Amy Cates

VISIT THE NEW BLOG ADDRESS

2010-01-02T18:26:00.003-06:00

Please direct your blog traffic over to amycates.wordpress.com. And be careful. No tailgating, no rubbernecking.

Movin' On Up . . .

2009-11-19T08:16:00.003-06:00

. . . and not to the East Side. And maybe not to a deluxe apartment. But I am moving the blog and all its contents over to:

amycates.wordpress.com

Archiving two years' worth of posts will take lots of time and virtual cardboard boxes, so this one will remain right here for now, growing weedy and looking like the Addams Family's front yard. It will be like that one house in every neighborhood, where kids walk by at a fast clip and let misguided baseballs go unretrieved.

This will be Boo Radley's house.

As you travel over to the new site, please keep expectations low for the next week or two. Moving takes time, but I hope to make it worth your while and not a pain in the rear to remember where it is.

If you have subscribed to this blog via RSS feed, please note this feature is also available at the new place. I hope you use it.

Things You Can Feed Your Dogs (a helpful reader service)

2009-11-04T08:38:00.009-06:00

Editor's Note: Sorry for the month-long absence. I've been busy and preoccupied with 10 magazine articles and their deadlines, a nasty computer virus that TamiFlu couldn't cure (but that a $130 repair bill could), a chance encounter with Loretta Lynn's tour bus (a story for another day), general anesthesia, day-to-day living and the final round of college visits with my high school senior. So, cut me some slack and get to reading.

I'm no veterinarian, but I have compiled a list of go-to items that you can feed your dogs when your kids don't tell you that there is no dog food in the house and the bag has been nearly empty for three days but now it's completely empty and it's 7 a.m. and would somebody, please, stop that barking? (Note: These are individual options, not the makings of a buffet. For best results, one entree at a time, please.)

* Cheez-Its
* leftover Ramen noodles
* oatmeal (instant or slow-cooked)
* scrambled eggs
* the perimeter of the omelet that you didn't eat that morning because the texture is weird
* a hearty soup
* Chex Mix
* toast
* pancakes or waffles (no syrup)
* Ritz crackers
* a handful of salmon-flavored cat treats

For my protection, I've copied (and edited) the following warning/disclaimer from the Lipitor website, but I think it's equally helpful here, as it may prevent litigious threats or claims, which, frankly, I don't really need right now.

If you take LIPITOR (or Amy's advice for veterinarian patients and their owners), tell your doctor if you feel any new muscle pain or weakness . . . The most common side effects are gas, constipation, stomach pain and heartburn. They tend to be mild and often go away. Eventually.

Gwen, Scary American Girl Doll

2009-10-05T08:04:00.004-05:00

First, they mocked the '70s. Now, they've marketed homelessness.

Who's running American Girl? Barbara Boxer?

That's it, American Girl LLC. My family has supported you long enough. We've opened our home to Kaya, Kit, Ruthie, Samantha, Molly, Josefina, Bitty Baby, a couple of baby twins, some doll that came with a surfboard and possibly another freeloader or two who has taken up space on a bed, in a doll crib (oh, yeah, we have that, too), on the den floor. We've lined bookshelves with books that have been read and reread ad nauseum. We've outfitted their makeshift and portable homes (Rubbermaid boxes) with an AG knockoff bathtub from Target, a canopy bed (they take turns sleeping) and enough hats to make the Queen Mother jealous. (And if that sounds like a lot of money spent on American Girl dolls and accessories, know that my daughters are smart enough to ask for these things from their grandmother. And I'm smart enough to let them.)
Your first wrong move, American Girl LLC, however, occurred this year when you "archived" Samantha Parkington, "a bright and compassionate girl." Samantha was our family's first American Girl, and she has served us well, keeping the other American Girls in line. Oh, sure, we've had our moments, when we have found her wearing inappropriate clothes better suited to the surfer girl, or hanging upside down from the edge of the bed. But all in all, she has maintained propriety and encouraged us to dream big and . . . well, to be nice.

And then you really pushed the envelope with the recent introduction of Julie and Ivy and their hippie 1970s ways, grouping the '70s with historical periods like the Revolutionary War and making moms of 11-year-olds feel mighty old. Bad move.

The latest American Girl to come on the scene (that's the '70s influence talking) is Gwen, Homeless American Girl. She is the doll who lives in the box she came in. All for the online retail price of $95+/-.

A quick click on americangirl.com, and Gwen can be your own Doll You Can Pity, your daughter's Doll Whose Sad Life Keeps You Up At Night, her Doll That Doesn't Come With Any Accessories, her Doll That Costs As Much As Any Other American Girl Doll But Whose Net Profits Don't Benefit Any Social Agency or Cause But That's OK Because This Is Capitalistic America And No One Should Apologize For That But Really? This Is Tacky.

This is not about sheltering your kids from issues. This is not about sugarcoating real life. This is about keeping things in perspective. When it comes to dolls, we prefer dreams, not nightmares. That's why Barbie has lasted so long. Would Mattel market a Homeless Barbie and a Deadbeat Dad Ken?

My youngest girls come up with their own sad tales. For free. They don't need a $100 doll to open their eyes and scare the, excuse me, crap out of them, fearing for their parents' marriage (see Julie, a fun-loving San Francisco girl who faces big changes) or whether they will have a home tomorrow (see Gwen; but don't try to find a description for Gwen because she's so unfortunate that she doesn't even have a description; she rides on Chrissa's coattails and arrives at your doorstep by UPS in an eyelet lace dress and a pink headband that doubles as a belt).

American Girl does a lot of things right; this just isn't one of them. Perhaps if the money made from the sale of Gwen dolls built a shelter for women and children or maybe a dozen or more Habitat homes, maybe there wouldn't be a backlash. Maybe Gwens would come flying off the shelves at the warehouse. Maybe the whole deal wouldn't seem so . . . icky.

If the setup were a little different, we would love for Gwen to join the menagerie of American Girl dolls here, where each day looks sort of like a Victorian frat party. Unkempt hair, missing shoes, tiny dishes all over the floor, all the tea you can drink.

And then Gwen wouldn't be homeless anymore.

Welcome to Wal-Mart: Come As You Are

2009-09-24T16:43:00.008-05:00

BusinessWeek, back in 2007, offered the following explanation of Wal-Mart's shift from its longstanding slogan "Always Low Prices" to "Save Money. Live Better."

"Always Low Prices,” was always a benign descriptive slogan that befitted the brand, the store and the mission. The addition of “Live Better” is obviously meant as a deal closer, conveying to the consumer, who may or may not be conflicted about shopping at Walmart, what they get out of those low prices.

It was a shrewd move on Wal-Mart's part, as the economy started circling the top of the toilet bowl the very next year, and next thing you know, Wal-Mart was on everyone's radar. People who had treated Wal-Mart with such disdain, never giving it a second thought, were suddenly clipping coupons and buying Faded Glory jeans. People who maybe had never considered the thrill of saving money were captivated by the allure of staying afloat while still . . . living better.

And to these people, the rest of us extended a hearty welcome.

"Come on in!" we said. "Join us for some popcorn chicken in the deli and the clearance rack in the bakery!" And they reacted as if they found the Holy Grail. We watched them on local news reports and read about their plight in the newspaper. "We're really having to cut back. We're clipping coupons and buying clothes at Wal-Mart instead of at the mall."

And all of us just smiled. Apparently, we were doing something right -- something noble -- all along. They wanted to be like us. We were smart AND popular. But THEN, they started looking around and asking themselves, "Where do all these people come from? Am I really shopping alongside this?"

Thanks to cell phones and this new shopping sector's heightened sense of awareness in our "Live Better" world, our inboxes and a certain website are filled with all sorts of images that we, frankly, have never really considered. And if we could be completely honest here? We're a little scared.

I've never given any thought to what I wear to Wal-Mart, and now I'm concerned I might end up on this site or as an e-mailed image.

I once drove to Wal-Mart at 3 a.m. after leaving the emergency room, carrying a list of supplies I needed for a condition that I won't go into. Wearing my husband's t-shirt, sleep pants, a hospital bracelet and Band-Aids on my arms, I placed a bottle of carbonated sodium-something-or other and various other recommended accoutrements on the conveyor belt. The clerk looked at my purchases, eyeballed me up and down, then asked, "You having a procedure?"

I just wiped my brow with my palm and said, "What makes you ask?"

This sort of thing doesn't happen at Nordstrom's.

But today, in 2009, would I feel safe entering Wal-Mart dressed like this? Not likely.

Maybe as we climb out of this recession, the newbies will be gone, and the fascination with Wal-Mart shoppers' clothing and hairstyles will fade and we can go back to our ways, undisturbed, unkempt, unafraid of being photographed.

Because true Wal-Mart shoppers don't give a flip about Living Better. We're more about . . . Come As You Are.

There. There's your new post-recession slogan, Wal-Mart ad agency. Come. As. You. Are.

Big Brother Is Watching, and Boy, Is He Confused

2009-09-11T10:11:00.004-05:00

This is not really about the shenanigans of Wired's Evan Ratliff, who is trying to disappear off the face of this way-too-connected-and-nosey earth in an effort to see if we truly are way too connected and nosey.

This is about, Hey, I'm Jealous and Why Can't the Rest of Us Do This?

Ratliff has written his own sociological experiment and cast himself as the leading man. He is attempting to stay "lost" for 30 days, beginning back on Aug. 15. No texting, no Twittering, none of that awful Facebook business. He'll likely have to avoid hidden cameras (and they are everywhere) at grocery stores, malls, ATMs, wherever. He has probably had to turn to using cash instead of debit cards, just to cover his trail.

In a word, he's kicking Big Brother's you-know-what and making him spin around in circles.

Big Brother was an Orwellian leader long before it was a lame reality TV show. And lest you think this sounds a little like Amy Is On Lortab, maybe you should reread 1984 and join the paranoia party with me. Because people, this is a crazy train. And nobody is requiring you to ride. Hop off at any time, and live in ignorance with me. It's a beautiful place.

And I know many of you are looking to relocate to a less-connected place, as evidenced by the accidental tourists who land here. According to this morning's stats, 19.92 percent of visitors to this site arrive by Googling "i hate texting." Maybe they're looking for a support group, a kindred spirit, ways to break the habit, I have no idea. But whatever you're looking for, I hope you've found that you're not alone. I hate texting, too. My hatred toward texting is so fierce that we forbid the practice in our family and slap fines of $1 per text on the one kid who even has a cell phone. And just so you'll know, we politely ask guests not to text. At one summer party involving pre-teens, the cell phones popped out the minute they walked in the door. I quietly walked over to a group of girls and their texting ways, and I politely informed them, "Put the phones away, or I'll put them away until your parents pick you up." So that made my kids the most popular kids in school. I don't care. My house. My rules.

But texting is only a small part of a much larger problem. I call it the Gladys Kravitz Generation. Everyone is looking through virtual windows at everyone else, tapping everyone on the virtual shoulder, being all virtually nosey.

Back in the day, parents teetered on espionage by unearthing a diary or journal in their kid's bedroom. I long for those days. Now, we have the internet to help us do our job, and let's just admit here that sometimes it's just TMI. We are exposed to and are guilted into absorbing too much information every day. And it's exhausting.

I was dining on a delicious chicken sandwich with friends recently, and as they were comparing notes about school websites and homework assignments and grade reporting practices and all those things that were totally foreign to parents a generation ago and make us totally anxious and occasionally ticked-off, I wiped my mouth and asked, "Don't you ever wish we didn't even have access to this stuff?"

And you could have heard a pin drop, when Tommy stopped and locked the door. (Sorry--my inner Kenny Rogers just oozed out.)

"What do you mean?"

"What I MEAN is," I explained, while polishing off my daughter's fries, "don't you wish it didn't even exist? All this technology? Like there was still a mystique about report cards and 'incompletes' and 'tardies' and missed homework assignments?"

"I've never really thought about it."

"Maybe you should. Maybe we all should. It doesn't mean you love your kids less if you don't stay on top of their homework or grades. Just enjoy the excitement of report card time, and deal with it then. In the meantime, let the kids handle their business." As a policy, it sounds perfectly reasonable. In reality, we know the follow-through will be shoddy. It's not our fault; we already have access. It's hard to turn back.

I'll come clean, here: I do check my kids' grades. Not daily. Maybe not even weekly. But I do it. Not because I have a burning desire to help them with math, but because I need the occasional bargaining tool.

"Take you to a movie? I don't think so. You pull up that science grade, then we'll talk."

When iHomes and TVs are blaring at top volume and the noise is deafening, I pay a little visit to the computer, and sometimes, the hammer comes down with a painful blow. "Turn that music down and go read some history, would you? And for not turning in an assignment last Wednesday? Mop the kitchen floor."

My techno-fatigue may be part of a larger disorder, but I remain unapologetic. I know enough to get by, and that's enough. For me, anyway. I still refer to my cell phone as a "car phone." It's a respectable pocket-size model that I received as a gift some four years ago. (I didn't ask for it.) It does not have texting capabilities, unless you know how to type in Hindi or whatever is required when using number keys as letters. It does not take pictures. It stays in my car and never crosses the threshold into my house. I do not Twitter. I do not have a Facebook page. If we know each other, I may tell you how tired I am or that I'm baking apple brown betty, but I generally keep those things to myself and not on a real-time APB.

So, considering my relative abstinence from technology, could I disappear for 30 days without a trace? In a snap. And without a 12-step program. For all you know, I could have played shuffleboard with Evan Ratliff on the lido deck yesterday afternoon.

I didn't. But I could have.

Have a happy (and text-free) weekend . . .

This Happy Meal Took a Turn

2009-09-06T21:12:00.015-05:00

At 11 o'clock Saturday night, we stopped at a McDonald's, because we only want the best for our kids. A Happy Meal, we figured, would fill the bill and knock them out cold until we would wake them up at 1 a.m. when we got home and tuck them in bed, still wearing grass-stained jeans and sporting dirty feet. Don't judge.

It wasn't until Sunday afternoon that I asked, "Hey, what sort of toy did you get in the Happy Meal?"

"Paper dolls! American Girl paper dolls!" And off she went, to bring them to me. So proud. This miniature book, with a built-in yellow ribbon, neatly tying the covers together to keep the paper dolls in place and the fold-out scenery neatly creased. It was so darn sweet, a person could cry just thinking about it. This, I thought, may be just about the cutest thing McDonald's has ever done. American Girl paper dolls.

Not. So. Fast.

"It's the newest American Girl! Julie!"

"What time period is she from?"

"The '70s."

"The NINETEEN70s? That's not a historical period. That's my childhood. Give me that." And I read the intro about Julie Albright, who I must tell you was born at least roughly around the same year that I was born, so I should know a little something about the early '70s, Miss Julie Albright, and one of those things is that MODERN history does not count when you are manufacturing and distributing dolls and books about historical characters.

Julie's story takes a detour from the typical American Girl tale. Kit, for example, is a resourceful girl from the Great Depression (1924). Felicity is a spirited colonial girl (1774). Kaya is a daring Nez Perce girl (1764). Molly is a patriotic girl who helps hold things together on the homefront during WWII (1944).

Julie is a pre-teen who plays basketball and enjoys fondue (1974).

Julie and I are sort of peers--in a time sense, anyway--but our worlds were so vastly different back in 1974 that I believe she must have been living in some foreign land. Like San Francisco.

In the shadow of the Golden Gate Bridge, "there were big changes happening in America. Her (newly divorced and recently relocated) mom started working full-time, running her own shop called 'Gladrags.' Protesters marched against the Vietnam War. Laws were passed to protect the environment and endangered species. Julie found her inner Democrat at the tender age of 12. She would one day grow up to be a lobbyist and work alongside a Tennesseean named Al Gore and talk way too much about carbon footprints and global warming."

OK, I made up that last part, but you get the picture.

It wasn't always easy getting other people to be open to new ideas, though. While change could be hard to accept, Julie realized that when it's important--when a friend is in trouble, an animal is endangered, or a rule needs to be rewritten--it's time to make the change happen yourself!

Because that's what 12-year-olds do. And then you turn the page and learn how to make your own Cootie Catcher, like Julie did. When she and her activist friends weren't effecting change in the Bay area, these trendsetters were busily crafting fortune-telling devices that they called "Cootie Catchers" out of 8 1/2 x 11 sheets of paper. (I always thought we egocentric pre-teens of suburban Atlanta invented these, along with paper footballs and personal notes disguised as origami. But as we all know, Georgia is on the other side of the continent from California, and all trends and fashion start there and eventually make their way across the land. Like a slow-moving wave.)

Marietta, Georgia eventually caught up with other trends, too, as I remember a girl who rode my school bus lived with only her mom after her parents divorced. They lived in one of the biggest colonials in our neighborhood. Her mom played a lot of tennis and made fish sticks for dinner. The girl had a trampoline and a canopy bed. Apparently divorce was more lucrative back in the '70s.

In my limited research, I couldn't find what Julie's mom sold at Gladrags. But whatever it was, it must have been expensive and in high demand because according to the American Girl catalog, Julie wears all the latest fashions, like a calico dress and matching bandana, and she has cool "sound accessories" (a hi-fi record player), as well as a banana seat bike and, as if you didn't see this coming, a stupid canopy bed.

As with any Happy Meal deal, you can't request which toy is tucked away in your Happy Meal box. It's the luck of the draw. Pure chance. A roll of the dice. But if you hurry, maybe you

can drive through a few times this week to increase your chances and read more about Julie, Creative '70s Girl, and her best friend, Ivy, and set up little paper scenes in their paper doll kitchen, equipped with avocado green appliances, Jiffy Pop popcorn and one of the country's first microwave ovens.

Offer ends Sept. 10.

A Little Homespun ADD

2009-08-27T08:36:00.001-05:00

I have worked from home for more than 13 years. In that time, I have been as productive a freelance writer as you could hope to meet. But in that time, you would never know what goes on behind the scenes.

Despite the absence of a time clock, a supervisor and dress code, I get the job done. I work at odd hours, on a whim, with or without being fully dressed. (Kidding -- I'm always dressed. Not well, but dressed.)

These are the perks and the pitfalls of working from home. But it's all smoke and mirrors, these little traits of the work-from-home segment of the labor force.

While working Sunday night on an article about adult ADD, I came across a website devoted entirely to the subject. And it was an ADD sufferer's NIGHTMARE. The lists and categories and subcategories of archived and bulleted articles and links and sidebars . . . I thought I'd never get back to work. Article titles like:

* Making ADD-Friendly Career Choices

* Feeling Overwhelmed, Disorganized, Scattered?

* ADHD: Not Just for Kids Anymore

And my personal favorite . . .

* Gee Whiz, I Missed It Again: How Can I Improve My Time Management Skills? Well, for starters, don't visit sites with dozens of bulleted archived articles with catchy titles. And second, who put the most comfortable couch in the house in this office? When I take breaks and stare at the ceiling, I see spots that I missed when I painted. Maybe this was the wrong color choice, after all. I need a color wheel. And money to pay someone else to re-do this because, honestly, this room just about put me in traction. But hiring it out would cost a few hundred dollars. Can I spend a few hundred dollars on painting one room? Maybe not today. Maybe I should get back to work.

An excerpt from "ADHD: Not Just for Kids Anymore":

It is estimated that between five to seven percent -- or more -- of all children suffer from attention deficit disorder. But what happens when these children grow up? Some are lucky enough to have learned to compensate for their poor attention span, impulsivity and distractibility by finding a good career match. Others married spouses who have been able to help structure their home lives. And yet others are still struggling, trying to figure out why they cannot seem to work up to their potential. Worse, many adults with undiagnosed ADHD find themselves living a life of shame, poor self esteem, and worse. (This sounds rather dismal, don't you think?)

Some of the symptoms that may indicate an attention problem include distractibility, impulsivity, inattention, difficulty staying on task, having many projects going on at one time and rarely completing any of them because kids are in and out of the house all the time and everyone seems to want to eat when you really don't feel like cooking, and hey, who ate all the leftovers in the middle of the night and didn't they know that was the dinner plan for Thursday? That just really ticks me off. Oh, and irritability, and difficulty falling asleep and difficulty waking up, which seem mutually exclusive if you really think about it.

But the good news is, Distracted Adult, you may not have ADD at all. The article goes on to say that symptoms of ADD may mimic other disorders, like depression, anxiety, and some medical problems like hypothyroidism. But I already have hypothyroidism and basically no functioning thyroid to speak of, so maybe I'm depressed and anxious. Maybe I'm depressed and anxious about not having a thyroid. The thyroid, as you may know, controls the balance of the universe. Every bodily function, emotional reaction and predisposition to having a good day gets its direction from the thyroid. Without it, you live a life of shame, low self-esteem, or worse. Or, you take medicine every day for the rest of your life to keep from blowing up like a balloon or suffering such severe leg cramps that you walk like you're suffering from rickets, or like you're the Log Lady from Twin Peaks.

Twin Peaks, you should know, was not David Lynch's most bizarre work. In the earliest years of our relationship, my husband would subject me to Eraserhead, which we rented repeatedly on VHS for about a dollar. (A dollar too much, really.) It remains one of the most quoted movies in our house, although I didn't understand any of it. Maybe David Lynch had a temporary case of ADD while making Eraserhead.

But my point is, shouldn't a website devoted to helping adults dealing with ADD be, you know, simple? Link-free? Filled with very brief articles? A monochromatic design, perhaps? It seems sort of cruel to lead ill-focused visitors on this blind trail of archives and helpful hints that have way too many paths branching off the main road. Which reminds me of a bike ride this summer through a state park, where some people thought that I (who had left the trail map in the car or camper or wherever) might be the best candidate to pedal back to a bulletin board they recalled seeing, with its maps of trail heads and points of reference, to check our location and even convinced me it was just a few hundred feet back, but 20 minutes later, I was still pedaling and was convinced that I had crossed the state line.

People can be so cruel, and it's wrong. It's a disorder, not a party game. Sniff.

Now, why did I walk into this room?

Hey! I Know a Little Something About "The Most Hated Woman in Sports"

2009-08-17T13:02:00.001-05:00

I opened my mailbox Saturday to find this:

The Duke lacrosse team, Alex Rodriguez, Eric Ramsey . . . when it comes to dirty laundry, Selena Roberts of Sports Illustrated and New York Times fame knows how to scoop up some of the biggest sports stories in the country and share with the world. Yep, she tells it all. But something is missing from her own bio in this fall's cover story.

Let's go back a few years, shall we?

Just months before we graduated from Auburn, Selena and I once took a road trip on a rainy Sunday night to Columbus, Ga. to see REO Speedwagon at a general-admission concert.

The opening act was (and this is even more embarrassing--for both of us, really) Richard Marx.

And one more thing: I'll take your REO Speedwagon and your Richard Marx and raise you . . . two backstage passes. That's right; Selena Roberts and I went backstage and met them all--REO Speedwagon and Mr. Richard Marx-- in all their '80s big-hair glory. Is this something I'm proud of? Is it something I think of every day? Absolutely not. But I think it bears mentioning here because while some folks might call Selena's current-day reporting tactics on A-Rod's steroid use "stalking," I say, maybe it's in her blood. Like a blue tick hound. I've seen her outside REO Speedwagon's dressing room. Impressive.

I also think A-Rod and the Duke lacrosse team and probably a few others may delight in being privy to this information in case they decide to strike back in a more formal way. "Sure, I played around with anabolic steroids, but where were YOU, Selena Roberts in winter 1988? Does the name 'Richard Marx' ring a bell?"

And a footnote, in the form of an excerpt from the story about Selena in Auburn Magazine:

She switches to journalism, having loved to write as a kid, and pairs it with her childhood fervor for sports by convincing The Auburn Plainsman sports editor to offer her some assignments. By Roberts' senior year, she's editing the section herself. "It was great fun, sitting around all night long, talking about life, politics, the world," she says.

Are these the words of "the most hated woman in sports"? I think not. These are the memories of a former 20-year-old holed up in a student union basement for 20 hours or more, trying to digest Maryland turkey (good stuff) and meet a deadline while the musical stylings of the Mamas & the Papas resonated from the cassette player in the corner.

These are also the words of a reporter who is now, herself, the news and is sporting a shiny crimson jacket.

That Selena. Such a rebel. An Auburn woman would never be caught dead wearing crimson anywhere, let alone on the cover of an alumni magazine.

Top 10 Back-to-School Movies

2009-08-13T07:42:00.006-05:00

Editor's Note: I wrote this for somebody else, and I believe it is now legal and appropriate that I can post it on my own blog. (If not, oops!) As an aside, I picked up this assignment on the very day that John Hughes passed away -- Aug. 6. Weird.

Without the work of the late John Hughes, this wouldn’t be much of a list.

Hughes wrote and/or directed some of the most popular movies of the ’80s, bringing fame to some relatively unknowns at the time and reassuring all of us that the perfect high school experience is but a myth.

School is intertwined in American culture, so as you embark on a new academic year, carve out some time to salute the American school experience with one of these Top 10 Back-to-School Movies (in no particular order and with an added bonus that I just couldn't leave off) . . .

Sixteen Candles (1984)—A husband forgetting your birthday is one thing; realizing that your parents and entire family dropped you off their radar is another. Molly Ringwald’s character Samantha Baker deals with all the drama of turning 16, without any acknowledgment or even a cake. At her side are the King of the Geeks (Anthony Michael Hall) and best friend Randy. And far, far away is the most awesome Jake Ryan in his Porsche. Sixteen Candles is chock full of teenage crushes, high school parties and general teenage angst.

Just seeing this photo whisks a girl back to 1985. I wish I had been sent to Saturday detention. I would have sat far, far away from Ally Sheedy and probably equidistant from Molly Ringwald and her sushi. As the day wore on, I would have inched closer to Judd Nelson.

The Breakfast Club (1985)—The entire movie is based in the library and near-empty halls of Shermer High School as five kids come together for Saturday detention. If you love John Hughes, then you’ll love his brief cameo as Brian’s (Anthony Michael Hall) father in the closing scene. Don’t blink.

Pretty in Pink (1986)—Written by John Hughes, this one is so full of teenage angst that you might find it too realistic and maybe a little dark. Instead, focus on the endearing relationship between Andie (Molly Ringwald) and Duckie (Jon Cryer). Be patient with Blane (Andrew McCarthy) and go ahead and dislike Steff (James Spader) all you want. Two very different worlds collide, as they often do in American high schools, but with a very enjoyable soundtrack.

Grease (1978)—If you scoff at the High School Musical movies, remind yourself of this piece of cinematic work. Danny (John Travolta) and Sandy (Olivia Newton-John) and their respective entourages break out in spontaneous bursts of song at the beach, on the bleachers by the track, in the school’s garage, at sleepovers, you name it. They even perform a little dance competition at . . . well, the high school dance. No spoilers here. It’s a musical.

Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986)—Sure, Ferris skipped a day of school, but this is a shoo-in for the Back-to-School Movie List. The very popular Ferris (Matthew Broderick) has nothing to run away from at his upper-middle-class school, but he fakes an illness so that he and girlfriend Sloane and best friend Cameron can explore Chicago, via Cameron’s dad’s Ferrari.

Rebel Without a Cause (1955)—This is a back-to-school movie? You bet. When John Stark (James Dean) moves to a new town and enters a new school, you should know nobody will be the same. This is classic cinema, with quintessential ’50s lingo and garb throughout. Natalie Wood and Dennis Hopper round out a classic cast.

Footloose (1984)—Kevin Bacon as the streetwise Ren McCormack created quite a stir back in the mid-’80s when he moved from the big city to a small Midwestern town. This modern-day James Dean, with his Walkman and all that fancy footwork, singlehandedly transformed a city with no musical soul into a dance-crazed, freewheelin’ town. But not before he struggled with being the new (and rowdy) kid in town, navigating the halls of a new school and trying to make friends with members of the popular crowd.

Back to School (1986)—What’s a back-to-school movie list without the namesake movie? Rodney Dangerfield plays a wealthy business owner who goes back to college. He just happens to enroll at the same college his son attends. But the dad throws better parties.

Freaky Friday (1976)—Not that anything is wrong with the 2003 remake with Jamie Lee Curtis and Lindsay Lohan, but Barbara Harris and Jodie Foster? Classic. Besides, what teenager would whine about trading places with the very cool Jamie Lee Curtis? But Barbara Harris messing around in your business? Totally different matter.

13 Going on 30 (2004)—What girl doesn’t want to bypass her 13th year? Especially when she hosts a pretty stinky 13th birthday party. Oh, but what a tangled web Jenna Rink (Jennifer Garner) weaves when she wishes for an older and improved self, fast forwards herself by 17 years, finds that cute boy turns out to be a not-so-wonderful adult, and that she (in adult form) isn’t what she thought she should be either. It’s like a female version of Big, but with better clothes.

Clueless (1995)—This one isn’t so much about high school as it is about the clothes. And the cars. And the popular crowd. So maybe it is about high school. Cher Horowitz (Alicia Silverstone) plays matchmaker for teachers, new students and herself. Ultimately, after makeovers and matchmaking, she uncovers a better Cher—one who has more depth than she even expected.

Amy's Dream Analysis: Fred Thompson

2009-08-11T09:20:00.010-05:00

Dream: My dental hygienist called to say that former Sen. Fred Thompson phoned her office and was looking for me.

"That Fred," I told her.

She relayed the message that he had dyed his hair blonde and needed to talk with me about it. I assured her that I would call him later. I was preoccupied with a new zoning ordinance that would allow a state highway to run perpendicular to my front yard, which means that the new road would pass right through my kitchen. The highway would be lined with produce stands.

While Fred Thompson waited for my return call, I met with the DOT engineer, who toured me through the woods across from my house and told me to ignore the boxes and display cases of oranges and tomatoes--nothing was definite yet.

"Roads take years to build," he assured me.

And then he convinced me that this matter could stay just between us with a payoff of $35.12. (He paid me with a promissory note.) I asked him where his office would be so that I could reach him if I had any questions. He said that he would be working from the marina, where he could get free WiFi.

Analysis: Congressional elections are only a little more than a year away, and Excedrin Migraine was working overtime during my REM sleep.

Time to Get Up; Blog Break Is Over

2009-08-10T06:18:00.002-05:00

If you were expecting a fabulous Extreme Makeover: Blog Edition, I apologize. It's sort of like this summer, as my husband was preparing to leave the country and I assured him, "You are going to come home to the cleanest house." But then he returned home, and he was disappointed to find the same crap heaps all over the place.

After a two-month hiatus from this blog, you would think I could deliver a new-and-improved look. ("My gosh, Amy, what have you been doing with yourself?") When it all shook out, I just couldn't bring myself to make any big design changes . . . or pay anyone to make any big design changes. I have some unpaid help working on a new banner and maybe a background, but for now, let's focus on the content, shall we? Don't be so shallow.

I am re-entering the blogosphere with a renewed sense of determination and adventure, as this summer brought more and new (paying!) clients and hope for the future in freelancing, and that makes me slightly euphoric. (Thanks, God!) Yes, even in the face of a recession, shrinking freelance budgets and a moderate mid-life crisis that could have rendered a weaker person susceptible to cosmetic surgery, spa treatments and costly therapy, I found myself refreshed, grateful for the short break and ready to get back in the blogging groove.

As this thing sputters and burps in its reignition phase, please take note of a few changes and maybe a couple of additions. Because this is a Facebook-free zone, I have nowhere to place Pictures That Nobody Else Cares About. So I have added a new box at the upper right corner. Today's installment is first in my Summer 2009 Flashback. While summer is certainly not behind us, the leisurely days of summer vacation are all but gone. Schedules, schmedules, but this is our lot. Check out this space in the coming days as we rewind the past couple of months.

