And the Oscar goes to ...

Memphis filmmaker Craig Brewer is now Oscar-nominated filmmaker Craig Brewer. His movie "Hustle & Flow" was nominated for two Oscars: a best actor nod to Terrence Howard, as well as a best song nomination for "It's Hard out Here for a Pimp." It's a great movie. Terrence Howard was fabulous in the film. He's certainly the underdog, but I would love to see him win. Even if it means beating out Joaquin Phoenix for his portrayal of Johnny Cash in "Walk the Line," another movie that was filmed primarily in Memphis. They shot scenes for that movie one afternoon on Main Street right out in front of my office.

Jesse told me last night on the way home that he had broken up with Maya, his girlfriend from first grade. I pressed him for more information, but he didn't want to talk about it. Later though he told me that he thinks Jacie is his new girlfriend because she's beautiful and silly. She's also, of course, a brunette. Every little girl he has liked, and some big ones, has been a brunette. At bedtime, he asked me if we could e-mail Jacie and ask her to be his girlfriend. I told him it would be fine if he talked to her about it at school. I also told him that he doesn't have to have a girlfriend, but that went nowhere.

I have to send out a big birthday wish to my dear friend Cissie, who has been with me through thick and thin since fourth grade. More than any other friend, I have asked myself this question while hanging out with Cis: "How the hell did I get myself into THIS situation?" But we always had a blast, and it was always because she was leading the way. Love ya, Cis.

Weekend recap: Art openings Friday night at the U of M (juried show for the BFA students with the requisite nude paintings/photos so Jesse really got an eyefull) and at Marshall Arts, which was a display of artist's studios. Actually it was a mix of artists, musicians and writers. It's one of the more interesting shows I've seen in a while. Artists' studios are truly fascinating places. Then we went for Mexican.

Saturday I talked to my friend Shali, and we decided to get our boys together (she has two). She was on her way to see a movie and was going to bring them over to my house to jump on the trampoline afterwards. But before the movie was even over she called to say the youngest was misbehaving and she'd only be bringing Ian. As soon as Ian arrived it started raining, so the trampoline was off limits. Still they had a great time playing in Jesse's room. The playdate then turned into dinner at Pete & Sams (an Italian place), which almost turned into a flood. Toward the end of dinner, the roof started leaking about two seats away from me--a huge stream of water pouring down. We started looking around the restaurant and saw several tiles bulging all over the place. When Ian started freaking out, I told him that if something was really wrong, the grown ups wouldn't be still calmly eating dinner. What I was really thinking was "Check, please!" In iffy situations, I start thinking in headlines: "200 killed in roof collapse." Anyway, the playdate/dinner then turned into a sleepover, when Ian spent the night with us.

Sunday morning Shali suggested going to the zoo, but I really needed to go visit my friend Michelle, who's grandmother had passed away earlier in the week. Mrs. Diament was 86 and had survived two concentration camps in World War II. She was a courier during the Warsaw ghetto uprising and was captured and sent to Auschwitz. Then she was transferred to Bergen-Belsen. Michelle was one of my students when I did the high school newspaper project for the university. She's a very cool, very smart girl. She's currently freelancing for People magazine and has been offered an internship at US News and World Reports.

Sunday I also needed to pick up invitations for Jesse's party and go grocery shopping. So Shali, brave soul that she is, took all three boys by herself to the zoo and then to Huey's for a snack. For the rest of the afternoon, Jesse and I jumped on the trampoline because the weather was gorgeous.

But by far, the most important moment of the weekend for me was this: My husband cleaned the refrigerator. It's needed a good scrubbing for a long time, and nothing made me happier this weekend than opening my sparkling, clean fridge.

My blogoir

A haiku from my friend Wade:

Boo hoo, I did drugs
and wrote best-selling book. Worse?
I lied to Oprah.

Note to all readers: This is no longer a blog. It's a blogoir. That way I can just make shit up.

