Soapbox Stander.

I'm bound to piss somebody off, but...

I have a lot of conservative friends.  And that's okay.  I live in South Louisiana, and before that, in North Georgia, and those, well, are largely conservative communities.

I have a lot of friends who know how to hunt, who wear Carhartts and camo, who own more than one baseball hat, and the hats OFTEN do not represent a college.

It's all okay.

I have friends that know the difference between a rifle and a shotgun and that make fun of me for not knowing the difference between a rifle and a shotgun.  Also, okay.

I used to be married to a conservative republican, and he liked to debate, and that was a giant pain in the ass, but, ultimately, that was also okay.

I am not these things.  I am not conservative, although I'm a fairly conservative liberal, by which I mean that I don't make my own soap or own a compost unit.

NOT THAT I THINK THERE IS ANYTHING WRONG WITH COMPOST AND HOMEMADE SOAP, mind you.

In light of the Zimmerman trial, there is currently a lot of buzz about the president - and yes, I mean OUR president, who, even if you don't adore him, your country's citizens voted for, so... - and how he has indicated that he feels like, as a young black man, he would have been similarly (potentially) targeted, like Trayvon Martin.

And as an aside, here's what I think.  I think Zimmerman should never have gotten out of his car.  I think it's wrong that he took this boy's life.  I understand that he was afraid.  There is no winning this trial.  A mother grieves her son.  That's all there is to it.  I'm so sorry that any of this happened.  I'm so sorry.

Anyway, back to what I was saying.  My very conservative friends are blasting our president, and I'm all, well?  Well?  I've never been a young black man.  I do not know what it is like to be a minority in my community.  I have really been blessed with a gilded life, where I am mostly oblivious to danger.  It is my understanding that half of our youth cannot have that oblivion.  They have been taught as children to watch their backs.  Because whitey might misinterpret their behavior, their action, their simply being.

No.

Just, no.

As a representative of Whitey, what can I say?  I'm sorry.  I don't understand how hard it is to be in that sort of situation.  It's like being whistled at when I walk by a construction zone (because, hell, yeah, mama still got it goin' on), only more nefarious.  I like being whistled at.  I would NOT like it if a construction worker decided to follow me, instigate conversation...  that sort of thing.

Hm.

Anyway, back to our liberal/conservative differences, I just want to ask one thing.  Please, will you stop posting your politics on Facebook?  I love you conservative people and it breaks my heart to think that you think I am stupid, that you think I am going to change my mind, because you are posting on Facebook.

Understand that I'm not hugely in love with the job the president is doing.  Understand that I thought W did a decent job his first several years, until I realized that the rest of the world mocked our country because he cannot pronounce "nuclear."  Understand that I don't want to continue to live in a country where 30% of the houses in America remain uninhabited as a result of the sub-prime lending catastrophe, while children go unfed and live in shelters - or worse.

Also.  Hear me, please.  I am a liberal.  I am not on Welfare.  I don't have children for extra WIC dollars.  I don't collect food stamps, unemployment, or medicaid.  I work 50ish hours every week, for a decent job.  I make a decent - but by all means, not extravagent - wage.  I'm never going to be able to retire because I planned poorly in my twenties.  I rent my home.  I don't have a massive amount of credit card debt.  I'm just living.  Same as you.

I am sure there are people that take advantage of "the system," and perhaps the current politics make that easier to do.  I don't know.  I just know that generalizations that get posted all over Facebook are ridiculous.  Not all Democrats are losers, you know?

Neither are all Republicans.

Just saying.  Now let's go drink together and talk about something that really matters, like the finale of Mad Men this season, and what they are going to name the new British Baby, and whether or not you can really dye your hair red with kool aid.

Suri's Biggest Fan

So.  There's this:

http://surisburnbook.tumblr.com/

That's pretty much all it takes to amuse me today.

Love you,
Me.

Magenta Ho

First, my brother posted a story on his webpage about his experience with bad teachers, which was inspired by this Slate article.  So I decided to chime in.