For you technofreaks, be sure to subscribe to the RSS feed so that your iPhone, iTouch or some other something I don't have can thwack you on the head when a new post arrives. For the rest of you old-schoolers still using a desktop, this will work for you, too. The hamster running on the wheel at full speed will keep your dial-up or whatever in sync.

You will notice that I've stuck to my guns on the "no comments" arrangement. But you are always welcome to send comments via e-mail to cates (dot) amy at gmail (dot) com. (I've spelled this out for a reason; that reason is, I don't like spam. In a can or in e-mail.)

The next couple of weeks will be spotty (there she goes, already whining and backing out), as deadlines for the paying gigs loom and kids start back to school in two spurts, one week apart. And somewhere in there, I will take the last First Day of School picture of my oldest, as she begins her senior year. (Sigh.) So forgive me if it seems I'm already slacking off.

It's not my fault.

It never is.

I Demand a Do-Over

2009-07-10T12:07:00.005-05:00

And a do-over is what you are going to get.

The E.T.A. on the new blog and new website is Monday, Aug. 10, with a grace period of two or three business days in either direction.

It will be an unveiling worth waiting for.

I hope.

You Call This a "Blog"? I Call This a "Hiatus."

2009-06-12T08:31:00.000-05:00

Thirty-six posts into 2009, and you would think I would quit calling this a "blog" at all. It is time that I vow either to do a better, more regular job of posting, or do away with it altogether. Get off the fence. Make up my mind. Make a decision. Take a stand. Quit being so wishy-washy.

So-o-o-o-o . . .

The blog is taking a vacation, as if that isn't already apparent from these long stretches of tired posts that stay at the top of the heap for more than a week or two.

Instead, I will be channeling the stories, experiences and outright made-up events into other arenas for other purposes -- namely, a cool project for 2010 that, if I'm not careful, will begin to feel like a neglected term paper looming over my head. (You're welcome, David.)

Perhaps I'll give this blog a fresh jump-start in a few months. Or not. Who knows? If you're not in my address book (or not sure if you're in my address book), please e-mail me at cates (dot) amy (at) gmail (dot) com. (The e-mail address is spelled out to prevent big ol' chunks of spam. Blcchh.) I'll set you up so that you can receive notifications this fall, and you'll be apprised of goings-on, including blog status, upcoming events and other shameless acts of self-promotion masked as marketing tactics.

And whether you've been an occasional or faithful reader, thank you, thank you, thank you!!!!

Amy + Tracy + Rachel + Liz . . . Minus 8

2009-06-02T21:02:00.000-05:00

The first order of business:

I offer two final words on Jon & Kate. And those final words are . . . Who. Cares.

My only exposure to the show was a 15-minute trial more than a year ago, and after watching Kate pack suitcases for a trip to Disney World as she whined about it, well, frankly, I was bored out of my skull. This is why things like Twitter and Facebook are lost on people like me. It's like techno-voyeurism. Chased with a downer. Depressing, really.

With that out of the way, let's move on to more pressing matters. Like Amy+Tracy+Rachel+Liz Minus 8 = Beach Trip.

Threatening to be a bizarre and Deep South version of Real Housewives of New York, this trip takes four mothers of eight collective children for a four-day stay in a 50-foot RV known as The Raptor. I so wish you and TLC could come along, but frankly, there's just not enough room. Because I want my own bed.

If I were a Twitterer or a Facebooker, perhaps I would involve you in every detail of the journey.

We just bought gas!

Liz forgot the beach chairs!

Tracy ate all the Vienna sausages!

Rachel fell off her bike!

Nobody told me I was in charge of bringing the toilet paper!

But instead, I shall document only what warrants documenting and will share those events in some format, either from the beach or when I return. That depends on WiFi and my mood. And how many naps a day I will be taking.

If things go awry, maybe I could line up the other three on a picnic bench and video them as they whine about each other and give off bad vibes and hostile body language. And then I would charge you $25,000 an episode to view it.

Stay tuned . . .

In the meantime, head on over to here to check out an updated book review entry.

Friday Night at the Thrift Store

2009-05-28T17:34:00.002-05:00

Sometimes a girl just has to get away.

Sanity is really worth something these days, so to hang on to what little she had left after a long and frustrating week, she decides to make a break for it. She can't go too far with only a set of car keys and $17. She offers no details as she makes a quick exit, leaving everyone in the house looking confused and maybe even a little frightened . . .

And on that breezy Friday night, I landed in the book section of the local thrift store.

I stood there, trying to justify the purchase of a half-dozen paperbacks that I could check out for free at the library, and a young woman in either her late teens or early 20s walked by, pushing an umbrella stroller that held a half-dressed toddler. She was practically shouting, "I love non-fiction. I don't read no fiction 'cause non-fiction is much better. I am a READER, you know. I love me a good book. So find me something in non-fiction. I can just read and read and read . . . " And she kept talking as she walked, her voice trailing off behind the racks of LPs and National Geographics.

And she may or may not have been wearing pants.

Either her tank top was oversized, or she was wearing a swimsuit cover-up with no swimsuit, but whatever the case, there was no evidence of bottoms. Just . . . a bottom. Maybe she was so busy reading non-fiction that she forgot her pants.

I waited until she was long gone so that I could turn to a fellow shopper and make a smart-aleck comment disguised as a sincere question. "Hey, was that girl wearing pants?" And as I spoke, I realized I was talking to the girl's friend, who smarted right back, "Uh, yes, she is wearing pants," like I was so stupid for asking.

I was about to lecture her about not letting her friend go all about town with no pants, but I had bigger fish to fry, as to my left was a mom helping her children find some quality novels for their leisure time. It was like something out of the movies. Peter Parker is standing on a street corner, minding his own business, maybe reading the newspaper, and a pedestrian yells, "Somebody! Help! A bad guy is holding up the bank, and he has hostages!" And then Peter Parker transforms into Spiderman to break through the plate glass window and save the day.

The mom was practically shouting. "Here. Read a page of this, and if you like that page, then you know it's a good book. That's what works for me." And I held my hands behind my back and bit my lip because the mom was handing her 10-year-old daughter a very used copy of Sweet Valley High - Power Play.

Now I don't write the New York Times Book Review, but I do know a little something about literature and paperbacks and what is appropriate for 10-year-old girls and how some parents should stick to meal planning and not summer reading planning.

And as I was thinking of how best to approach this family and let them know that they are sadly off base when it comes to summer reading lists and that DHR is just a phone call away, the mom squealed, "Oh, you'll LOVE this! These Mary-Kate and Ashley books are GOOD." The little girl looked a little embarrassed. Angelic, with curly blonde hair and slight smile, but embarrassed still.

I tried to worm into their conversation, maybe offer a little intervention. But when the mom didn't take my bait, I waited for her to be distracted by a Captain Underpants or maybe a flashing light. And then I dove right in to save the kid.

I felt like a pervert offering candy. "Pssst . . . little girl . . . come here. I have a little girl your age, and one of her favorite books is Homer Price. See? Right here. I'll bet you would like it. And look -- here's The Magician's Nephew. I'll bet you saw the movie The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe , right? And so . . ."

As if it had been scripted, the mom sneered at me and took the frightened little girl by the hand and said, "C'mon. Let's go . . ." And I am sad to report that she had a stack of Sweet Valley High books under her arm as they headed to check-out.

I felt like such a failure. I tried; I really, really tried. Poor kid and her summer at Sweet Valley High.

But it gave me an idea. Just as some do-gooders might hang outside the package store or corner bar to talk to customers about mending their ways, maybe a similar approach would work in the book section of the thrift store. A new mission for the ages. We could position ourselves throughout fiction and non-fiction (where the bottomless readers migrate) and really make a difference in our communities. We could wear the shoulder radios -- you know, to intimidate the offenders and beef up communication. A show of unity, too.

"Mary Kate and Ashley, Two of a Kind - Shore Thing at 3 o'clock . . . over. . ."

"Roger that . . . And we have a Goosebumps at 9 o'clock . . . over. . ."

"I'm going in . . . over . . ."

"I've got your back . . . over . . ."

A Few Words to the Class of 2009

2009-05-13T14:52:00.005-05:00

Whether you are graduating from kindergarten, high school or college, you will likely endure a graduation speech, given by someone whose name you will not remember in 20 years. Unless, of course, you graduated from my alma mater and were privileged enough to hear the nuggets of wisdom imparted by Mr. Bo Jackson last Saturday. (Click here. An aside to this: The time that Bo and I attended Auburn overlapped by a few quarters. It was a long time ago. Auburn was still on the quarter system. He once held the door open for me at Beard-Eaves in the middle of the day. I said, "Thanks, Bo." I wonder if he remembers it as I do.)

Now I'm no Heisman Trophy winner, nor am I arguably one of the greatest athletes of all times, but I will own a high school graduate in exactly one year, and I have spent an inordinate amount of time listing all the things that I need either to teach or reinforce in the one year she will still be at home. It's a very panicky feeling. I hate it, really. I've given some thought to writing a commencement speech just for her, delivering it from the hearth in the living room, but for now, it's only a makeshift list.

This list does not include the many things that she simply chooses to ignore. Like the importance of recording debits in a check register. Or why cereal bowls shouldn't be left on a bedroom dresser for days on end.

No, this is a separate and distinct list of Things That a High School Graduate Should Know So That She Has a Fulfilling and Independent Life and Doesn't Make Bonehead Mistakes.

We prefer that our kids make their bonehead mistakes here at home, so that we can watch them fall, then pick them up and brush them off.

Perhaps you'll find some merit in this list, which is written for the general audience. In no particular order:

Don't drink the Kool-Aid. Prisons are full of people who followed a leader or tried to fit in.

Failure doesn't signal the end of the world. Kids don't get to experience enough failure these days. I'm not talking about the kind of failure that makes you repeat a grade or lands you in a youth home. Just the run-of-the-mill failure that might leave you off the invitation list for the class pizza party or prevent your grandmother from giving you $10 at report card time. Too many kids will never know the joy of making a 'C,' only to regroup and pull out an 'A' by the end of the next nine weeks. If you are heading off to college but weren't fortunate enough to experience a little failure while living at home because your parents may have hovered too much, I hope you have a tolerant and forgiving roommate.

Change the oil in your car every 5,000 miles.

Get a dog. A dog can teach you a little something about humility. Just ask my friend David, whose Great Dane once suffered a pretty severe stomach virus on top of the a/c vent.

Stand out. Don't text everything. Send the occasional old-fashioned e-mail. Make a phone call. On a landline. Buy an overpriced stamp and mail a letter.

Watch out for the "have-to" things in this world. Like choosing china and crystal patterns. (These are not really important decisions, no matter what your mother says.)

Make new friends. You would think young people don't need to be reminded of this, but you would be wrong. I learned years ago that a person's friends don't form one big circle. They make circles. Some friends fit nicely into one of many circles, but the reality is that some circles will never intersect. Don't need to intersect.

True story: My husband and I met in college, but our circles never intersected. We later worked together, and I asked him, "Why didn't you hang in my circle in college?"

"Eh, I had enough friends." And while that seemed like the rudest answer in the world, it was an appropriate answer from an immatu . . . I mean, a young man who didn't yet know the value and honor of having many circles, rather than just one big circle. He has long since mended his ways and recognizes that juggling many circles has its rewards. One of my friends (from my "school circle") said she follows the same policy. She called these "concentric circles," which is a more accurate illustration because concentric circles share a center. My mental picture of friend circles had always been a collection of independent circles, but thanks to this school friend, I see that "concentric" might be the way to go. (See? Yet another advantage of having many circles. Some of my circles might not want to talk about "concentric vs. independent," but this member of the school circle did, thereby highlighting the importance of diversity.)

Major in a subject you enjoy, not endure. That's pretty big talk from an English major who is spending her Wednesday night writing a blog for no pay, but it's a pretty good rule of thumb.

Economy, Bacon and a Mother's Day Tribute (Friday Roundup)

2009-05-08T05:16:00.000-05:00

Let's just go ahead and get this out of the way . . . I am sick of this crap, crap, crappity, crap, crap, crappy economy. Care to know why? Because when advertising suffers, so must I. And so must all the nice people I work (worked) with and are now on the street looking for employment.

One morning this week . . . I was caught frying bacon at 6:45 a.m. ON A SCHOOL DAY. Suspicion mounted, and finally, the accusation: "Oh, I get it. Mother's Day is coming." Right. Like my ability to cook something any more complicated than a Toaster Strudel on a school day will net me anything more than a Mimosa and a gift card. Sometimes, a girl just has to have some bacon. That's all.

Speaking of Mother's Day . . . which is SUNDAY, I would like to pay tribute to the four people who I boss aro...I mean, mother. At the risk of being a little smarmy and personal and mother-like, I thought it might be a nice gesture to list three unique qualities about each child. But I'll use neither their names, nor their birth order. It will be like a fun party game, where they can figure out which one is which. Maybe I'll remember the answers and can tell them if they're right or wrong. And if you know me and my kids personally, you can join in on the fun and see who has been particularly well-behaved lately and stands in good favor (and remember, these are in no particular order):

1. writes stories every night, long after everyone is in bed, like we'll never know; will walk right past/around/over Dad to ask me a question; thinks Uncrustables are delicacies

2. the go-to person for inside information on anyone else in the house; the only one who gives hugs without wanting anything in return; vomits when someone says "vomit"

3. decided to go by the name "Roger" as a 2-year-old; truth be told, would probably still like to be 2 years old; creative streak a mile wide

4. occasionally wears a tiara to dinner; can keep a secret better than anyone on the planet; best table manners in the family

-----------------

And that's the Friday Roundup, a catch-all/catch-up after more than a week's absence. Whether you are a mom, have a mom or know a mom, Happy Mother's Day weekend (clinking of Mimosa glasses here) . . .

Party Games and a Little Dream Analysis

2009-04-29T18:00:00.002-05:00

After a full day of baptism and celebration this past Sunday, we gathered with about 30 of our friends to grill out burgers and play Pictionary Man.

While our customs might not be biblical, we think Jesus would approve.

To be truthful (as Jesus would want us to be), we sent the kids far, far away into the woods or somewhere, and then the women bored the men out of their skulls with all their coupon talk and bargain-shopping stories so that the men would retreat and leave us the heck alone. And then we sighed our collective "whew!" and conversation got a little spicier and more enjoyable, and then we broke out Pictionary Man.

Party games like Pictionary Man reveal a lot about friendships. Their strength. Their duration. The disbelief that so many people possess the TOTAL INABILITY TO DRAW. Tempers flared and a few pens were slammed on the table. Some examples why:

* Popeye was not a pirate. He was a sailor man. And no, he and Jack Sparrow do not resemble each other.

* "The Road to Misunderstanding" is not a TV show. Nobody knows what it is.

* Johnny Cash, Eddie Money and Johnny Paycheck are interchangeable when you're illustrating their names. This is not worth arguing about or trying to drive home a point. It's just a fact. A very real fact.

* Nobody really cares that you don't watch prime time TV. But if you paid attention to the occasional commercial and preview, you really would make a better Pictionary Man player.

* Clearly, people don't have to share the same musical tastes. But not knowing who the Red Hot Chili Peppers are, I have to say, is sort of unfortunate.

On to other matters . . .

When a person watches too much TV news and spends a little too much time online, that person can make himself a little obsessive and worrisome. This is not to say that we should ignore the threat of swine flu and share soft drinks with complete strangers on a subway, but you shouldn't be so worked up about things that you wake up in the middle of the night in a pool of sweat, fretting over another nightmare that is eerily similar to the storyline of I Am Legend.

My analysis: You are very scared of death and disease. And cleaning up vomit.

The very same night that this dream wormed its way into our house, I dreamed that I ran into one of my many friends named Michelle. We were both at the Birmingham International Airport, and she was heading to Atlanta to visit Six Flags. Her flight was announced, she said, "Oh, that's me! I have to go! I'll talk to you later!" And then she and her husband hopped aboard the Sky Buckets for what had to be a very long ride to Atlanta, as it was raining, and the Sky Buckets zip along at about 4 mph. In this dream, I was also traveling to Six Flags in Atlanta, but when I got there, the temperature had dropped to about 35 degrees, but I still rode the log ride and the Scream Machine.

My analysis: I'm not really worried about the swine flu.

Another Earth Day, Come and Gone; A Series of Questions (Friday Roundup)

2009-04-24T05:33:00.001-05:00

A full week has passed . . . since my last post, and the only thing of any consequence to share is that Earth Day 2009 has come and gone. So I offer the folowing recap . . .

How I Celebrated Earth Day

and Now My Carbon Footprint Is As Big As Texas

* washed and dried four loads of clothes

* answered "you betcha' " when the grocery bagger asked if plastic was OK

* ate lunch with a friend and brought the leftovers home in a styrofoam box

* once home, I stacked the styrofoam box on top of yet another styrofoam box carried out from a restaurant the previous night and put them both on the top shelf of a refrigerator that is probably less than energy-efficient because it is 19 years old, but the way I look at it, we've saved space in a landfill by not tossing it in a trash heap and replacing it with a more energy-efficient and fashionable stainless steel model

* ran the dishwasher when it wasn't fully loaded

* replaced plastic bags in trash cans throughout the house

* took two showers -- one in the a.m., one in the p.m.

* didn't bother to turn off the kids' lamps before I turned in for the evening, and my bedroom TV remained on throughout the entire night

My sister is a college professor . . . and whatever it is she teaches has something to do with counseling. And that can only mean one thing: her extended family is a series of case studies paraded before students who will one day take our experiences and use them as a measuring stick of Things Not To Do, or Oh Yeah? Well, I Can Top That Story or Stop Your Whining; You Don't Know Crazy.

But that's OK because I have my own ways of publicizing the weirdness and absurdities that make our family what it is. I just don't have a captive audience of college students. So, why is it, Amy, that you continue to take the bait? The bait being, of course, questions and conversations that provide some sort of insight into why I am the way I am -- and why everyone else is the way they are and MY GOSH why can't they just see how wrong they are and straighten up?And then the questions and conversations are undoubtedly charted, graphed and summarized and posted on a SmartBoard and analyzed to death while young people sit in her classroom and shake their heads.

The latest question came in the form of an e-mail and pointed me to an online assessment. It was loosely disguised as the basis of a "genogram," which sounds like a psychological chart useful in studies, but it's actually Latin for "Your family is crazy, and we'll show you just how bad it is." But I'm nothing if not helpful and willing to serve the greater cause of higher education, so there you go. I responded to questions in totally contradictory ways, just to skew the score and make her and her students want to bring me in as a guest speaker and provide me with a boxed lunch in the Student Union.

Her request: When you have a minute and just feel like taking a personality assessment, take this test http://www.humanmetrics.com/cgi-win/JTypes2.asp. Send me your 4 letter code. This is a real personality assessment (just a short online version). I'm trying to do a genogram as a class example and I need you and Daddy to do this for me because I think you two probably will get similar, if not the same, results. I think mine will be similar to yours with a slight difference.

After tallying my results, which were nothing more than a four-letter code with corresponding percentages, I e-mailed my score and tacked on a few questions: "Why did they misspell extrovert? Where did you get this? The student health center?" My second response was "This thing is wrong. I'm so much more judgmental than it says I am."

I didn't point out the other concerns I had with this particular assessment, but they bear mentioning here (statements required a "yes" or "no" response):

"You are consistent in your habits." Isn't that what a habit is? Consistent behavior?

"You prefer to spend your leisure time alone or relaxing in a tranquil family atmosphere." Maybe I don't understand the question, but these seem mutually exclusive to me. And I'm not really sure what "tranquil" has to do with "family atmosphere." The middle of the night? When everyone's asleep? And if you're alone, can you be in a family atmosphere?

"You often spend time thinking of how things could be improved." Like this test. I was inventing all sorts of ways this test could more accurately assess my personality and therefore be an improved model of psychological evaluation.

"You prefer to read a book than go to a party." That depends on the book -- and the party.

"The more people with whom you speak, the better you feel." I'm not even sure what this means. Which people? Some people can make you want to drive off a bridge; others, you leave the room dancing on your toes. So the variables are just too numerous. Generally, however, talking can be fun, I guess. Does it lift my mood? I suppose it depends on what the other person says. "You look really thin in that dress" would make me feel better than, say, "Huh, I thought you were so much older."

Yippee! Friday! Cool stuff going on this weekend. And no, I'm not talking about Talladega. Full report to be posted early next week . . .

Duggar Tots, Networking and More Networking, the Tea Parties (Friday Roundup)

2009-04-17T05:21:00.006-05:00

Smells like the Duggars 'Round Here ... I mean, it smells like the Duggars are cooking! After a long Easter Sunday, we sat on our screened porch with friends, discussing everything under the sun. And among the information we shared and delighted in was a recipe that apparently causes our friends to suffer such anticipation that they form a semi-circle around the oven, just waiting ... and waiting ... and waiting. They made it sound so enticing, in fact, that I demanded a list of ingredients right then and there: tater tots, ground beef, cream of mushroom soup, cream of chicken soup (you read correctly) and a can of evaporated milk.

Curiosity bubbled inside me like a can of cream of mushroom soup simmering at 350 degrees for a full hour. So I gave the recipe a try Thursday.

Some bloggers post photos of their food, but I don't think a photo would do this dish justice. In fact, it might be a real turn-off. What this casserole offers in terms of animal protein and cream soups, it sort of lacks in visual appeal.

From the dinner table:

"What is this?"

"Duggar Tots."

"What's a Duggar?"

"A family on TV."

"The midgets?"

"No, they're the people with 18 kids." Pause, awkward glances, more pause.

"This lacks ... color. It's sort of ... gray. Maybe next time you should add some vegetables, or some bell peppers."

Or just MAYBE I should leave it AS IS because everyone enjoyed a heaping helping -- some of them, even two heaping helpings. Go, Duggars and your innovative casserole recipes!

And more networking ... I may have pointed out earlier this week that networking can be such a drag. But so can empty pockets. Everyone around me is having to reinvent the way they do business, so here I am, networking away. Under the category of "shameless self-promotion," you'll find me on http://www.vulcanmediateam.com/ and on the blogroll of http://www.birminghambloggingacademy.com/. And I'll not complain about networking any more. At the risk of sounding like a Miss America contestant, this is sort of fun -- making new friends, exploring new opportunities, stepping off well-traveled paths and wandering onto new ones. God bless America. And now, for the talent portion, I will be twirling a baton of fire while playing the harmonica and clanging cymbals strapped to my knees ...

If I had attended the Chicago tea party Wednesday ... I would have dumped an entire kettle on Susan Roesgen's head. Even if I agreed with her political views, which she made so crystal clear, I would say her work on Wednesday is among the best examples of bad journalism a person could hope to see. If you don't know what I'm talking about, click here.

It reminds me of a morning a few weeks ago when I was watching The Today Show and Matt, Meredith and Ann were standing behind canvases and easels, and a nude model stood in the front of the art studio. One of my kids walked in and asked, "What in the world are you watching?"

"The news."

And then she laughed. Then I realized how stupid I sounded.

There's bad news all around us. We shouldn't have to put up with bad reporting, too. Yowsa.

Everybody's workin' for the weekend ... and here it is! Turn off the TV, make some new friends, and host your own tea party. Tots are optional.

A Little Blog Detour

2009-04-15T20:43:00.003-05:00

If you're looking for a new blog post, I put it here Tuesday. I like to keep you guessing . . . and hopping . . . like I'm running some sort of weird scavenger hunt or something.

Caving in to Social Networking and Stepping Outside the Crappy Box

2009-04-14T10:56:00.009-05:00

Apparently Facebook has a professional and businesslike cousin named LinkedIn. But it's not just another of those social networking opportunities that makes people drool and bang away on the keyboard all hours of the night as they stalk other accounts and post things like, "Sure is cold today!"

Indeed, LinkedIn may be the missing link between staying in business and experiencing a full-tilt mid-life crisis.

But first, a confession: I hate networking. Oh, Amy, "hate" is such a strong word. I know, and that's why I chose it. I prefer for work just to land in my lap, on my screen, in my mailbox. To go out and find it can be a pain, and you fear rejection and neglect and all those things that make you feel like you're in high school all over again.

But in a crappy economy overwhelmed by technology, networking has taken on a different, albeit 24-hour, form. You have to connect and reconnect and use words like "connect" and "reconnect." Those are difficult tasks to master, when all you really want to do is write and earn a paycheck.

But this is still good news: If you hate cocktail parties and meet-and-greet sessions where you have to wear things like shoes and figure out how to balance a dessert plate and glass in one hand in order to shake someone else's hand, tools like LinkedIn may be part of the solution. That's right -- I caved. I resisted long enough and ignored too many invitations to LinkedIn to believe it's totally useless. So far, so good. No weirdos, no stalkers.

This just in from a fellow freelancer during an e-mail exchange re: social networking: "I prefer it easy too, but I'm thinking those days are over. I saw a story about all these publishing folks our age taking unpaid internships to learn new aspects of the biz. I think I'll just try to write a novel instead."

She may be on to something. Or on something. I have no desire to take on an internship. And I really don't want to learn new aspects about much of anything. I just want to do what I do. On the other hand, can a person just up and write a novel, and all is right with the world?

I'm not a novel-writing kind of girl, but maybe it's high time to step outside the box. Or go running and screaming outside the box. Or to allow the crappy economy to repossess the box so that I can add other things to my workload.

The cat is still in the bag, and he is doing his darndest to get out, but let's hope he doesn't suffocate before 2010. That's when Project No. 1 will be complete. He will love that his name is mentioned again in this space (because that's the way he is), so my friend DAVID and I are finally going to collaborate, after talking about it for some 20-odd years. I just hope we don't kill each other in the process. It would be a shame for a 25-year friendship to go up in smoke simply because he won't give in to my creative thoughts and admit that my visions are sometimes better than his. Besides, he needs me, and he knows it. I'm a much better speller.

So, that's Project No. 1. There it is. I'm committed.

Project No. 2? It's on the backburner, simmering away. I hope it doesn't boil over and cause a big distracting mess.

Updates to come via LinkedIn. Because that's what networkers do.

Barry Manilow: The Greatest Songs of the Eighties (An Album Review)

2009-04-08T10:05:00.002-05:00

From an alert reader (my cousin, Chris), writing in response to the prom blog and its reference to Mr. Barry Manilow:

Just a note that the other day as I was driving I-285 and listening to intelligent discussion on a local sports-talk show, they were discussing how unmanly I, and apparently one other man in Atlanta, was to have any Barry Manilow song on their iPod. Not sure how or why, but as I was driving ALONE I looked into the rear-view mirror and saw that I was embarrassed ...

Now, not to cause you any further embarrassment, Chris, but a true Fanilow would neither be ashamed of his appreciation for superior adult-contemporary music and musical genius, nor would he question his own manhood because he happens to have excellent musical taste. I am not a man, but I imagine that if I were, I would still recognize Manilow's talent for what it is: unmatched.

The remorseful e-mail I received from Chris prompted me to grab all of my Manilow CDs (and there are plenty) as I was walking out the door Tuesday so that I could sing my heart out in carpool lines. Much of Manilow's repertoire is on my iPod--where it serves a healthy purpose at the gym, the park, on long car rides--but the iPod is a handy listening device when you're craving certain music, but the rest of the car population is not. What a refreshing change of pace to have the CDs playing at full volume so that I could sing like I was performing in an Up With People halftime show.

Yet I feel compelled to provide the following reader service.

Barry Manilow: The Greatest Songs of the Eighties may be a misleading title.

I borrowed this CD from the public library the same month it was released (November 2008). That alone should tell you something--that someone had already discarded it and donated it to the public library. Maybe they, too, were misled. Barry Manilow + greatest songs of the '80s should = songs by Barry Manilow released in the '80s. Instead, this is a compilation of Manilow COVERS of songs that I would argue are not all that great. Good? Yes. Memorable? Certainly. Greatest? Not so fast, mister. I hastily uploaded it to my iPod, and have regretted it ever since.

Here's why: Islands in the Stream (with Reba McIntire), Open Arms, Never Gonna Give You Up, Have I Told You Lately, I Just Called to Say I Love You, Careless Whisper, Right Here Waiting, Arthur's Theme, Hard to Say I'm Sorry, Time After Time, and I've Had the Time of My Life.

And then he really lost me with (and you won't believe the irony of this at all): Against All Odds.

The reputation of Barry Manilow's musical stylings were largely compromised with this release. If I were independently wealthy, I would gobble up all copies of this disc from eBay, Amazon and public libraries everywhere, just to keep them off the street and keep the kids safe.

I am forever devoted to Manilow (he had me at It's a Miracle). Nothing can shake that. But as he was going through his cover phase, he should have stopped with the '70s. He should not have stooped to '80s covers. (And I am an '80s girl at heart; and I firmly believe some things are better left untouched.)

I do love Barry Manilow. He writes the songs that make all the young girls cry (and make old women sing). I used to dream of being pulled on stage to sing the "Can't Smile Without You" duet with him, but his roadies (does Barry Manilow have roadies?) have never chosen me. And then he moved his show to Las Vegas, where, apparently, it will stay. But if he ever leaves the Las Vegas Hilton and ventures back to our amphitheatre, I'll do whatever it takes. Underwear on the stage. Big poster. Whatever.

A P.S. to Chris, whose favorite Manilow song is Mandy: Mandy may have given without taking, but the legend surrounding that song is that Mandy was a dog.

Let's Talk About Proms

2009-04-06T06:27:00.005-05:00

Here's what I know about proms: not much.

The theme of the only one I ever attended was Almost Paradise, the smarmy love song from Footloose. But the prom SONG was the theme from Against All Odds from the largely forgettable movie of the same name. (Go ahead and Google all day long to figure out the year I graduated.) Performed by Phil Collins, it was a lovely song ... the first 100 times you heard it. But when you're one of 389 seniors and the song is played over and over during the prom lead-out, well, you begin to develop a small tic.

How can you just walk away from me,
When all I can do is watch you leave ...

I'll tell you how. It's this SONG. Played on a cassette recorder and broadcast over and over and over again on the P.A. system in a run-down civic center with a pink and purple Almost Paradise backdrop in the corner where photos were shot. Just watch me. This is me, walking away, with Phil Collins crooning, rewind, play, crooning, rewind, play, crooning.

You must know, though, that the theme of Almost Paradise was hardly a shoo-in at voting time, as Whiskey Bent and Hell Bound came in a close second.

If I were to go back in time, I would probably have spoken up and come up with a third option. Like, "Let's Blow This Taco Stand and Move On With Our Lives," or "Wake Me When It's Over," or "Can't We Just Skip This and Graduate Already?"

My own daughter's prom was Saturday night. And that is hard to believe because I don't seem old enough to have a high school junior, but nonetheless, she went to her prom and looked lovely. Probably lovelier than anyone else did. I'll never know for sure, as I didn't follow her to the prom or to the prom prelude picture party, which was apparently a media event attended by every parent in town. Except us because we were not hip to the latest trend in prom protocol, which dictates that moms and dads are supposed to follow their kids all over town, snapping pictures like they're at the Academy Awards. In the weeks to come, we are fully prepared to be talked about as That Couple Who Didn't Follow Their Daughter Around Half the Night. And I will follow with a retort that goes something like, "Hey, we didn't get that memo, and since when do parents hide in the bushes like paparazzi and snap photos of their kids eating coconut shrimp?"

It wasn't until Sunday night that it occurred to me that I didn't know much about what went on at the actual prom--never mind the pre- and post-events that seemed to have no end. "Hey, did this thing have a theme?"

"It was 'Midnight Masquerade.'"