Another morning, another fight with Jesse about breakfast. Except this morning I chose to walk away from him and carry on with my morning routine instead of running down the list of choices over and over again: biscuit with honey/malt-o meal/cereal with milk/cereal without milk/toast with butter/nutri-grain bar. That's a lot of choices. You'd think something would appeal to him. You'd think wrong, and every single morning we have some variation of the same confrontation. I really hate yelling so early in the morning.
So this morning, I told him I wasn't doing this little dance. Bicuits and malt-o meal were no longer feasible options because they wouldn't get done in time. He'd have to go with dry cereal, and he could get it himself.
So, he pretty much cried the rest of the morning, transforming into a total little drama queen by choosing not to eat anything.
Case in point: "Jesse, go brush your teeth." "What's the point? I haven't even eaten."
When I finished drying my hair, I found him happily munching on cereal from a ziploc bag. So my cooler-headed SkooterPie must have intervened at some point, and I was happy with not knowing the details of how he got the kid fed.

Item most recently added to my Amazon wish list: "Cell" by Stephen King.
I once adored Stephen King. Eventually I felt like I was putting up with him out of habit. Then came "Dreamcatcher," which was just plain god-awful, and I announced that I was done with him. Well, I was done buying his books anyway. If I could find them at the library, I'd check 'em out, but he'd gotten his last nickel from me. Naturally, the exception to this was the Dark Tower books, which he finally wrapped up last year. But when I finished the Dark Tower, I figured that would be the last King book I ever read. Last week, Entertainment Weekly published the first chapter of his new book "Cell." And after I read it, I knew I'd been brought back into the fold. This book feels like old school King. He's stopped dicking around with the high-falutin' writing and is going straight for the gut again. What if cell phones could be used as a terrorist weapon to turn people insane? I do plan on finding out. But I may still wait for it to come out in paperback.

A conversation with SkooterPie:
"I missed you today," he tells me.
"You did?"
"Yeah. I thought about you all day."
"Aw. What did you think about?"
"I wondered what you were doing and what you were thinking about and whether you were having a good day. And I wished I was hanging out with you."
"You thought about me ALL day?"
"Yep."
"Good. That voodoo spell I put on you 11 years ago is still working."

I get warm and fuzzy feelings about the two of us at really odd times. Like when we have a conversation in shorthand that no one else but the two of would understand. Just the other day we had this exchange:
Me: "Hey, guess what the dentist told me I needed to be taking?"
Him: "Lysine?"
Me: "Yep."
Him: "Heh."
It would take a much longer amount of time to explain that conversation to someone else than it did to have that conversation. About 1000 times longer. But that little exchange is so laden with a shared history and meaning that it's all we needed to say to each other. I just think that's very cool. Of course the shorthand is not so much romantic as it is a necessity considering we see barely see each other, and most of that time is spent trying to talk around a chattering kid who's doing something to one of the cats.

A recent conversation with Jesse (scene: We're sitting on the sofa. Greely the cat is snuggled on my lap. Jesse is snuggled beside me):
"Mom, who do you love more, me or Greely?"
"I love you more than the cat."
"But, Mom, you should love us both the same."
"Jesse, I love you more than a cat."
"Who do you love more, me or God?"
"You and daddy mean more than to me than anything. I love you both more than anything."
"Mom, you should love God more."
"Well, I'm sorry. I love you and dad more than anything else."
"What if you had another kid? Who would you love more?"
"Jesse, first of all, I'm not having another kid."
"Good! What's second of all?"
"If I did have another kid, I would love you both equally."
"Oh, c'mon, mom. Who would you love more?"
"OK, fine, Jesse. I would love you more."
"Yay!"

Poor kid, he's really missing out on that sibling rivalry thing. I used to leave messages on my parents' answering machine saying "Hi, this is your favorite kid. Call me back when you get a chance." When mom and dad called back, I'd make sure to point out that they hadn't called Lisa back. This is when I was in my 20s, by the way. OK, I still do it every now and then.

From the minds of middle schoolers

SkooterPie asked his students to answer the following questions on an assignment: What is your favorite color and why? What is your least favorite color and why?
He read this one aloud to me:
"I like black because I like black people. My least favorite color is white. Because I just don't like it."
And another:
"My least favorite color is orange because my brother threw up canteloupe."

