantasize about payback, but I’m not really a vengeful person, and I’m definitely not interested in putting more obnoxious juju out there in the universe. Mostly I want to teach my offspring how to be kind and compassionate, even when she is faced with a singular lack of kindness and compassion, and I don’t think hearing her mother say, “Yeah, bitch, WRONG ROOM” is an appropriate lesson for that objective. So what’s a girl to do? How do you deal? And if you have kids (or are planning to), how do you teach them to wave their peace flag high, even as the wind from the waving of those other flags blows sand in their eyes?

If you braved the poop segment of yesterday’s post, you’ll be thrilled to know today’s batch was a-okay. I’m citing the blueberry applesauce as the culprit, and to further my research I served said blueberry applesauce for lunch today. Tomorrow’s results will be the deciding factor in whether or not I continue to worry. About this. There will always be something else.

 ~

We ventured out to Target this evening, even though at 5:30 it felt like 9. Seriously, this time of year is hard on my psyche. Anyway, on the way I encountered stupidity at its scariest–people doing stupid crap behind the wheel of a vehicle. The following is my Dumbass Awards Presentation for the evening:

In third place is one of my biggest pet peeves: that person who clearly saw me waiting to make a left turn at an intersection and fully intended to turn right into the same intersection but DID NOT INDICATE AS MUCH WITH HIS BLINKER. This is mere common courtesy, like not letting the door slam in the face of the person five steps behind you. Thanks for making me wait, Dude.

Coming in second was the woman who, presumably for safety’s sake, had pulled over on the side of the road to have a cell phone conversation. Now before you’re all like, “Hey, now, maybe she was having car trouble,” let me assure you that I’m fairly certain that was not the case. Her interior lights were on but not her hazard lights. Thanks to said interior lights I could see her flipping through what appeared to be a calendar or notebook. She was laughing. How could I see all of this in the dark while I myself was driving? Because she was blocking traffic on a side street, and what else could I do but STARE INCREDULOUSLY INTO HER CAR as I drove slowly around her?

And in first place tonight is the guy driving that enormous truck pulling the trailer full of lawn equipment who cruised down the middle of a street of normal width even as oncoming traffic practically pulled onto the sidewalk to avoid a collision. I could have parked a motor home in the space to this guy’s right; unfortunately, I can’t say the same about the space to his left, which is, of course, where I was attempting to drive. This one doesn’t even need further discussion–he is by far the clear winner. Congratulations, Idiot.

~

I’m not sure, but I think I’m a little crabby. I think I need to go have dinner. Or a half gallon of peppermint ice cream. Thanks, Cali. (No, really, that I mean. That wasn’t sarcasm at all. It’s the best ice cream EVAH. It’s like eating winter. I am SO having peppermint ice cream for dinner.)

Current temperature: 67.

That’s more like it. Now about this drought…138 days of water remaining for my city. What does that mean exactly? That if we don’t get considerable rainfall in the next 138 days we will not be allowed to drink, cook or shower?

Please discuss.

Say no if you want, but I’m doing it anyway. I refuse to acknowledge October. Don’t get me wrong–I have nothing against October. I love October. October is my homey. But there is either something seriously wrong with October, or there is something seriously wrong with my calendar, because it is not supposed to be 88 degrees in October. This is the time of year when the leaves start turning gentle shades of yellow and orange before they placidly drift to the ground. There are leaves falling now, but they are shriveled and black and dead. This is the time of year when I pull out my soft sweaters and funky warm socks. I have a sweater at work, but I only put it on when the air conditioner gets too chilly because it’s trying to protect us from the flames of hell that are licking the blazing metal surface of our building. This is the time of year when I revel in cool rainy days. It has not rained here, excepting a sprinkle here and there, in months. It is hot and dry. Initially I preferred this to hot and humid, but now I’m just sick of hot. I am even sick of warm. I would welcome cool, but really, I secretly want cold. I want to wear gloves and scarves. I want my plants to die from natural causes, not from plain thirst (we are no longer allowed to water yards and outdoor plants). I want to dress my daughter in the fall and winter clothes hanging unused in her closet.

October, if you’re out there, we’re waiting for you. Come quickly. Bring rain and lots of it. It’s time for this greedy September to hit the road, and it’s going to take some doing.