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know. But one girl actually wore a mask."

"A mask? For how long?"

"The entire night. Her name is Julia ... but she called herself Jenny." And then we laughed until we nearly wet ourselves. (Not only was my daughter lovelier than anyone else's daughter -- she also has a better sense of humor.)

"Did you have a theme song?"

"A theme song? What's that?"

And I just didn't have the energy to explain it. Besides, there probably wasn't an explanation. But I do know that Barry Manilow is highly critical of senior classes that (in the '70s and '80s) chose his vocal masterpiece Looks Like We Made It as either their prom or class song. I've seen Mr. Manilow in concert enough times to know how this really gets his goat. "Did these kids ever listen to the lyrics?" he asks at concerts. And everyone laughs at his self-deprecating joke.

Being the Fanilow that I am, I committed those lyrics to memory while singing into a hairbrush when I was in junior high. Did that make me the coolest kid in the hall? Absolutely not. But I knew enough to know that Looks Like We Made It was about moving away from old paths and letting old feelings die. Hardly the stuff that prom and graduation dreams are made of. Teenage angst is built on grudges and hard feelings and obsessing over ex-boyfriends and girlfriends.

While prom themes may still be alive and kicking, prom songs seem to be a dying breed. And why not? What else is there to choose from? I Hate This Part? Boom Boom Pow? Right Round? Put a Ring On It?

And to bring this thing full circle, I asked my husband, who graduated the same year I did, but half a state away, "Do you remember your prom theme? Your prom song?"

"Oh, who knows. It was that Phil Collins Against All Odds song. Or that may have been our graduation song. I don't remember. That song was in there somewhere." Just think, some 20something years ago, a teenage boy and a teenage girl a half-state apart were listening to that same song ad nauseum, at a prom, at graduation and the weeks in between, wondering what in the world those lyrics had to do with their senior year. And 20something years later, they're still wondering. They can't remember what they had for dinner or where they last saw their (car keys, wallet, sewing scissors, fill in the blank), but they remember that song.

P.S. -- After more than a solid month's absence from the book review blog, I've returned. Go check it out at excellentbookreviews.blogspot.com. But be warned: It's a reprint, or reprise, or redo, or cop-out. I hope you enjoy it anyway.

The Economy Takes Its Toll on the Dollhouse

2009-03-30T05:58:00.006-05:00

I keep a small dollhouse at the foot of my desk so that two little people can play there and interrupt my work and drive me to distraction. One day, I'll move it. Or, more likely, they'll soon be too big to crawl under there and play dollhouse. But for now, it is where it is.

This is a simple wooden frame house with no staircase, no light fixtures, no anything, really. Santa delivered it two years ago, and it is a bare-bones dollhouse, just like the ones you might see at Michael's for 19.99 around the holiday season. Some say this particular dollhouse is intended to be a bookshelf or storage unit of some sort. The rooms are divided, and there's a pitched roof. Santa and I say it's a dollhouse. And so do the two little girls who, with the help of their older sister, painted the interiors, made their own furniture from empty cardboard boxes that once contained bar soap, cream cheese or lip gloss. They made quilts from felt scraps and tiny books from tiny pieces of cardboard. They've made it a real showplace.

And lest you think the residents of this dollhouse are roughing it because they sleep on kitchen trash, watch TV mini-series broadcast from a discarded matchbox and have lawn ornaments made from Tinker Toys, know that this family is just happy to wake up each morning. The grandmother had half her head chewed off by a Welsh Corgi about 100 times her size. With no money for plastic surgery and other corrective measures, she just wanders through the house on one leg and half her head. One of the little girls is MIA, and nobody seems to remember what she looked like. So the search and rescue efforts were called off. For a brief time, a Polly doll played substitute sister, like when Sarah Chalke suddenly appeared as Becky on Roseanne, and nobody was supposed to notice. Eventually, though, the substitute move was abandoned, and the family seemed to move on with things. One less mouth to feed.

This dollhouse family has, no doubt, fallen on hard times through the years. The latest scenarios seem to indicate that the family has taken a real beating from this economy. A word-for-word transcript (they don't know I'm eavesdropping on this Saturday afternoon):

"My girl is a student because she can't get a job."

"My girl is so poor, she has only two dresses."

"That is so sad."

After 10 minutes of beating the economic downturn storyline to death, conversation turned to this:

"Your girl wasn't downstairs when the car was leaving, so she has to walk to school." (Hard to get downstairs without steps, don't you think?)

"OK, this is kind of confusing. So my girl missed the car?"

"Yep, she's walking."

"Where is the school?"

"Two miles away."

The pink convertible Polly car flees from the residence at top speed.

"Hey, my girl can't run that fast! Make the car slow down!"

"Eight hours later ..."

"They're already going back home?"

"Sorry."

"OK, now pretend the girls are already home."

"My girl has been out for, like, 10 hours."

"My girl is eating at Starbucks."

Laughter.

"You can eat at Starbucks, you know. Like, cakes."

"True."

"My girl fell asleep on her bed."

Lots of sighing here. Signs of frustration. I'm anticipating something is about to be thrown against the wall.

"You need to make the days more exciting. Make it ... summer. Let's take advantage of summer."

"Can I borrow one of the extra dresses? Maybe an extra outfit?"

"WAIT! That wasn't even a real day! That day was so boring! We need some actual action from summer days! Seriously."

"You want more action?"

"But not too much."

"I'm jumping off the roof! I'm jumping off the roof! Concussion! Concussion!"

. . . And this is why the dollhouse is under my desk and not upstairs in a bedroom.

Big Night at the Not-So-OK Corral (Friday Roundup)

2009-03-27T16:21:00.003-05:00

(Editor's Note: Friday Roundup usually appears on Friday. That didn't happen this week. BECAUSE EVERYTHING ELSE HAPPENED Friday, and frankly, I was too distracted and exhausted. But I was able to go back and date it as Friday--you know, to keep me from appearing inconsistent.)

During Spring Break Road Trip '09, ... one of the many attractions we visited was an undisclosed location of Golden Corral, that oasis of buffet dining that beckons weary travelers and satisfies with a mighty punch. Few places can deliver such a variety of entrees (meatloaf and spaghetti ON THE SAME BAR), a buffet of carb-related side items (baked potato bar, fried okra AND macaroni and cheese), all punctuated with soft-serve ice cream and mini lemon pies. And when you're lucky? It's seafood night!

And seafood night means fried clam strips, fried cod, fried scallops, fried catfish, fried coconut shrimp and just about anything that you could pull out of a body of water, dip in flour and throw in grease. Similar buffets go the extra mile and throw in seafood salad, which has become our family's punchline for just about everything, after one family member ate three helpings of warm seafood salad in Bowling Green, Kentucky (but it was not at a Golden Corral) and barely made it out alive. "I don't know what made me sick. I think it could have been the seafood salad."

"You think? What about seafood salad served at room temperature appealed to you?" And on that particular night, some five years ago, we just left him in the prone position, groaning on the hotel floor, and we journeyed on to the heated pool. He eventually rebounded. We knew he would. He's a tough cookie.

Back to the story. This was the last night of our seven-day trip, so nothing but the best for our family. "Have at it, kids! Eat all you want! Just don't hurt yourselves." We waved farewell from the table and watched the troops descend upon three different serving areas. Would they make good choices? Would they get injured? Would we be proud of them at the end of the evening?

Our instructions had been, in the end, too little, too late. Within the hour, two were in the bathroom, one was crying at the table, the fourth was holding her head and slumped down in her chair. Was it the excitement of the evening? Decision overload? Overindulgence? Did they eat the seafood salad?

While the entire dining process should have begun and ended within a 60-minute window, an unexpected (not really; this always happens) chain of events delayed our departure. I sat at the table wearing my coat and holding my purse, waiting for everyone's return, as I watched a table of Red Hat Society ladies initiate a pledge. Or whatever it is they do to new members. Maybe Golden Corral is part of the ritual. I call "hazing." And that's wrong.

Two of my own returned from the bathroom, one looking slightly anemic, the other barely able to walk. "Can we just go? NOW? Can we just GO?"

"What in the world is wrong with you? You were fine just 15 minutes ago, pounding back those bottomless bowls of ice cream."

"I don't want to talk about it."

And then, the full report, uttered through labored breathing and the occasional abdominal hold. "There was a guy in the bathroom, and he came out of his stall, HOLDING HIS PLATE."

"Holding his plate? Like, with food on it?"

"No, he was holding it against his chest."

"That's not right. You can get all the plates you want. It's not like anyone is going to take it away from him. Maybe we should tell someone."

"Tell someone what? That a guy took an empty plate into the bathroom stall?"

"Absolutely. This is a restaurant, not an asylum."

I was outvoted. We didn't narc out the plate weirdo. We didn't blow any whistles. Those of us who knew when to say "when" walked in an upright position, waved at our waiter who had supplied us with about two dozen clean plates and headed to the car. The others? They eventually rebounded. They're tough cookies.

-------

Spring fever ... is a terrible, terrible thing. Not the kind of spring fever that makes you do crazy things, like clean closets and host a garage sale, but the kind that turns everything yellow, and you wash your car and patio cushions, only to have to do the same thing again the next day. And the next.

I'm talking about the kind that makes your throat hurt, your head pound and your nose bleed. My son contracts such severe cases of spring fever that we have thrown away shirts and pillow cases. We call these "crime-scene nosebleeds." And before you start offering your little remedies, know that we've tried them all. We just roll our eyes and mutter, "There he goes again." The first occurred when he was only 3, and we thought he was hemorrhaging to death. The physician on call in the ER that night took one look at him and asked, "Does he always look like this?" Two hours and $250 later, he was diagnosed with The Most Severe Case of Spring Allergies You've Ever Seen. Very unfortunate.

While talking to my dad on the phone this week, he launched into a tirade about the pollen, his allergies and how his symptoms are worse than anybody's on earth.

"Oh, you don't know allergies. We had to throw away a shirt last night after one of the crime-scene nosebleeds." And we one-upped each other for a few rounds ... until this: "Oh, that's nothin'. I sneezed so hard yesterday that it set off the paper shredder on the other side of the room." Now that's a sneeze he should be proud of. He wins.

-------

If you're reading this on Saturday, the day it's actually being posted, hope the remainder of your weekend is allergy- and pollen-free.

Barefoot Ambassadors -- Keepin' It Real (Spring Break '09)

2009-03-26T11:50:00.004-05:00

My son and I found ourselves barefoot and looking for some free WiFi in our DC hotel last week. We landed in the business center, located in the lower lobby, a full floor beneath the elegant and crowded main lobby, where people wore shoes and chatted and conducted business and were all D.C.-like.

Our entire family had walked no fewer than 14 miles that day. Some of those miles formed a complete circle around a city block that, some of us knew, was leading us nowhere, but one of us wouldn't admit that it might be time to ask for directions before we all got so dizzy from going 'round and 'round.

When we returned to the hotel after what is now known as The Hard Rock Walk-a-thon, we limped off the elevator and down the hallway toward our room. "I feel like Michelle Trachtenberg in Ice Princess after Kim Cattrall gave her those faulty ice skates and her feet were mangled and bleeding everywhere."

"That's not funny, Mama." Two of the kids were crying. D.C. can do a number on a person's feet.

It was nearing 9 p.m. when we walked into our room. "I need some WiFi," I said.

"I'm going with you, but I'm not wearing shoes." He's 13. I would expect no less. Or no more.

"OK by me. I'm not either."

"I'm not even going to wear socks." I had the decency to wear socks.

And neither of these decisions should have been a big deal, as we were going to bypass the lobby and head straight for the basement--the quiet, empty basement area where nobody will be because who wants to spend St. Patrick's Day night in the business center of a D.C. hotel?

I'll tell you who: a mother-son pair from Alabama checking e-mail and a high-powered Irish businesswoman with strong government ties who was trying to get a little work done ... until the mother-son pair from Alabama walked in.

"Don't mind us. We'll stay out of your way."

And in the most Irish of accents, Aileen talked with us for at least 45 minutes about the economy in Ireland, her grassroots effort to repair it, her fascinating itinerary while in the States and how we really should make plans to be in the lobby within the next hour so that we can get a glimpse of the Prime Minister of Ireland. "He'll be returning from the White House dinner shortly, and we're all going to be gathering in the lobby and bar."

And all I could think was, "Wait, Ireland has a Prime Minister?" Instead, I said, "The Prime Minister of Ireland is here?" (Good save.)

"Yes, he's staying in this hotel. Have you not seen him?"

"I have no idea," I thought. "I may have even been on the elevator with him." (Americans can be so insulated.)

So our conversation wrapped up, we exchanged e-mail addresses, handshakes and pleasantries, and we were sad to see our new friend go. Fortunately, my astute son had the foresight to Google "Brian Cowen." And I never had to tell him to.

An hour later, we left the business center and all of its glorious free internet and headed to our fifth-floor hotel room via the elevator, which was already being held by an Irishman (well-dressed and wearing shoes). We looked at the floor the entire time, hoping he would think we were street people and not hotel guests who didn't know any better. While we were looking at the floor and not the elevator buttons, the doors opened to ... the main lobby. And there stood Aileen, who was waving her hands in the air and shouting our names. "Come with me! I've told the prime minister all about you!"

Nothing about this could be good. What had she told him? Everything you've ever heard about Alabamians is true? This mother and son have broken into the hotel business center so they can check e-mail? You're not going to believe the accents from these people? The Clampetts are in this very hotel?

I think she pulled me by the arm. And there we stood, in the crowded lobby of people in formal wear and shiny shoes. "He's in the bar. He's waiting for you."

"But WHY? And NO. We cannot go past the Secret Service and into the hotel bar like this."

"Oh, don't be silly."

My son grabbed my other arm and said, "We have to do this. It will never happen again."

"Oh, I hope you're right." And I looked at him at the very moment that he licked his hand, then smoothed his hair. We're nothing if not classy.

And the next thing we knew, we were led past Secret Service and were standing at the edge of a circle of important Irish men and women, looking the way we did. Brian Cowen stood, extended his hand, addressed both of us by name, and somebody took our picture.

I wanted to tell Aileen, the Prime Minister and everyone seated in that arrangement of chairs in that dimly lit bar that despite our dress and general lack of grooming, we can be very gracious people. We don't always look like this. Sometimes it's worse.

More than two hours had passed since we had left our hotel room for the business center. I opened the door to our hotel room, not to a hearty "WELCOME BACK!," but to a "Where in the world have you been? I've looked all over this place!" My husband then rattled off the many areas of the hotel where he searched high and low before returning to the room and assuming we had been kidnapped or forever lost in the nation's capital. "But the cool thing is," he said, "on my way back to the room, I was on the elevator with a Congressman from New York and an Irish guy, and they ..."

"You can just stop right there with your little story."

"Wait, there's more! They were talking about ..."

"No, really, you can just stop right there. We are so going to trump your story." And we did.

The next morning, we were in the White House, standing in the East Room, where the Irish had only 12 hours earlier enjoyed a St. Patrick's Day celebration with the Obamas. We knew this because we had the inside track from Aileen -- and The Today Show. And standing in the East Room, right beside us, was a Secret Service agent who told us about the party from the night before and all the food, and it was in this room, and blah, blah, blah. And the Prime Minister of Ireland was here."

"Oh, we know. His friends told us ALL about it."

In the days that followed, the entire event played over in my mind with a bunch of if-onlys. If only we had changed clothes. If only I had brushed my hair. If only the rest of the family could have been there. If only my son didn't spit-shine his hair. If only we had worn shoes. But it played out the way it played out.

Earlier this week, now back in Alabama, I received an e-mail from Aileen, who is now back in Dublin. A portion follows:

... I have relayed the story several times (especially how you were reluctant to come into the bar because you were both in your stocking feet). That was a fun thing to do – my kids enjoyed the story, so did the various other politicians and political advisers who came into the bar later that night. The Irish are known to be impulsive – and you saw this at first hand. We are also quite casual (a few of us kicked off our high heels that evening and were walking around in our stocking feet, so you weren’t alone) ...

A show of solidarity from the Irish and a new trend in hotel protocol and dress code.

You're welcome, D.C.

Monday Sure Looks a Lot Like Tuesday

2009-03-24T12:30:00.003-05:00

... and that's a fair criticism. So, to make amends and give you a small preview of what may be to come, I offer you this handful of glimpses into Spring Break '09. (What did you expect? Club La Vela? C'mon. We have four kids.)

On the steps of St. John's Church, where Michelle and Barack attended an interfaith prayer service the morning of the inauguration. You might remember that the color of Michelle's dress was almost the same as the color of the church. Our hotel was only two doors down from St. John's, so we felt very inaugural as we passed the church about 100 times each day.

Try as we might, we couldn't break through security to enter Nancy Pelosi's office. And that's too bad because I had typed a fairly detailed agenda for our meeting. Sort of disappointing.

Barney Frank's office is just around the corner from our Congressman's office. We didn't see Frank in person, but when the House convened that night, our 8-year-old was watching C-Span in our hotel room when the honorable Congressman from Massachusetts took the podium. "Hey! Hey! Barney Frank is on TV!" Now, I ask you, how many 8-year-olds from a politically conservative family from Alabama say this each day?

One of these things is not like the other. The first three look like they're standing in the rain on a Sunday evening after: a) being in the car most of the day; and b) walking in the drizzling rain the rest of the time. The fourth one might be medicated.

This is me, after sharing a hotel room with five other people for six consecutive nights. Or, it's an exhibit at the Museum of Natural History. Same thing.

Please check back throughout this week. So much more to share from our nation's capital, from Williamsburg and from an undisclosed location of Golden Corral.

Back to Business on Monday ...

2009-03-20T06:00:00.000-05:00

It's amazing what happens to a person's traffic stats when she doesn't post for an entire week. The numbers skyrocket. Maybe I should just sit here and not write a thing.

To any of you who might be wondering if I fell off the face of the earth, I didn't, really. But I do have stories to tell next week. This is spring break, you know, and I am enjoying it and gathering all sorts of material. You'll see.

Check in Monday. And have a very great weekend ...

Flashback to Winter Storm 2009

2009-03-11T11:58:00.009-05:00

More than one week ago, I hinted that I would share photos from Winter Storm 2009. The storm was March 1. As you might recall, I was suffering severe malaise and a touch of TB. Many of these photos--and you will not believe this, I know--were taken from inside my kitchen, through a closed window. Despite these sad conditions, the quality is nothing short of remarkable. The content, however, is a little boring. And for that, I apologize. I did the best I could in my decrepit state.

My oldest child is missing from these photos. Maybe she got lost in the snow. Maybe she was busily taking photos of her own. If she went missing, she somehow found her way home because I've seen her since then.

" Wow," you're probably saying, "that is one cute kid!" And you're one alert reader.

The deepest snow was found on the deck. That's where the sad little snowman was born ... and where he died, about 48 long hours later, following a heat stroke. I can't remember his name, but I do remember it being clever.

This is my favorite. It looks like a scene from The Shining or some equally disturbing movie where someone is about to be killed or spooked. If that bothers you, then make believe these two kids are foraging for nuts and berries, or maybe kindling for the fire.

I don't remember this snowman's name either, and I don't know who took this picture. You can see that he was properly outfitted with Mardi Gras beads. He lasted a good three days, then met his demise as the thermometer climbed to 50something. He looked pretty silly in his final hours, sitting in the weeds and pretending to be all snowmanlike, without a head or abdomen and a strand of beads on the ground.

Wait just a minute! Why is this man wearing my Woolrich coat? What was wrong with his own coat? A person is sick, and her family just rifles through her closet and takes whatever they darn well please, knowing she can't fight back. And then they photograph the entire misstep, like it will later be part of a ransom.

Amy & the Amazing Monochromatic Dreamcoat

2009-03-10T11:45:00.001-05:00

After Winter Storm '09, I took an inventory of heavy coats and decided it was high time some of them should be washed. While my coat never left the closet because I was lying in state on the couch--and we'll just leave it at that because to revive any discussion on the matter would result in either divorce or an unfortunate blame game that scares the children because, let's face it, I'm not a very good patient; more of a whiny impatient, you could say--I figured my coat could stand a few spins in the washing machine, too. Besides, I thought, how long has it been since I washed this coat?

Well, let's see. I bought it in 1983 with money earned by flipping burgers and stirring dehydrated onions WITH MY HAND at Krystal. I saved and saved so that I could drive my '66 VW Bug to the men's store to purchase the very trendy Woolrich hunting jacket. Retail price: $99. That's a lot of tiny burgers. Especially when you consider minimum wage in Alabama was $3.35.

This coat has many, many snapping and zipping pockets and an indestructible, unstainable outer layer, probably designed by NASA, with an inner layer of sweat-inducing tartan plaid. It is featured in photos that span a 26-year history that includes college, a honeymoon, winter vacations, a trip to the hospital to deliver my only winter baby, field trips and who knows what all. It is a timeless favorite that knows no fashion trend. Warmth + pockets + a hood = a solid go-to winter coat. I don't care who you are; this is one practical garment.

I wore this coat through college and then on our honeymoon more than 18 years ago. About eight years ago, I remember, I emptied the pockets to find receipts and brochures from that same honeymoon. And then I washed the coat. So that's one wash. And maybe I should say that I've washed it maybe one other time since then, just so you won't think we're total filth balls here.

So, Amy, how does it hold up in a spin cycle? Well, I will tell you that of the maybe two or three times I've washed it in 26 years of proud ownership, it seems to do quite well. And the pockets are like time capsules. Last week, as I emptied all of them--and there are many--before tossing the coat into the washer, I found perfectly preserved brochures, receipts and admission tickets that are as legible and clean as when I first tucked them away.

A pamphlet from a Dahlonega gold mine tour (circa 2001) bears only one crease, and the paper hasn't yellowed one shade. Admission tickets to Jamestown Settlement & Yorktown Victory Center (circa 2003), mint condition. Alabama Coastal Birding Trail--your guess is as good as mine. Tennessee Aquarium (circa 2006) ticket stubs look like they were printed just moments ago.

And like those sad and crazy people you see on TV who can't part with even the tiniest piece of paper and instead pile it into the spare bedroom and carve a path along the carpeted floor so they can continue to pile more papers and craft items, I found myself with a problem. What do I do with the papers? The receipts? The brochures? A normal person would THROW THEM AWAY. But I couldn't. I examined them. I read them. I displayed them on my desk. I reread them. I rearranged them. Scrapbooking is lost on people like me. We just use our pockets and countertops.

The whole process reminded me of a time when Oprah was sort of normal and provided useful tips on her show, and she featured a woman who hoarded EVERYthing and made stacks all over her house. She and Oprah stood in her kitchen, her home office, her den, wherever, and the woman just cried and cried because she was overwhelmed by her inability to use a garbage can. Oprah looked at the woman like she had lost her mind, and I'm pretty sure she wanted to say, "Why don't you just pay someone to clean up this mess?"

But the woman couldn't physically part with her stacks of papers.

"Oh, wait, I can throw this one away," she told Oprah.
"Why this one?" Oprah held up the coupon for an oil change.
"Because it expired. I have to wait until it expires." I knew exactly how she felt.
"How does that make you feel?" Oprah asked.
"It feels good." And before you knew it, they were both crying.

While I didn't cry as I eventually threw away the brochure about the Alabama Birding Trail, it was a difficult move. To partially fill a trash can with things you've collected in a 26-year-old coat and carried around with you for at least eight years ... well, that's tough. I don't think it warrants an intervention visit from Oprah, but still.

It does explain why I don't wash my coat frequently or clean out my filthy car. It's too much work. It's too much thinking. It's just Too Much. And if you're a Woolrich girl, as I am, the good news is, Too Much is no big deal. You can pack your pockets full of memories and trash and go about your business. Until the next winter storm. And if you live in Alabama, that can be a blissfully long, long time.

A Tuesday Casserole

2009-03-03T12:35:00.006-06:00

This is going to be another of those cheapo posts that is neither a story nor an explanation of anything. It's like a casserole. Just a few mediocre ingredients thrown together and called a "meal." Or, in this case, "post."

Snow day proof to come ... I'm working offsite today and therefore do not have any of those captivating and bewildering photos of Snow in Alabama taken over the weekend, but I will aim to do so when I return home and upload from the camera. No promises of quality or content, as I was recovering from TB or malaria or something and reclined in a supine position the entire weekend. I did so from the comfort of my couch, as everyone else had all the fun and went in and out, in and out, in and out of the back door--only three feet from my pounding head--all day long.

My camera occasionally went with them, so whatever pops up on the screen will be as much a surprise to me as it will be to you. I did, however, manage to drag myself to the kitchen window and snap a few shots through the glass myself. I felt like Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window. In Sunday's performance, I (like Stewart) played a cool, passively observant, immobile protagonist with a camera and binoculars. Eerie, really.

Catch-up time ... I've been way behind on the book reviews, but if you've been waiting for the next installment, it's here. Head on over to excellentbookreviews.blogspot.com. This time, it's for GIRLS ONLY.

I am not planning to review this particular book on the review blog, but I'll share a few facts about John Grisham's The Runaway Jury. Written in 1997, I think, this legal thriller is set in ... say it with me ... BILOXI, MISSISSIPPI! I ordered a copy of the book from my bookmobile driver who was on his way home from work late last week. I met Bob Mahoney, owner of Mary Mahoney's Old French House Restaurant while in Biloxi earlier in the week, and he effortlessly spilled out a stream of famous references linked to the restaurant. Among them: the judge in The Runaway Jury calls Bob Mahoney and asks him to prepare the back room for the jury's lunch. And it's true; just look on page 57.

And in the movie version, which I have never seen although it was released in 2003, guess who plays Nicholas Easter? John Cusack. I have just amended my Netflix queue. Cusack, Biloxi, seafood, Grisham. Like a little cinematic vacation.

More Than 40 Days of Purpose; An Ugly Souvenir (Friday Roundup)

2009-02-27T09:00:00.002-06:00

Lent is here ... and it's never to late to give up a bad habit, even if for just a trial run. I saw a news feature at 4 a.m. today (because I was awake ALL BLASTED NIGHT) about a group of teens who gave up Facebook for Lent. Brilliant! They admitted they had a problem (that's Step 1 from AA, isn't it?) and decided to go cold turkey. This is only the third day of Lent, and I'm guessing the story was taped Thursday, which would have been only the second day, and already, they were concerned about how difficult this sacrifice is to make. They were shown going into a computer lab at either a library or school, and the temptation was, they said, almost too much. So they had friends change their passwords for them. Even if they wanted to fall off the Facebook wagon, they couldn't. Like locking up the liquor cabinet and throwing away the key. Three words: Good. For. Them.

Of all the souvenirs I brought back ... from the Mississippi Gulf Coast, my least favorite has to be this bug that has made its way from my sinuses to my throat and now, to my chest. The iron lung is a real pain to get in and out of the minivan, sure, but with a little patience and an extra pair of hands, I'm still fairly mobile.

If my family would only let me sleep, I could probably get over it more quickly, but apparently none of them know how to get out of the bed in the morning, pick out their clothes (three of them wear school uniforms), make their lunches/snacks, etc. How did they get by without me for four days? Did they ever leave the house? Get out of the bed? Did they just stand in the middle of a room and ask, "Now what?"

Clearly, I am ticked off right now. All I asked (and yes, I ASKED) last night was, "Can I please sleep in and you handle everything?" I was assured that would be fine. And they were so convincing, too. I feel duped.

If I end up at St. Vincent's wearing an oxygen mask, I'm certain four young people and a disoriented husband will be standing at the foot of my bed, asking things like, "Where do you keep the spare deodorant?" and "Didn't you buy any more water bottles yesterday?" or "Are the dishes in the dishwasher clean or dirty?"

And I remove the oxygen mask, pull my weak and pale head from the pillow, prop myself up on my elbows and answer, in my new Lauren Bacall -- or is it Fred Gwynne? -- voice, "What am I? Your MAID?" And the nurses and orderlies rush in and demand to know what these people are doing in my hospital room and not allowing me to get my much-needed rest. As the kids are rushed to the door, each looks over his/her shoulder and shouts, "But Mom! Where did you put my gym bag?" and "You didn't sign my weekly folder!" and "Can I go to Starbucks after school?"

Their bewildered dad (escorted on either arm by two brawny men wearing head-to-toe solid white) shouts, "Wait a minute! Where are my keys? They were RIGHT HERE." And I put my frail arm to my brow and whisper, in my faint but now very masculine voice, "They're in your HAND."

At that moment, after everyone has exited, a very handsome respiratory therapist enters the room to whack me on my back for 12 minutes, and he nods an understanding nod as tears well up in my eyes. "You weren't kidding," he says. "They really ARE the most helpless individuals in the world."

It is the weekend. May yours be cough- and fever-free, full of understanding and empathy ... and very, very quiet.

Mardi Gras Floats My Boat

2009-02-25T05:00:00.000-06:00

Tuesday, Biloxi, Miss.--I'll dehydrate myself in order to avoid using a moving Port-a-Potty.

Don't drink anything, no matter how thirsty. Don't think how hot the sun is. Don't look at the ocean.

I found myself on a Mardi Gras float, performing the enviable job of throwing beads to the crowds. If I were to write a book of Best Jobs, this would be one of the top 10. Although it doesn't pay. And it lasts only three hours. And is available only a few weeks out of the year.

During a parade, you can't just ask the driver to stop so you can take a bathroom break. So having a Port-a-Potty on board makes sense. Still, I wasn't buying.

On other parts of our ship: a city employee stood guard on the top level of our float, alerting us to tree limbs and such, making sure we didn't knock our heads on traffic lights or decapitate ourselves on power lines. Sort of a nice courtesy, I thought. We had a brief tutorial on opening the bags, separating the strands, preventing tangles (I must have missed that session) and general Mardi Gras float etiquette. I felt like such an insider.

I've been on the receiving end of thrown beads, stuffed animals and Moon Pies. It's great fun to hold your hands in the air or point to your cute kid and have souvenirs tossed at you. Like a little victory. A score. But throwing beads from the top level of a float? Nothing like it.

I would imagine it's much like being the nurse who opens the waiting room door, everyone puts down magazines and books, looks up with such anticipation and waits for the name. The nurse has to feel smug and powerful. When you throw beads, you have an audience of thousands, looking at you with such great hope. "Please throw some beads. It would really make my day." You choose a cute kid, a person in a wheelchair, a Vietnam vet wearing a POW hat, a dad with a toddler on his shoulders. Then you sort of nod or point to the intended recipient, who returns the nod, then you throw and hope for the best. It usually works out, but not always.

Early in the parade, I aimed for a dad who was holding his red-haired little girl. She would look so cute with these purple beads, I thought, and I am about to make her day. I threw the strand of beads with such perfect aim that I should be recruited by somebody. MLB, maybe. But the beads slapped her in the eye, and I couldn't do anything except watch her cry while her dad consoled her.

I had better luck with a chunky strand that I aimed at a woman who didn't seem to have many beads. Her hands were in the air, and I hurled the necklace with such dead-on aim that it went right around her neck. I should have won a stuffed animal or something. She looked startled. I looked pleased.

Standing next to me was Al, exhausted and frustrated Al, who asked, "Don't you feel like you're riding in a helicopter in a movie, with families and crowds yelling to pick them up and save them? And you're having to say, 'OK, you, you and you, but not you or you'?"

And that description was so accurate and so funny that I had to put down my beads and sit on the bench in the middle of the float and wipe my eyes, or else risk falling over the railing because of compromised vision and abdominal pain brought on by laughter.

This was my 2009 Mardi Gras, surrounded by a group of writers and reporters. We operated in a constant state of interview and tried to make each other laugh. All. Day. Long. For three solid days.

