Blah-gger

Maybe it's just because it's Monday. Maybe it's because I only got a 24-hour weekend. Maybe it's because my bathroom is too disgusting for words (and I don't feel like cleaning it). Or it could be the list of phone calls I have to make tomorrow: insurance for the new car, renewing my renters insurance, calling Animal Services to register Kudzu. It could be that I desperately need to go to the grocery store. Or that I need to put away the clean laundry and fully unpack my bag from this weekend. Whatever the case, it's Monday. It's reruns on TBS. It's my old pajamas and the couch that needs to be reupholstered. It's the fan that isn't quite getting it cool enough in here and the fact that I have to be up extra-early tomorrow for an appointment (followed by a client meeting I'd rather not go to)and I'm wondering when I'm going to be able to get my morning coffee. It's the dishes in the sink. It's the cat hair tumble-weeding through the living room and the short haircut I can't decide if I like or not. It's money for now and money for later and money for rent that I have to mail by Friday.

And it's time to just call it a day and go to bed.

Dumbledore Is...(Spoiler Alert)

For those of you who may have been holding out hope or may have read the popular site www.dumbledoreisnotdead.com, JK Rowling put to rest all rumors and speculation at the second night's reading in New York with John Irving and Stephen King. She confirmed that Dumbledore is in fact dead and warned readers "not to look for Dumbledore to pull a Gandolf." I would have been surprised if she had resurrected Dumbledore, as she has portrayed death in a pretty strict light in the previous books. No hints on when Book 7 will be out...so continue speculating on that point.

Also, a funny quote from Jason Isaacs, who portrays Lucius Malfoy in the films:
"I went off and read the books after the audition and I read all four books in one sitting - you know - didn't wash, didn't eat, drove around with them on the steering wheel like a lunatic. I suddenly understood why my friends, who I'd thought where slightly backward, had been so addicted to these children's books. They're like crack."

Signs of Civilization

Leaving W-Town on Friday morning at 7:15 packed into my boss’s SUV and nursing my Dunkin Donuts coffee, I had high hopes for the road trip. I had resigned myself to the early hour, the hated process of packing, the surrendering of a day of my weekend and the leaving Kudzu behind. I had decided to meet it with open mind and humor. Thank God for the humor.

Our first stop was a small town to be sure, but a booming metropolis in light of what was to come. As we progressed down the road, I came to regard that first small town as the benchmark for civilization. The subsequent towns educated me on what I call civilization through their absence of any markings of it. I don’t consider myself a “city person”, but as the towns of far eastern North Carolina taught me, I’m a sight more bright lights, big city than I thought. It was mildly horrifying but more so, it was uproariously funny. There was no other way to deal with it, and I was glad that both my boss and the coworker I went with have a wicked sense of humor. So here we go with my new appreciation for the signs of civilization:
1. Gas
The convenience store, an American institution and a much-overlooked luxury among travelers, was not to be found along our little highway route. No QuickTrips or BPs or 7-11s in sight. No Slurpees or Icees or Big Gulps. I began to yearn for the rows of neatly boxed candy bars, the spinning rack with an assortment of beef jerky, and the cooler with an endless supply of frosted Diet Coke. And the public restroom – however scary and germ-infested – a place to pee that didn’t require me to choose among the leaves for toilet paper.

2. Food
I wouldn’t say I’m a lover of fast food, but I’ve never had such an appreciation for the Golden Arches as I did this weekend. For miles and hours, we didn’t see food of any kind. Not even a Mom-and-Pop type diner. Until one town, where upong entering the little hole-in-the-wall of a diner, we were told the dining room was closed. After eating two Carolina Hots (a kind of hot dog) with chili at 11:3o before leaving civilization, thoughts of a cheeseburger and fries on about 4 or 5 sounded very appealing.