I got the idea from Calliope to do a “greatest hits of 2005” post, and what better time to post such a list than at the peak of the award show season?

Best

1. Best book: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
2. Best movie: Crash
3. Best movie character: Charlie Bucket, played by Freddie Highmore
4. Best TV show: “Commander in Chief”
5. Best TV character: the Quaker Rice Snacks girl
6. Best [newly discovered] musical artist: Jack Johnson
7. Best album: “My Better Self” by Dar Williams
8. Best song: “Little Black Crow” by The Divine Maggees
9. Best guilty pleasure: my weekly 3 hour Monday Night “Friends” Marathon
10. Best cultural event: The National Storytelling Festival
11. Best new food discovery: Silk Live! soy smoothies
12. Best drink: Soy lattes
13. Best personal decision: starting studio Yoga classes
14. Best new product: Downy Vanilla Lavender dryer sheets (they make your clothes AND your laundry room smell nice!)
15. Best purchase: my MP3 player

Worst

1. Most disappointing movie: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
2. Most disappointing life choice: Not transferring to a different school last May
3. Saddest moment: losing my friend Charlie
4. Biggest disappointment: the miscarriage
5. Most difficult decision: giving Harry away

I don’t care WHAT Susan Sarandon says–those little Stouffer’s Lean Cuisine Bistro meals do NOT taste like they came right off the menu of my favorite corner cafe! Even Suzanna refused the remaining rice from my alleged “Rosemary Chicken” meal earlier today, and this is an animal who regularly eats plush stuffed animals and dead moths. Please, Susan, stick with voicing your political convictions. At least you are right about those.

I’m supposed to be packing for my Thanksgiving trek to points south where I will spend the next three days with my dad’s side of the family, but in spite of the piles of clothes strategically placed about my bedroom and the open suitcase on my bed, here I sit talking to “my friends in the computer,” as the bloggers say.

Here’s the thing–I’m already starting to freak out about Christmas. It’s not even Thanksgiving yet, and already the “what the heck am I going to get (fill in the blank) for Christmas?”/”when am I going to put up the tree?”/”maybe I should host Christmas this year…” tape is playing in my head. I’m blaming the commercials. Have you noticed? Every commercial, from department store jingles to new car ads, features some allusion to the red and green holiday. Target may be the worst offender, but Walgreens is the most frightening. Is anyone else disturbed by their series of commercials featuring people walking into their dark back yards plucking wrapping paper and batteries from trees? And the radio stations are adding insult to injury–they’ve been playing nonstop Christmas music since Saturday. I know, I know, I was listening to Christmas music weeks ago, but not constantly!

And then there are the crafts. You see, my family is crafty. My mom is extraordinarily creative, and she passed that gene to my sisters and me. But there is an aberration in the gene. Inevitably, at least around the holidays, we wait until the last minute to begin the creative process, thereby finding ourselves wide awake at 3 a.m. on Christmas morning making that year’s gift du jour. It is not unusual to stumble upon the following scene at my mother’s house on Christmas Eve: Mom at the sewing machine surrounded by fabric with pins in her sleeves and the iron on full blast; Charity in front of a canvas covered in paint; Megan huddled on the floor with her bead box open and a pile of magazines and an open jar of decopage glaze in her lap. By this time I’ve already pulled my all-nighter, or else I have wrapped written descriptions of what I’m going to make for everyone over Christmas vacation, and I’m wandering around from project to project guessing who is making what for whom.

But it’s not really any of that. I enjoy all of that. I even like a few of the commercials. My problem is the rapid rate at which the season approaches, and the alarming speed at which it passes. I know the advertising world thinks that by beginning Christmas just after Veteran’s Day they are giving us more time to enjoy the season. What they fail to realize is that the moment Christmas officially starts, time warps into supersonic speed. We could begin hanging greens and stringing lights in March, and December would still arrive seemingly without warning. People would still start their Christmas shopping late, the calendar would still be full to overflowing with parties and drop-ins and open houses–and my mom and sisters and I would still stay up until four in the morning making stuff. When are we supposed to truly enjoy the fruits of our labors?

This Christmas season I’m applying what I learned in yoga class to my holiday approach. Taking lots of deep breaths, making slow deliberate movements, staying in one place for as long as I need to stay there. I doubt I can slow time, but I can slow me, and perhaps that’s been my problem all along. So happy Thanksgiving, people, and Namaste, and Om, and if you know what’s good for you, when those damn Christmas commercials come on, downward facing dog is a nice way to pass the time.