And today, all are going our separate ways to our realities--to get some sleep, to eat a little less, to rest our throwing arms. It will be good to be home, but it was good to be here.

North Meets South Again in Mississippi

2009-02-24T06:29:00.002-06:00

Monday Night, Biloxi, Miss. -- At the risk of sounding like a big fat hog, I would like to tell you about all that I ate today. Because Mardi Gras calls for big eating. Like a competition. One that I am winning.

I kicked off the day with a little king cake (though not the one in my hotel room, but a different king cake) and attempted to balance it with fruit. Lunch was red beans and rice with andouille sausage, salad (why not?), corn bread cooked over an open hearth and a big slab of bread pudding drizzled with white chocolate sauce. Because lunch should be a light meal--just a little something to get you from breakfast to dinner. And maybe I shouldn't tell you that I had two helpings of the red beans and rice. But I just did. You would have done the same thing.

And then I had dinner. And appetizers. And dessert. What happens in Biloxi stays in Biloxi, so I won't tell you all that I ate in each course.

Within my group are several Canadians. All have adventurous spirits, a sense of wonder about the South and perpetual smiles on their faces. I think it's the food. The best quote from Monday, while eating lunch, "Southerners like pork, don't they?" Another: "Southerners really like bread, don't they?" I suppose both are true, although I never really considered it. Take away our pork and bread, and we would be sort of lost. Aside from the andouille in our red beans and rice, the large serving dish also had two huge hamhocks right in the middle. I didn't notice them. The Canadians, however, had a list of questions about the origin of a hamhock and its role in this particular dish. Southerners generally don't question such things.

Monday morning, we paid a visit to Beauvoir, home of Jefferson Davis. In a region steeped in Confederate history, you would think the Canadians would be shaking their heads and wondering what the hay we were talking about. Most, however, knew as much about the Civil War as I did. One of them even bought a Confederate flag to hang in his garden back in Victoria. Or was it Vancouver? Maybe I should know more about Canada.

One new friend carries around a bag of Canadian flags and lapel pins to hand out. Everyone, it seems, needs a souvenir from our neighbor to the north. It's like traveling with a Canadian ambassador. I joked last night that during today's Mardi Gras parade, he'll be throwing out maple leaf beads and maple leaf Moon Pies.

Today's agenda: More food, big parade, and yet more food...it is, after all, Fat Tuesday.

A Late-Night Snack Fit for a King

2009-02-23T05:55:00.002-06:00

Sunday Night, Biloxi, Miss.--I am working my way through a king cake with great gusto. And the really cool thing is that I don't have to be careful to avoid the plastic baby Jesus.

Baby Jesus, it seems, has posed a swallowing, or choking, threat to the more careless Mardi Gras eaters and has therefore been carefully and thoughtfully placed in the middle, the "hole," of the king cake. According to the note in my bakery box, it is up to the host to insert the plastic baby Jesus before serving. But seeing as how I am flying solo with this king cake and there's no "host" in sight, I'll just let him lie in his little doily manger in the middle. Peacefully. A good souvenir for the kids.

The history of the plastic baby Jesus is cloudy. But I did find this ...

According to www.holidays.net: As part of the celebration of Mardi Gras, it is traditional to bake an oval cake in honor of the three kings - the King Cake. The shape of a King Cake symbolizes the unity of faiths. Each cake is decorated in the traditional Mardi Gras colors: purple represents justice, green represents faith and gold represents power. A small baby, symbolizing the baby Jesus, is baked into each cake. In New Orleans, King Cake parties are held throughout the Mardi Gras season. In offices, classrooms, and homes throughout the city, King Cakes are sliced and enjoyed by all. Like the biblical story, the "search for the baby" adds excitement, as each person waits to see in whose slice of cake the baby will be discovered. While custom holds that the person who finds the baby in their slice will be rewarded with good luck, that person is also traditionally responsible for bringing the King Cake to the next party or gathering.

While Mardi Gras lore varies between the plastic baby being just a plastic baby or a more regal and noble plastic baby Jesus, you might be interested to know that it has even been a bean. A red bean is still used in place of a plastic baby in some parts of Europe, and I learned just today that in the States, the bean gained major popularity during the Depression. As the story goes, beans were cheap; plastic baby Jesuses, apparently, were not. So the bean played the part of the hidden treasure.

But there's a darker, more sinister side to the bean. As king cake rules go, the person who is served the piece of cake containing the plastic baby is responsible for making and serving the next year's king cake and maybe even hosting the entire Mardi Gras party. During the Depression, money was scarce, times were uncertain. So the sneaky king cake eater who found herself/himself with the bean would just quietly eat the bean. And why not? It was just a bean. And who wants to commit to hosting a dinner party one year in advance?

I imagine the dinner party would take a turn when the host looked at all the empty plates and wondered aloud, "Where's the bean? Who ate the bean? I know I put it in the cake. Who's hiding the BEAN?!" And then the Depression finally ended, and we returned to our conspicuous consumption and the plastic baby Jesus.

And now, times are tough yet again. People want to eat the cake, but they may not be so gung-ho about planning next year's party and making a cake. So, you see, eating this cake alone has its benefits. I don't have to share, I have nothing to hide, and I don't have to make any long-term commitments.

I'm not ashamed or embarrassed or marking up my 2010 calendar. Jesus is here, and He says He has my back.

It's Called FAT Tuesday for a Reason; Cub Reporter Gets the Facts (Friday Roundup)

2009-02-20T06:07:00.008-06:00

A hint of things to come ... As Mardi Gras comes to a close next week, I will be blogging (somewhat) live from the festivities, all the way through Fat Tuesday. That is, as long as I have wireless. And as long as I don't get distracted by the food and choose instead to overeat. And fall asleep bloated, wearing purple beads around my neck. And wake up asking, "Blog? What's a blog? I ate a lot, sure, but I swear I didn't eat a blog."

I get my news from the playground ... and so should you. My 10-year-old piled into the car this week and provided a news report about the unfortunate chimpanzee attack in Connecticut. She had collected her facts at recess. I believed none of them, until I watched a news segment later that day. Who knew a fifth-grader could provide breaking national news?

Please note: nothing I say here will be any different than what you have already heard or read, and I will therefore not editorialize this very sad story. I am not making light of this event. I am simply bragging about my fifth-grader's ability to synthesize and report. Since she was 2, we have called her "The Town Crier." You'll see why. Her synopsis, verbatim:

This woman owned this 200-lb. chimpanzee, and her friend came over, and the owner stabbed and stabbed the chimpanzee because he had Lyme disease and was violent. He attacked her friend, and now the friend has to have a face transplant and replacement fingers.

I don't know a reporter alive today who could have introduced this story in a more succinct and appealing way. This is solid journalism at work. Rachel Maddow could learn something from her.

Only two weeks ... into hosting a second blog (excellentbookreviews.blogspot.com), I can report that traffic is steady and respectable, but I'm ready for some rubber necking, a pileup, a straight-up traffic JAM. But please, no texting or cell phone usage. Safety first, I say. After you finish reading this post, I invite you to take a detour and pay the new blog a visit. It would be rude not to.

Happy weekend, and if you're heading toward Mobile, the Gulf Coast, New Orleans or anywhere else for Mardi Gras, may you catch many, many Moon Pies.

Touring the College Crib

2009-02-19T09:00:00.002-06:00

If you are hosting, say, more than 250 prospective college students and their parents to your campus, and you know, perhaps, that you will be touring them about the buildings and landmarks and leading them in and out of dorm rooms, don't you think it would be wise, maybe, TO CHOOSE A DORM ROOM (OR TWO) THAT DOESN'T LOOK LIKE IT HAS BEEN DECORATED AND CLEANED BY A THIRD-WORLD COUNTRY?

"And this is my room," our very courteous and cute and 19-year-old guide said. "My roommate knew we were coming by, so there shouldn't be any surprises. He cleaned up his part of the room this morning." And the door opened, and I think I gagged a little. One bed was up on stilts with a dusty and clothes-covered mushroom chair wedged beneath it. The mini fridge was nicely adorned with a cable box and a bottle of Aunt Jemima syrup on top. A desk may have been under the piles of clothes and empty cups. The sink in the corner sported a decaying bowl of long-forgotten Spaghetti-Os, and I'm pretty sure the hand-scrawled sticky note by the door frame offended everyone who happened to see it before exiting.

"Well, that wasn't so bad. These dorms have held up pretty well," one mom mumbled as we retreated down the hallway.

"Wasn't so bad? What are you talking about? It was like Cell Block H."

And we went back and forth about how filthy/not filthy it was and how surprised we were at each other's assessment.

Now I'm no solid housekeeper, and I'm sure I offended many roommates back in the day with my lax maintenance skills, but I at least knew to clean up a little if we were having guests — strangers, even — popping in. Even if y0u're a total slob, you can at least fake it for one day. Half a day shouldn't be that hard.

Sure, a young person is certain to lower his standards of living when first on his own. My own husband once lived in a trailer by a swamp. When he returned to school from Christmas break one year, he entered the trailer, only to find that the carpet had sprouted mushrooms. Sadly, I am not making this up. I've never thought to ask how (or if) he got rid of the mushrooms. Yet I married him anyway.

The apple apparently doesn't fall too far from the tree, I learned, when I recently ventured into my teen-ager's bathroom last week to, you know, help her out. I lasted 20 seconds. The overflowing trash can. The shower stall that I won't begin to describe here. And the ceramic dish, turned upside down on the floor, having trapped a spider some weeks ago. At some point, a mom has to let things go. And I did. I walked away. The poor spider never had that chance.

Back to the tour. Walking out of the dorm, I asked our guide where he was from.

He was smiling from ear to ear, as if he was about to explain the mysteries of the universe, like he had been waiting all morning for someone to ask this very question. "Baltimore!"

There. Secret revealed. That explained a lot. His parents may never see the deplorable conditions he is living in, seeing as how he is more than 700 miles from home and, maybe, from parents who would have expected better. They probably trained him better than this back in Maryland and are telling their friends how responsible he is and that he is absolutely thriving in the college environment and is a model dorm resident. What a wonderful way for them to live.

Poor kid, living so far from home. Poor blissfully happy college kid with impeccable manners, proud as heck of his undeclared major and having the time of his life, with nobody telling him to clean up his filthy college dorm room and his Aunt Jemima syrup.

Happy Presidents Day (Friday Roundup)

2009-02-13T09:31:00.001-06:00

In honor of Presidents Day ... while the rest of you are buying new furniture and bed sheets, I will be taking my high school junior on her First Official College Visit that is:
(a) to a campus I would have never have chosen for her and has me scratching my head, asking, "Where did I go wrong?";
(b) alerting me to the fact that she has never truly cleaned a bathroom on her own and is certain to offend and alienate any future roommates; and
(c) reminding me that I'm almost through making all of her decisions for her.

I remain hopeful that:
(a) she will visit many, many campuses that will encourage her to open her eyes;
(b) she will discover that the bathroom floor is no substitute for a trash can; and
(c) she will let me make one more decision, one that will help carry on the family tradition and lead her to end up here.

And that leads me to this next story ... which is not really a story at all, but more of a memory. A reminiscence. One of my good friends in elementary school was the fourth of five kids. I would walk to her house several times a week—almost always on Saturdays—and all these teen-agers would be there, hanging out, playing basketball in the driveway, sitting around the kitchen table and being all teen-agery. As the oldest kid in my own house, I loved going to thishouse so that I could be one of the annoying younger kids. I would sit in the grass and listen to the 14- and 16- and 17-year-olds as they delivered quick and witty teen-ager cutdowns while they played basketball. Sometimes they would allow us younger kids to sit in the den with them while they ... who knows what they did. I think they just hung out. No video games, no computers, no texting. Just hanging out. I don't remember any smoking, cussing or other carrying on that you might suspect. It was all very innocent and wonderful. Sometimes they would even ask me a question, or let me talk.

The mom, with her long, platinum, Cheryl Ladd hair and her casual ways, went about her business, always leaving the front and back doors open for anybody and everybody to come and go as they wished. She always had Cheetos and Little Debbie cakes on hand and didn't hover or interfere or nag about homework. She was there, but she wasn't so there that we noticed her.

She hosted with an unceremonious approach that attracted neighborhood kids. Her own kids were fairly normal—smart, popular, well-rounded. Not so much because of what their mom did, but maybe because of what she didn't do. I'm no sociologist, but maybe there's something there. Maybe I need to let more things go. (Gosh, this is starting to sound like a confessional.)

And while that story may seem to have come out of left field, it popped into my brain this morning for a reason. Maybe that reason is that our lives have recently been SO dominated by kids' schedules this past week that I have found myself gripping the steering wheel with seething resentment—not because I don't want my kids to have full lives or fun-filled days or because I mind transporting them—but because we don't seem to live near anywhere they need/want to go.

No matter how much you love your kids, I love mine more. But if I could have raised them in the late '70s, who knows? Maybe it would have been easier? Simpler?

And the winner is ... well, you'll have to mosey on over to here to see who won this week's give-away at the book review blog. And be sure to check that site Monday for a new post.

Happy weekend. And whether you observe or ignore Valentine's Day, I hope yours is super.

You Have Only One More Day

2009-02-12T07:48:00.004-06:00

If you haven't entered your name in the drawing for a free book, this is your friendly and final reminder. Click on over to excellentbookreviews.blogspot.com and follow the directions at the end of the post. You can't win if you don't enter.

To the newer visitors who may be saying "what the hay?", the aforementioned book review blog is brand-spankin' new this week, with a new post scheduled every Monday. The current post is chock full of non-fiction. Next week: Whoa, Nellie! Memoirs of the Southern variety! But don't let that scare you. I have found some pretty good stuff. You'll see.

So, what are you waiting for? Get out of here and on over to here ...

Every Funeral Calls for a Good Cake

2009-02-10T07:52:00.003-06:00

After my grandmother died more than 14 years ago, women from all over Cobb County, Georgia, it seems, did as Southern women do in such times. They cooked.

Among the many, many things delivered to her house and to her hungry, tired relatives was an orange mandarin cake, which is still referred to today as Mimi's Funeral Cake. Yes, it is that memorable.

And while I am not one to get bogged down in recipe swaps, I think this one merits a blog post. I have a fourth of a Mimi's Funeral Cake in my refrigerator this very minute—a remnant from last night's birthday dinner. My oldest turned 17, but I failed to buy 17 candles or a "1" and a "7." All I could find in the cabinet just minutes before serving were very used keepsakes "5," "5" and "7." And that's when the 10-year-old pointed out, "Well, just use those. Add them up, and they equal 17." So that's what we did.

Those three chunky rainbow-colored candles sat atop what you will find to be one of The Best Cakes Ever. My gift to you today:

MIMI'S FUNERAL CAKE (or Orange Mandarin Cake)

1 box yellow cake mix (don't get fancy; store brand works just fine; take the bag out of the box, and throw the box away, or you'll be tempted to follow the box directions, which have nothing at all to do with this recipe; when my friend Leslie tried making this the first time, she called me no fewer than four times because the box directions were throwing her off)
3/4 c. cooking oil
3 eggs
1 11-oz. can mandarin oranges (do not drain; I repeat, do not drain, tempting as it may be)

Mix all above ingredients. Bake in three cake pans at 350 degrees for 20 minutes. (An aside: I have only two round cake pans. So in my early years of baking Mimi's Funeral Cake, I would bake two layers, while the third sat in the bowl, just waiting. Big mistake. My husband ate the entire third layer in its batter form, thinking it was bowl-lick. So I've since amended these instructions and just make two really thick layers. It's really the only safe way around here.)

Frosting

1 large Cool Whip
1 pkg. (large) vanilla instant pudding
1 large can (drained) crushed pineapple
Mix pudding and pineapple, then fold in Cool Whip. Chill overnight in sealed container. (Another amendment: This frosting is a stand-alone dessert. Chill overnight at your own risk. You may find an empty bowl in its place the next morning. Really, an hour or two does the trick. Just make sure the cake is cool.)

You can toss chopped nuts on top, if you like. I don't like.

Unless this cake is being served, it should remain in the refrigerator at all times. Or you will have pudding.

P.S. -- If you haven't yet visited Excellent Book Reviews, I encourage you to do so. Unlike this blog, the book review blog allows comments AND has a give-away at the end of this week. These are hard times; go win something.

T Minus Zero: The Book Review Blog Is Now Open for Traffic

2009-02-09T06:00:00.000-06:00

Whether you have arrived here by accident or on purpose today, I'd like to direct you over to my newest project, the book review blog. You will find it at excellentbookreviews.blogspot.com. Bookmark it, write it on your hand, do what you have to do in order to visit it often. Or, at least, regularly.

I will be taking on the monumental and thankless task of managing not one, but TWO blogs. I make no promises about when either blog will be updated, but my intention is to post book reviews every Monday; more frequently if and when the mood hits me. You never know what title will be reviewed, so that should keep you coming back for more. Reviewed books will be fiction, non-fiction, well-written, total crapola, children's, young adult, technical, how-to, self-help, biography, cooking, you name it. Few will be recent releases, so you don't have to worry about reading about a certain title over and over and over until you're ready to scream, "Shut up, already, Oprah!" I might find something on my shelf, at the thrift store or, more likely, at the library where books are free, and there you have the criteria for inclusion on Excellent Book Reviews.

The amycates.blogspot.com blog will retain its original voice and spotty updates. Content will remain without direction or editorial policy. I write what I write--no parameters, no guidelines. And no pay. A friend recently asked if the book blog was for pay. I choked on a tortilla, then laughed out loud. "No, this is a public service. My way of giving back to the community." So you should at least visit it occasionally, if only to be nice.

Now, go read.

Deepening Our Understanding? Huh?; Dennis Miller and a New Book Blog; Happy 17th (Friday Roundup)

2009-02-06T10:30:00.002-06:00

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Library ... To be truthful, I was already IN the library, dropping off kids for a special event, but was on my way through the library and over to the shiny new café, then back again to Adult Fiction. And this is where I found a modest collection of African-American literature, displayed as part of a tribute to African American History Month, which is described by the Library of Congress here:

National African American History Month in February celebrates the contributions that African Americans have made to American history in their struggles for freedom and equality and deepens our understanding of our Nation's history.

And on the shelf and sitting on plastic stands and hanging on the wall were some good books -- titles by Alice Walker, Jamaica Kincaid and so forth. In the middle of the display hung a large poster with an image of Frederick Douglass and this quote: "Once you learn to read, you will be forever free." The poster and this campaign are sponsored by the American Library Association. Sitting right below the poster and an illustration of the father of the abolitionist movement was this book. (Normally, I would include the cover image here, but it's on the steamy and tasteless side. And I'm so not steamy. Tasteless at times, yes. Steamy, no. Click at your own risk.)

Somebody, please, explain to me why this falls under the category of African American literature and merits space on a shelf alongside Alice Walker and an image of Frederick Douglass. What does this have to do with freedom and equality? And literature?

All This Talk About Books Has Me Thinking ... that it's high time I crank up the book review blog. Look for it Monday, February 9. That's right -- you can kick off the beginning of your work week or your kids' return to school after the weekend, whatever, with a little to-do list of fun reads. And unlike this blog, I will allow for comments on the book review blog. And in that space, you can tell me how much you value my insight and recommendations, how little you respect my opinions, how you can't believe a library would ever grant me lending privileges, or how you've never read a book in your life but my thoughts and references have inspired you to give it a try.

The disclaimer on the blog header states: "If you're looking for only the bestsellers, the latest releases or today's most popular titles, you might be in the wrong place." I'll provide the link and an intro to this shiny new blog in this space on Monday morning. And you thought you had nothing to look forward to. Silly reader.

You're My Obsession, My Obsession ... People with undiagnosed adult ADD don't really need an obsession. Or another obsession. Or a discussion about obsession. It's all very distracting.

Yet somehow I got tripped up and found myself with another obsession. Dennis Miller. Yes. That Dennis Miller. SNL Dennis Miller. The same groovy Dennis Miller we've all known and loved for years. But now, I love him for different reasons. Even if he is consuming MY ENTIRE DAY.

In my market, his radio show airs immediately after Laura Ingraham's radio show, which stretches a scant three hours in the morning, then he follows with yet another three hours, and next thing you know, the kids are home from school, and all you have to show for your day is a nice addition to your vernacular: "kiddo," "prison ripped," "a real honey," "what's shakin'," and so on.

Here's the problem: Talk radio cannot — and should not — be background noise. You cannot tune it out. You can make believe that you're doing something productive while listening, but you're a liar. Check it out for yourself. And kiss your day GOOD-BYE. But in a very good way. You will walk a little taller, use words you previously didn't know existed, and find yourself forming opinions about things that maybe didn't warrant opinion a day earlier. Good stuff.

Seventeen years ago this weekend ... I was enjoying my last two days of being child-free. That's right: I crossed that threshold into motherhood Feb. 9, 1992. But not before indulging in a little Waffle House spread that left me, at once, bloated and fulfilled. And before you could say, "scattered, smothered and covered," I was in full-throttle labor. That Last Meal also led to all sorts of concerns in the delivery room, and when the baby was born, she went on record as The World's Earliest Talker, saying "Whew! I had to get out of there." And all the nurses laughed and said they had never seen such a thing.

At 8 lbs., she entered the world with a head full of thick, black hair (that made her look like a Navajo), big red lips and fair skin that led one passerby at the nursery window to say, "Hey, looks like Snow White had that baby."

The bluebird isn't always on her shoulder (she is, after all, 17), but she's a good kiddo. A very good kiddo.

Have a delightful weekend ...

I Hate Texting ... and You Should, Too (Friday Roundup)

2009-01-30T08:45:00.004-06:00

First, some background ... One of my daughter's friends sat beside me at the pool near the end of the summer, moving his thumbs at rapid-fire pace over a phone keypad and seemingly so obsessed with texting that when I snatched it out of his hands, his thumbs kept moving.
Stupid opposable thumbs.
"Hey, what are you doing?" His eyes popped, and his mouth sat wide open.
"I am taking this away from you. Go swim. Go talk to a person. Go communicate with someone."
"That's what I was doing!"
"OK, Mr. Smarty Pants. Who were you communicating with?"
"My cousin."
"What were you and your cousin communicating about?"
"I told her I think we'll have the same math book this year."
"Oh, for heaven's sake. Go swim." And I turned back to my magazine.
"But what about my phone?"
"You'll get it back when your mom comes to pick you up. And if you try to sneak it out of this pool bag, I assure you I'll get it back, and I can hit the pool with it from here."
He looked at my daughter and asked, "Is she serious?"
"I wouldn't test her."
And off he went, thumbs twitching and eyes darting. I'm fairly certain he was suffering DTs. Tough love is a tough thing.

Second, how I really feel ... Texting is a practice that we have strictly forbidden, slapping our oldest child with a $1 fine for every incoming and outgoing text message. "But Amy, that's how kids COMMUNICATE with each other." I don't really want to hear your excuses. No texting on my watch, I say. It's wormy. And I hate it. We have telephones, stamps and envelopes. We even have opportunities for face-to-face conversations. Texting makes teenagers uncomfortably bold, and it ultimately causes their eyes to roll out of their heads and their thumbs to fall off. You'll see.

Now, to the story at hand ... On Thursday morning, I turned on my cell phone, that device that I sometimes still refer to as a "car phone." That it was in the house, on the kitchen counter, at all was strange—I keep it in the car, WHERE IT BELONGS. Minutes after I turned it on, it made a strange sing-song noise, like an alert. I looked, and a little notepad icon popped up, with "text message (1)" on the screen. I have received no more than five messages during my time as a cell phone user. Outside of those five, I do receive a monthly text from TMobile, thanking me for the bill someone just paid online.

Still, I clicked "view." And this is what it said. "Can you come check me out?" A sick teen-ager, so congested and in a feverish state, had committed, what I see as, the ultimate social crime: she texted. WHILE IN SCHOOL.

She was sick, and I blame her fall from the wagon on a high fever and/or insufferable congestion. I held the phone in my hand, wondering how I could respond. I can't call, I thought, because she is in class. All she needs is a short answer—a "yes" or a "no." The answer will be, of course, "yes," but I don't know how to get to the "y." How about "OK"? Only two letters, and one of them can be a zero, I would guess. If I can figure out how to get "O" and "K" on the screen, then maybe this phone will walk me through the "send" portion of this process. Baby steps, I thought.

If someone had been watching me, I imagine it was much like watching my mother program a VCR, or use a remote. Such things can be, at once, frustrating and sad.

The phone sensed my ignorance and let the "O" fly readily. Wow! This was going to be a cake walk! Now, for the "K." The "K" sits between the "J" and the "L," just like in the alphabet. Cake walk, over. If I sent "OJ" to her, would she know what that meant? Would she know that help was on its way? I didn't want to chance it, so I manipulated keys and arrows until a lowercase "k" popped up. An abusive mix of upper and lowercase letters is not my style, but I had to let it go. I pressed "options," and I was on my way to sending my first-ever text.

Fast forward. I arrive at the school, approach the check-in/check-out window and plead my case. Do I tell this woman that my daughter texted me? Do I admit that she has a phone on campus? Will she be suspended for texting during class? How old AM I? Kids update their stupid Facebook pages in the middle of World History ("I'm in World History," "I hate World History," "I am drinking bottled water in World History"), so maybe a plea for help from a feverish child falls within the realm of "school doesn't hold fast to cell phone usage policies."

All I get is a nod and a click-click-click on the keyboard, and "sign this." I sign, the attendance person intercoms the teacher, my daughter shows up three minutes later, lacking color and walking like Meryl Streep in Silkwood. "I texted you, and all you wrote back was 'OK'." Sniff, sniff.
"'OK' was all you needed to know. I'm here, aren't I?"
"Yes, but you could have said when you would be here, or 'what's wrong', or something."
"Sure, IF I KNEW HOW TO TEXT. 'OK' took me 15 minutes. If you had waited for the long version, you might have fallen over dead from a fever, and I would be in the crazy house."
"So I saw Ryan [editor's note: HER BOYFRIEND] in the hallway and told him I texted you, and he ..."
"Look, I AM HERE. YOU ARE GOING HOME. IT'S OK. Just like I texted you. It's 'OK.'"
She goes to her locker, walks to her car and drives home. I get in my car, and I hear the same ominous sing-song from my phone. What? Another text message? What is this? The end of the world? I click "view." And it reads, "So, are you going to pick up Anna?" The text is from RYAN.

How am I supposed to answer this? "OK" wouldn't answer the question; it wouldn't even make sense. "I did" seemed the shortest route to putting a stop to this nonsense. And why is he checking in on me anyway? I think I'm the adult in this relationship. I drove to the Zaxby's parking lot and pondered my next step. I navigated the keypad and figured out how to eke out the "I," which you may know sits at the end of the three-letter sequence, "GHI." Then there was the matter of the space. How do you insert a space between "I" and "DID"? There's no space bar. Yet I found it. I don't remember what it was, but I found it. Then, the "D." Another "I." The final "D." And it looked like this: I DiD. It wasn't pretty, but I got my point across. Would Ryan take this as a terse response? Did it sound like a short, quick-tempered, you're-annoying-me answer? I certainly didn't intend it to be that way, but by this point, I didn't really care. I pressed "send."

Within seconds, another sing-song. My screen read the following message from Ryan: "Awesome." Or, something more like "aWEsOmE." Blccchh.

No, this is not "awesome." I believe I have pointed out that the overuse of the word "awesome" has diminished the word's meaning to nothing more than a trite adjective that describes a sandwich, a party or maybe a song.

But what truly IS awesome, Mr. Ryan, is that I sent two text messages in one day and didn't suffer a nervous breakdown and that I didn't toss my cell phone out the window of my moving car. I am sure, however, that if this texting business had continued throughout the afternoon, my eyes would certainly have rolled out of my head and my thumbs would have fallen off.

Today is so very Friday. May yours be a delightful and text-free two days.

Bush's Letter to Obama (Inauguration Recap, Second Installment)

2009-01-28T17:01:00.006-06:00

One week and one day ago, this blogger brought forth on this blog, a new ideal, conceived in cynicism, and dedicated to the proposition that all occasional poems are created equal. Equally bad.

Now I am engaged in a great drought from imagination and creativity, testing whether this post, or any post so conceived and so dedicated, can ever be completed. I am met on a great battlefield of that drought. I have come today to sacrifice a portion of my time as a thank-you to those two or three kind people who have nagged me to no end about getting back in the swing of things. It is altogether fitting and proper that I should do this.

But, in a larger sense, I cannot dedicate — I cannot consecrate — I cannot hallow — this blog. The brave bloggers, living and not so much so, who struggle here in the blogosphere, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what we do here. It is for us the bloggers, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which we have said we would finish. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us — that from those hollow promises we so hoped to fulfill to that cause for which we have absolutely no idea WHY because blogging is such a thankless job and has truly become such a prostitution of all things journalistic — that I highly resolve that this blog will not be written in vain but in service to you faithful reader and your little friend, too — and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth. No matter who is president or who has majority of the House.

So, as promised, the next installment of Inauguration Recap: The letter GWB left in the desk drawer to Barack Obama, fellow Abraham Lincoln fan. About a week later than I intended.

The f0llowing letter was written by George W. Bush at 3 a.m. January 20, after packing the last of his personal effects into cardboard boxes and raiding the pantry of pork rinds. George H.W. and Barbara Bush, overnight guests for the evening, had retired earlier — much earlier — after Laura had admonished them for their incessant whining about how their last night in the White House would have been more comfortable if only she had prepared a more fitting dinner. "Sure, Domino's and fruit cocktail work in a pinch, but we used to be the President and First Lady, for Pete's sake." So George W. Bush, fed up with the covert hostility and quick tempers, stomped off to the Oval Office and penned these words ...

Dear Barack,

We may not see eye to eye on policy, but you seem like a decent guy — one who would appreciate a little heads-up on a few matters that we didn't cover during your recent tour of the White House. I didn't want to point fingers or embarrass anyone, so I decided to keep these things just between us. (In other words, burn this after reading. I don't want it to end up in my Presidential Library after I'm dead and gone.)

First, you might want to tell Michelle and the girls to be careful when using the hall bathroom in the living quarters. An ambitious use of toilet paper or one too many flushes, and you'll flood the Oval Office. That's why you'll find a metal bucket in the closet to the right of the window, just beside the American flag in the corner. Believe me; you'll need it. And don't blame me. The Clintons were here for eight years, and Al Gore was here A LOT, so I'm just saying. [Editor's Note: Google "al gore toilet," and check out the first listing.]

Second, note the absence of ashtrays in this room. Since 1993, when your Secretary of State and then-First Lady Hillary Clinton banned ashtrays from the White House, this has been a non-smoking residence and office. You've already hinted that smoking may return to the White House, like you're Desi Arnaz, but four (dare I say, eight) years of indoor smoking and the toll it takes on these drapes can never be undone. For your comfort and convenience, I have asked the staff to create a "smoking area" for you. You will find it on the east lawn, near the area where you will be required to walk the First Dog. You can put out your butts while taking those 3 a.m. walks with the labradoodle. Good times.

Third, when the Clintons moved out and Laura and I moved in, Nancy Reagan reminded the entire nation about the respect that a president should have for this home office. She pointed out in her very Nancy way that Reagan entered this space with reverence and a neatly pressed dress shirt. Please, no jeans ... and none of those awful sweat pants like Clinton used to wear. Have some dignity about yourself.

Fourth, and finally, don't be afraid to change your mind about a few things. You're the flippin' president now. Campaign promises got you here; good (even bad) decisions can keep you here. It's not like they'll fire you. So, rethink a few of your plans, your views, your promises. You know the ones.