I think we've finally decided on a date for Jesse's birthday party. Yes, his birthday was January 2. No, I am not a terrible mother--just a very busy one at that time of year. I decided last year that we really needed to put some space between his birthday and the holidays or I was going to end up medicated. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But, c'mon, the two weeks before and after the holidays are a terrible time for a birthday party. People are out of town and weary from the forced time spent with family (kidding, family! really!) in addition to being either broke or on the verge of a breakdown at the thought of having to step into a retail establishment of any kind to buy a gift so soon after Christmas. Or maybe I'm projecting. Still, if the kid had just waited until March to be born, like he was supposed to, we wouldn't have any problems. So, yeah, I blame him. And for revenge, I'm making him wait on his birthday party. Proposed date is February 12 at the Laser Quest in Poplar Plaza shopping center. Be there or not.

Weekend recap: I think Bosco's may be my favorite restaurant in Memphis. SkooterPie and I went there Friday night. I had the special, which was a pasta dish: smoked salmon in a red pepper cream sauce over penne pasta. It was so good that I ate until I felt sick.
I actually did drag myself out of bed at 6:30 Saturday morning to get my car inspected. So did about 30 other brave souls. I didn't get home until almost 8. Next I get to go wait in line to renew my registration.
Saturday afternoon was spent escorting April and her wedding dress to David's Bridal for her appointment with alterations. She looked gorgeous. I nearly cried when I saw her. Her dress is beautiful.
When I got home I did my civic duty by passing out neighborhood association newsletters on my street. Observation: There are some sad looking houses on my street. And a lot of outdoor cats. But I'm glad I didn't put it off because it rained all day long on Sunday.
In a totally impulsive move, SkooterPie and Jesse decided to attend the Monster Truck Jam Saturday night. I had an invitation to attend, and I enthusiastically declined. So I had a night to myself, and spent the evening watching basketball. Most basketball fans would think that all three undefeated teams getting beat was the shocking development of the night. I know better. I actually ROOTED for Tennessee to beat Florida. It was self-serving though. The Tigers beat Tennessee in a very close game, and it only serves us well for the Vols to knock off Florida. I couldn't bring myself to root for Louisville though, even though we might have risen to No. 2 in the polls if they'd beaten UConn. Still, the polls came out today, and the Tigers are No. 3. I like the number three. It's one of my personal favorites.

I had a dentist appointment today. Actually I had back-to-back appointments: a cleaning and two fillings. My dentist did me the favor of treating my three canker sores while he had me numbed up. He used some kind of chemical cauterization (a little product called Debacterol) to zap them. And it's amazing. They're just GONE. They don't hurt at all. I've been waiting all my life for this miracle cure. Sadly, it's not very practical on a regular basis. He gave me earphones and a radio during the procedure and offered me a blanket because I was chilly. How cool is that? He also gave me a "light touch" of nitrous during my procedure. I love the nitrous.
Interesting fact about my dentist: Apparently he is the father of Silas Gaither, studly but early-ousted contestant of Survivor Africa (can't remember which season, but it was an early one). I realized this when I saw framed articles about Silas on one of the walls in his office and then realized that the last names matched.

I'm fickle

So, I worked late last night and didn't get home until almost 8, which meant that I made it home in time to watch The O.C., but when I got home, I just .... didn't. I honestly think I'm over it. The first season this showed aired, I was a maniac about it. Then I started missing large chunks of the second season because of work or family obligations. And this seaon? I just no longer feel like even making an effort. So what happened? I don't know. I guess some of the quirks of the show started to wear thin. So I guess I better start hunting for a new ringtone 'cause even the show's song is getting on my nerves. (I can hear SkooterPie screaming "FINALLY!" from here, by the way.)
A show that hasn't lost its charm is America's Next Top Model. I would tune in for Tyra any day of the week.
Someone at McSweeney's is a fan too.
Weekend agenda: Tonight is wide open. Saturday: Wake up really early to get my car inspected. Everyone in Memphis has do this once a year in order to get their tags renewed. It's the only time of the year I start looking at house listings in DeSoto County, Miss. Also on Saturday I'm going with April to get her wedding dress fitted. I guess Sunday will be spent finally handing out the neighborhood association newsletters on my street. Just wait and see. I predict that this will lead to me becoming a block leader or being asked to edit the newslettter. I've just always got to be starting something. One of my neighbors asked for my help because the guy who usually does it is probably 80 years old. His brother or some other relative actually used to own our house, and so he feels free to comment on the height of our grass or the state of the azalaes in front of the house. I wince when I see him coming because, honestly, what we've done to those azaleas is criminal.