3. Lodging
We had reservations at a motel about half way along our route. But after seeing the hotel, we had reservations about our reservations. We passed it once, drove back by and instantly had a very Bates Motel feeling about it. We literally sat in a parking lot across the street from the hotel and called in to cancel. We had no idea where we would stay. There wasn’t a Holiday Inn or a Days Inn or even a Motel 6 to be found along our route. We eventually found a bed & breakfast about an hour away from the first hotel. For one anxious moment, I thought I was going to have to share not only a room, but also a bed with my boss. But a third room came open and we all had our own bed. My poor boss was so desperate, she booked the rooms without even asking how much they cost.

It was a truly bizarre trip in so many ways – these little towns that have an odd sense of being lost in time and people who obviously weren’t open to outsiders. It was an amazingly untouched area, with acres and acres of corn, soybeans, peanuts and marsh grass. Hardly a soul in sight. I was surprised, as someone who has always loved nature, that I was more unnerved by the solitude. I wanted to weep at the first neon sign when we got back into town.
And lastly, I’d like to mention that the bed and breakfast where we stayed had poor water pressure, and the shower went from a trickle to nothing at all. I’m standing in the shower, staring up at the head, wondering whether to laugh or to cry and trying to decide how to solve this dilemma, seeing as how I was wet and already undressed. My solution? I got on my knees and stuck my head under the faucet. Welcome to the late summer blockbuster, National Lampoon’s Business Trip.

Everybody Loves Puppies

These fuzzy little guys are the newest additions to the family. My sister and her husband picked them up this morning. Meet Zeke (the cherubic chubby one) and Eli (the bent-eared mischievious one). I'm sad that I wasn't at home to see them this weekend, but I'm sure I'll get my hands on the fuzzballs before too long. Aren't they cute?

Deeper Into Pottermania

Since I'm going to be off-blog for a couple of days while on my road trip (see below), I'm leaving you with a little more to intrigue you about Potter 7. JK Rowling read in NY this week with Stephen King and John Irving (who urged her not to kill Harry), and she made a few comments about Book 7. Nothing terribly illuminating. It made me think of her last reading - the one at Edinburgh Castle the night of the Half-Blood Prince release. The webmasters of Mugglenet and The Leaky Cauldron interviewed her, and asked some smart insightful questions. If you're bored this weekend, read this and discuss amongst yourselves. (SPOILER ALERT - this addresses the content of Half-Blood Prince, so if you haven't read the book, don't read the interview.)

Play It Again, Sam

I am a lover of reruns. For awhile, I religiously watched the back-to-back episodes of “Golden Girls” on Lifetime at 7 and 7:30. I could watch the episodes again and again, even if I’d seen them two or three times. There’s something comforting to me about knowing how it ends. I do this with other television shows (“Sex & the City”), books (insert romance novel title here) and movies. Lots of movies. I have watched Bridget Jones’s Diary approximately 500 times. I can finish watching it and instantly restart it in an almost unbreakable addictive cycle. I can almost do a complete voiceover of Clue. And I could step in for John Bender at any given moment in The Breakfast Club.

Then there are those movies that I watch every time I catch them on TV, no matter how many times I’ve seen them. Anything directed by John Hughes. Dirty Dancing. When Harry Met Sally. In these cases, it’s because I love the movie. But there are other times when some subtle message in those frames-between-frames tells me I must finish the movie. In his book Seinlanguage, Jerry Seinfeld says this is a basic difference between the sexes. Women want to nurture a show, help it grow. Men are like, “No, no, he’s stupid, she’s stupid, keep going, what else you got?” But me? I need to see it through to fruition. Like Titanic. It’s three hours, but when HBO was running it incessantly last month, I watched it to the end every time I caught it. I often have this problem with Jurassic Park. For awhile, The Fugitive. So, what’s your favorite re-runner? And your nomination for best hidden message to NOT LOOK AWAY from the screen?

Road Trip!

It's a phrase that, to some, is full of adventure and excitement. The freedom of the open road, the thrill of the unknow.. To others, it strikes fear. The boredom, the guessing-how-
long-before-
you-can-
pee-again. Whether a road trip inspires fear or excitement, I think we can all agree that it takes on another element all together when it involves your boss. I have to do some unusual business travel tomorrow, involving a road trip with my boss and a coworker. Suffice it to say, I can't decide whether it's going to be strangely fun or completely horrifying. But I can tell you that's it's horrifying that I'm getting picked up at 6:40 tomorrow morning. God help us all.