Sorry to cut this thing short, but the staff is in here, pulling things out of my (your) desk drawers, dusting tables, fluffing pillows and dealing me misery, like I'm not their president for another nine hours. Geez.

Peace out ...

George W. Bush

Inauguration Recap (and the Road to a Better Poem)

2009-01-20T19:25:00.006-06:00

Known as "occasional poems," inaugural poems seldom go well. Whether you're an English major or a straight-up illiterate, they come across as puzzling and largely forgettable. Doubtful that many people watched the ceremony and swearing-in, just to hear the inaugural poem. Poor inaugural poem. So under-appreciated. So overlooked.

A portion of the transcript of Elizabeth Alexander's poem, read at Tuesday's inauguration:

Praise song for the day.
Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each others' eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.
All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues.
Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair. Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.
A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky; A teacher says, "Take out your pencils. Begin." ...

... and so it goes, and there's even more, but everyone is sitting there, blinking, and asking, "What the hay is she talking about? Has anybody seen Bob Dole? He's usually at these things, isn't he? Could Nancy Reagan not make the trip? I thought for sure the Ford kids would be here. That Dan Quayle sure has aged well. What was Walter Mondale's wife's name again? I never can remember..."

This from Jim Fisher, posted on Salon.com:
The problem for poets is not the commission -- Milton's "Lycidas" and Marvell's "Upon Appleton House" are both immortal poetry commissions -- but the occasion, which fixes the poem with a public event. Once the function has passed, the poem loses the immediacy of its audience, and with it the power to summon meaning and emotion over time. So let's dispense with this idea that poets can produce lasting poems for public events. It's unfair to the audience, discomposes the poet, and probably confirms the low opinion of poetry some listeners already hold.

Well said, Jim Fisher of Salon.com! Maybe a limerick would have been better received. An inaugural limerick? A real crowd-pleaser. Like this one:

We've elected a man who is black,
Poise and charm he does not lack.
His wife is so tall,
The country filled the National Mall,
And now he must save Freddie Mac.

Or, maybe this one:

There once was a senator from Illinois,
Whom this great country wanted to employ.
He applied for the job,
Attracted a huge mob,
A shiny black limo, he'll enjoy.

Or, how 'bout this one:

Our national debt is so high,
The simplest luxuries we cannot buy.
This economy left us bereft,
So we intentionally moved to the left,
The result is we elected this guy!

The next installment of Inauguration Recap: The letter GWB left in the desk drawer to Barack Obama.

Finally, Somebody Is Talking Sense Around Here; On the Horizon (Somewhere); and GWB Signs Off ... FAST (Friday Roundup)

2009-01-16T09:56:00.006-06:00

Welcome to the first Friday Roundup of 2009. Grab a chair.

That's IT! We're cutting back! ... In a monumental effort to cut the spending, the husband walked in from work, sat the family down and said, "Kids, money is tight. So I'm letting your mother go. I can't afford her anymore. We're getting a divorce."

That's not really what happened. But they might have taken that news better than the news he actually delivered.

"We're cutting the cable bill. Starting next week, we're down to the basics." If I could do a cartwheel, I would have. Three networks and the national anthem at midnight?! Oh, happy day! No more Hannah Montana and Suite Life of Zach and Cody? What, Lord, have I done to deserve this?

Yet I stood alone in my celebration. "What's going to happen to us, Daddy?" Sob, sob, sob. "What will we do on weekend nights? How will we watch [insert name of lame show here] and [insert name of another lame show here]? What does this MEAN?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, you'll read a book or play a board game. You aren't going to shrivel up and DIE."

"Stop it, Mama. This isn't FUNNY." Sniff.

"Who said anything about 'funny'? Nobody is trying to be funny. All I'm saying is ..."

And then, the trump card. "But Daddy, what ever will you do when football season begins?"

How many days until kickoff? 231? I'm not a betting girl, but if I were, I would wager that's how many days we'll go without ESPN and ESPN2.

What will Michelle wear? ... On this morning's edition of The Today Show, the compelling story about what the next first lady will wear during the inaugural events came on the heels of thorough coverage of the US Airways flight that floated along the Hudson River. What just happened? Why the anticipation about a dress? Why do we put up with this? And that reminds me of a book I read last week, Why We Hate Us by Dick Meyer. This book is so relevant right now and will make you second-guess everything you tolerate and/or do. Truly, a breath of fresh air.

New digs on the blogosphere ... Look for my review of Meyer's book on a new blog I will begin hosting later this month. I've set a personal deadline to crank this thing up, and frankly, I'm tired of putting it off. I'm just not going to reveal my self-imposed deadline, in the event that I need to procrastinate a while longer and take care of real business.

Along those lines, I should add, is the epidemic that is spreading throughout newspapers and magazines and MAKING IT REALLY HARD FOR ME TO MAKE A LIVING. So, what does a person like me do when times are tough on the job front? Commiserate with people in the same ugly boat, of course! And here is what my friend, Alan, Mr. Outdoors and Newspaper Diehard, had to say in an e-mail Thursday:

What's interesting to me is what happens when newspapers scale back and die b/c the "target age" group uses Crackberries now for their "news," but when they become 35- and 40-year olds wanting to know more than a 140-character Twitter post about the "OMG bomb in Izrael kilz kids!" they won't have anything to read.

Yes, Alan, that IS interesting. And I hope you readers are feeling guilty and ashamed and will rush out to buy newspapers and magazines. Kill a tree, save some jobs, save an industry.

"Peace out, homies" ... That was the transcript of George W. Bush's farewell speech Thursday night. At least, that's all it could have been. Time got away, I called a friend, the friend said, "Are you watching the speech?," so I turned on the TV and all of its three-channel glory at 7:09 (according to one clock). AND THE SPEECH WAS OVER AND THE PRESS CORPS WAS APPLAUDING. What??? What could he have possibly said in only nine minutes to summarize eight years of serving as leader of the Free World? I need to go Google something. This is puzzling. Or is this how basic cable works? Quippy, short speeches worded like Twitter posts? If we paid more, would we hear more?

Yippee for Friday! This has been a particularly hard work week. One that has been full of deadlines, surprises and some fun stuff. And some not-so-fun stuff. But all these things keep us hopping.

Peace out, homies.

Facebook, Schmacebook--Somebody, Please, Stop This Crazy Train

2009-01-15T07:41:00.004-06:00

You will find a lot of nice people on Facebook named Amy Cates. Perhaps they are nicer than I am, and you should befriend them. You can become lifelong friends who share menu plans and vacation pictures and leave snappy little notes that include clever directives like, "You go, girl!"

I would like to make one thing perfectly clear: I am not on Facebook.

I have indicated my disdain for Facebook many, many, many times in this space, but apparently, it's not clicking. Because in one of my mailboxes today, I had eight -- count 'em, EIGHT -- confirmation requests to become friends with people who are, say it with me, ALREADY MY FRIENDS. Most of these friends already know my phone numbers, e-mail addresses and street name. Most know my kids, my husband, my likes, my dislikes, my food allergies, my favorite colors. They have seen my filthy garage. They have seen me without makeup and a bra. They know they can phone me day or night.

What more do you want from me???? My SOUL?

"Amy, what in the world is wrong with you? Why would you NOT want to be a part of the world's largest social networking site? It's just for fun."

The reasons are very simple. For starters, the prospect of this person hosting a Facebook page would be like waving a vial of meth (does meth come in a vial or a sandwich bag?) in the face of an addict. A bottle of Thunderbird in front of a wine-o. A bottle of Lortab in front of ... OK, let's not name names. We all have our vices. Facebook, it seems, caters to the addictive personalities. It provides some sort of fix. And people, we ALL have addictive personalities. Some of us are bold enough to admit that we know our weaknesses. I have purposely avoided IM, the Blackberry, texting and Facebook because my brain might well explode if I am prescribed one more overflowing daily dose of personal communication. If I have to monitor one more blip, bleep, ring, update, inbox or flashing light, I'll be huddled under a bridge like a troll, eating boogers.

If I had a Facebook account, I would watch it like a hawk and post updates like, "I am eating a Wheat Thin." Or, "My kids are being loud." And, "Why can't my husband do something with that pile of leaves in the side yard?" And I would check my friend count, compare it to other people's friend counts, poke around other pages for hours each day, learn what people ate for lunch and what their weekend plans might be, gloss over their pictures and wonder why I wasn't invited to that particular dinner party, grow increasingly paranoid about why so-and-so blocked me as a friend (was it something I said?), pretend to be intrigued by ultrasound pictures and shots of New Year's Eve fireworks, and so you can see why I might end up huddled under a bridge like a troll and eating boogers.

Secondly, my fierce opposition to Facebook has something to do with not wanting to fall prey to peer pressure. I'm the hold-out. The Lone Ranger. The one who stays home on Friday night. The kid who knows the value of "Just Say 'No'." The wallflower. The last kid chosen in kickball. The one who sits at lunch by herself.

["Why is she just sitting there?" ... "It's because she isn't on Facebook. And who did her hair? Her mom?"]

I ran into a friend at a mall recently and she said, "Omigosh! You really need to get on Facebook!"

"Why?"

"Because EVERYone is on there! I am, so-and-so is, so-and-so is there. Oh, and also so-and-so and so-and-so and so-and-so."

"What you're saying is, I am the only one who is NOT on Facebook."

"Yes! You have GOT to get on Facebook!"

Then I asked her to wipe the drool from her chin and consider enrolling in a 12-step program to help get this thing under control.

Yowsa.

Is Facebook today's Rubik's Cube? Mood ring? Pet rock? Members Only jacket? Will our culture simply wear this thing out until it's a punch line?

Probably not, but a girl can dream.

TVLand Presents The Greatest Downloads Ever

2009-01-07T11:19:00.011-06:00

Times are tough; music is cheap.

Let the teenagers spend $30 a pop on iTunes. You, however, are a savvy and thrifty shopper who knows how to navigate around high prices and high pressure. You don't need a debit card sitting beside your computer, draining your wallet of hard-earned money just so you can have quality music on your laptop or iPod.

All YOU need is a library card and deft downloading skills.

Fed up with the addiction of portable music and why I must pay for EVERYthing, I've done as most have done and transferred a lot of CD music over to my iTunes and, occasionally, to the iPod. "But Amy," you might be asking, "everybody does that, and don't you get bored with the same old songs?"

Why, yes, I do. And that's what led me to the music department at one of the larger libraries in our area -- in a county where I don't even live. Because while I'm not willing to plop down a few bucks, I am willing to drive a few miles to get free stuff.

My rewards were many. But perhaps the best find of the day was this:

Once upon a time, TV theme songs were as good as, or better than, the shows themselves. Much research has been devoted to their impact and why theme songs are substantially shorter than they once were. The findings revealed that advertising pays the bucks and theme songs (once upon a time) were way too long, so they were pared down to the garbage that typically introduces shows now.

Theme songs once beckoned kids and adults alike from different levels of a house. They signaled the beginning of a great 30 to 60 minutes of entertainment. And maybe I'm using the word "entertainment" loosely. But still, the theme songs resonate, and I am now the proud owner of some of the best recordings in TV music history.

Let's go through a few of them, shall we? (The following titles are included on my most recent loan from the library.)

Good Times

My mother would always shake her head and ask EVERY SINGLE TIME the Evans family sat down at the table, "Why do Esther Rolle and John Amos live in a Chicago tenement but eat off Franciscan china?" (It was the Apple pattern, which just happened to be the same dishes SHE had. What she lacked in sensitivity she more than made up for in consciousness. She would be a Where's Waldo ace.)

Rockford Files

When I grew up, I was going to have a boyfriend who lives in a camper on the beach and investigates crimes. And he would look like James Garner.

Theme from S.W.A.T.

Even now, I can hear this theme song and believe that I could do an Angie Dickinson full body roll across the hood of a car. Wait. Wrong show.

Happy Days

If you believe in the Jump the Shark theory, which was one of many offsprings of this show, you would know that "Happy Days" took an ugly turn when the Cunninghams went to California to follow Richie's dream of becoming a Hollywood actor. If that storyline wasn't enough of a stretch, Fonzie jumping over a shark, wearing a leather jacket no less, certainly was. And that's the story behind Jump the Shark, which is now somewhat linked to "nuke the fridge" in the Urban Dictionary. (Click on the links to learn more. And kiss away the next four hours of your life.)

Making Our Dreams Come True (theme from Laverne & Shirley)

Another "Happy Days" spinoff, "Laverne & Shirley" is best remembered for its theme song. And milk and Pepsi. My friend Ginny thought the lyrics were "Give us any broom, we'll break it."

Welcome Back (theme from Welcome Back, Kotter)

I loved this show, up until the point where Gabe and Jill had the twins. Then it got just stupid. It was the show's Jump the Shark moment.

What's Happening

I still get the urge to dribble a basketball when I hear this. Hey, HEY, hey.

Barney Miller

Not a funny show. Not a memorable theme song. And now it's on my iPod. Blcchh.

Charlie's Angels

When my friends and I would play "Charlie's Angels" on the playground during recess, I was always Sabrina (Kate Jackson). Glamour and physical prowess prevented me from playing Kelly (Jaclyn Smith). The absence of a trendy hair color, the Malibu Farrah tan and overall good looks prevented me from being Jill. Who played Jill? My friend, Jill, of course. Because she was a bully and nobody crossed her. She didn't look anything like Farrah Fawcett. We only let her play because she was one of those girls you would rather have as a friend, just to prevent her from being your enemy. I lost contact with her after about age 13, but word on the street was that she entered the University of Georgia, where she started smoking.

In the playground version of "Charlie's Angels," I kept the other girls in line and told them to stop being such girls and mumbled things like, "I have to do EVERYthing around here." While the others were off with their stupid boyfriends, I was busily holding things together and going to target practice. Bosley liked me best, I'm sure. I was the go-to girl and could cut my eyes just like Kate Jackson did.

Love Boat Theme

During one of about 100 rounds of Pictionary Man over Christmas break, a very young person had to illustrate "TV Show: Love Boat." She scored. And fast. (Sort of like the characters in the dicey storylines of Love Boat.)

And then she asked, "What is Love Boat? I've never heard of it." So I explained the premise and then sang the entire theme song, in all of its Las Vegas bravado. I'll admit, it sounded sort of made up. So you can imagine my glee when I stumbled across this very CD only two days later and was able to prove that this was, indeed, a theme song. A catchy theme song. Exciting and new. Come aboard. We're expecting you...

Diff'rent Strokes

It really ticks me off when one of my kids credits some smarmy Disney Channel character with coining a phrase that clearly originated long, long ago. "This is the theme song of the show that made 'what you talkin' 'bout Willis' so very famous. It was not, as you might believe, Hannah Montana." And I said it with such vitriol and smugness. I looked in the rearview mirror to see their surprise and expressions of renewed respect for their mother's knowledge of pop culture. They only looked out the window, chins in hands.

Good Ol' Boys (theme from Dukes of Hazzard)

Oh, my. Bo and Luke Duke. Not a funny show. But a very catchy theme song.

Hill Street Blues

On the way to my great-grandmother's 85th birthday party at Hill Street Baptist Church some 19 years ago, my boyfriend-now-husband saw the street sign, "Hill Street," and started rubbing his head and saying he didn't feel good. I said, "Oh, no, do you have the Hill Street Blues?" And then we laughed so hard like we were the funniest people in the world, and I hummed the theme song, which had no lyrics, but was still just as catchy.

Dynasty

How forgettable was this song? I don't even recall Dynasty having a theme song. Just the smack of women hitting each other and throwing vases against the wall would have been enough. Another wasted space on my iPod.

Magnum P.I.

Do I really have to comment on this one?

Greatest American Hero

If memory serves, this was a crummy show with a very handsome lead actor. Oh, but that theme song! It was the stuff Top 40 was MADE of.

And there are many, many more on this very underrated CD that likely found its place on the library shelf by way of a garage sale, a neglected cardboard box, a smart-aleck kid who didn't want his mom's CDs crowding the shelves any longer.

The library music department might not always sport the latest releases, as it is more of an island for misfit music, but occasionally, a person hits paydirt. And in case you're curious about other available titles, I suggest you explore for yourself. But if you visit this particular library, don't go looking for TVLand Presents Favorite TV Theme Songs, Johnny Cash at Folsom Prison or Barry Manilow: The Greatest Songs of the Eighties. All three are right here.

Friday is Library Day, when I will return them. First come, first served. No pushing, no shoving, and single-file, please.

Top 10 Quotes from Christmas Break

2008-12-31T13:01:00.008-06:00

This is a cheapo post -- the kind that a person writes when short on time, ideas and energy. But it ties up the 2008 Christmas season in a tidy little package that says, "Happy New Year" and "Golly, How Long Is Christmas Break Anyway?"

With Happy New Year's wishes, I present The Top 10 Quotes from Christmas Break 2008.

10. "Oh, shut your mouths. A little Lionel Richie never hurt anyone." (Shouted during the first 50 miles of one of our road trips over the holidays; minor uproar ensued over the selection of radio stations.)
9. "Can I eat my spray cheese yet?" (Santa always leaves spray cheese in the stockings. Go. Santa.)
8. "Why are we decorating a gingerbread house on Dec. 29?"
"Because the kit was on clearance for $1 at Publix."
7. "Has anyone seen the toaster?"
6. "Gingko biloba would really help you with your memory." Ten minutes later in Wal-Mart ... "What was the name of that herb that's supposed to help my memory?"
5. "Oh, it won't hurt anyone. Week-old ham is perfectly fine if all you're doing is throwing it into a pot of beans."
4. "Where is that unopened tin of cookies? It was RIGHT HERE."
"Daddy hid it under your bed."
3. "I guess you should go ahead and call the police."
2. "I'm sorry we've wasted your time, dispatcher. We just found our car."

And the No. 1 best quote from Christmas Break 2008 ... made while viewing The Sound of Music and uttered during the scene where Julie Andrews skips across a stone bridge with the kids trailing behind, in their newly sewn clothes fashioned from an old set of drapes ...

1. "You know, most of this movie was filmed in Austria, but this particular scene was shot in the middle of Rock City, not too far from the swinging bridge. That's the reason you see so many gnome figures at Rock City -- it's a nod to the movie AND to the customs of that part of western Europe."

May your New Year's Eve and Day be filled with good memories (that you will remember), music of the easy listening variety, cookies in plain view, accessible appliances, affordable crafts and hobbies, and a stack of musicals on DVD.

This Is One Constipated Blog

2008-12-29T14:33:00.005-06:00

Sure, Dec. 12 seems like just yesterday, if you've been in a COMA for more than two weeks. But I am back on this Monday afternoon (my first appearance since Dec. 12) with a little Monday Buffet, which is the result of administering a full-tilt laxative to this constipated and neglected blog. To all of you who care, I am so very sorry. To the rest of you, WELCOME!

Good-bye, 2008! Don't let the door hit you! ... This is New Year's week — an emotional valley after Christmas week and a social nightmare for people with kids who are So Bored They Might Just Die and Can We Please Invite Over Every Person We've Ever Met and Why Should I Have To Clean My Room?

While this might be an emotional valley for many people, I for one am thankful to see this year draw to a close and take its baggage with it. You might say I am experiencing a New Year's High (of the legal persuasion) and am more than ready to ring in a shiny, new year.

Other blog project, I haven't forgotten you ... My second blog project is still, sadly, in the works. Like this one, it has also been neglected and has suffered a severe case of constipation. ETA is now mid-January. Maybe the third week, depending on other deadlines.

And that's the Monday Buffet. More of a cocktail time, really. A short and sweet appearance, kept comfortably brief in order to avoid any embarrassing monologue or behavior. But if I DID write a monologue to recapture the sights and sounds of 2008, I would title it: "Oh, the Stories I Could Tell." And you would believe only about half of them, even though they would all be true. Because that's where the funniest and most unbelievable stories are: in reality. (People really should be more careful around me. These things are all going to come out one day.)

Happy New Year ...

Gosh, Friday, Where Have You Been? We Are So Glad To See You! (Friday Roundup)

2008-12-12T05:53:00.010-06:00

Wow. I am one lazy blogger. Thursday, Dec. 4? That was the last time I blogged? I may get fired. Or receive a nasty pay cut. Oh, wait. This thing doesn't pay.Today is Friday, you know what that means ... If you were an avid New Mickey Mouse Club viewer, you are probably singing right now. Difference is, Lisa Whelchel and the gang were (if memory serves) singing about TUESDAY, not FRIDAY. Friday deserved a much better theme song than Tuesday did. Friday is so much more highly anticipated than stupid Tuesday. But I digress.

Around here, Friday means FRIDAY ROUNDUP, which gives me the license to write about absolutely nothing, throw all those nothings together, and call it a "post." So, let's begin, shall we?

Oh, Who Cares ... Since last Thursday, we have experienced a long string of obstacles -- some big, some small, but ALL will be largely forgettable by the time I'm in a pitiful heap at the nursing home and cradling a Lee Middleton doll, so what they hay am I whining about? "That's a good question," replied one of my dogs. She remained perfectly still and incredibly attentive as I rattled on and on about the cruel, cruel world and shouted, "Where the heck is the Christmas spirit anyway? In the toilet? With the economy? What is WRONG with people?" And then I sat on the floor beside her and rubbed her head and told her, "Be glad you're a dog."And this is exactly what she looked like ...

I know -- awesome dog, right? And such a good listener, too. You can see it in her eyes. Dogs might not have souls, but this one has soulful EYES. And that's important. She GETS me.

Of all the dreams I've lost or found and all that I ain't got ... uh-oh, the spirit of Dave Loggins has wormed its way onto this keyboard. And as much as I would have enjoyed going to Boston, Denver or even L.A. this week, there was no ejection seat in central Alabama. But of all the things I really did lose this week -- my cool, my patience, my good manners (OK, I never really had those), my amazingly low blood pressure -- I did find one thing. Oh, yes. THE RUNNER'S HIGH. And what a handy time for it to arrive. This may have something to do with the fact that I hopped aboard the treadmill with such ferocity (courtesy of an entire week of puzzling events and disappointments) and renewed determination ... and quite a musical repertoire on the iPod.

If you, too, are pursuing the elusive runner's high, know that running requires some degree of choreography—a beat, if you will. The pounding of your own heartbeat doesn't count. In fact, it's distracting. Worrisome, even. But the right MUSIC, I have only recently theorized, was the missing link to helping me achieve the runner's high. Which is a nice change from the severe nausea. I would like to thank several songs for their support, but the list is just too long. To summarize, I'll just say that any and all African-American men and women who have made their way onto my playlist certainly deserve a big thanks. And that's a long, long list. Nice folks like Aretha, Tina, Patti, Luther, Earth Wind & Fire, The Brothers Johnson ... and this white man:

David Cassidy may no longer be hanging glossy and beautiful on my bedroom wall, but you would be amazed at the endurance a girl like me can muster with him singing in my ear. It's like staring at Tiger Beat all over again.

Today really IS Friday, and you know what that means. It is so very much the weekend, and I am so going to enjoy it, no matter what garbage comes my way. And I hope my mother, WHO CELEBRATES HER 66TH BIRTHDAY TODAY, will forgive me for not putting a card in the mail this week and will have a happy birthday anyway. (Hey, Betty, you know I don't write those cards, right? I just sign my name. But this birthday message? I actually wrote it. That should probably count for something.)

Where Scores Don't Matter

2008-12-04T11:12:00.003-06:00

Want to know where the mission field is? Look out your window.

All I have to go on is what happens in my own city ... as egocentric as that may sound. Wherever you live, similar opportunities certainly exist. My advice is: Seize them. First, visit http://www.handsonbirmingham.org/ to learn how our city and surrounding communities extend a helping hand. (And not just during December.) HOB serves as a clearinghouse for a long list of volunteer service agencies. Few parameters exist because volunteers are always needed, but age requirements may be in place for some activities and with some agencies.

This is the same organization that sends out alerts for volunteer needs during all states of emergency. Most recently, Hurricane Gustav sounded the alarm, and HOB was filling e-mail inboxes faster than you could say "storm's a comin'."

When Gustav hit Labor Day weekend and evacuees were being transported by buses into Birmingham, I was not the first to say, "Let's go." It was my son. He stood over me as I responded to the e-mail. We spent that overcast Monday, searching for diapers, distributing water bottles, serving lunch and unloading trucks. Then there was the small issue of causing a near-uprising when my son changed the channel on the big-screen TV in the convention center from Tyra. He was pelted with shouts of "Hey!" and "Turn it back!" (It wasn't entirely his fault. An evacuee asked if he could find some sort of news program that would tell whether New Orleans had flooded. It seemed a reasonable request.)

I tell you this not to point out any good in him or in me, but to point out how you don't have to wait to be asked.

You may be saying, "But, Amy, you idiot, we're not in a state of emergency." Sure, you may not be, but thousands of others may be. Go help them. Salvation Army needs help filling bags of toys and assisting clients by loading their cars. YWCA facilities need volunteers to help parents "shop" for presents and to entertain the children for a few minutes while their parents are tending to a little Christmas business. Mental health facilities are asking for assistance in serving holiday meals to developmentally disabled adults. Gosh, you have all SORTS of things to choose from. Choose your interest, fill a need.

It's so much easier to help out in these situations when someone asks. But don't wait to be asked. Don't wait for the next natural disaster. And don't stop after December.

Now, let me step down from this soapbox for just a minute ... OK. There. In other business, we turn our thoughts to football. Auburn football, to be more specific. No matter how you feel about a coach's record -- whether for 10 years or one season or even one in-state rivalry -- have some depth about you and look beyond the stats. Tommy Tuberville may no longer be Auburn's head coach, but he has left a remarkable legacy.

Tuberville's first order of business when he arrived in Auburn 10 years ago was to hire a team chaplain. That decision and its subsequent hire led to a 90 percent team participation at the voluntary Friday night chapel gatherings, regular Bible studies attended by coaches and players, and more. Tuberville began this practice at Ole Miss, carried it over to Auburn by hiring Chette Williams, and inspired schools across the SEC to follow suit.

He managed team discipline with a swift hand and handled the occasional raw deal with dignity. His cool demeanor and trademark smirk, even during bad calls and poor outcomes, made us proud.

I'll leave the rest of the analysis and commentary to the sports writers and sports radio folks, but I feel qualified enough to say that this is a sad day. No anger, just disappointment.

If there's a tie-in with the first portion of this post, it's this: Tuberville found his mission field and worked it well. It just happened to have a scoreboard. But the most important things he did for college football and for Auburn? Even if they tried, nobody could keep score.

Tuberville strolls through the pre-game Tigerwalk. (photo by Jason McCary; I lifted it off Flickr; my Tigerwalk photos show only the top of Tuberville's head and are out of focus because they're taken by a kid who is sitting on his/her father's shoulders, or they're taken by me and result in a colorful shot of other people's heads and elbows; so, thanks, Jason McCary, whoever you are!)

Let's Talk Economics. Because It's So Much Fun.

2008-12-03T14:08:00.004-06:00

Forgive me while I talk shop for a few minutes ...

A fellow freelance writer e-mailed me this week to say, "Hey, did you see this???" She had received notice about a publication (one among many) that is temporarily cutting its freelance rates. Others have cut assignments and contracts. In the worst scenarios, some are ceasing publication altogether.

My response to her e-mail:

Sure am glad I'm not a freelance writer dependent on advertising receipts that keep these publications profitable. Oh, wait. I am.

When the economy suffers, companies tend to cut advertising, marketing and PR dollars first. And if you're a company that advertises in magazines, you might find yourself reconsidering whether those dollars are well spent. (Hint: THEY ARE. That money keeps publications in business, and when magazines prosper, more assignments and contracts are offered, translating to a trickle-down effect to nice people like me, and I, in turn, share that money with the people I live with, and they go on to pump some of that money back into the economy, perhaps in your place of business, and there you have what we call a win/win.)

If you sat through even the most basic of marketing classes, you would know that in tough times (and in theory), advertising, marketing and PR strategies should really be cranked up a notch. When advertising dollars dwindle, so do page counts. And when page counts diminish, so does editorial. And when editorial is decreased, well, then, freelance writers have a problem. The gigs become more sporadic. Or poorly compensated. Or both.

The rate cut practice really isn't all THAT bad, when you look at it from a glass-half-full perspective. Hey, a contract is a contract. A paycheck is a paycheck. But if you look at it from a salaried person's perspective, this is the financial equivalent of walking into your office or cubicle one day and having your boss tell you, "You know, we're going to slice your paycheck by, maybe, a third. By the way, how are the wife and kids?" But still, it's better than walking into your office or cubicle and having your boss hand you a cardboard box and show you the door. Right?

And that's really the coolest thing about being a freelance writer. You're technically always unemployed, so the threat of being fired or kicked out of the corner office doesn't really exist. Instead, you see each month as the end of a job (or jobs) and the beginning of the next month as a job search. Like a politician who is always running for office (because they're ALWAYS running for office), freelancers are always looking for work. We are a hungry crowd. And hungry isn't a bad place to be, if you're willing to act like a gnat buzzing around editors' heads, nagging them for work.

Maybe I should write an article on "The Care and Feeding of a Freelance Writer." In fact, just know that I will. Consider today, Dec. 3, 2008, the copyright date on that little piece of proprietary thought. HANDS. OFF.

"So, Amy, what is your point?" you may be asking.

My point is, I'm certain Adam Smith and Milton Friedman themselves would agree with my very viable economic theory: "This economy sucks eggs." And that somebody had jolly well do something about it. Like buy some advertising. Save some jobs. Save an industry. Save our dignity.

A footnote: We watched the Best G-Rated Movie of 2008, Kit Kittredge: An American Girl, 153 times over Thanksgiving weekend. When Kit learns that she can earn a penny per word for her articles, one of my kids asked me, "Hey, do you earn more than a penny per word?"

"For the moment, I do."

Sticks and Stones ... and Spoons

2008-11-29T08:44:00.000-06:00

In high school, I had a good friend whose family owned a beach house. And that made her an even BETTER friend. Add to that the fact that we lived about one hour from the beach, and you have The Best Friend EVER. During spring breaks and long weekends, she would invite five or six of us to join her and, usually, her mom.

We were a relatively tame group, and the most awful things we did at the beach were no more awful than most of the things we did at home. We didn't drink, we let out only the occasional cuss word, we spent our hard-earned money from our part-time jobs on the requisite airbrushed t-shirts at Surf Shak, and we took every opportunity we could to stray from The Mom. Heaven help us, we strayed from that poor woman.

But the highlight of each day at the beach came about 10 p.m. A deck of cards, a handful of spoons, all the chairs in the house pushed tightly around the wooden kitchen table, and the ensuing fever-pitch competition. We played Spoons into the night, into the morning and often stayed awake until The Mom emerged from her bedroom and said, "Good morning! Time to clear the table and eat breakfast!" We looked like we were coming off a three-day drunk ... only without the alcohol. In addition to the sleep deprivation and glazed eyes, there was pulled hair, abrasions to the arms and legs, and a few bruises sustained when teen-age bodies hit the hard tile floor.

"But Amy, what the hay is the relevance of this story?" Well, I will tell you that these memories came flooding back on Thanksgiving night as we sat around the kitchen table and treated ourselves to a few rounds of Spoons. And Spoons, as I will explain, should be on everyone's repertoire of holiday games. Reindeer games, even. Like Monopoly.

This is what Thanksgiving looks like. Until someone breaks out the spoons.