Jesse had to write sentences using eight of his spelling words last night for homework. Which led to this conversation:
“Mom, how do you spell ‘there’?”
“Well, which one? There are three.”
“Three? I thought there were two.”
“There’s THERE, T-H-E-R--E, like ‘Go over there,’ and THEIR possessive, T-H-E-I-R, like ‘It’s their turn’ and then there’s the contraction for-”
“Mom, what about like ‘There is no hope.’”
“That’s T-H-E-R-E … Wait, ‘There is no hope’ is one of your sentences?”
He nods his head yes. I walk over to him and pat him on the head.

One of his other sentences was “I have a toe.”

A morning in the life

If it was just one of these headache-inducing moments this morning, I could have handled it. But taken altogether, it adds up to a pretty crappy morning.
• Jesse gets the same choices for breakfast every morning. He doesn't want to choose any of them this morning. My choice is to leave him sitting on the couch holding a box of cereal. I guess he ate some of it.
• We're almost out the door when Jesse decides he hates his hat and coat and that his backpack is too heavy. And his coat is too heavy. He drags his backpack behind him all the way to the car.
• Have I mentioned that it's raining? Said backpack is now soppy.
• Today is the first day of the spring semester at the U of M. While not nearly as bad as the first day of the fall semester, there are still enough clueless student drivers on their eager little way to classes to make me want to scream.
• Union Ave. + Memphis drivers + rain = SCREEEEEECH! *%$)&#!@
• I arrive at my parking garage to the lovely sounds of a jackhammer tearing up the sidewalk in front of the garage. When I roll down my window to scan my card, it sounds like the jackhammer is actually in my car with me.
• Well, at least I remembered to bring my umbrella. Now all I need to do is just get it out of the car and I'll -- WHOOSH! Damnit! Small miracle that there are no witnesses to see me struggling to get my now open umbrella out of the car.
• Step off the elevator. Oh. Hi, jackhammer. No, it's OK. I have aspirin in my cubicle. And since it's raining, I'll just scrape this dust off with a spoon from the breakroom when I get to my office.
• Oh. The elevators aren't working?

Tiny moment in a weekend that I will soon forget if I don’t write it down:
In the middle of dinner, at a table of seven, Jesse sweetly started playing with my hair, and I thought about how grateful I am that he’s not yet old enough to be embarrassed about showing me affection in front of other people.

Fortune from a recent fortune cookie: Your intense personality can make quite an impression on people. My reaction upon reading it: Hey! I don’t think that was meant to be a compliment.

Favorite line from the movie “Hoodwinked,” which Jesse and I saw on Sunday: “Never trust a bunny with directions.” I enjoyed that movie, especially when I caught on to the “Fletch” shout-out in the wolf character. Least favorite scene: The roller coaster sequence. It actually made me queasy.

Other movie I saw this weekend: “Crash.” The lecture I went to at Rhodes College Saturday morning showed four brief scenes from the movie as a springboard for discussing modern day race relations. I had to rent the movie that afternoon. Very good film.

Currently reading: “The Plot Against America,” by Philip Roth. It was really intriguing at the beginning, but it’s kind of fizzling out for me now that I’m halfway through it. I don’t know why I’m losing interest in it.

Thing that's bothering me today: God, I'm just cranky about everything in general today. A friend just pointed out that it's Friday the 13th and it's a full moon. So maybe that's my problem.