I think I was pretty fortunate to have the teachers I had, for the most part.  I can remember being in elementary school in Little Rock, and standing around with the teachers while at recess, while they smoked their cigarettes and we "smoked" candy cigarettes.  This seems insane to me, now, but it was totally awesome when I was 9.

As a little girl, I was pretty much identified as one of the *special people* who was *extra smart*, which might have been more the result of good parenting and a relatively balanced diet rather than any genetic nonsense, although my parents are both remarkably smart people (even my hillbilly mother, who offers apologetic "nice ham" to me on a regular basis), and my brother was certainly gifted.

In Little Rock, and before that, in Columbus, Indiana, we went to pretty decent - and completely un-segregated - schools.  In Arkansas, our school was in our neighborhood, and there was a big fancy wooden playground and we played dodgeball and kickball with impunity, and I did get to go to the gifted classes where we recorded movies and created log cabin villages out of card board.  I was even a little extra special, because I was a year younger than my classmates, having been elected to skip Kindergarten since I was reading Nancy Drew by that time.  Reading was easy.  Writing, not at all so much, but that's another story.

Things were good, really, until we moved to Connecticut.  In the beginning of the 8th grade.

In Connecticut, I was, more or less, average.  Not at all special. Short.  They kind of stuck me in remedial writing, because I'd never written an essay at that time.  I was 11.  Give me a break.

But then, in high school, I got the mother load of all music teachers.  Instant hate, because I auditioned for the select choir.  "I heard you have a brother," she said.  I replied that I did.  "I heard that he sings in the church choir," she said.  It's true, he did, although for the life of me, I still cannot understand why.  I replied that he did.  "If HE would like to join the show choir, then I am sure we can make a place for you," she said.

The fuck?

I told her that I didn't think he would be interested.  I don't even think I told him about this offer.  I didn't make the show choir that year.

In regular choir, I spent many hours correcting her fat ass.  "Haydn," I would say.  "H-A-Y-D-N." "Bach was Baroque, not classical."  "Bogoroditsye Dyevo" is how that is pronounced.

She hated me back.

By my junior year, I did, finally, make the show choir.  By then, the hatred was visceral.

She had a long, long, long, maybe 12 feet long, magenta scarf that she liked to wind around her neck in a very dramatic fashion.

We called her the "magenta ho."

Once, we were on our way to all state try-outs, and she got in her little red mazda as we piled onto the school bus.  She slammed her door, and a solid 5 feet of that scarf hung out the driver side door, dragging through the slushy crap on the winter street, all the way to New Haven.

haha.

That does still make me laugh.

When we were seniors, my closest music friends and I convinced substitutes - which we seemed to have, often - that we were supposed to clean out her office when she was absent.  We found weed that she had confiscated from another student, one that we secretly discussed her bj'ing.  Which probably didn't happen, but it definitely COULD have, and she DEFINITELY WOULD have.  I think that guy - who was horrible - had higher standards than that.

Anyway, at the end of senior year, with graduation approaching, I started to get excited about auditioning to sing the solo at our graduation.  I KILLED in the Senior Play.  I knew I had a fighting chance, although there was a LOT of talent in our class.  I secretly realized how incredibly scary that would be, singing in front of all of those people, but I still was looking forward to the opportunity.

One day, in class, the magenta ho averted her eyes and told us that auditions had been held, and so-and-so had been elected.  Which is to say, I had not even been allowed to audition.  I was PISSED.  PISSED.

I left class and called my then-boyfriend, who was in college at the time, crying.  He was all, "what's the big deal," and I hung up on him and found my soon-to-be-boyfriend, whose response was, "I will KICK THAT BITCH'S ASS."

You see why that had to happen.

But the best day- the best day- maybe in my entire high school career - was the day she lost her temper with us, the select choir.  There were about 15 of us, all lined up in a row, and she chewed our ass.  Through her tears, she said, "You people...  treat me...  like a piece of SHIT.  S- H- I- T.  Shit."

God, it was hard to not laugh.  It was one of those times where you thought you might cry trying to hold in the laughter.

I bet five dollars that I could look at my friend Sarah H. right now, and go, "You people... treat me..." and she would fall apart laughing.