P.S. If you like this little painting called Road Trip, check out the artist here. Makes me wish I had $400 just laying around.

Question

Did anyone else remember that Sarah Jessica Parker was in Footloose? I missed that. Thank goodness for VH1 Movies that Rock to complete my education.

Oops, I Hugged a Client!

I had an awkward moment at work today that I keep thinking about, and it alternately makes me laugh and wince. I had an event today at a country club/golf course. They wanted everything to be pretty and had wet down the greens, turning the whole place into a turf sauna. And for those of you who don't golf, there aren't many trees to be found, so there's NO SHADE. The heat index was around 105, and I found the heat threshold for both my makeup and my hair - both of which wilted instantly.

After our little course tour, we went inside. As my boss said, for a moment, it almost made you hotter when the air conditioner made you realize how hot you had gotten. At this point, I'm in a crowded room. Ripe with sweat. Completely overheated. Experiencing that strange darkness after your pupils over dilate. When a board member approaches. I wasn't angled properly to shake his hand. And without thinking, I kind of put my arm around him, leaned into him and half hugged him. Now let me clarify by saying this man is much older, could be my dad or under some circumstances, my grandfather, so it was awkward more in the sense that I don't know him very well and not because of sexual harrassment. But I hugged him. And he did seem kind of surprised. Agh. What was I thinking? And my boss was standing right there. I'm pretty sure that's going to be a mark against "professional behavior" on my next review.

Captions, Anyone?

Missing the Boat

Every once in awhile, despite my love of celebrity gossip, the latest trends, and jumping onto bandwagons, I miss something that becomes a pop culture phenomenon. I was thinking about this recently because a friend of my loaned me the first season of Showtime's recently-cancelled show Huff. It won Emmys! It has Blythe Danner in it! It was edgy and cool! Now I'm into it, but it's over already.

And because I find TBS very funny, I've been watching "Everbody Loves Raymond", a show I admit I never once laid eyes on when it held a prime-time spot. It's a very good show. But it's over. "Sex & the City"? Caught up with it in Season 6, Part I. Now I have the box set. And although I haven't watched it, I understand that "Arrested Development" is fabulous. I feel a bit guilty that I didn't watch it and support its existence, leaving it to wither and die on the the prime-time schedule.

Then there are those shows that I miss out on altogether. As in I am missing the part of the brain that these shows communicate wtih. Now, I know I'll be heckled for the following admissions, but here goes. I never really watched "Seinfeld." I catch it from time to time in reruns, but it just doesn't do for me what it does for other people. And I feel the same way about..."The Simpsons." It makes me a little sad sometimes, like I'm outside the context of my generation. I've tried to watch "The Simpsons." But I just don't get what other people get out of it.

Also, while I'm on a roll with times I've missed the boat, I confess I've never seen Pulp Fiction. Anytime now, I fully expect someone to revoke my membership in this generation.

Anyone else missing the boat on something?

Happy Birthday, Harry

Revealing my total inner-dork, I give you this happy birthday post for Harry Potter. And for all you Potterphiles out there, I ask you a few of the magical world's most burning questions:
* Who else was in Godric's Hollow the night James & Lily died?
* Will we see Sirius's motorcycle again - perhaps with Harry riding it?
* Snape - good or evil?
* Harry - dead or alive?
* How many copies will Bloomsbury run on the initial print of book 7?
* When will they find a way to work Colin Firth into one of these movies?
* Am I too old for this?

(Don't answer that last question.)

A Somber Post

As most of you know, I have a cat - a long-haired black & grey cat who eats all plants and J. Crew sweaters. And Kudzu, whose name I stole for my blog, is first and foremost family. And in my sister's family, there is her husband, one cat and two dogs, after having just lost one of her cats to old age and cancer in early June. The remaining cat, Oreo, is a cat rescued from a homeless existence outside the school where she and her husband teach. The dogs, Jake and Ben, are two lively little fellows - a pom-poo (pomeranian/poodle mix) and a schipperke. They are the loves of her life.