Jesse and I had fun skating last night. At least I know I had fun, and I think Jesse had fun. He's at that age where I can pretty much let him run around with his friends for a couple of hours, which means I hardly saw him all night. I don't think he actually spent that much time skating. I saw him lurking around the arcade games for most of the night. I did break in my beautiful new pair of roller skates. And I didn't fall down. Until five minutes before we left.

I had retrieved our jackets, shoes and my purse and was skating back to Jesse when suddenly I was falling backwards. I don't even know how it happened. I don't remember losing my balance; I just knew both my feet had left the ground. I landed more on the left side of my back. The last thing to hit the ground was my head. And then I just kind of stayed there flat on my back, looking up at the ceiling for a second, with my arms still holding all of our stuff. I eventually managed to get up and get us out the door and on our way home. I wish I could say only my pride was hurt, but my ass really does hurt today.

Weekend agenda: Dinner with Ron & Bethany tonight (hooray!). Lecture and lunch with my friend Teri tomorrow. Watch the Tigers play SMU Saturday (on TV unfortunately), or cleaning the house if the game is not going well. Dinner at Stephanie, Scott and Zoe's Sunday night. SkooterPie and Jesse have Monday off. I don't know what they'll get into together.

I got caught up in a story on NPR this morning. I was listening to a husband and wife talk about the night of April 3, 1968 when Martin Luther King gave his last speech at Mason Temple, a Memphis church. Audio from his speech was played between their recollections of being in the church that night. That speech. His voice. It's 38 years later, and I hear it and my eyes are tearing up as I drive to work. 1968. When I was a kid learning about the civil rights movement in school it seemed like ancient history to me. But it's jarring to me now to realize how close that history actually is. Rev. King died four years before I was born. Four years is nothing. 38 years is nothing. Time contracts around me, and I see how much has changed in such a short period of time.

Then those thoughts are driven away by the voice from four weeks ago of a woman who told me, when she learned I lived in Memphis, her racist nickname for the city. I had only met her five minutes ago. I stood there in the dark, seeing her white skin and my white skin and feeling tired from all the times someone has showed their true colors so quickly. Feeling guilty for being complicit in any way with such bigotry.

And then as I was driving, I hit that sweet spot on Union, and my nose caught the smell from the Interstate Bakeries factory just blocks away. And I inhaled it as deeply as I could and held it in until I felt lightheaded. And I felt better from the healing powers of baking bread. And I remembered one of Anne Lamott's rules: "Forgive yourself."

Citizen Graves

I got a note from Jesse's teacher late yesterday that he had won the Citizenship Award in his class for the nine weeks. The first person who suggests they may have made a mistake gets a smack. Oh, wait. His AUNT LISA already did that. I, of course, had to attend the awards assembly this morning to see my baby recognized for exhibiting good behavior in the classroom and toward his classmates. I'm so proud of him.
Tonight is skate night for his school (they do it as a school fundraiser), so I finally get to break out those beautiful, shiny, white roller skates SkooterPie, ahem, I mean SANTA, gave me for Christmas. The first order of business when I get to the rink: See if they have any sparkly shoelaces for sale. I will be so cool then. Even though I'm 20 years too late.

Let's face facts. Annie's Mailbox, or whatever poor excuse for an advice column your newspaper is publishing, just doesn't compare to the late Anne Landers or her sister. Check out The Vine and try, just try, to suppress the giggles when Sars gives a much-needed smackdown to a clueless/spineless/selfish advice seeker.

Thing that's bothering me today: My nails. Damn they're long. When did that happen?

I started playing with my hair last night after washing my face, trying to pull it up in a cute way like I see other girls wearing their hair. It's still a mystery to me. I've let my hair grow out quite long over the last few months. But I can't actually do anything to it beyond throwing it up in a ponytail. I complained to SkooterPie about it, whining that I never learned how to do these girly things with my hair. He expressed disbelief that I grew up in McMinnville, in his words the "home of the banana clip," and never learned how to style my hair. Then he threw out the fact that I had been a cheerleader, and didn't we all sit around at slumber parties fixing each others' hair? I should have told him we didn't have time to between all the hot cheerleader on cheerleader action, but I always think of these great comebacks too late. But I did roll my eyes at him hard. What leaves me wide-eyed is the casual way some girls can pull up their hair, resulting in a style that wouldn't be at all out of place in a beauty pageant. I've seen girls twist up their hair and keep it that way for several hours using only a pencil. I've even seen them do this while driving a car and chattering away on a cell phone. My hair is jealous.