Despite what game manufacturers will have you believe, Spoons does NOT require a purchase of any sort. Don't be wooed by mass marketing. A cardboard box filled with a deck of cards, seven plastic spoons and a pad of paper should not cost $9.99. If you have even a modestly equipped kitchen and a deck of cards, then you have all the regulation components. I repeat, do NOT buy a kit of any sort. Like when Bunco hit its peak several years ago and women all over the place were buying cute polka-dot bags filled with dice and notepads and tied with a clever bow, all in a neat package at the retail price of $14.99. Suckers. (This is the Poverty Party portion of the blog. And it ranks Poverty Party status because I'm telling you how not to spend $9.99 and, rather, how to make your own fun by using only kitchen utensils.)

Back to Spoons. In your modestly equipped kitchen, check your utensil drawer for spoons — table spoons, soup spoons, serving spoons. Heck, use plastic spoons. I don't really care, as long as you have just one shy of the number of players. Six players? Five spoons. Eight players? Seven spoons. And so it goes.

The setup: Deal each player four cards. The objective is to collect four of a kind; suits don't matter. You may have only four cards in your hand at any time. Everyone passes to their left, with the dealer setting the pace and pulling only from the original pile of cards. As the player to your right passes you a card at breakneck speed, you must act quickly, discarding one of your cards to the next player and taking the new one, or discarding the new one and moving on. The first player to collect four of a kind is to pull a spoon, but quietly and mysteriously so as not to tip off the other players. But as other players see or hear a spoon being collected, they must quickly grab a spoon for themselves. Oh, but wait! That means one person isn't going to get a spoon, you might be saying. And that is where the anxiety enters, creating sweaty palms, upset stomachs and streaks of violence you may have never seen before. And the shouting. Oh, you will not BELIEVE the shouting.

Our first few rounds Thursday night: pleasant, anemic, innocuous, cordial ... dare I say, BORING.

But the warfare cranked up a notch when we (or, my friend Caprice) decided that we should PILE the spoons together in the middle of the table — a bold variation on their previous arrangement of being spread so that everyone had a fair chance at grabbing a spoon. But what happens when spoons are piled and the grabbing begins is a distracting and ALARMING clinking sound that brings out the ugly.

During one round, I had the four of a kind. But did I get a spoon? No. A player from across the table ripped it out of my hands, and that led to all KINDS of unrest and profanity. A husband really should be more sportsmanlike when his wife is clearly THE WINNER.

In the rounds that followed, my 10-year-old suffered an impressive wound across her lower back as she slid at top speed from her chair under the table to retrieve the last spoon, which had fallen during a wrestling match over another spoon. (She didn't get it. An adult shoe pushed the spoon in the other direction, and some fingers were crushed in the process.) A teenager took a hit to the nose that made her eyes water. Several hands had deep scratches that required the administration of Neosporin the following morning. Another suffered a punch to the arm that should have led to some sort of disqualification, but we were laughing too hard to determine who was really at fault. With no eye witnesses, she really didn't have a case. A bruise, yes; a case, no.

And that, in a nutshell, is how to play Spoons. Just as you can't eat only one potato chip, you can't play only one round of Spoons. "But Amy, how will we know when the game is over?" Well, you can set your own rules. You can say, perhaps, that when you draw blood, it might be time for everyone to go home. Or, maybe you're more of a broken bone crowd, and that will determine the game's length. Crying is also a common game-ender. But if you can manage to combine crying and throwing the cards across the room? Well, you've scored.

This Holiday Season, Give the Gift of Poetry

2008-11-25T08:18:00.010-06:00

Sometimes the best gifts are those that come from the heart. Or the kitchen. Homemade gifts take little money and a little time. Bake cookies. Make a clay pot. Frame a picture. Write a poem. If you don't have a knack for poetry (few people do, you know), perhaps you could give the recipient the tools to write his or her own poetry.

We've had a Magnetic Poetry kit for more than 13 years. When we occasionally scrape the tiny words off the refrigerator and put them in their tiny case, it's only to hide the distraction that consumes little people, makes their eyes cross, their days fly by.

More than once, we've stood looking at a group of tiny Howard Hughes-look-alikes. They're unkempt, greasy, in need of a good meal and a manicure. They don't know what grade they're in, or what year it is. We have to reintroduce them into society, holding their hands and guiding them to the front steps. "These are TREES. And that right there? That is the SUNSHINE." Then we guide them back into the kitchen and calmly put the Magnetic Poetry in the drawer. They nod quietly, without protest. They know we have to do what's best for them. And it's not always easy.

This cycle of removing Magnetic Poetry is not entirely their fault. Magnetic Poetry is like a legal addictive drug. You stand at the kitchen counter while, say, making spaghetti. You shuffle tiny magnetic tiles around and around for what SEEMS like only a few minutes, then someone walks into the room and asks, "What's burning?" Then you sputter a few expletives and try to undo the damage. While you're doing that, someone has assumed your place at the counter and is scrambling and unscrambling your hard work and before you know it, you're both yelling at each other and screaming, "Where is 'shadow'?! I had 'shadow' RIGHT HERE!"

And the next thing you know, you're standing in a room in the back of a community center wearing a name badge and drinking strong coffee. "Hi, my name is Joe. And I play Magnetic Poetry."

"Hi, Joe," the room says in unison. And they all wave a weak wave before launching into a 60-minute session designed to rescue you from the throes of Magnetic Poetry addiction.

In Magnetic Poetry, which is part game, part hobby, part full-tilt OBSESSION, everything is in small caps, as if the spirit of e.e. cummings descended upon your house and threw all grammatical and editing rules right out the window. But the absence of capital letters lets the creative juices flow more readily and removes nagging questions, like "Shouldn't 'fall' be capitalized?" No, "fall" should never be capitalized, unless it's part of a title or a headline, but that doesn't stop people from violating that word and the other three seasons all the time. So, thank you, makers of Magnetic Poetry, for leveling and simplifying the playing field.

But as I'm looking at my own refrigerator, I see that "TV" merits capital letters. And it doesn't look especially odd, since it's an abbreviation of sorts. But I digress. Every couple of days, I take a moment (or two hours) to examine the side of the refrigerator to see if any additions have been created. Some phrases are combined with others, which can be good, but it's usually distracting and infringes on somebody else's creativity, and we really should be more respectful of other people's work, don't you think? But most often, I find a sweet little phrase, usually near the bottom, where the shorter people work.

Some excerpts from today's refrigerator:

mother needed smooth fluff

fiddle is easy like you

sad language is mostly staring at a TV

my weak friend felt like elaborating

together shine through singing like a dream (This one is my personal favorite.)

stop the symphony music

white winter storm

cool spring water

hot summer sun

frantic fall leaves (With a little rearrangement, we may have a seasonal haiku on our hands. Good work, guys!)

essential apparatus of a diamond

iron sweetly

read the tiny picture without some rocky egg

why ask about our lazy goddess butts (This one is mine. I know; great, right?)

cry to live (Not pointing any fingers, but this, at times, seems to be a mantra around here.)

please avoid their bitter chant (I should cross-stitch this on a sampler and hang it in our home. It would go a long way toward peace negotiations at the dinner table.)

some sordid man is whispering deliriously from behind the gorgeous woman (Now, I don't know about you, but I believe this one has the makings of a made-for-TV drama. Perhaps on Lifetime. Nobody, however, will admit to assembling this poem. But I have my suspicions.)

And then, the more concerning entries:

red lake lust

manipulate one mad drunk

smearing blood

incubate true scream beneath

must heave on an enormous leg

We're not here to incite violence, or to tear appendages. Maybe we've just run out of good words and have only prepositions, linking verbs and conjunctions left in the box. Spare parts, you could say. So, an intervention may be called for. Maybe some counseling. Or maybe just a short hiatus from Magnetic Poetry. You know, for my, I mean their, own good.

I'm Back...With a Little Monday Morning Buffet

2008-11-17T10:42:00.002-06:00

To the thoughtful and concerned readers who have asked why they are still reliving Election Review from almost two weeks ago: I took an unplanned hiatus from blogging. Blame it on a combination of family and work matters and general malaise. Blogging is such a thankless job.

Updates from almost two weeks:

A family matter last Tuesday morning found me in south Alabama and rendered my dad TICKED OFF. As I was leaving the hospital, my mother insisted that I "come by the house and look at this desk." Translated, "I just had the spare bedroom painted, and I need you to help move furniture."

My OCD sister and I moved a dresser and desk back and forth as if they were chess pawns. In that same bedroom were several cardboard boxes with unorganized piles of photos. "Go through these boxes and get anything you want. I want this room cleaned up and the furniture where it belongs."

Beneath the unopened Sears bills from 1995, my grandmother's death certificate and Polaroids of people I've never seen in my life (Who is this?; I don't know. Some couple we met while on vacation) were piles and piles of priceless family photos. Maybe I'll scan them one day and display them here for you. Seeing, as they say, is believing.

I found a high-quality Polaroid of my mother standing alone in front of a banana tree. The handwritten caption read, "Banana Orchard."
"Forget the bananas — my GOSH, whose shorts are you wearing?"
She moved the photo forward and backward in front of her face.
"Well, I guess they were MY shorts."
My mother was and still is a thin person. But this picture looked like someone had a primitive version of Photoshop in 1974 and played a dirty trick. "Those are the oddest shorts I've ever seen. They're cutting you in half, yet the waist is pulled high, like Tweedle Dee. Why is your shirt tucked in? And what's with the belt? What year was this taken?"

Another shot featured her in the requisite navy and white sweater set and sucking on a Certs while standing in front of a palm tree.
"What about this scene made you think it would translate into a good picture? Exactly what memory were you trying to capture? The tree? The sunshine?"
"Oh, just give me the $@*^ picture."

To heck with Creative Memories; shuffling through a large cardboard box and making up stories was much more fun than revisiting what actually happened 30 years ago.

-----

When you are a grown person and visit your parents' house only once or twice a year, you tend to return home with more than you took with you. In this most recent case, my stash includes the following:

* My ex-sister-in-law's prom picture.

* Several photos of me (circa 1971, 1973, 1977, etc.) sitting on a cannon in Williamsburg. We're big Williamsburg fans.

* Evidence that my family probably would have never made the cover of The Alabama Baptist newsletter. Case in point: A wide shot of my brother and me on the lawn of the Anheuser-Busch plant in Virginia. We are 3 and 7 years old.

* A .38 Smith & Wesson.

* My California Achievement Test scores from 1982.

-----

Holiday Movies ... As we approach the holidays, it's time to break out the VHS favorites. If you don't have VHS favorites, I'll share one of mine. It's a good one.

Home for the Holidays (1995) is considered too dark for some to be a part of the holiday movie library. But for the thousands of normal people who see the holidays as an opportunity to be a little cynical and who don't try to be all Norman Rockwellish about Thanksgiving, this is a holiday classic. Our VHS copy is sadly worn and well-loved. I can't lend it to you, but I can guide you toward Amazon, which has used copies beginning at $1.79. Directed by Jodie Foster, Home for the Holidays stars Holly Hunter, Anne Bancroft, Charles Durning, Dylan McDermott and Robert Downey Jr.

Downey used to depress me to no end during the '80s (anyone recall Less Than Zero?), and his character in this movie is typical of the roles he once played. But he is oh-so-quotable. (A couple of my kids have heard "Sad Sack Terziak" all their lives, and they repeat it and don't know why.) And in my parallel childhood universe, Holly Hunter was my big sister. We shared a room with twin canopy beds, and she listened to me and told me about her dates and had my back when kids were mean to me. Gosh, I love Holly Hunter.

-----

So, the Monday Morning Buffet is surprisingly lean today. Times are hard. We can't just stand here and prepare made-to-order omelets for EVERYone. Scrambled eggs will have to do.

But I will tell you that we have, under construction, an expansion project in the works. Book lovers in particular may find it useful and maybe even entertaining. It will be located in the blogosphere, just to the left of the lobby and wedged somewhere between the buffet and the concierge desk. And like everything else around here, admission will be free. But you can always tip, if you want.

More details to come ...

No Such Thing as a Free Lunch ... Or Is There? (Election Review)

2008-11-05T12:23:00.003-06:00

My friend ELAINE, who has complained way too much that I never mention her here, sent out a broadcast e-mail Monday night, directing friends and family to drive directly from Starbucks (free coffee) and Krispy Kreme (free star-spangled donuts) stores to their nearest Chick-fil-A to claim their free chicken sandwich after exercising their right to vote Tuesday.

Imagine the cashiers' surprise at our local Chick-fil-A when throngs of socialists, cheap Republicans and charismatic Democrats made a mad rush through both entrances and around and around the drive-through to demand their free lunch.

"It's actually against the law to give away food just because you voted," the 15-year-old behind the counter told me. She kept both hands firmly on the counter, as if I were wielding a gun and robbing the place. "This has been a misunderstanding. Some markets are offering this promotion, but ours isn't one of them."

"Oh, so I don't get a free sandwich?"

"It's actually the Florida market that is giving away free sandwiches. We are not part of that promotion."

And before anyone could step behind her and wind the giant key lodged in her back, she said, "But because radio stations (AND YOUR FRIEND ELAINE) have been publicizing it, we will honor the promotion."

"So what you're saying is, No, you're not supposed to give out free sandwiches, but yes, you are giving out free sandwiches today because of the misunderstanding. Right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Well for heaven's sake, why didn't you just say so in the first place instead of carrying on this nonsense about markets and promotions and rumors? If the result is the same, I'd rather not hear the circular reasoning about why you should or should not give away free food. Still, a very good PR move on Chick-fil-A's part. Same for Starbucks and all the other places that kept me on the road Tuesday. God bless America.

----------

My phone rang at 10:30 p. m. Election Eve. Few people on this earth are on my List of People I Will Talk To After the Late News ... Especially When It Requires Me to Get Out of the Bed and Talk Quietly From the Stairwell, but David is certainly at the top of that list.

"Amy, I'd like to talk to you about the election."

(Sigh.) "David, I'd like to talk to you about Jesus."

We effectively shut each other down. Yet we still managed to stay on the phone for an hour, sidestepping politics and religion. That's how we've stayed friends for more than 24 years. Tolerance.

----------

Everyone put your colored pencils down, and go to bed ... Back in the day, we didn't have real-time election results, hologram guests and computerized maps. We had paper ballots and telephones and morning newspapers. We would go to bed on election night and wake up to learn who would be the new leader of the Free World. We had anticipation, guesswork, the UNKNOWN.

But Tuesday night, my kids were watching concession and victory speeches before 10:30 p.m. Until then, they were keeping tabs on electoral votes, maintaining a close eye on ballot counts as they were made official. My GOSH, my den looked like a newsroom, with a couple of laptops, a TV, stacks of papers, bloodshot eyes, a fair amount of loud talking and occasional shouting. And, of all things, colored pencils and black outline maps on plain white paper -- the way it's supposed to be.

A Halloween Review and a Little Election Preview

2008-11-03T10:35:00.008-06:00

A Holiday for the Masses ... Last Friday night, a pair of bicycles sat propped up against a stop sign in our neighborhood. A block or two away, their owners -- two Mormons in standard bicycle-riding attire -- walked up, then down, each side of the street, knocking on doors and sharing their tracts. Whether they won any converts or engaged themselves in any noteworthy conversation on Halloween night, nobody knows for sure. But one thing is certain: They earned some fairly large fistfuls of Smarties and Junior Mints and were seen walking the neighborhood, smiling widely and chomping on a pretty sizable stash of goods. Multi-tasking should never take a holiday. Way. To. Go.

Watching this unfold whisked us back more than seven years to an October afternoon at an amusement park, which was hosting a park-wide Halloween event. Employees were dressed in costumes, and guests were given large plastic themed bags and encouraged to trick-or-treat throughout the park. Walk up to a ride attendant, get a few Tootsie Rolls. Open your bag and say "trick or treat" to a security guard, score a Reese's. On and on. When our then-3-year-old saw a fair-skinned woman wearing a burqa and Ray-Bans and sitting on a park bench, she ran from my side, stood in front of the woman and shouted, "Trick or treat!" It all happened so FAST -- we couldn't stop it. Besides, it was hardly the 3-year-old's fault. If you were 3 and saw a woman wearing a burqa and shouting, "Hey, cut it out!" in an Appalachian dialect to her freckle-faced kids (all were in costume, by the way) in the middle of an amusement park on a warm October day in central Alabama, what would you do? Thought so.

Yet she was ever so gracious, leaned toward our daughter and said, "Oh, honey, this ain't no costume. I'm sorry." Then she looked toward us, laughed out loud and shouted, "Hey, y'all have a happy Halloween!"

After All, This Is a Free Country ... Celebrate our nation's freedom and your right to vote by taking advantage of free stuff tomorrow. After you stand in line for virtually HOURS to cast your vote, swing by Starbucks for a free cup of coffee. Bring proof, if you have it. A sticker will work fine. Starbucks also claims that it will work on the honor system, in case you don't have proof. Later in the day, head on over to Ben & Jerry's between 5 and 8 p.m. for a free scoop.

Let freedom ring.

Election Etiquette 101

2008-10-27T21:52:00.002-05:00

The day after Jimmy Carter won the 1976 presidential election, our neighbor walked over and leaned into an open window in our den and sang an out-of-tune and full-length rendition of "Happy Days Are Here Again." She was wearing a white styrofoam top hat with an American flag sticker on its brim. I was only in elementary school, but I knew enough to believe her conduct was in poor taste.

This is the electoral map of the 1976 presidential election, when Jimmy Carter won 55.2 percent of the electoral vote, leaving Gerald R. Ford with 44.6 percent. Looks like somebody took a pair of scissors and cut our country almost down the middle, doesn't it? Note of interest: It wasn't until 2000 that televised coverage of the presidential election turned Republican states red and Democratic states blue. So when you see a window sticker with a blue dot in a red square, for example, a Democrat is driving that car. To complicate matters, "Time magazine had favored Democratic red and Republican white in the 1976 election between Jimmy Carter and Gerald Ford, then reversed those colors for Reagan and Carter in 1980. By 1988, the magazine was using Republican blue and Democratic red, and it stayed with that motif even through the 2000 election, which has colorized the nation's political language in precisely the opposite way," according to Google Answers. So don't critcize my map above. In 1976, this was the way it was -- blue for Republicans, red for Democrats. This is not my fault.

This event took place in the Great State of Georgia, which, according to the map above, was about as RED (Democratic) as it could be. So you can understand that this neighbor made a fair assumption that she was singing to a household of Democrats. But how could she be sure?

This brings us to today's discussion of Election Etiquette: Everybody Be Nice.

Blue dots, red dots ... who CARES? Let's celebrate The Process, I suggested to the dinner table. It's not like we would be awaiting any great SURPRISE as the votes are tallied. It wouldn't be an in-your-face victory for anybody.

They all laughed at me.

"OK, fine then. Let's just invite the teenagers' friends. They'll be more fun than a bunch of adults anyway."

"On a SCHOOL NIGHT? But we'll have homework and bedtime and ..."

"Oh my goodness, you poor structured little soldiers living in your boxes! What are you going to remember 20 years from now? Nov. 4, 2008, studying for a history test and going to bed at 9 p.m., OR Nov. 4, 2008, watching history unfold on TV and staying up late with your friends? We could watch a few SNL Weekend Update clips, eat hot dogs, hamburgers and apple pie, play GAMES..."

I think I lost them at "games."

I had been thinking of inventing Presidential Firsts, Chuck Todd State Scramble, Name That First Lady, and White House ABCs. And then I said, "OK, I'll come up with something. What matters is that we host this thing with a sense of community ... and diplomacy. We'll cross all party lines."

And that's where I lost them for good.

So, maybe we won't be hosting an Election Night Gala. That's a shame because it would have been great fun, and I would have been very nice about it. And I would have totally smoked them at Chuck Todd State Scramble.

A Little Hors D'oeuvre for the Party, Why Facebook Bothers Me, A Selfless Act (Friday Roundup)

2008-10-24T13:02:00.004-05:00

Today Is Not Really Oct. 6 ... But I wrote this chunk of copy on that date and never did anything with it. But I think it makes an acceptable contribution to the Poverty Party and perhaps an OK component to the Friday Roundup, which has become my end-of-week trash heap of Blogs That Never Materialized. So here it goes ... Today is Oct. 6. My maternal grandmother's birthday. My paternal grandmother's date of death. My friend Greg's birthday. The anniversary of the death of Anwar Sadat. And the reason I know that it's Anwar Sadat's death anniversary is because when Greg told me almost 20 years ago that his birthday is Oct. 6 and I said, "Hey! That's my grandmother's birthday!," he said, "Hey! It's also the date that Anwar Sadat died!"
So it's a pretty big day. But we'll not cloud this day of anniversaries with musings of Egyptian leaders, great as they may have been. Instead, I'd like to tell you a little about my paternal grandmother and what she would have to say about today's economic worries and what you should do with the money you have: HIDE IT. HIDE ALL YOU CAN. Not that anybody knew she was doing this all those years. It wasn't until her death 14 years ago that we learned just how saving-savvy she was. We found stacks of 20s stuffed between pouches of muffin mixes that were concealed in gallon-size ZipLoc bags. We found small bundles of 5s and 10s tucked in drawers. Safe deposit boxes were homes to stacks of 100s banded together with sticky notes on top -- the total amount of the stack, where the money came from, etc. Many of these stacks were found by way of a treasure map of sorts that she had left behind. The others were found purely by accident, like by rummaging through the pantry in search of a muffin mix. "How in the world, Amy, did she manage to stash away so much cash? Was she a millionaire?" I will tell you how: She didn't spend. She worked hard, bought only what she needed, made what she could and watched every penny. And therefore, she was debt-free.

If Insecurity Has a Website ... it's Facebook. "I'm eating breakfast." "I'm bored." "I'm leaving for school." "My boyfriend has a paper due." "I just spent five minutes in the bathroom."
What's that loud sucking noise? It's the time being wasted on Facebook. And boy, are my eyes tired.

Months ago, I toyed with the idea of creating a Facebook account -- even went so far as to register a password. My reasoning was that it would allow me to monitor the young people. But I realized, "Hey, wait a minute, I'm the adult around here, so give me YOUR password." And they did, and that's how I navigate my way through Facebook. And I have to say, I hate it. Ninety percent of the site is bogus, and the other 10 percent is boring.

In Facebook, kids sometimes claim they are "married," which I don't understand at all. It might say that a girl is "married" to, say, her best friend, Ashley. So I asked my teenagers, "Why do kids say they're married?"

"To keep the pedophiles away."

"Wait a minute, you believe that a 16-year-old who wears braces, boldly posts her full name, school name, practically her entire CLASS SCHEDULE and a photo album of 32 different shots of herself doing herkies and standing atop a human pyramid is concerned about a pedophile thinking she's single? Do you honestly believe that a pedophile will gloss over this teenager's Facebook page and say, 'darn, she's married'? Here, let me pull you out from under that rock that seems to have rendered you naive."

"Well, maybe 'married' means 'in a serious relationship'."

"Yes, that is exactly what 'married' means, but not when you're in high school and doing herkies."

"Gosh, Mama, what's your problem?"

"Facebook. Facebook is my problem. If ever there were a case against the internet, this is it. This is the most narcissistic thing I've ever seen."

"But this is how kids talk to each other now. Through Facebook, texting ..."

"Let me make something clear to you: That's not TALKING. That's LAZY. And WRONG. And INSECURE. Why are kids scared to look friends in the face and have conversations? To pick up the phone and hear each others' voices?"

You would have thought I was performing a one-night show at the Improv. They laughed until they nearly wet themselves.

And Finally, a Little Genealogy ... Because nothing is better than hearing about somebody else's family tree. If I were speaking to you personally, I'm sure you would want to gouge your ear with an ice pick, but because you're reading from a screen, I'll never know if you said, "Ugh" and clicked over to Facebook, or turned off your computer, or decided to take a nap instead. And that is why I am saving this story in its entirety for The Book, whenever it may be written. But I'll provide a teaser: After I wrote this post, I received an e-mail requesting more information about my grandfather, who may or may not have an airplane on exhibit at The Smithsonian. I found nothing. But because his son (my uncle) shared his name and was a Junior, I stumbled across some incredible information about him and his tour in Vietnam, where he died at only 23 years old. (I barely remember him -- I was 3 when he died. But I do have some cool pictures of us together.) And in that research, I formed a friendship with one of his college friends, Buck Hartley. (If I were a soap opera writer, I would work that name into the script: "Buck Hartley, thoracic surgeon, renowned philanthropist and crime solver," or something.) So Buck-Who-Has-The-Greatest-Name-Ever has generously shared his memories of my uncle with me and even went to the trouble of e-mailing this photo from his recent visit to the Vietnam War Moving Memorial Wall, which stopped in his hometown earlier this week. (See Travis B. Lee Jr.)

Our family has several etchings we have made at the Vietnam Memorial in D.C., but this digital image holds more meaning, as it was taken by one of my uncle's good friends -- someone I've never met who took the time to visit the Moving Wall in Tifton, Ga., take this photo and e-mail it to me. Truly, a selfless act. Thank you.

It's the WEEKEND. Try not to spend too much money, stay off Facebook at all costs, and do something nice for somebody.

A Short List of Things I've Stolen From Other People's Garbage

2008-10-20T08:40:00.005-05:00

This installment of Poverty Party Tips (see widget to the left) is less of a tutorial, more of a spark to ignite your creativity. I hope it will encourage you to swallow your pride and get out there and find yourselves some pieces for that hard-to-furnish living space, facilitate some of your electronics in a user-friendly arrangement, or light that dark corner in your living room. And all for the bargain-basement price of a little travel time and maybe some spray paint. Times are hard. Cruising for treasures the night before trash day is easy.

When you have an empty space on your upstairs landing and your neighbors throw out a perfectly good pair of wicker chairs and leave them on the curb, then you do what you have to do. You go to the back yard and tell your husband, "Hey, get your SUV down the street and get me some chairs."

What you might not count on, though, is that at the very minute he is parked at the bottom of their very steep and winding driveway, loading two discarded chairs into the back of his car and cussing like a sailor under his breath about how cheap and tacky his wife is, the neighbor and his family of four coast down that driveway and look at your husband like, "That is so sad." Then they look the other way, saying to each other, "Pretend you didn't see that, kids."

This is a take on the classic before-and-after shot. You will see that the chair on the left sports an unfortunate Aztec-style pattern with a hint of pale blue and pink. The chair on the right showcases the difference one coat of mahogany spray paint can make. That amount of paint was eventually multiplied by three. The way I see it, I was saving some other dumpster diver from perpetuating bad taste and using the uncomfortable and worn Aztec chairs AS IS. It was my way of making the world a more beautiful place. A win-win.

Yes, well. My good fortune was well worth his embarrassment, as I sprayed and sprayed paint until I was rendered illiterate. And then I went to Pier 1, where I spent $38 on cushions, which were on sale. (Pier 1 is proud of its cushions.)

One man's trash is another man's sitting area.

Until I saw this picture, I didn't realize how many extension cords she has in her room for her phones, stereo, lamps, chargers, etc. Oh, and the keyboard she plays like she's Laurie Partridge.

This metal phone table in my teenager's room is a lovely blue and white, just like two of the colors on her multi-colored walls. Coincidence? Hardly. This was once the most rickety piece of crap you have ever seen ... until I applied about $2 worth of spray paint to it and transformed it into a functional and aesthetic piece of furniture for my dear child. "But Amy, where in the world did you FIND such a treasure? On the side of the road?"

No, I found it in an abandoned home about six years ago. The bank apparently didn't believe that locks were necessary, as someone had already ripped out the major appliances. All that remained was a distasteful array of colored tile throughout the home. And this table. And a goat tied to a tree in the back yard. On one of my trips to this house (yes, I visited often), the goat untied himself and followed me home. Every few days, I would look outside to see the goat wandering throughout our yard, minding his own business and eating grass. More than once, neighbors would see me in my yard or at my mailbox, roll down their windows and ask, "Hey, is that your goat wandering through the neighborhood?"

Like I'm the sort of person who would have a goat.

Timing, as they say, is everything. If I had arrived on the scene an hour later, this would have been in a landfill. It would have been TOO LATE. It's these little things that will save the planet.

Years ago, I dropped off my son at a friend's house, but another of his friends was still in my car as we drove down the street. I can't remember why. But I saw this black lamp sitting by the trash at the curb, put the car in reverse and said, "Chandler, hop out and get me that lamp." Strangely enough, at 8 years old, he never questioned me. He opened the door, wedged the lamp into the back seat and rode home in silence, looking out the window, holding most of the lamp in his lap. When I brought it into the house, I was delighted to find that not only did it work, it already had a bulb. I tightened the bolt on the base, and we had ourselves a new floor lamp. Which is good, because I didn't want to have to drive back across town and return it to a stranger's trash heap. That would be tacky.

Kidneys, Confidence and Some Reading Recommendations (Friday Roundup)

2008-10-17T09:27:00.002-05:00

A Final Word About My Kidneys ... I promise. Today is another new day. An even better day than yesterday. Because I enjoyed the most un-fitful night of sleep I've had in one week, despite a dream that involved Teddy Roosevelt and an after-hours gym. (And I was drug-free.) I am feeling SO much better, in fact, that I woke up at 4:45 a.m. to meet a friend for exercise at 5:15. Teddy Roosevelt was not there.
If flowers were in bloom, I would be smelling them and carrying a bluebird on my shoulder. I would be Snow White. In fact, I may just whistle while I work this morning.

Oh, To Be So Confident ... This is a playground story for the ages. A certain freckle-faced 8-year-old who lives here told me that she and one of her freckle-faced best friends got sweaty during recess one day last week and retreated to a bench. As they sat there watching the other kids, her friend lowered her head, sighed and said, "I am SO HOT." And then she cut her eyes, lowered her voice and said, "In TWO ways." And then they giggled and slapped their knees like they were the funniest kids in the world. Gosh, I hope they never lose that confidence or that sense of humor. But I know adolescence will be here soon enough, kicking them in the head and making them doubt everything they do, say or wear. Adolescence can be such a pain in the rear.

Amy's Book Club ... Occasionally, I share with you a list of Books You Should Read, but in a less-threatening, less-Oprahesque way. Because in all honesty, what you read is ultimately up to you. But I would like to pass along a couple of titles that might make for good weekend reading.

My husband picked up a copy of Winner of the National Book Award, put it in my hands and said, "Here. I found this. It looks funny." Because we are people who firmly believe in judging a book by its cover.

As I read it, I would flip to the front cover many times and ask, "Who wrote this? David Lynch?" It's that bizarre, but that good. It is one of the few books that offers absolutely no characters I can relate to, predict or envy. It is, at once, tragic, hilarious, offensive, thoughtful. Friday Roundup is made up of brief snippets, so I'll not offer a full-fledged review or endorsement. But I do provide this excerpt:

(The narrator, Dorcas, in describing her birth as the second-born of a set of twin girls)

My sister emerged with a list of complicated, interdependent demands. They pried her loose, with infinite patience . . . When they got her out she held her breath, deliberately I have no doubt, so that they held her upside down and spanked her and generally made such a fuss that when I, the afterthought, emerged (on my hands and knees, I picture it, like an old ragbag crawling across a cartoon desert), I was given only cursory attention . . . "A beautiful little girl" -- holding Tubbo aloft like the Wimbledon Cup -- "and a boy" -- smiling in a kindly, commisserating sort of way, giving me a glimpse of my homely little face, swaddling me like a hideous burn victim.

If you've never heard of, or visited, the Eastern Bloc country of Molvania, let Molvania: A Land Untouched by Modern Dentistry be your armchair guide to the culture and mystique of a land shrouded in mediocre architecture, a collapsed economy and a contrast of old customs and modern ingenuity (like the world's oldest nuclear reactor).