Ben is the schipperke, a breed known for its curiosity and intense loyalty. Truly, I have never seen an animal so devoted to its owner as Ben to my sister. So we were all unnerved when he started having trouble with his legs late last week. It's amazing how you can know sometimes that one time a pet or friend or family member isn't feeling well that it's more ominous than another time. This was one of those times - an instinctual knowing that this time was going to be more dire, more severe.

And so when the phone rang before seven this morning, I knew that it was bad news. I wasn't suprised when Mom told me that he had a seizure in the night and that he had died in the car before they could get him to the emergency vet. My sister is devastated, and it was hard to see her and know that there was nothing to be done. And so, I'm putting up a little post here in memory of Ben. We'll miss you.

Yard Art On A Whole New Level

On my drive out of town down Highway 74, I don't see much except for a few small houses here and there and a lot of pine trees. But about 30 or 40 minutes out of town, there is one point of interest - a place where yard art has run amok. And not just any yard art. There is a full potpourri of life-size statuary: horses, flamingos, bears, dinosaurs. Some of it's amusing. Some of it is downright frightening. Like the bear reared on its hind legs, fangs bared. Or the rearing horse attaching to a carriage. Or the bizarre looking barrels with animal heads - elephants, tigers, alligators. The photo here was the best I could find but certainly doesn't do it justice.

Today, I drove back into town after dark, so I was afraid I would miss it. But luckily, there was full-size polar bear on an ice flo reclining against a well-lit palm tree in the middle of the pond out front, lighting my way.

Make It Longer

My mother is a very accomplished seamstress. She made me dresses when I was a little girl, and she does all my tailoring now. Because I have short stubby legs, she often hems pants for me. She'll sit in the floor with her pink hat-shaped pin cushion and turn up the cuffs. And I stand back from the mirror and try determine if it's the length I want. When I decide, she says, "Are you sure? Cause I can always make it shorter, but I can't make it longer."

In my ecstasy over being reunited with Crazy J. on Thursday, I allowed him to lop off a significant amount of my hair. And it looked fabulous as promised when he styled it for me. But in the shower the last couple of days, I find myself looking for the mass of inches of hair swept into the trashcan. I wonder if I got carried away. Is there any way to make it longer? Without consulting Ken Paves for Jessica Simpson extensions?

It's All About Great Hair

I grew up in small town Georgia just two counties over from an area populated by women with what we called "radar bangs" - the towers of teased bangs that could pick up a radio single. I had my hair cut by the same woman for years until she retired, and then I shifted to another in the same salon. So as of moving to W-Town, I had had two hairstylists and my hair colored at home or with one of those really tight plastic caps and the pseudo-knitting hook. Not exactly Jonathan Salon.

When I called the salons here, you would've thought I was asking them to use a combination of peroxide and Sun-In on my hair for the response I got for asking about "cap highlights." The stylist I finally settled on was at a salon about 25 minutes from my apartment and about 5 feet tall. Every time I had my hair cut, I'd ponder whether or not a) he was gay b) subtly hitting on me or c) possibly making fun of me. I followed him to three different salons before he disappeared one day with no warning. I was utterly at a loss.

I asked for recommendations from friends, one of which led me to a very chic beach salon and outed me about $140 from a very severe stylist. Then, I found Crazy J. Crazy J. is the gay hair stylist of my dreams. I'd never looked better - from cut to color and the endless flattery about how fabulous I looked. And while his stories about past loves and life adventures seemed a wee tad exaggerated, I could overlook them. I was in love. Did I mention that he gave incredible head massages during the shampoo portion of the experience?

And then one day, his edgy lifestyle landed him in jail after three DUIs and a missed court date. I was devastated, wandering around town with roots and split ends. I found another hairstylist...nice, a little less expensive, easy to be with and chatty. It's been working out okay, but it just wasn't the same.