From McSweeney's today:
"The 4-Year-Old on a Blind Date."
An excerpt:
7:43 p.m. Arrive at restaurant. Get haughty with waiter for not offering booster seat quickly enough. Order drinks: a highball and a hot chocolate. Ask incredulously, "You ordered an eyeball?"
8:02 p.m. Conversation starter "I like puddles" goes nowhere. Crawl under table.

Go read now.

CNN headline I'm most embarrassed about clicking today:
"Simpson-Lachey 'Newlyweds' house for sale"--My fascination with the Simpson-Lacheys is unexplainable.

Today's CNN headline I couldn't resist clicking:
"Rowling: Why death dominates 'Potter'"--Apparently Rowling started the books in the middle of coping with the death of her mother. So what does she do in the very first chapter of the very first book? Kill off Harry's parents. Oh! I hope I didn't give anything away there.

Today's CNN headline with the most surprising news:
"Cops pack hearing for Sopranos actor"--I don't watch The Sopranos. I had no idea one of the actors was arrested for shooting a cop.

Today's CNN crime-related headline that I clicked on and then played detective:
"Bomb found at Starbucks disarmed"--Pssst: Cops! It was an employee. And I'd be questioning the kid who called in the report. He sounds suspicious.

Speaking of my unabashed love of the celebreality shows: I didn't really watch the first season of Dancing With the Stars, even though this was a show tailor-made for me. But this season? Yeah, I feel an obsession brewing. First of all, one of the contestants is Drew Lachey, Nick Lachey's brother. And he alone makes me want to watch the show. I loved it whenever he and his wife, Lea, showed up on "Newlyweds." And then today as I was looking at the full cast list on ABC.com (I know, I'm sick!), I realized that one of the contestants is Master P! Anyone who knows rap knows Master P. And, so, how do you know him, Jesse's Mom? Well, Master P also has a TV show on Nickelodeon that stars his son Romeo. Jesse loves this show, so I kind of grew fond of Master P. Turns out that Romeo was supposed to be in the cast of Dancing With the Stars, but he injured himself playing basketball just before the season started. So Master P stepped in. How could I not watch this show?

Stamp of Failure

I couldn't bring myself to send out Christmas cards this year. I don't know what happened. I did that a couple of years ago, too. That time I bought cards, signed them all, and even put the return address labels on them. I just couldn't take that final step of addressing them. So I stuck them in a bag thinking that I would use them next year. And then the next year I bought new cards and sent those out instead. So in December when we brought down the Christmas decorations, I found those unsent cards and thought "Hey, I'll just send those out this year. Less work for me." But then I just let them sit on my bookshelf. I think either those cards are cursed, or I just need to go through the whole process to create the enthusiasm necessary to send out cards.
But in the middle of December I was still working under the delusion that I would pull myself together and send out cards, so I bought three books of stamps with snowman cookies on them. Now, I have a buttload of Christmas stamps, and postage just went up $.02. It'll take me months to use those stamps. It's like this failure to do something so simple will be hanging over my head all year.