"But Amy, you shouldn't make fun of those poor countries victimized by the Warsaw Pact and oppressed by Soviet domination. They can't HELP it," you might be saying. And I am putting my hands on my hips, letting my jaw drop and pointing my finger to the book and saying, "I wasn't the one who WROTE this guidebook. It was THEM. I just happened to read it ... and laugh my rear end off."

Again, I pride myself on judging a book by its cover, and I hit GOLD with this one. I found it in the Literature section, tucked way back in Non-Fiction, and because it was wedged in a set of shelves that included Bill Bryson and similar authors, how could I go wrong?

The capital of Molvania is situated between the country's Eastern Steppes and a Western Plateau. A mountain range of heavily forested Molvanian Alps stands to the South.
Among Molvania's claims to fame:
* It's biggest pop sensation, Olja, combines hot Latin sounds with Cold War rhetoric.
* Going "green" takes on a different meaning in Molvania, as the country prides itself as being an environmentally conscious nation, and all its waste is either sorted and recycled, or dumped over the border in Slovakia.
* One of the most popular drinks in Molvania is turpz, a white wine flavored with oak resin. This fruity drop is an acquired taste, but once tasted, it's hard to give up, due in part to the fact that it contains nicotine.

Why would someone go to the trouble of writing and publishing a travel book about such a place? I'm not giving away the ending by telling you this, Molvania doesn't really exist.

It's the weekend. Drink lots of water, laugh at yourself, read a clever book, and (if you're like me) enjoy a kinder, gentler house because your 4-3 team has a bye weekend.

Hey, How Did HE Get In Here?

2008-10-16T10:38:00.016-05:00

While under the influence of LEGALLY PRESCRIBED narcotics to ease me through the blinding pain of a kidney stone and its always-hand-in-hand kidney infection, I treated myself to a little downloading session on iTunes while propped up at the kitchen table and wondering if this is really a good way to spend my last hours on this earth, biting bullets and spitting casings on the floor.

On the other hand, maybe it was my hopeful way of saying, "I'm going to get through this and perhaps one day go to a park and run, or maybe to the gym, and will reach for my iPod. And my reward, my PURPLE HEART, for enduring this, will be a new repertoire of Top 40 favorites." And then I went to bed for about a day and a half. Or maybe I went through my daily routine and actually got behind the wheel of a car. I don't really remember.

Today, as they say, is a new day. I am drug-free and relieved not to be staring at the wall and drooling. So I grabbed my iPod and settled in to work (after being granted much-needed and greatly appreciated deadline extensions) and pushed the "play" arrow. And this is what I heard:

The incomparable Barry White, singing "You're the First, the Last, My Everything."

My favorite Brothers Johnson song, "Stomp."

A wide variety of George Benson songs. You'd be surprised how many George Benson songs a person can download while under the influence. I know I was.

Luther Vandross crooning "The Power of Love."

More than one song by James Ingram.

And whisking me back to the early '80s, Mr. Jeffrey Osborne, performing "We're Going All the Way."

And then, way down at the bottom of my "recently added" playlist, is an inordinate number of songs by this white man...

(This photo replaces a previous selection, which garnered MUCH negative feedback and was deemed, by many, as distasteful. Seventies fashionwear was not MY fault; I just downloaded the photo. Still, I heard you LOUD AND CLEAR, removed the photo and replaced it with this tasteful Teen Beat shot, circa 1979.)

Sticks and Stones ... and a Little Something for the Party

2008-10-15T08:33:00.002-05:00

On Friday night, I crawled into my tent in the woods and tried to sleep it off.

By Saturday night, I suspected something might be WRONG. "Wrong" meaning "enduring blinding pain" and "we never finished those wills, did we?" I stumbled onto (not into) my sleeping bag and kept a towel nearby in the event that nausea got the best of me. I cried myself to sleep. By Sunday at 3 a.m., I woke up and announced that we were, indeed, expecting our fifth (or sixth) kidney stone. And this one was going to be bigger and stronger and uglier than those that preceded it.

Illustration by Jason Smith; isn't it great? It reminds me of old Batman comic books.

"Let's go to the hospital."

"But it's not time. I have it under control for now. I have everything with me that a doctor would give me. Except the Demerol. And a laser. And the sterile field. So let's just save the co-pay."

"Seriously, we can leave the kids here and be back before dawn."

"I am not leaving four kids unattended in the woods. And since when does an ER visit take only three hours? My threshold is high. We're not there yet."

Eleven hours later, by 4 p.m. Sunday, after unloading the car and unpacking tents, we were there. And there I have been for the past 60-some odd hours, even after seeing a physician -- a pleasant physician who administered a shot in my hip, gave me an antibiotic and prescribed a very nice controlled substance. And I tell you all this as an explanation for Monday's post, which, as I read it now, makes very little sense. Even though it is 100 percent true. Just as e-mail and wine don't mix, neither do blogging and Lortab. Still, you will notice that my spelling was remarkably flawless.

I remain medicated and am still waiting for the blessed event, but it's high time (no pun intended) I throw something into the Poverty Party pot. If memory serves -- last week was a long time ago -- my plan was to contribute an occasional true and personal account that will inspire you to make wise choices that will keep you out of the poor house and make you feel like a responsible American. I'm doing my best here to stay true to my word. And not to fall off the couch while I'm typing. The really neat part is, I probably wouldn't feel a thing.

Today, we turn our attention to grocery shopping, the bane of our existence. One of those necessities of life -- daily life, it seems -- that leaves us with empty pockets and only moderately filled cabinets these days. I will not get into the minutiae of my shopping list, menu planning (ha) and coupon usage, except to guide you toward two very useful sites that will spark your coupon-clipping and inspire you to say, "Full price for Hamburger Helper? I don't think so!"

• http://fiddledeedeeblog.blogspot.com (no www in the address, please) — If you shop at Publix or have a Publix within a 25-mile radius of your home, this is worth the effort. This fiddledeedee woman combines sales, coupons and shopper savvy to teach you how to really rip off, I mean, navigate Publix and not break the bank. Done right, the cashier will be handing you money.

• www.moneysavingmom.com — The tagline "helping you be a better home economist" smacks of 1956 and makes me smile. Because I'm a lot of things, but I'm probably not the quintessential "home economist." I'm just here for the printable coupons. So, if you're like me, just click on "coupons" on the index at the top of the page. You can read other tidbits and guest posts, like "We each want a lovely and inviting home." Or not.

Those are but two tips I'm throwing in the pot, and maybe I'll get a little more personal in the coming weeks, as Bossy has done. I'll try to make you feel bad about spending and good about saving. I'll try to make you feel guilty about making stupid financial decisions and feel better about being a cheapskate.

"But, Amy," you might be whining. "This sounds painful."

And I would say, "Look, whiner, you don't KNOW pain."

Amy, Get Your Gun...and Pass the Salsa, Would You?

2008-10-13T19:14:00.003-05:00

While I would never leave a pistol out in plain view during a dinner party -- I wasn't raised by wolves, you know -- I had no problem whatsoever not concealing my two most recent pistol targets when the daughter's new male friend joined us for dinner Monday evening. In fact, I believe these targets made a nice centerpiece during our Mexican fiesta, which was comprised largely of enchiladas made from two Old El Paso dinner kits and chips with radiator salsa (recipe to follow). Not that he noticed the impressive and numerous bull's eyes, but if he had, I'm certain he would have assumed they were made by his girlfriend's FATHER. And that would have been OK, I suppose, except that I am the one who knows every single word to "Cleaning This Gun" by Rodney Atkins.

The holes in this target were made from bullets I fired from a .38 special.

I loved .38 Special when I was in high school...Hold On Loosely, So Caught Up in You, Wild-Eyed Southern Boys ...

These holes were created by a very basic .22 semiautomatic. I could have shot that gun all day.

Radiator Salsa

My friend, Lila, was charged with making an appetizer before book club years ago. But like everyone else, she ran short on time. She stopped at the grocery store, picked up the following ingredients, opened the cans and assembled the dish on the hood of her car. So I named it "Radiator Salsa."

1 jar of salsa, any kind, any level of heat

1 can of white shoepeg corn

1 can of black beans (preferably rinsed, but if you're assembling this dish on the hood of your car, oh, well)

chopped cilantro (again, if you're working from a Suburban or Passat, you can omit the cilantro)

Dump all ingredients in a bowl, and stir. Serve with tortilla chips. Or eat it with a spoon. Put some sour cream on top, if you want. It's all good.

It's a Party -- a POVERTY Party

2008-10-09T12:00:00.003-05:00

Bossy has broken new ground once again. She is blazing a trail out of poverty and into a debt-free life. And she wants the whole darn world to support her and, if they'd like, join her. As she has pointed out, now is about as good a time as any to tighten the belt, say "no" to a few things and generally make better decisions.

From today's post:

Bossy will use this space to report her spending and missteps, along with cheap recipes, savings tips, and suggested tricks and goals.

So, whether you have mounting debt, fear that you may go into debt, or just want to feel the empowerment of spending less and saving more in this crappy economy, maybe you should get all dressed up and join the party. And by dressed up, we mean sweat pants and an oversized t-shirt. Ponytail is optional.

To acquaint you visitors from Bossy's site with my own take on frugal living, let's step back in time, shall we? Hop over here to read Step 1 in my series on How to Ward Off Depression.

After reading this, you might ask yourself, "Where the hay is Step 2?" And that's a fair question. The answer is, I haven't written it yet. I have been knee-deep in deadlines for jobs that pay the bills, which is another important step in spending less, saving more: WORK HARD. But I shall do better, now that I'm a partygoer. You wouldn't bring an empty dish to a party, would you?

Be forewarned. The steps I will offer and the tales I will share (no set schedule yet) as one of many widget-carrying members of this Poverty Party will probably be painfully honest -- shocking, even. The reason being, I have several circles of friends, and these circles don't always intersect. So what I might share could come as a surprise to some circles, but be totally expected by others. I am the common denominator in a wide and colorful variety of socioeconomic circles, circles that might not get along with each other if they were to, say, talk politics, religion or money. My personal circles are churchgoers, non-churchgoers, Democrats, Republicans, straight, not straight, deep pockets, empty pockets, public school, private school, young, old, male, female, Southerners, non-Southerners, good spellers, poor spellers. I have them all. Gosh, I love my circles. And then there are the circles I may not know personally, but are made up of people who find themselves here and say, "What is she TALKING about?"

I tell you this to let you know that I don't care who you are because, as Bossy so eloquently put it, every indication suggests that right now is the time to truly reign in spending and whittle down debt, where indication equals the breadline Bossy is standing in due to the collapsed economy.

Party on ...

I Was OCD When OCD Wasn't Cool

2008-10-08T09:19:00.005-05:00

Once upon a time, ADD was the disorder of the day. Then along came ADHD, then panic attacks and then a wide spectrum of stress disorders. Now it seems that OCD trumps them all, and all I can say is "FINALLY." The street cred we deserve. But don't be jumping on our bandwagon and trying to be all OCD. We don't accept just ANYbody.

OCD is not one of those unfortunate disorders that leaves everyone saying, "Bless his heart," or "Is she on medication?" Instead, it's one of those rare conditions that has friends and family saying, "Hey, watch this. You won't believe it." And then they throw an OCD sufferer some sort of weird curve and watch the chips fall. Or watch the sufferer's face turn red before his brain explodes. Properly executed, it can be great fun. I can dish it out myself, but no, I can't take it.

My son is a textbook example of an OCD case. He cuts tags off new purchases and stacks the tags in a particular corner of his desk, where they remain for weeks. If I move them or, when I'm feeling bold, THROW THEM IN THE TRASH, a mushroom cloud forms in his bedroom, and we all pay a price.

He could carry out his morning and evening routines wearing a blindfold. He will wash his sister's hubcaps not out of love or servitude, but out of a general distaste for filthy hubcaps. At the grocery store, while he is two aisles away, I'll pick up a gallon of pulp-free orange juice without added calcium, place it in the cart and wait for the bomb to go off.

On a Friday night three years ago, while dining at Chick-fil-A, he and I compiled a List of Words That You Can Type On One Hand Without Leaving the Home Key Position. For example, "million" is a right-hand word; "wear" is a left-hand word. I think it was when we moved to alternating keys that the rest of the family, including my husband, left for the indoor playground. ("Alternating keys" requires letters to alternate from left to right in the home key position; for example, "auto," "wish," "chairman," etc. Of course, you must start on the left. No words can begin on the right because that would be imbalanced.)

My sister is a Ph.D. and does something with counseling that I don't understand, considers my disorder annoying but manageable, but has volunteered (way too many times), "Amy, please let me test him," typically after he has done something so clearly off-the-chart compulsive. And I always answer, "Why confirm what we already know?"

Best I can tell, OCD presents itself in many forms. At last weekend's BOW event, my roommate, Kellie, confessed that when she is engaged in a conversation, she silently taps or drums words the other person is speaking. And the total number of words must end on an even number. For example, that last sentence is a good one because it ends on an even number -- "and they must end on an even number (8)." And then she asked, "Do you think that's weird?"

"Weird? Heck, no! I'm relieved! I've been doing the same thing since I was about 8 years old, only I do it with syllables and in sets of fours." I explained that I visualize a square that has no lines but four corners marked by heavy dots. A spoken sentence -- never a written sentence; that would be weird and distracting -- is begun in the upper lefthand corner and counted off syllabically clockwise, ending in the bottom lefthand corner, thereby making a complete lap around the square. For example, if you were to say to me, "Amy, I count off words to end in an even number," I would say (to myself), "I'm sorry, you'll have to add two more syllables to make that sentence divisible by four." And usually, I've stored the content of your statement on a delay and can go back and pick it up in a few seconds so that we can carry on with our discussion, and you'll never know that I'm dissecting and editing your sentence to make it fit the square. But until then, I'm adding or deleting syllables so that the sentence works for me. In this particular case, simply omitting "Amy" solves all the problems: "I count off words to end in an even number." Not only does the total number of words in the sentence end on an even note (good for Kellie), but the syllables are now in in three sets of four (good for Amy), or a nice grouping of 12. Again, syllabically is the way to go. It's a cadence thing.

Or, "Know that this is a cadence thing (8 syllables)."

What a Depression Looks Like; Pass the Meth; Fabled Game & More (Friday Roundup)

2008-10-03T10:00:00.001-05:00

What does a depression look like? ... In my recent research of the Great Depression, I stumbled across a thread with comments dating back 12 to 15 months — more than a year's worth of speculation and supposition. The question posed on this particular thread is "What does a depression look like?" (I have corrected neither spelling, capitalization nor grammar in these comments. Ours is still a capitalist society, no matter how weak the dollar, and because we may be heading toward a depression, I cannot afford to work for free. These are hard times, so correct your own English.)

The following are actual comments left on the thread:

• "I think once it really took hold one of the first things you would prominently start to notice is a marked downturn in vehicular traffic. With the price of gas and food going through the roof."

• "You know, during the depression my grandfather had been a banker and he became a carpenter. But he had to leave for 4 years to work on the shipyards in California while my grandmother and five children were back in North Dakota. Men would come to the house asking for a meal....she would agree to it if they did a job around the yard to do for her. She never let on that there wasn't a man around but made them eat outside on the picnic table. I don't think this would happen in this day and age. I think people will hurt other people. I don't think there were people who looted and commited crime back then...it would happen all over the place now. There was no martial law during this time to my knowledge but I'm afraid this will happen if chaos ensues. It's all very disturbing to contemplate....I hope the Lord takes us out before this would get to this point. I think (you may not agree with me) that there are a lot of people out there who use pot...and I think they will try to get their hands on anything out of desperation....to escape reality and will do anything to feed this addiction."

Who needs a meteorologist ... when you are a human barometer? And have at least one child who, this time of year, looks like she has ebola?

People who claim to love fall weather clearly do not have seasonal allergies and really need to Shut Up.

My drug of choice just happens to contain the ingredients for cooking up some crystal meth, and I am certain my name is on all sorts of databases (thanks, Walgreen's, Wal-Mart and Publix!) with an asterisk labeling me as "suspicious" and "potential meth dealer" and "clearly an addiction risk." I don't care if it IS crystal meth; without it, my head would explode and my teeth would fall out from the blinding pain.

What do you take me for? A fool? ... Hunting season has arrived, and it seems a certain outdoors writer is busily promoting snipe hunting as an actual sport. When I shared this tidbit with the husband, he laughed and said, "No way." Click here for another expert's insistence that snipe hunting is For Real.

This is a snipe...or is it?

Not much else to say ... about Paul Newman that hasn't already been said. Except "no, you big bonehead" to the bag boy at Publix who examined my second purchase of Newman's Own salsa this week and asked, "Was Paul Newman a soap opera star?"

Whoa! It's Friday already! I'm off to the woods to shoot things (not snipes), drive an ATV, not cook my own food and enjoy lots of cool things that float my boat. Like, float my boat, or canoe. It's BOW weekend. May your weekend be equally entertaining ...

How to Ward Off Depression: The Library Card

2008-10-01T07:46:00.001-05:00

Two summers ago, my friend Julie was whining about not knowing what to read and blaming it on her high school experience. The problem, she said, was that she was never given much assigned reading. And with no direction, she never felt like she knew what she should be reading. I took that as an invitation to Make a List. Because I am very bossy that way. By the end of the summer, Julie was the biggest Bronte Sisters fan you have ever seen.

But before you click out of this blog and wander over to some other e-place because you don't want someone telling you what to read, I will tell you that I am not going to sing the praises of the Bronte Sisters here. Although they were quite awesome and I am sure that you would enjoy their fine work immensely.

Instead, I would like to tell you that now is an ideal time to get reacquainted with your library card because these are hard times and you have no business spending your hard-earned money on frivolity. For days now -- and for weeks to come -- you have heard and will be hearing about ways to cut back. In response, we have developed a program called How to Ward Off Depression, which is not to say that you are depressed, nor should you be, and it is not to say that we are certainly facing a full-on economic depression. Because that would seem ... depressing. But everyone could stand to cut back. And cutting back can be easy -- fun, even -- if you heed some simple advice.

This is Step No. 1: Use Your Library Card.

I would be doing a disservice by just cutting you loose in the public library with no direction. So I give you today's post about library usage by providing a theme: journeys into simpler times.

We'll start chronologically. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn was published in 1943 and written by Betty Smith. If you missed it in high school English, know that it's never too late to enjoy a classic. And by classic, I don't mean boring or hard to understand. I mean, classically hard to put down. Set in 1912, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn is a coming-of-age story about Francie, who survives hardship and hatred. Her love of reading and an ability to self-teach sustains her and ultimately pulls her out of the tenements of Williamsburg, N.Y. Lumping it under the category of "journeys into simpler times" may seem off-target, but this truly is a story of simplicity -- doing a lot with only a little.

Next, reach out for a copy of The Sandy Bottom Orchestra, a young adult novel by Garrison Keillor and a must-read for girls of all ages. The raw honesty between members of the Green family is enviable, and Rachel makes 14 not seem so horrible. In the end, you'll want to move to a small town and learn to play the violin.

And if you're a Garrison Keillor fan, you'll appreciate the trademark Keillor storytelling that plops you right into the thick of things. Gosh, I love Garrison Keillor. Not to the Secret Boyfriend level, but maybe to the Secret Favorite Neighbor level. I would sit on his screened porch every night and say, "Spin me another yarn, Garrison." And then we'd sing songs like "Fools Rush In" a cappella.

And finally, the third and final recommendation in today's installment is A Girl Named Zippyby Haven Kimmel. One of the first and most notable titles in the modern memoir genre, Kimmel takes us back to 1970s Mooreland, Indiana, where she grew up the youngest of three, seemingly taking notes about everyone around her. Nobody in the book is particularly outstanding or odd. Kimmel's gift is to take the ordinary and make it readable and laugh-out-loud funny. Like the way she describes the '70s crafts rage: "Découpage hit Mooreland pretty hard." Know that it's only one of hundreds of phrases you will want to read again and again. And then, after you read Zippy, pick up She Got Up Off the Couch, sort of a sequel. And THEN try some of Kimmel's fiction: The Solace of Leaving Early, Something Rising (Light and Swift) and The Used World. (Iodine has recently been released, but I have not yet read it and therefore cannot endorse it, although I am certain it is terrific.)

And there you have an antidote to depression -- emotional AND financial. You'll feel a little better about these hard times, enjoy a little escape and still have change in your pocket.

You're welcome.

You Can't Undo the RSVP; How to Sleep Well; A Weekend Recipe (Friday Roundup)

2008-09-26T09:31:00.002-05:00

The show must go on ... because my calendar is clear. CLEAR, John McCain. And the nice folks in Oxford have been cleaning and decorating and generally cranking up the hospitality like the good Southerners they are. And you don't just change your mind on a whim because you're distracted by a $700 billion problem. That is what we call bad taste.

I can't do anything to calm your nerves or set aside any of your fears about this debate, but I can introduce you, Sen. McCain, to other parts of one of my favorite cities in the South -- parts that are not on a stage or in an auditorium or in a spot where you will run into Sen. Obama, who is off somewhere busily trying to define "change." Relax. Take in the sights of Oxford. Have a good meal. To get you started ...

If you're a catfish kind of guy, BYOB and your lawn chair and hang out in the parking lot of Taylor Grocery & Restaurant while you wait for the screen door to slam and for your hostess to yell your name from the front porch. Inside, you will be treated to a heaping helping of bottom-feeding catfish -- blackened or fried -- hushpuppies and more. It's a fast-paced dining experience, punctuated by visuals not found just anywhere. We watched our hostess stomp from one end of the narrow dining room to the other, barking orders like a Marine, simultaneously tossing back a small cylinder of M&M Minis like it was a soft drink. Everyone stayed out of her way. At one point, she had a toddler on her hip. Gosh, that was some good catfish.

I'm embarrassed even to mention Square Books because it's synonymous with "Oxford," and it seems almost a cliché to bring it up. But really, you should swing by there. Everyone else does. Every famous writer who is worth his or her salt, anyway. Had you arrived in town last night, you could have listened to the live radio show, which is broadcast every Thursday night. But you were decidedly undecided, so you missed a good opportunity.

Maybe you can find your muse at Rowan Oak, home of William Faulkner, who wrote outlines and dialogue on his bedroom wall. It's a solid brainstorming technique that you might want to consider. Alcohol is optional.

Lodging options are few in Oxford, but I'm sure one of the bed and breakfast inns could make room for one more. This one is within walking distance of Rowan Oak. A long walking distance, but a walking distance nonetheless. Wear your Keds.

But for now, you have a campaign to run, so leave the worrying to these guys ...

Senate Banking Committee Chairman Sen. Chris Dodd., D-Conn., center, gives an oath that he does not have $700 billion either. Sen. Bob Corker, R-Tenn., Sen. Charles Schumer, D-N.Y., Sen. Robert Bennett, R-Utah, Sen. Judd Gregg, R-N.H., all pretend to listen in while Sen. Jack Reed, D-R.I., far right, wishes he had a stool softener.

THIS JUST IN ...| Updated: Senator John McCain’s campaign said Friday morning that he will attend tonight’s debate with Senator Barack Obama at the University of Mississippi, reversing his earlier call to postpone the debate so he could participate in the Congressional negotiations over the $700 billion bailout plan for financial firms. (ADDED TO BLOG AT 11:02 a.m. CST. WHEW! Now I have something to do tonight.)

May the force be with you ... In a recent and mandatory overhaul of a certain 13-year-old boy's bedroom, I noticed a change in pillow cases. "What's with the Star Wars pillow case?"

"I don't know. I hadn't used it in a while."

And I did the unthinkable while helping him make the bed. I had the Trade Federation side face-up. He grabbed it from my hands and turned it face-down. "Trade Federation goes DOWN; Bravo Squadron goes UP." And he smoothed the case and put the pillow in its place. I had been scolded.

"What the ...? Does it matter?"

"Yes, it matters. Of course it matters. When I was little, I believed that if I slept on the Trade Federation side, I would be bad the next day. But if I slept on the Bravo Squadron side, I would be good."

"Did that work for you?"

"Yes. But if I was mad at you, I would sleep on the Trade Federation side."

I am starting to feel old ... because my oldest child is amassing a rather large stack of brochures, glossy magazines and enticing invitations that have to do with college campuses -- college campuses that are under the impression that I am old enough to be the mother of a high school junior who won't be living with me in less than two years.

And while the idea of being a college freshman is pretty darn exciting to a high school junior, it's depressing and lonely to that high school junior's mom, who may not be all that ready for college, particularly if you consider that she herself was in college just yesterday.

And for your dining pleasure ... Another football weekend is upon us, or, for you non-football fans looking for a dish you can eat from during the debate, I offer this recipe, prepared and tested last weekend during a Boy Scout Cook-off. This award-winning dish from my Bravo Squadron son's patrol earned the "best appetizer" honor.

Boy Scout Dip

1 8-oz. block of cream cheese

(Or was it sour cream? I think it was cream cheese. Yes, it was definitely cream cheese. Does sour cream come in a block? I told him to give it a rest and relax; sour cream and cream cheese are almost interchangeable in cases like this. In the end, cream cheese was the way to go. No doubt about it. I was not there when this dish was originally created because I am not a Boy Scout. But had I been there, I would have gone with the cream cheese, too. And then I would have licked the spoon.)

1 jar of salsa

shredded cheese

tortilla chips

Spread the cream cheese in a pie plate. Pour the salsa over, then sprinkle with cheddar cheese. Do not heat or cook in any way. Eat it straight from the plate with chips.

And while this is an excellent party dip, be warned that overindulging can make you look like Jack Reed in the above photo. Everything in moderation, people.

It's the weekend ... watch a debate, cheer for a team, be a good hostess, eat some dip.

President Bush, We Already KNOW

2008-09-24T16:48:00.002-05:00

“The president believes it is important for the American people to fully understand the depths of the crisis affecting our country."

— Dana Perino, chief spokeswoman for President George W. Bush

As President Bush prepares to speak before the nation tonight, I would like to give him a little heads-up: WE KNOW.

"Somebody had better come up with $700 billion ... and fast." We hear you. Loud and clear. But folks like us aren't really ... in a position to help you. And we don't really have the time. We are too busy helping OURSELVES. We are too busy staying home and not using gas. We are too busy cutting corners that might not exist tomorrow or next week or next year. We are too busy preparing for what may or may not happen. We are too busy teaching our kids the fundamentals of microeconomics and the value of choices, the merits of negotiation and the joy of finding less expensive ways to go about things. Lessons that are hard-learned; lessons that maybe somebody should have taught the U.S. Government.

So we really don't have time to try to understand this problem. But maybe you could learn a little something from us.

In some circles—mine, for example—we negotiate, bargain-shop and say "no" to the non-essentials. We find ways to enjoy life as we are accustomed to because ours is not a generation that has generally had to do without, and some things simply cannot be cut. Like Waffle House. Which is an essential. At Waffle House, a couple can still have a fine meal on a Friday night, enjoy impeccable table service and easily pay a $7.20 tab for two without much guilt. And the bonus here is that after dining at Waffle House, you still aren't hungry the next morning, thereby saving yourself the cost of another meal. A win/win.

No doubt, we are living in tough times, and nowhere is it tougher than at the drug store. Just ask one of my Alert Readers, who has transformed coupon-collecting to a full-tilt ART FORM and has recently been overheard, saying, "You think I'm going to pay full price for Kotex? Think AGAIN." She sent out an e-mail detailing her recent visit to CVS. Too many of these trips by too many consumers, and you will witness a complete collapse of the entire American economic system, but hey, we didn't ask for these hard times:

1 Soft Soap - Reg. $2.49 on sale for $.99

2 Colgate Toothpaste (bogo) - $3.29

16ct. Kotex liners - $1.49; I used $2 off $10 purchase coupon

$1 off Kotex liners

$.35 off Softsoap

$1.50 Colgate

$1 off Kotex coupon (a second coupon)

$1 off coupon (on my receipt, but not sure what for...but I'll take it)

My subtotal was -.08, but with $.22 tax, my total out of pocket was...$.14.

That's 14 CENTS for some fairly essential items. This particular friend is SO alert, in fact, that she snapped a photo of her inexpensive purchase and attached it to her e-mail, as proof of what she could do when pushed to the limit.

May her foresight and above-average math skills inspire a nation.

Everybody Just Relax, Part Deux

2008-09-22T11:30:00.005-05:00

(Part of The Amy Cates Lecture Series;

click here, here and here for past installments)

Thanks for showing an interest in today's topic. We've set the a/c a little lower today to welcome in fall, so if you get a little chilly, please find one of the ushers in the back of the room.

Complimentary pencils and notepads are on the back table, next to the orange juice and Krispy Kremes. Please help yourselves.

I'd like to start today's installment of the Lecture Series with a little trip back in time. This is the story of a boy who didn't attend school past eighth grade. (According to some, he didn't attend past sixth. So, for sake of discussion and fairness, let's say "seventh.") So this boy was about 12 years old when he had to quit school to help the family in some way. (Details of his quitting school are also nebulous, so let's say that he quit to help run the family's home in Virginia.)

Already a strong reader with an even stronger desire to learn, he taught himself higher math and physics skills and found great joy in reading books on the subjects -- books that would bore the general population to TEARS, but that he found rather delightful. At the time, books were not labeled by their "reading level" or "difficulty," but by nothing more than their titles. If a reader found the topic interesting, he or she would simply read it. If the words or subject matter became too difficult, the reader would put the book down and find something else to read. If it was assigned reading, maybe the reader would ask for additional help from the teacher. Who knows. That doesn't really matter in this story.

So the 12-year-old goes through his teen years, quenching his thirst for knowledge by doing little more than reading and frequently applying his newfound knowledge to repairing things, like cars and airplanes. As one story goes, a neighbor had all but given up on repairing the engine in his car, when this almost-grown-former-12-year-old offered to repair it. The owner of the car took him up on this generous offer, and within a day, the car was running like a top. Better than before.

"I can't believe you were able to fix this. How much do I owe you?"

The reply: "Thirty dollars. Twenty for the parts; ten for insulting my intelligence."

A few years later, the boy-now-man decided he would like to be an aeronautical engineer because it seemed like a rewarding career that would pay a decent salary and put food on the table for his wife and kids. But with neither a high school diploma nor a college degree, the likelihood of designing airplanes for the government seemed, well, unlikely. He approached the Army Corps of Engineers anyway and said, "I'd like to take your test to be a licensed aeronautical engineer."

"Sir, we need to see your credentials. Degrees. Level of education. That sort of thing."

"I don't have any. But I'd like to take your test."

The Army Corps of Engineers shrugged its collective shoulders, maybe even chuckled, and administered the test. Which the man passed. With great ease. And very little ego. He had become, on his own, without formal education, an aeronautical engineer.

He eventually went on (again, without furthering his education) to work for Lockheed and write the manual for the C-5. Several years after retirement, and into his 70s, he was called back to the company, which had received more contract work than it could handle and begged, "Mr. Lee, we sure could use you."

This little chain of events ended in the early '80s, long before No Child Left Behind, before standardized tests consumed three weeks of the school year, before parents began rattling off their kids' reading levels like they were batting averages, before society as a whole somehow got so uptight about reaching kids' potentials and making sure everyone is adequately challenged.

A boy with nothing more than the occasional borrowed book and a knack for math did what parents the world over would love for their kids to accomplish. In today's world, however, we tend to go about it in a slightly more pressurized--and let's admit, obnoxious--way than Mr. Lee's parents did.