A friend and co-worker asked me this afternoon if I felt as bad as I looked. What, I ask you, are you supposed to say to a question like that? The truth is, I don’t feel well, but I wasn’t aware I was sporting the death-warmed-over look today. Sure, my hair is getting a little shaggy on top thanks to its superhuman growth rate, compliments of prenatal vitamins. And yes, there is that giant zit on my cheek that refuses to be concealed. But I didn’t skulk from the house this morning thinking, “God, I wish I had a Scream mask.” Her concern for my health and well-being was lost in my reaction to her observation of my appearance. It’s hard to say, “Yeah, thanks for asking. I’m feeling sort of droopy,” when all you can think is, “Uh! That’s so mean. What do you mean I look bad?” I’m going home to my animals, who are happy to see me even first thing in the morning when I appear to have been electrocuted during the night, and to my Reece’s Egg-Pumpkin, because chocolate does not discriminate.

Every morning around 6:15, before the sun has even considered rising and the owls are still out hunting, I take Suzanna for a walk around our neighborhood. I’m not a morning person, but I like these early morning walks. I like the dimly lit windows of my neighbors’ houses, and I like still being able to see the moon and stars. I can hear the birds waking, and I can smell coffee on the air, and I can think clearly and slowly before the rush of the day really sets in.

And so I do a lot of thinking in the mornings–a lot of contemplating and a lot of figuring. Which is how it came to be that for the past two mornings I’ve been pondering an issue so complex and mind-boggling I’m still not sure I have grasped it completely: Daylight Savings Time. Every spring and every fall I am completely and utterly bewildered by Daylight Savings Time. Don’t get me wrong, I understand the reason it was established many years ago (to support the work schedule of a predominately agrarian society), and I understand the resetting of the clock thanks to that little mnemonic device (Spring Forward, Fall Back). What escapes me is this: what time is it…really? I am never quite sure if I will wake the morning after a time change to darker or lighter skies. For weeks I walk around saying to myself, “Now, it’s 11:00, but my body thinks it’s 12:00. Wait, no, 10:00. No, wait, 12:00. No….” Thank God I keep these thoughts to myself. Until now, of course.

And thank God none of my neighbors walk their dogs at 6 in the morning, because this is what they would have heard (yes, sadly, out loud) for the past two mornings as I revisited this conundrum in anticipation of the October 30 time change:

“Okay, when the time changes it’s going to be even darker in the morning when we walk. No, wait, I thought in the fall it was supposed to be lighter in the morning. Okay, if I set the clock back to 9:00 before I go to bed at 10:00, in the morning when I get up at 6:00 it will really be 5:00. Wait. If at 10:00 it will really be 11:00, then…wait….”

It’s not really necessary for you to hear the rest; it’s more of the same. You’ll be happy to know I finally got it this morning, and while I can’t really explain it to you, I am certain I understand it. I think. Wait. Yes, I’ve got it.

Let me start by saying, and this is mainly for the benefit of those who know me personally, that I am not going to complain about the size of my butt or my weight in this post because I know realistically that I really don’t have a problem in that area. No eye rolling or tongue clicking from you, and I don’t even want to hear the words “you have nothing to complain about” come out of your mouths! That being said, I ate a lot of chocolate Sweet 16 doughnuts and “rested” a lot after my miscarriage in July, and for someone who is normally quite active, the rest period was not good for me OR my wardrobe. When school started and I had to start thinking about dressing like a normal person again, I spent some time in my closet reacquainting myself with clothes I forgot I owned. I reorganized. I pulled some things for Goodwill that haven’t been worn since the Republicans seized control–oops, I mean, took office. Then I started trying things on, and that’s when the trouble began.

I invested some** of last year’s ABC bonus money* in new clothes for work–nice dress pants, shirts, even some skirts, and I wore those clothes happily all fall, winter and spring. But in August when I pulled those same clothes from their hangers I encountered a horrible truth: the pants no longer fit me. The shirts were fine, the skirts were fine, but the pants were…tighter than I typically wear pants. I could button them, but they were uncomfortable, and I felt as if the fabric in the rear area of the pants was stretched across my ass like a canvas waiting to be painted. I panicked, and here’s why: while the size issue bothers me a little, my world wouldn’t crumble if I had to go up one size–but my bank account would. I absolutely cannot afford to buy new pants, get pregnant, and then buy even MORE new pants. I had prepared myself for the maternity wardrobe expenditure, but I knew there could be no in between purchases. I was going to have to stop wearing pants completely, or I was going to have to find a way to wear the ones I have.