I have the oddest conversations with people on the elevator in my parking garage. For the most part, people generally ignore each other. But when you park in the same garage for five years, you get used to seeing the same faces coming and going. It breeds a feeling of, I don't know ... kinship? So people are bound to start chatting. Or babbling about random shit. I often find myself compelled to explain to random passengers that I always park on the fourth floor so that I don't have to remember which floor I parked on every day. As if anyone cares. Then there was the time I got on the elevator with two other women and a man, and as the doors closed, the guy suddenly announced, "Oh, don't worry about this knife. I'm a chef." And I looked at his hand and saw that he was holding a very large, very shiny knife. I laughed nervously and then berated myself silently for not noticing that I was getting on an elevator with an armed man.
This morning, there were two other women waiting for the elevator with me on the fourth floor. We hadn't said even "Good morning" to each other, but when we got on the elevator and started our descent, the tallest lady, who I think is a lawyer, asked "Do you think this qualifies as a manic Monday?" I smiled and said "It does for me." The other girl didn't say a word. And then it just felt awkward with no one else saying anything the rest of the ride. When the door opened I felt like I should say something else to the other lady, like "Hang in there!" or something, just to let her know that it was cool for her to talk on the elevator.
But, hands down, the best elevator encounter happened Saturday night. SkooterPie, Jesse and I ended up Downtown eating dinner. Jesse had a rootbeer, which he carried back to the garage with him. He was drinking it when some college-aged kids stepped off the elevator, and they did a double take when they saw him. SkooterPie laughed telling Jesse that those kids must have thought he was drinking beer. And then nervously he told the older couple in the elevator with us "It's rootbeer. We don't let him drink beer." Then the woman's cell phone rang, and as we exited the elevator, I heard her ask this question: "Macy, WHY is my car on fire?" We overheard a bit more of the call as we walked to my car. It was a lot of "Calm down!" and "Macy, I can't understand you" and a few more followups along the lines of "Why is my car on my fire?" That could not have ended well for Macy at all.

So, I bought my bridesmaid's dress on Sunday for April's wedding. She's letting us choose our own style of skirt and top. My skirt is an organza tea length, and the top is a fitted strapless with a little beading a the top. It was fairly easy to find. The top won't need any alterations, but the skirt will need to be taken up. The atmosphere in the store was kind of crazy. There was a DJ playing loud music, and the associates would ring a bell every time a bride found a dress. Why would you want to turn a bridal shop into a shoe carnival? Which reminds me that now I have to find shoes for the wedding. I really, really hate shopping for shoes.

Gallery hopping

Last night was the first big night of the new year for art openings. There were several, but we didn't make them all. We did go to Perry Nicole Fine Art for a show featuring I don't know how many artists (more than 20 definitely) who were all interpreting the color red.
There were several good paintings, but too many people to really get a good look at everything. I saw Elizabeth Alley, one of my favorite local artists, and she had a really great painting of what looked like two women standing, facing one another, talking. But all the painting showed were their feet. Both women were wearing red, strappy sandals. Maybe they were bridesmaids?
Then we went to Hamlett Dobbins' gallery, Material, to see paintings by Paul Behnke. I really liked several of them, but my eye kept coming back to one that had these big yellow splotches on them. We hung out there until Hamlett kicked us all out and then went to the P&H Cafe. Most of the crowd from Hamlett's ended up at the P&H, which has recently started featuring work by local artists on a wall at the front of the place. Last night we saw Bobby Spillman's painting. It was packed full of imagery: wine bottles, mountain ranges, and even a birthday cake. Bobby told us the cake was for his wife's birthday. Mel's an artist too and one of the coolest people I know.
We could only stay for an hour because we had to pick Jesse up. But we had a really great time. I had sort of stopped going to art openings for the most part because I'm usually too worn out on Friday nights to feel like going out. I enjoyed seeing everyone again.

CNN headline I'm most ashamed about clicking today:
"Sienna Miller: I'm no victim"

Most recently added Amazon.com wishlist items:
"Wet Hot American Summer" (I've only ever seen it on cable; I'm sure there's a lot censored out) and the complete DVD collection of "The Office." Our friends Ron and Bethany lent them to us to watch, but we really need our own copy. It's hilarious. And I watched the whole first "series" without knowing about the subtitles, so I couldn't understand half of what they were saying (and only about 20% of what came out of Finchy's mouth).

Thing that's bugging me today:
I'm not wearing my wearing band, and my fingers keep searching for it. I took my rings off last night to make salmon patties, and I forgot to put them back on. Runner up thing that's bugging me: My mouth. It hurts. Canker sores suck.

