Friday, March 31, 2006

Huzzah, Huzzah

This morning, the metro was empty and the daily newspapers were stacked high. Not very many people came to work today. But at lunch, the streets were crowded because everyone who is a work is going outside.

Hurrah for spring!

Thursday, March 30, 2006

by Maggie Owens

An epicure, dining at Crewe,
Found quite a large mouse in his stew,
Said the waiter, 'Don't shout,
And wave it about,
Or the rest will be wanting one too!

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

calling all women to answer the question below!

I never thought writing would be so...public. But girls, I got to get 50 comments on the great panty debate (see previous post). So send your friends here!

Don't have an answer? SAY THAT! I CAN USE THAT!

many, many, many thanks.

Monday, March 20, 2006

****the great panty debate****

Ladies (ONLY):


I am planning to send out letters to various women's magazines asking
them to assign me an article of great national significance: the best
panties for all different butts.

It has come to my attention that so often I spend ten or so bucks of
my hard-earned cash on a cute pair of panties, only to find that they
bag in the butt, dip too low in the front, or fail to reach around my
admittedly sizable ba-toot.

do you have a pair of underwear that fits perfectly, with no butt-sagging, panty lines, or love-handle amputation? Post a comment and tell me your age, size, and the brand/make of underwear.

And if you don't, say that too.

Come on. Just do it.


One the first day of spring

Let's face it:

given last week's eighty degree temperatures and tomorrow's wintry mix, spring is a'coming.

Given the fact I spent my Saturday watching my younger sister deflect very fast, very yellow, and very small balls during her lacrosse playday, spring is a'coming.

Given that my sweet peas are once again RUINING MY LIFE by being WHINY LITTLE #$#^^@!s, spring is here :)

just for kicks:

One Third Of The Calendar

In January everything freezes.
We have two children. Both are she'ses.
This is our January rule:
One girl in bed, and one in school.

In February the blizzard whirls.
We own a pair of little girls.
Blessings upon of each the head ----
The one in school and the one in bed.

March is the month of cringe and bluster.
Each of our children has a sister.
They cling together like Hansel and Gretel,
With their noses glued to the benzoin kettle.

April is made of impetuous waters
And doctors looking down throats of daughters.
If we had a son too, and a thoroughbred,
We'd have a horse,
And a boy,
And two girls
In bed.

Ogden Nash

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

on being young and married

To be young and to get married, and to not be a Baptist, an innocent, or pregnant, is seldom seen. And we are not doing the young hip thing. We live in a rented Cape Cod with a big yard for our dogs and hardwood floors and a fireplace for us. Last Saturday, we lounged on our bed playing Trivial Pursuit from the early 1980s until the grand old hour of ten o’clock.
We like our soft sheets. I am planting a flower garden. Yesterday, my husband polished my grandmother’s silver salt and pepper set, and I thought my heart would crack open with love.
I have done the young angst thing, complete with cigarettes and greasy food and spiky dyed hair.
And you know, this is better. The clean counter of our kitchen luminous in the morning sun, the long couch bought with a Christmas bonus, the morning argument over who takes the first shower. I sleep well. I eat well. I take baths on Sunday afternoons and look at my knees, naked and loved, and I do not wish I were alone.
I do not think we love each other more than anybody else in the world. The only difference I can see is that we did not creep towards marriage, we did not decide to give up our cherished independence, but instead we worked for it, yearned for it, and now that we are here, we are so very glad.
But we are newlyweds, clocking in at six months this Saturday. The real achievement will not be staying in love—for who can do that, anyway?— or even just staying together—because we all know those couples who sleep in separate beds and don’t talk to each other—but instead, staying really married, past those periods of intense dislike and general apathy and towards an overall harmonious partnership.
Wish us luck ;)

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

A story:

M. told me her life story while we were driving to Huntsville, Alabama for the Dixie Rugby Tournament in her gold beater of a car.

"Daddy left," she began. I nod. This I know. "Mama married this fool, and our house burned down."

My house is made of stone, but I still nod. Her accent is long and nasal, as east Tennessee as you get.

"The fool decided to convert the barn into a house with the insurance money, but ain't no money in the world could've turned that barn into a nice house," she continues. "Anyway, he was beating on my Mama, and so we locked him outside and called 911. You know, it takes 45 minutes for the police to get to our house."

I bat my eyes to express sympathy.

"And let me tell you 'bout my brothers," M. says. She twists and yanks up her shirt over her back. There's a heart with two names on her left shoulder blade.

"One ran around all the time in high school. He got girls pregnant, did e all the time, and then he ups and becomes a Jehova's Witness. Can't even talk to him anymore, he's all the time Jesus this and Jesus that."

I have no brothers.

"The other, he's my sweetie, my bitty baby brother J., and I just love him. He about died when I left for college. You know how I decided to go to Vanderbilt?"

I shake my head. How did I decide?

"We watched this movie in 8th grade that I thought was awesome, can't even remember what it was about, but it was produced by Vanderbilt. So I worked my ass off-- no one thought I was smart cos I hung out with all the black kids-- but I ended up valedictorian and got a full-ride here."

Wow, I say. That's amazing.

"I thought so, but no one in my county had ever gone anywhere 'cept the U of Tennessee. Why do you want to go to Vanderbilt? they'd ask. They don't got very good football. I'd say, do I look like I play football, you jackass?"

She kinda does.

Epilogue: she's doing graduate research in psychology about aggression and schizophrenia, and she has married a black man even taller than she is named Brown.

Monday, March 06, 2006

listen up, y'all.

On Saturday evening, I found myself sitting in front of a fire with my best friend leaning against my feet as we regaled a World Bank renaissance man with our tales of woe-- namely that all of our fancy education barely qualified us for entry-level jobs.

And we have a point. But my amused husband and friend looked on with indulgence at the two over-priviledged white girls, recalling student loans and the juggling of 30-hr-a-week jobs with classes, and you know, they had no sympathy.

(Ironically, they make way, way more than either me or my friend do. But they work at the same place so the statistics are biased.)

Cheers to having options, my friends. I could: join the Peace Corp, work on an organic farm, move to NYC and get a financial services internship, move to a small town and become a reporter...etc, etc, etc. I get to choose what color I want to paint my bathroom, and in the last two weeks I have spent countless hours hunting down the right pair of ballet flats.

I tire of people telling me they have no options. Go on. Make an actual list of all things you could conceivably do. If you have more than one, you've got choices, baby.