Not too long ago, I heard through the grapevine that Crazy J. had served out his time and was back on the W-Town hair circuit. But how to approach? Cheating on stylists is a serious offense. And would he welcome me back? Would it be weird? I talked about calling him, but then I couldn't bring myself to do it. And then my opportunity came when the new stylist went on maternity leave in July.

I threw caution to the wind, tracked him down and made an appointment. I drove to the salon today, feeling as though I were going to see a long-lost friend. And there he was, tall, thin and flamboyant. He took me in his arms, told me I looked as fabulous as ever and got to work on my long-overdue-for-a-haircut tresses. It took me half a shampoo, one head massage and 10 minutes of his delighted snipping and cutting to fall in love all over again.

All I can say is: reunited and it feels so good.

She's Guilty, Part II

I was supposed to watch She's the Man last week with Mel & Penelope. But we were unavoidably detained by wine and blue corn tortilla chips and discussing the devil at the office and the decline in good shows on HBO these days. So anyway, sorry, ladies, but I couldn't wait. And I'd just like to say: I wanna be Amanda Bynes when I grow up.

An Impooptant Matter

Dear Neighbor Man With Dog (And Bad Hair),

I know that the strip of grass between the sidewalk and our street is not really technically anyone’s yard. But I walk through that grass everyday to get to my car. I sort of think of it as my yard annex.

I’ve noticed in the time I’ve been living in my apartment that you generally walk your dog right before I leave for work, often in my yard annex. And I also notice that you don’t pick up after the dog. Now, I don’t blame this on the dog. She can’t help your lack of manners. But truly, this is your responsibility.

I know it’s unpleasant to handle the poo. I know because I stepped in it this morning and got it on my open-toed heels, my car and most dreadfully my foot. I had to be late for work because of scrubbing my carpet and shampooing my heel and fully disinfecting my foot.

I don’t think it’s too much to ask. And please don’t think it’s because I have a cat and don’t like dogs. I love dogs. Really I do. But I don’t love your dog’s poo. So please – scoop the poop. Or you may find some kitty treats on your front lawn.

Sincerely,
Poo Shoe

Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!

Blogs seem the appropriate place for confessing guilty pleasures. The celebrity gossip sites listed to the right already indicate one of my guilty pleasures. And I feel guilty both because of the insignificance of the information (i.e. where Nick Lachey and Vanessa Minillo were last spotted) and because of the incriminating evidence that I'm not spending my time in more productive ways (i.e. writing the Great American Novel or writing letters to politicians about the state of the world). But nonetheless, there are the undeniable little joys in life we take in while in our pajamas, safe in our little apartments or when we think no one is looking (or won't notice, like that the cover of Time has been carefully wrapped around an US Weekly). Unfortunatley for J., he has to endure some of those embarassing little pleasures - like my viewing of the new Justin Timberlake video for "Sexy Back" on YouTube. Check it out! Oh, come on, you know you like it, too!!

Other guilty pleasures: trashy romance novels (with titles like Guilty Pleasures), country-style buffets (thanks for the Casey's recommendation, Pen!), sleeping ridiculously late on Saturday mornings, my love of Disney World, Hallmark movies, movies starring Amanda Bynes, and maybe, possibly, watching the Concert for America while drinking Arbor Mist.

Anyone else needing to confess a guilty pleasure? Of the PG-13 nature, please. People might be reading at work while pretending to review a very important memo.

Great Balls of Fire

According to the official website, the Atomic Fireball was invented in 1954 by Nello Ferrara, son of Salvatore Ferrara, founder of Ferrara Pan candies. (Lemonheads! Cherryheads! Boston Baked Beans!) The Atomic Fireball starts as a single grain of sugar that is "panned" over a two week period until it is the right size, then flavored, colored and packaged. About 15 million are eaten each week worldwide. And thanks to the cravings of the pregnant lady in the office, who went to four stores and bought five pounds, I'm eating about 10 percent of those. Seriously. I'm pretty sure I'm working toward an atomic hole in my stomach.