I secretly kind of miss the magenta ho.

Oh- and by the way - she really made it clear that she didn't think much of me as a vocalist.  I went by her office once, when I was home from college my freshman year.  "Oh, what are you majoring in," she asked.  "Well, I was one of 3 freshman to be accepted into LSU's School of Music as a Vocal Performance Major," I responded.  Her lips tightened.  Clearly, LSU was no longer a respectable school of music in her opinion.

I'd still treat her like a piece of S-H-I-T, given the opportunity.

Flower Growing Baby Mama Future Nun Pirate Whore.

It's a little known fact, but I like to kill grow flowers.  I do.  The artist formerly known as my husband really wasn't a fan, especially of inside flowers, but I still went through a phase every few years where I would spend a few dollars on some flowers, tend to them for a while, then get all "eh, fuck it" and let them die.

It's been a few years, though, and...  I dunno.  I think I might be back in the place that I once lived in, a place that once featured about 30 potted plants on a back porch.  I like pot.  s.  Pots.  haha.

We started with impatiens, and oooooh, they are pretty, and ooooooooh, they are easy.

This success has brought us to pot two (not to be read as pot, too):  marigolds and petunias.

 Thing is, my plan was ultimately to be to become a nun, so they can teach me how to garden and my kids won't have to support me come retirement age.  We all know I won't be able to support myself.  But now, what to do?  I'm learning how to garden all on my own!

Speaking of kids, it's almost Mother's Day, and, good gracious, I love these kids.  My sweet babies:

 The ni ni kitty was cold.  Bless it.

 Look at my sweet baby.  He's just getting too big.

This boy was tired out, kind of dirty, and had just gotten home from work.  Also, "Sam, smile," doesn't work well with him.  He's such a cute boy, though.

Anyway, the other day, I told the baby, "Hey, Mother's Day is coming up, did you know that?"  "I know," he said, "I made you a picture at school."  "Wow, thanks," I said.  "I LOVE your pictures!  I can't wait to see it."

"You are in the picture.   And you are wearing one of your dresses."

Okay.  I mean, it's like, once every four months that I wear a dress, but, you know, cool.

"You know that part where you can see your chest?  I drew that in, too."

UM.  WHAT?

Happy Mother's Day, everybody!  I'll post the drawing of my rack once it comes to me.  I'm not known as The Pirate Whore Monsterknockers for nothin.

Big Nose.

AND WELCOME, WELCOME, WELCOME to the month of presents!!!!

May is here, and May continues to be my very favorite month in the whole year, mainly due to it being the, as aforementioned, Month of Presents.

It has always started, technically, with the last Wednesday of April, the Administrative Professionals Day celebration that typically involves cake, presents, cake, balloons, and cake.

I'm a fan.

This year, the girlies at my work brought me a coffee mug.  And a cake.  The boss person, though...  took me as her "guest" to a luncheon, wherein she was modeling in a fashion show.  Oh, and we were sponsors.  My ticket was free.

Free.

And there was cake, but it was very mediocre.  Ahem.  That may long remain the very worst presentage I've ever been given on Admin Day, but in troof, I have to say that I think Admin Day in and of itself is kind of stupid, because really, you know what present I like to get for being a fantastic employee?

A paycheck.  Just saying.

However, in the near future, there are other opportunities for presents.  Used to be, my anniversary was May 4, but that is no longer applicable, so I have to let that one go.  However, Mother's Day is just a week after that.

I saw a groupon for a bracelet I wanted.  Made the boys buy it for me for Mother's Day.  I like it.  I'm wearing it.  Screw convention!  The little stones are our birth stones- the two reds are the boys.  The green is me.  The paw-shaped "diamond" is the cat.  That's how we roll.  The red heart says "Family."  Awwwww.

A week or so after that, I'll turn 32.  Birthdays are a fun time.  I'll probably drink.  I mean, "probably."  Come on, now.