My grandmother called me last weekend, and in the middle of the conversation, she told me that she'd found a bunch of newspaper clippings of columns I'd written when I was working at my hometown newspaper. I was the news editor, and one of my responsibilities was to write a weekly column. Mine was called "For the Record," and it was basically a weekly exercise in blathering to fill the space. I really hate conflict, and I don't enjoy pissing people off, so my column was written to be as non-offensive as possible. In other words: I didn't discuss politics, religion or money.
I think Nana was my most regular reader. And she told me several times that she appreciated the fact that I avoided controversy in those columns. There was one guy on staff who'd do everything he could to generate a flood of letters to the editor. In contrast, I was once sent flowers by a reader. I'm embarrassed by that, by the way, not braggin'.
During our phone call, Nana flipped through several columns and asked if I remembered writing about certain things. I didn't, but I hope she keeps them because I'd love to read what my 20-something-year-old self felt compelled to share with the whole town.
I bet most of them would make me grimace. 20-something-year-olds can't usually hide the fact that they think they've got the world figured out. I'm 33 now, and I don't know anything.

It's Friday, and it's almost 5! Jesse will be staying for the parents night out program offered two Fridays a month by his after-school program. So SkooterPie and I will have a Friday night to ourselves. Tonight's agenda: Lots of art openings. No, really. That's all we have planned. At least there'll be wine. The rest of the weekend: haircuts for Jesse and me on Saturday, birthday party for one of Jesse's classmates on Sunday, and picking out my bridesmaid dress for April's wedding on Sunday.

I think retailers/designers are conspiring against me. I can no longer buy shoes at Target because their suppliers have apparently decided to rework their shoe sizes.
I think it's all a part of the psychological game retailers play with women when it comes to clothes, wherein a size 8 is really a size 10 because the number on that inseam tag makes women feel better about themselves and buy more pants. Or something.
And I think this has started to creep over to footwear, and it needs to by-God stop right now. Women of America: A size 7 shoe does not make you more attractive than a size 8!
I have freakishly small feet. I wear, or have until now been able to wear, a size 5.5. Now, some brands have always given me trouble. I've never been able to shop at Nine West because their shoes run large. A 5.5 in Nine West is a 6 everywhere else. But suddenly I can't find a 5.5 anywhere that fits me. And this poses a real problem because that's the starting point for most women's sizes. The Target shoes that have for years been a staple of my closet just fall off my feet when I try them on.
This problem is exacerbated by another new clothing issue. The pants in all my favorite stores are too frickin' long. I have pairs of Ann Taylor Loft petite jeans and pants that are the perfect length. But I started trying on pants this fall, and I pulled them up, and I was left standing on about two inches of extra material in the legs. The reason? The designers are designing the pants to be worn with really high heels. Even the jeans.
So, I need new shoes so that I don't ruin the bottoms of the new pants by walking all over them.
Target you have really let me down.

First-time blogger, long-time reader

Brrrrrr. The water feels a little chilly for this, my first post on Blogger. I hope it warms up. The truth is that I have an online diary that I've been keeping for almost three years. It's locked up tight, accessible only to me, and I pour my heart out in that white box on a pretty regular basis. Until now, only a handful of people even knew about it, and they didn't really care because they couldn't read it. This more public forum makes me a teeny bit nervous. But I'm setting up these ground rules: No posts about work or work-related activities; no posts containing information that could hurt someone or get them hurt; no posts that could come back to haunt me. I'm a pretty careful/cautious person. I not only look before I leap, but I also take the time to check google maps for another way around that doesn't involve leaping. So, what does the title of this blog mean? I don't know really. I'm in the publishing industry, and I like font names. I have a tradition of using font names for titles. As I was scrolling through some fonts, this one jumped out at me for some reason. I like the word combination. That's all.

My baby turned 8 years old on Monday. He stayed with my parents the week after Christmas and became buddies with their dog, Dixie. She's a 6-month-old boxer and not really as big as she looks in the photo; I think that has more to do with the camera angle. Although she is big, and her tongue is definitely that big. As my dear friend Cissie said when she saw the photo: If you've met Dixie, you've met Dixie's tongue.