Enter Special K. You’ve seen the commercial: replace two meals a day with Special K and you’ll lose one jeans size in two weeks. This plan as it is written would not work for me because I can’t do milk early in the morning (ew) so that leaves me lunch and dinner, and no way am I eating cereal for dinner every night. Besides, I don’t really want to lose a whole size; my problem seems to be around a half of a size. So I put myself on the modified Special K plan: a Zone protein bar for breakfast (which is what I was eating for breakfast in the first place); Special K for lunch; a banana, some yogurt and a V8 spread out in between; and something reasonably healthy for dinner. I started this last Thursday, and as a sidenote let me give a shout out to Special K “Red Berries” and Special K “Fruit and Yogurt” cereals–delicious! Yesterday morning, one week later, I tried on a pair of the tight pants…and they aren’t tight anymore! They’re not as loose as they once were, but I would wear them in public now and not worry that my ass was going to pull some sort of Incredible Hulk stunt and start ripping open the seams of my pants, frightening small children and sending droves of people screaming, running for their lives.

So let’s hear it for the K.

*The state of North Carolina pays bonus money to schools for achievement. There are four or five achievement levels, ranging from “Expected Growth” to “Unnaturally High Steriod Induced Growth,” or something like that. I have no idea what “ABC” stands for, but standards and test scores are involved. And money.

**Who am I kidding here? The payoff for “Expected Growth” is, after taxes, a mere sum. I spent it all.

Our local community college just built a satellite campus on the road I travel to and from work every day. It’s quite impressive, and I’m hopeful that it will draw people from my nearby school community. While it always bothers me when large areas of forest and foliage are plowed under, I understand that some development necessitates tree removal and earth moving. I thought the contractors on this job were exercising some restraint in this department, because they left a long row of Jack pines and dogwoods and other small scrub trees along the border of the campus. But last Friday on my way home from work, there were the bulldozers, plowing over all those trees and churning up the red-orange clay dirt North Carolina is known for. Today on my to work there was a row of maples, Bradford pear trees, and what looked like boxwoods lined up on the bare orange ground waiting to be planted.

When did it become easier to tear something down and start from scratch than to care for what already exists? I’m glad it’s not so easy to do this with people, for I’m certain the bulldozers would have already come for me.

Disclaimer: I am fully aware that an insemination yesterday couldn’t possibly lead to pregnancy symptoms today. The following is completely normal behavior.

I actually attempted to fix myself a “real” breakfast today. Somehow the Zone bar doesn’t last as long when I’m sitting around reading blogs and watching “Friends” reruns in my yoga pants and an old t-shirt with a bandana tied around my head. I actually fixed a few slices of turkey bacon and scrambled some eggs, but after eating most of the bacon, I gave the rest of the eggs to Suzanna and crumbled the last piece of bacon into the cat’s bowl. It sounded good, but it just didn’t taste quite right, so I ate a bowl of cataloupe and an ice cream sandwich instead. Now I’m eyeing the blue tortilla chips and a bag of those little 100 calorie Chips Ahoy cookies.

All this good eatin’ has make me very pensive. I’m pondering the big questions in life. For instance, what the hell what Jennifer Lopez thinking when she named her remix album “J to tha L-O.” What does that mean? I actually thought yesterday that maybe she’s not really so bad; I watched “Shall We Dance,” and while she’s not really all that great at acting, I wasn’t repulsed by her as I sometimes am. But then the Rhapsody startup page greeted me with a little J-Lo-a-Rama, and that particular title jumped out at me. (There, see, I wasn’t actually listening to J-Lo. You feel better now, don’t you?)

This is where I should probably have a clever denouement, a snappy ending that combines the key elements in the story of my day: J-Lo, ice cream sandwiches, and blogging. But I’m not feeling inspired. I am, however, feeling hungry, and there’s a box of corn muffin mix, a tomato, and some strawberries calling my name.