My little bit has been the sickest he has every been in his whole life for the last few weeks.  Two Sundays ago, he woke up with a fever.  Strep.  Of course.  My mom took him to the doctor and they go, "strep."  Of course.  Gave him antibiotics, game on.  He got a little better, until the Tuesday night thereafter, when his temperature shot up to 105.  Shit.  Back to the doctor, and they determined it was pneumonia.

And strep.

Do it big, says I.

Anyway, so they put him on MORE antibiotics and then THOSE didn't really do any good, so then they did shots of antibiotics in his legs, and then they did MORE shots of antibiotics in his legs, and then MORE antibiotics, and finally, he managed to go without fever all day.  On Monday.  Over a week of being sick.  Sucktastic.

So he's back at school.

He said, "I think I would like to be sick on every day except Saturday."

I looked at this picture, and I go, "Hey, we have EXACTLY the same nose."

He goes, "um....   except yours is a lot bigger."

Just saying.

Glad he's back at school.  Glad we are back to normal.  Glad I opened my bracelet early.  Glad it's warm outside.  Glad we got a new - much cooler - temp at work, thus allowing me to screw around a little bit, like back in the old days.  Glad I have yarn. Glad it's Wednesday.  

Just not so glad I have a big nose.

Week of Bad Things.

Dear Fucking Universe,

I'm pretty Goddamn Sick and Tired of The Week of Bad Things.

For the last two years, I've steadfastly ignored that The Week of Bad Things exists.  "Oh, it's April 17," I'd think.  "We are mid-way through The Week Of --- no, no, this is just any ol' week."

And kind of, it worked.

Three years ago, I'm all THE SPELL IS BROKEN, and all NOTHING BAD HAPPENED "except a little fire on an oil tanker or something," which turned out to be the most historic and devastating oil issue in the history of time.

And here we have a shooting, at a marathon.  White man's sports, running.

God dammit.

I've got to go for a run.

Friend Named Joe

I cut my hair off.  Not, like, a little.  A LOT.  All of it.  Most of it.  I'm happy I did that.  I look awesome.  And young.  And hot.  HAWWWT.

And like a villainess from a 1981 movie...

Works for me.

In other news, this weekend was the Louisiana Derby.  Like the Kentucky Derby, but white-trashier.  Well, honestly, just trashier in general.  It was a gorgeous day, and we wore hats, as one should.  My mother has developed a proper hunchback, and in a ridiculously large sunhat, it's very obvious:

My, how I love that woman.

I didn't win anything, and that's unfortunate, but it is so.  However, C-Luv won big monies on a single race, by betting a horse with long odds but wearing his middle name for a win.  We are talking $53.40 payout.  Big monies.  Otherwise, he mostly just hung out with his littlest cousin:

Awwwwww.

---

One of my favorite people from the grand state of Georgia passed away, suddenly, a week and some change ago.  The night he died, I sang karaoke, because that makes sense to me, and it had been a bad fucking day, and I wanted to drink.  So I did.  With Melissa.  Who danced backup for me, which was... odd.

I went to Georgia the following day.  Cried off and on for an entire weekend, and said my goodbyes on Monday.  The hardest funeral I have ever - ever - sung.  I hope he liked it.  I'm pretty sure he was there, fucking around with the piano while the pianist was trying to play.  In the spirit of Joe, I'd like to think that was him.  Good lord, he'd like fucking with the piano.  He also made it snow on us.  Thanks, Joe.  But really, he was an amazing friend.  Thanks for everything, Joe.  I hope you knew how much we all love you.  

As an aside, Joe was a namer- which is to say, he called everybody something, and mine was Sarie, and he was the only adult human being that could do that without getting a punch in the nose.  Perhaps.  Nobody else really ever tried.  When we couldn't agree on a name for Caleb (I mean, really, "DeMarcus"?  I do not think so.), it was on Joe we called, and he said, "Well, I've always been partial to the name Caleb."  Hence, history.

And so, on that somber note, I'm going to call this done.  I have a new (unusual) temp at work, and it's hard to tell her who to screen, so every time the phone rings, I jump out of my skin.  

Happy Monday, everybody.  And here's to Joe, one of the best I'll ever know.