But Amy, why are you on such a tear today about modern-day parenting? Because I watched The Today Show this morning and watched in horror as parents at a school that specializes in accelerated early childhood education stood in front of the camera, wringing their hands and looking constipated, rattling on and on about how well their kids read and that they can name all the planets and their moons. (Click here to view this segment; then click on "Is your child a 'prodigy'?")

I have so much more to say on this topic, but I'll end it with this footnote: Mr. Lee was my maternal grandfather. And his math and physics genes skipped right over me. I don't know where they landed.

Date Night; Family Secrets (Friday Roundup)

2008-09-19T16:37:00.003-05:00

I Have a Date With Jim Gaffigan ... At 8 p.m., I will be under the same roof (of the Alabama Theatre) as my secret boyfriend, Jim Gaffigan, who sent me an e-mail earlier this week. A portion of that e-mail follows:

I love you and Waffle House,

Jim

Maybe if I play my cards right, I will also get DINNER. Perhaps a waffle and hashbrowns, scattered, smothered AND covered. I will be one lucky girl. And a cheap date. Gosh, I love Waffle House.

For our date tonight, Jim Gaffigan will probably be dressed casually in jeans, t-shirt and worn jacket. I, however, don't have a thing to wear.

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Oh, Get Over It ... I know some of you read that installment above and might have felt a little judgmental about my admission of having a Secret Boyfriend, a term I should credit to Mrs. G. But quit being so sanctimonious. We all have them. I would like to take you back a couple of decades and point out that ours is not the first generation to have Secret Boyfriends.

While Tom Brokaw co-hosted The Today Show with Jane Pauley in the late '70s and early '80s, my mother sat on the edge of the couch each morning, eating breakfast and drooling. For six solid years. It was a pathetic scene to behold. Tom Brokaw could have sat in front of the camera counting to 100,000 and picking his nose, and my mother wouldn't have budged.

Tom Brokaw co-hosted The Today Show from 1976-82, which equates to six years of early morning lust and desire on the part of my mother. Whatever.

She frequently claimed that if Tom Brokaw ever knocked on our front door, she would be out of there, leaving us and our father behind. (The apple does not fall far from the tree, as I have felt the same way about Brian Williams. Mercy.) So, you could say, the longevity of my parents' 44-year marriage is due in large part to Tom Brokaw never showing up on our doorstep to sweep my mother off her feet.

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It's the weekend. Go on a date. Have a few laughs with your Secret (or Real) Boyfriend. Spend $3.50 at Waffle House. Watch The Nightly News...

Where Headaches Come From

2008-09-16T19:30:00.007-05:00

Earlier this week, I apparently slept with my right ear completely parallel to my shoulder and woke up to the most excruciating pain in the neck you could imagine. By midday, I considered investing in a neck brace, or halo, but ultimately decided against both. By 6 p.m., I thought, "Well, I cry about once every three years. Maybe it's that time."

When bedtime rolled around and I was suffering a straight-up PINCHED NERVE that certainly warranted a pain block or (even better) a chunky Lortab, I instead campaigned for the Sympathy Vote, which is what women are supposed to be good at winning. Because we're so overworked and stressed and all. And my goodness, why don't you just sit down -- better yet, LIE down, because you look exhausted, and clearly you don't feel like bossing everyone around and cleaning up after people who, honestly, should have the good sense to clean up after themselves.

Chances of earning the Sympathy Vote are increased with the proper attire. For the Sympathy Vote portion of this competition, I chose a pair of the most unattractive sleep pants ever made and a t-shirt that fits nobody in this house -- because nobody in this house weighs 350 lbs. For effect, I applied an excessive amount of acne medicine and pulled my hair into an unfortunate-looking ponytail.

I held one hand on my forehead, the other around the side of my neck, walked out of the bathroom and to my side of the bed. As I walked, I said, "Gosh, I sure wish you were a chiropractor."

He never looked up from his book, but said, without pause of any kind, "Gosh, I sure wish you were an exotic dancer."

We've Been Down This Road Before, Carrying the Same Gas Cans

2008-09-12T18:55:00.008-05:00

As a fourth-grader, I was a devout fan of The Mary Tyler Moore Show. And I remain so today. When Betty Ford made a cameo performance (she played herself) on MTM in January 1976, I wrote her a letter, commending her on her appearance, which I was certain would earn her an Emmy award. I went to school the next day and asked my teacher to proofread the letter before I mailed it. She made one correction: Change "comment" to "commend." I thought it was a fair criticism. I mailed the letter the next day. And I never heard from First Lady Betty Ford. But I loved her all the same. I was probably hoping to get a foot in the door and meet Mary Richards and hang out in her one-room apartment with her and Rhoda. I always thought we would get along well.

The following November, I voted for Gerald Ford in the fifth-grade mock election, despite the peer pressure to vote for Jimmy Carter, who had only a year earlier completed his term as governor of Georgia. And I was a Georgian attending a public school in Georgia, so you do the math. During the campaign phase, the Republican constituency in Mrs. Cook's class was clearly in the minority, but at 10 years old, we figured, you're either born a Republican or a Democrat, so there you go. A few months earlier, I had watched the 1976 Republican National Convention with my father, who pointed out former California Gov. Ronald Reagan and (I remember this like it was yesterday) said, "I don't know why they don't nominate him." The Republican influence was inescapable.

The 1976 Republican National Convention, Kemper Arena in Kansas City. I always wished Susan Ford (second from right, next to Betty) or Susan Dey was my older sister.

I helped craft a campaign poster with my friends Susan and Cindy. (Bet you can't name three '60s names more popular than Amy, Susan and Cindy.) The poster read: "Don't Vote For a Peanut Farmer. Vote For a Businessman." Susan was the artist and drew near-accurate portraits of both candidates -- Ford in a tailored black suit, Carter in a pair of overalls, holding a pitchfork, like the gentleman in Grant Wood's American Gothic. (I don't reveal any of this with pride; it's more of a confession. I was 10.)

A footnote: It was very hard to be red-haired, named "Amy" and living in Georgia during the Carter administration. The Amy Carter jokes were stupid.

All grown up now, I lean to the right, but classify myself as neither a Republican nor a Democrat. Just a voter. A voter who happens to have always voted Republican, has grown to adore Jimmy Carter, has read many of his books, and manages to keep a relatively open mind.

And your mind may open up a bit, too, if you take this little trip down Memory Lane ...

Sept. 12, 2008

June 15, 1979

Shameless Self-Promotion; The Very Confident Jamie Lee Curtis; Lessons Learned (Friday Roundup)

2008-09-12T10:02:00.006-05:00

On Newsstands Now ... Pardon the shameless self-promotion, but I haven't had the energy or patience to update my website lately, and posting a blog is far easier. If one of my teenag...I mean, assistants...would do some scanning and filing, maybe this would have been done the right way. But for now, I'll just provide a couple of links to where you can find me this month.

The publication of Victoria, formerly a Hearst magazine, was resumed by Hoffman almost one year ago. I'm proud to be contributing to the revived product. In the September/October issue, I have three articles -- only two have bylines. Check out pages 28, 34 and 44.

In less than one month, I will again be in the woods, firing pistols, handling an ATV, shooting arrows and hanging out with 200 other women for three fun days as part of the BOW workshop. BOW is held twice each year -- in the spring and again in the fall. Read about BOW in the August/September issue of Thicket here. To learn more about the BOW program, check out the site here. Registration is full for the October event, but you can make plans for spring. And you should. If you live outside Alabama, check the website for your state's conservation department. The program is offered in 40 states. I hope yours is one of them.

If you're interested in more of my recent work, check the website in the next week. Especially if you are the hiring/assigning editor type.

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This Week's Book Review ... Today, I am promoting a children's book. Jamie Lee Curtis is busily pushing her latest title, Big Words for Little People. Everybody let out a big "FINALLY." Because if you've ever read her books, then you know how ageless and timeless they are and how you wish you had thought of that idea first and why does Jamie Lee Curtis get everything and you don't? That is because she is the very fit-and-50, self-confident Jamie Lee Curtis who distracts husbands the world over, isn't afraid to step out and say what the rest of us are thinking and who also happens to be friends with the best illustrator on the planet, Laura Cornell.

The message of this book (because Jamie Lee always has a message) is to celebrate language and to choose our words more carefully so that we can better bridge generations and retain the meaning of words. You could also infer that Jamie Lee is sort of fed up with trite words and would like for us to return to more accurate and descriptive phrasing.

If I had to list a word whose use really needs minimizing, it would be "amazing." Few people are really "amazing," but to hear the teenagers talk, you would think they are walking around with their jaws dropped in total awe of everyone and everything they see. "She's an amazing person." "He's an amazing athlete." "This is an amazing pizza."

Some people might say the same thing about "awesome," which is a word I love, because it is often the only word that fits. My college roommate's dad once scolded us for using the word so often because, he said, we had no idea what "awesome" even means. True story from a football Saturday: "Awesome," he explained, "would be if you were standing in front of that football stadium right there, and the whole thing just crumbled for no reason, right before your eyes." I suppose that would be awesome. It would also be very sad.

Back to the book. Add it to your collection. Read it to your kids. Read it for yourself. Jamie Lee Curtis is so very awesome.

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This Will Hurt Me More Than It Hurts You ...

* The monthly insurance premium that allows you the privilege of driving a mighty cute VW Bug every blasted day ... $80.

* Gas for the VW Bug each month ... $50.

* The cost of repairing a drive shaft and front axle damaged from plowing into a solid brick mailbox ... $1,000+/-.

* Having to ride the big yellow bus at age 16 when you have an assigned parking space and friends who know that you have a car ... priceless.

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More Brandon Backlash ... Scroll down or click here to recap the "more smack" story, then read this little e-mail exchange, which began as a response to the football game story and was described by one reader as an "adult mama slapdown," which gives the entire scenario a sort of trashy feel. I don't consider myself especially trashy, but maybe it was given as a compliment. (I have bleeped out a couple of words. Because I'm classy that way.)

A reader's response, found in my inbox:

See, women can get away with doing those things. Men? The guy would have bowed up and gotten all mad and "manly" and then there would have been a fight.
Women, especially mamas, should learn early to not always ask the husband to "Do something about that!"
Often the best course of action is to let mama -- especially a mad, stare-down, ready-to-kick-xxx mama with kids -- take care of the problem.
Of course, the husband has to be ready to cold-cock the XXX immediately if he makes one peep, curse word or threatening move. Then it's go-time in a serious no-holds-barred mode.

My response ...

Gosh, I never considered that the Brandon exchange could have resulted in a FIGHT. This must be how all those fights break out at Bama games -- man talks smack, another man confronts him, etc., etc. Next thing you know, a state trooper or sheriff's deputy is marching up a flight of bleachers. In Auburn, apparently, the fighting is left up to the womenfolk.

And all is right with the world ...

It's the weekend. Read a few good magazines or a children's book. Watch or play some football. Drive carefully. Kick somebody's tail. Pick up something nice for yourself, even if it once belonged to somebody else.

The Bento Subculture ... or, What the Hay?

2008-09-10T11:41:00.003-05:00

Feeling a little superior as a mom? Does your child fit in with his/her peers by carrying the most fashionable lunch gear available? Think you know how to pack a nutritious and visually appealing lunch?

No matter how adequate you think you are, today's post should knock you down a few notches. Because unless you let a little literary influence or love of pop culture guide you in your lunch-making, then, sister, you are going about it all wrong.

An alert reader forwarded this to me earlier this week. I might as well have been reading Sanskrit. What is this? Lunch ideas? Social networking for kindergarten moms? A plug for miniature Tupperware?

But I read on. And then I Googled. I typed "what the hay is Bento?" And I quickly learned about the 3:1:2 “Spinning Top” nutritional guidelines put out by the Japanese government (3 parts grains, 1 part protein, 2 parts vegetables). As I read on, I realized this was how Molly Ringwald ate her lunch in Breakfast Club. I just didn't know it had a name. Or a full-tilt following.

"Since I'm not feeling well, all I could think to do was put a sticker on her banana that says 'I'm always at your side', " writes one Bento mom.

Oh, yeah, and prepare some veggie shumai, mini crab cakes and stir fried veggies.

Gosh, what does she do when DOES feel well? Grow the banana and harvest the crabs?

Unless you're incorporating a scene from Where the Wild Things Are into the design phase of your child's boxed lunch, you may feel inadequate as a mom. And well you should.

I read the following excerpt from a Bento post and was overcome with exhaustion and feelings of inadequacy. Read on:

Today's lunches were, unfortunately, a lesson in how important pre-planning is. I usually spend 10-15 minutes thinking of what I'm going to do the night before, then 5 minutes writing it down and gathering up the boxes, accessories, and utensils I'm going to use and pre-staging them -- then in the morning, unless I'm doing something really elaborate, assembly is only about a 10-15 minute process (not counting waiting time -- for instance, it's half an hour or more from the time I pop my rice cooker in the microwave till the time I use the rice, but that's time I'm in the shower or otherwise doing something else, so it doesn't factor into the prep time), and even fairly elaborate things are under 30. Last night, however, we got in late, and I was tired, and if I'd been puttering around in the kitchen I'd have felt obliged to actually do the dishes and didn't wanna, so I blew it off and went to bed without pre-planning. Mistake, because this morning I had to think while sleepy, not my forte, and then put everything together, and even these two simple lunches took pretty close to half an hour. It'd have been under 10 minutes if I'd planned it out last night, plus I'd have realized all my ranch cups were in the sink and not had to last-minute wash one.

Personally, I don't know how she forgave herself. I'll bet she never lets that happen again.

I am not making fun of Bento lunches. I am upset that the folks at Lunchables can't produce such a thing for adults. I am envious of women who have this much energy, this much creativity, this much time.

I feel a little full of myself when I use a flower-shaped cookie cutter on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. And I don't like to boast, but when February rolls around, I've been known to use the heart-shaped cookie cutter. Sadly enough, I've never thought to photograph these creations. But perhaps I should. They are something to behold. Or, at least I thought so, until I realized that I set the Bento bar fairly low. Way down low, in the plain brown bag. Between the Cheetos and the plastic-wrapped sandwich.

I'm Sorry ... Where Were We?

2008-09-10T01:05:00.009-05:00

An entire week has passed since my last post. I have had neither time to write, nor the material. Because I have been busy. Very, very busy. I blocked off the first two weeks of September long ago so that I could tend to personal business without the distraction of deadlines. An unexpected side effect was that I neglected the blog. So to those who visited and kept seeing the same tired post from Sept. 3, I apologize. And I hope you understand.

During the past week, I have spent my time ...

... welcoming my darn-near perfect nephew Carter into the world.

... riding on a hospital elevator with my 2 1/2-year-old nephew who was, without warning, overcome with vomititis. Not knowing what was happening to his little body, he waved his hands in front of his face, creating a rather unfortunate spewing effect that was like nothing I've ever seen.

... playing Wal-Mart in my driveway with this same nephew. Holly bushes were the major retailer; seams and cracks in the driveway were roads and turn lanes, navigated by a Little Tykes shopping buggy filled with plastic Easter eggs. We bought donuts from the holly bushes.

... fielding questions from the new mother (my sister) about breastfeeding and assuring her that four days after delivery, it is perfectly normal to stomp your foot and grind your teeth every time the baby latches on.

... sharing my own labor/delivery and nursing experiences with the same sister, who is beginning to understand that a chest can expand beyond your wildest dreams, or nightmares. A week after one of my July babies was born, I was sick and tired of wearing a sweaty and wet t-shirt in the 100-degree heat, so by 5 p.m., I just gave up and sat on the edge of the bed, nursing the baby and clutching a bottle of Advil. Topless. When my husband came home and saw me, he dropped his drycleaning, and I think he sort of gagged.
He was rendered speechless, but still I said, "Don't. Say. Anything." And then I started to weep. "I could feed Indonesia."

... saving money at the grocery store. I am not proud of this, but the first step to recovery is to admit you have a problem. I prepared Hamburger Helper and Chicken Helper two consecutive nights. We call these "easy nights." And if that leads you to believe that Amy Is Taking It Easy, you would be wrong. Easy Night must take place when everyone has to be different places at the same time and has to inhale their dinner. I am particularly proud of my inventiveness with the Hamburger Helper. Leftover taco meat from three nights earlier saved the day (and prep time), and leftover rice from two nights earlier stretched it so that everyone could have seconds, if they wanted. Surprisingly, nobody wanted seconds. This particular Hamburger Helper dish was called Taco Something-or-Other and smacked of a dish that my great-grandmother invented decades ago, but still lives on in memories as "Mexican Disaster." We called the recent Hamburger Helper dish "chili," so as not to raise any questions. The jig was up when someone said, "Please pass the bowl of fake cheese sauce."

... wasting too many hours on Facebook, wondering why in the world I was wasting too many hours on Facebook. For the life of me, I can't determine the appeal of reading what 16-year-olds are doing at 9:44 p.m. They're happy; bored; studying; looking forward to the weekend; blah, blah, blah. Come to think of it, such information is really just a shorthand version of the post you are reading right now.

Have a very happy—and busy—Wednesday.

We Have "Issues"

2008-09-03T17:09:00.004-05:00

Today's post is a buffet of stories. None of them are tied together, really. That's the way it goes sometimes. Like at those Chinese-American buffets, where you can have wonton soup, lasagna and catfish.
And then polish everything off with a nice bowl of soft-serve ice cream.

If I were the type of blogger who courted and permitted comments, I would ask for your response to the following question:

What is the worst thing you said to your kids this week?

I would open the e-discussion with my own confessions of actions that left me neither proud nor relieved:

1. "Put your filthy hands in that bucket of ice cream one more time, and I swear I will cut off every single one of your fingers." (sentiment expressed to my 10-year-old who has a nasty habit of holding an eating utensil in one hand and digging in bowls and buckets with the other)

2. "See this?! It's a classified section! It's full of ads for very nice apartments that I can choose from! And believe me, I will, and I will live there alone and won't have to clean up after any of you. Do you understand me?" (shouted at the top of my lungs as I waved a newspaper in the air and then stomped from bedroom to bedroom, picking up stray dolls and filthy socks and wondering out loud what in the WORLD I did to deserve such disregard for order and cleanliness; at the end of my tirade, I sounded like Brenda Vaccaro and couldn't stop coughing)

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If it were 1995, would this headline have made any sense to you?

Google Chrome Mostly Glitters (headline from, you guessed it, Google)

How 'bout this?

Google's Chrome browser is fast and lightweight, with fresh and welcome user interface innovations. But it's still early beta software -- and it shows. (headline from InformationWeek, Sept. 3, 2008)

Ever feel like the world is moving much too fast and you'd like for it to slow down just a little so you can hop off and go eat a funnel cake or something?

.........................................

While waiting for Gustav ...

"Hey, Mama, it isn't smart to eat a burrito after your wedding, is it?"
"No, I suppose it probably isn't."
"MAMA ... look over HERE."
So I turned from MSNBC only to find Ken -- of Barbie and Ken -- doubled over with stomach cramps and wearing THIS:

And then I heard her repeat, "It isn't smart to eat a burrito after your wedding."

What does this mean? Too much TV? Changes in barometric pressure? Need for therapy? You tell me because I'd love to know.

.........................................

I love my kids. Each and every one of them. Even when they eat with their hands. And even when they're messy and can't remember to clean up after themselves. Which is often.

Finally, Hurricane and Football Seasons are Here!

2008-09-02T09:21:00.014-05:00

One month to the day, our most recent visit to New Orleans was marked by the arrival of Gustav. Our closest New Orleans friends (pictured above on Aug. 1) report no major damage. They didn't have the good sense to seek shelter, so they just sat there, looking out over the Mississippi. While they did get soaked, they didn't lose an arm or anything in the strong winds. New Orleans folks are a hardy lot.

My son's first girlfriend (pictured above) reports that the French Market, where she lives, received only "horrible, horrible rain" and wind gusts that, while strong, didn't even mess up her hair. Asked if Gustav's strength might have been overestimated last week, she had only this to say: "I never estimate a man's strength. They talk a lot of smack, so you never know how strong they really are anyway." This did not set well with her boyfriend, who found this disrespectful and has since written her off.

More smack ... Speaking of talking smack, during the Auburn game Saturday night, three young people who apparently didn't score student tickets this year found themselves in Middle-Class Suburban Section 34. During the second quarter, one young man's braggish tales of romantic conquests escalated to an unacceptable level. It must have been my glare that prompted his female friend to say, "Gosh, Brandon, shut up! Keep your voice down!" At which point I turned around and said, "Thank you. I couldn't take it much longer." Brandon, however, seemed offended. "Here's the thing, Brandon," I told him. "I'm sitting here with, like, six kids. And none of us really needs to hear this."

"I'm sorry. It's just that I'm used to sitting in the student section."

"Well, Brandon, clearly this is not the student section. You need to be more aware of where you are. The adult section isn't impressed."

Brandon didn't say anything else because, I suppose, he was too busy sucking on the half-dozen miniature Jim Beam bottles that he left behind when he and his entourage exited the stadium at the beginning of the third quarter. They also left behind a nice pair of sunglasses, which I brought home and soaked in antibacterial soap and will call "mine." These will replace the nice pair of $6 sunglasses I bought at Target two weeks earlier -- the same sunglasses that leave marks on the sides of my head and give me an excruciating headache. This is not a side effect you can anticipate when you spend six hard-earned dollars at a retailer like Target. My reward for enduring some 14 days of discomfort, all in the name of retinal protection, AND Brandon's boorish monologue during the first half of a football game is Brandon's pair of high-quality sunglasses. Or Brandon's friend's sunglasses.

Thanks, Brandon!

Ode to a Gallbladder; Kickoff Is So Very Here (Friday Roundup)

2008-08-29T12:52:00.002-05:00

A Little Lesson in Healthy Living ... The function of the gallbladder is to make grown women double-over in pain. And then they have this apparently faulty organ removed, and all is right with the world. Until they're out at dinner, bite into a piece of fried chicken or down a half-pizza, run-walk to the car and sit in the passenger's seat and scream, "Drive faster!" Which is far better than the pre-surgery pain, whose origin seems to have neither rhyme nor reason. But I'm no doctor.
My friend, Caprice, of hurricane relief fame in Thursday's post, went under the laparoscope Thursday (FINALLY) to take out her very out-of-commission gallbladder. If you missed this tidbit on your evening news, the synopsis goes like this: She had been lying on the bathroom floor for about two weeks when she decided it might be time to seek medical attention. The ultrasound showed that she was out of her mind and that nothing was wrong with her abdominal region. Her doctor sent her for a second test -- apparently, the first test didn't know what it was talking about. The second test revealed that her gall bladder was functioning at only 2 percent. And at only 2 percent, a gallbladder can only do so much with tamales and cheeses of the world.
"Well, that makes sense," I told her.
"What makes sense?" I then explained that when a person subsists on Hot & Spicy Cheez-Its and refrigerated cookie dough, the digestive system eventually says, "Whoa!" She became defensive and boasted about how she makes wise food choices.
"So, what are you eating now?" I asked.
"A spicy taco from Costco."
A week—and several spicy tacos from the deep freeze—later, the surgery is over, and the prognosis is good. Caprice delivered a very unhealthy gallbladder Thursday morning, and it either resembled a shriveled-up raisin or a rusty grenade. Nobody seems to want to comment on its appearance. No matter how many times I ask.

It's Here! It's Here! ... Our house feels a little like it does on Christmas. This weekend marks the first kickoff of the '08 college football season. Tonight, our car will be packed, coolers will be on standby next to the refrigerator, and the kids will go to bed early. Ours is a family that bleeds orange and blue, but our affinity for college football is largely color blind—well, not THAT color blind. We may not cheer for every team, but if we're not seated in the stadium on Saturday, we're in our den, watching just about any (and every) televised gridiron match, from early morning late into the night. If you aren't fortunate enough to live in Alabama, you might think we suffer a mild disorder. But this is Alabama, and this is what we do.

A Little Football Fare ... If you are in the deep South and will be traveling to one of two games this weekend -- because around here, there are only two games -- check out my pal Alan's blog about dining options. Please do not consider this an endorsement of any of these fine establishments (except Momma Goldbergs, which everyone loves and where my dear husband and Alan both enjoyed a brief career in food service), but simply a listing. I would not want to be held responsible for any post-Varsity side effects. Alan, however, must have a GI system made of cast iron. Check out his recommendations here.

War Eagle, y'all ...

Happy Anniversary, Katrina, You Big Pain

2008-08-28T06:27:00.008-05:00

When you live more than 200 miles inland, hurricanes generally do only one thing: slow you down. It's a nice pace, and you get an excused absence from just about everything. Kids may get out of school early, the boss sends you home, you play board games with the kids, and when the electricity finally is restored, everyone flees the previously candlelit room and retreats to their own spaces like a bunch of cockroaches. "The together time was fun--really, it was--but I must be getting back to ... something else." Cabin fever is a terrible, terrible thing.

Once upon a time, I thought hurricanes were fun because all they brought us (at 200+ miles inland) was some overspending at the grocery store, the thrill of flashlights and new batteries, lots of rain and maybe a little yard work once it was over.

This weekend marks the third anniversary of Katrina's visit to New Orleans and all the crap she left behind. I read one account recently of a travel writer who visited New Orleans earlier this year. His cab driver was in his late 70s, and Katrina took everything he owned. To try to get back on his 70something-year-old feet, he's shuttling tourists around the city. He told the writer, "You know, that Katrina was a real ............" And I can't even type the word, it's so awful. I'll bet (and hope) my kids have never even heard this word. But it's about the most accurate description of a Category 5 hurricane you could imagine. Gosh, I wish I could include it here, because it really does capture the spirit.

Katrina was one of those terrific things that you will spend the rest of your life saying, "I remember when ..." and then you fill in the blanks with the event and what you were doing that day. Like Sept. 11, 2001, when I was having my first mammogram and the tech forgot about me and left me naked in a fifth-floor room for more than 30 minutes because she went to sit in front of the TV. I thought something was really wrong with me and entire teams of specialists must be gathered around my films, but later found out that wasn't the case. The world was falling apart.

As Katrina made its way toward the Gulf Coast, and New Orleans residents were gathering inside the Superdome for shelter and safety, I stood in front of the TV (not neglecting anyone, by the way) and wondered how it was that all this media could get into the city, but nobody seemed to be able to get out. I also remember hearing a reporter ask a New Orleans official what this would mean for the Saints' season opener. (True story.)

Over the next couple of days, I, along with the rest of the country, watched New Orleans drown. Too many days of that, and a person starts to think, "I probably need to get off this couch." Next thing you know, my friend Caprice and I were under the I-59 overpass making eggs.

A quick look at a map will reveal why Birmingham hosted so many New Orleans evacuees. We sit directly on one of three hurricane routes. Coming out of New Orleans, you can go either left, straight or right. Left will take you toward Houston, straight (sort of) will lead you to Memphis, or veer to the right and hey, y'all, welcome to Birmingham.

In the days following Katrina and the levees breaking, Birmingham welcomed thousands of New Orleans residents. And what do you do when you have that many guests? You'd better start cooking something. So Caprice and I joined a large group of Baptists who assembled the most streamlined kitchen in the most meager of circumstances and probably could have pulled off a 100 from the health department. When we reported for duty under the overpass, we were assigned a station.

Three years have passed, and details are fuzzy, but we discussed this recently and did recall a few vital facts:

* I said I would do anything except scramble eggs. I was assigned to the scrambled eggs station.
* Caprice wore a baseball cap, and I wore a hairnet because I did not have the foresight to wear a baseball cap.
* Caprice doesn't have fingerprints anymore because she suffered serious burns on her fingertips and some nerve damage in her wrists from the chronic rotation of the metal spoon.
* We were separated at some point after the breakfast shift. She claims she was still scrambling eggs when I disappeared across the street "to go chat with people."

To set the record straight, I did not go "chat with people." Breakfast was being loaded up to be taken across the street. I walked across that same street to the civic-center-turned-shelter to see if I might be of better service THERE, where I would not be asked to scramble any more eggs.

Without any credentials of any kind, I walked into the civic center to find something to do, and I stopped cold. The rows and rows of cots and portable cribs surrounded by suitcases. The sleeping children. The groggy grown-ups just waking up and rubbing their faces. The breakfast serving line (with all those glorious eggs) was just getting started, and church volunteers from across Birmingham filed in to prepare plates. I don't know where these people came from, but they ran a serving line like a machine, like they did this every day. But this was only the third or fourth meal to be served, and it wasn't like they had any training or planning. It was a natural disaster.

After getting in their way for more than 45 minutes, I traveled on and found myself in the supply center, a warehouse space about half the size of a football field. Separating the warehouse space from the sleeping area was a long stretch of tables, serving as a makeshift customer service counter. And that's where we took requests, wrote down sizes, brands of baby formula, you name it. And then we'd dash into the warehouse and wander down the aisles of donated items to retrieve whatever was requested.

When I would hand an evacuee a package of diapers or a pack of t-shirts or underwear, I was often asked, "How much do I owe you?" The dad would dig for his wallet, or the mom would rummage through her purse.

"You don't owe anyone anything. These things are for you to have and to use, not to buy."

One mom, with a toddler on her hip, quietly asked for a package of diapers and a box of wipes. When I brought them to her, she teared up. She looked like a person who typically takes care of her own needs, but Katrina had sucked that right out of her. "Can I get you anything else? Maybe something for you, not the kids?"

"Well," she sobbed, "I could really use a bra. There aren't any of those back there, I guess." She gave a half-laugh.

"Guess again. You wouldn't believe the stuff back there. Stand here." I returned with a brand new bra in her size. It was like working at Wal-Mart -- there was nothing we couldn't provide. Except their jobs. Their homes. Their schools. Their neighborhoods. Normalcy.

Meeting Katrina's victims shed a whole new light on hurricanes. And now her crazy cousin Gustav is threatening to pay a visit. Caprice called Wednesday and asked, "Are you making your plans? I know how much you love hurricanes."

"Eh," I told her. "Hurricanes aren't so much fun anymore. Katrina sucked the fun right out of them."

That Katrina was a real ... pain.

You've Got the Wrong Girl

2008-08-25T20:09:00.008-05:00

Until now, I've never given much thought to competing on a reality TV show. Without sharing too many details that might give away the dark secrets of television casting, I will say only that "you never know ..."

I received an e-mail from a friend who had been approached by a casting associate. After a brief conversation, the friend offered a very nice "no, thank you," and then gave these parting words: "Please keep me in mind for anything that involves living on an island with a full-service spa and 24-hour tiki bar." After she kindly passed on the offer, she passed along names of other people who might project a personality similar to hers. She wrote in an e-mail to me and a couple of others: Guess whose names I passed on? You're welcome.

This reminds me of the times friends didn't know how to get rid of a Student Trying to Make It Through College By Selling Stuff We Don't Need, so they gave them my name.

"Thank you so much for your time. Can you recommend friends who might also be willing to help me make this quota?"

"Oh, sure! Amy just loves to buy more stuff, to learn about unique business opportunities like this and to listen to woeful tales about hardship. I'll get her number for you. In fact, I'll even tell you where she lives." Next thing you know, I'm standing on my front porch in 98-degree heat, explaining to a Lithuanian why I don't need any more computer games. Or, I'm sitting on my couch across from a hard-up country boy hawking overpriced steak knives that can cut, of all things, paper. (This story has unfolded more than once.)

Say what you want, but this casting person was solid on her follow-through, without being pushy. The very next piece of mail in my inbox was a message from the casting associate, whose name and network affiliation I will not reveal. Her message was a very polite invitation to e-mail her about competing on her show because my blog "is so very funny." I'm no Einstein, but I'm guessing she wants people who can take a joke, or provide some comic relief of some sort. This can't be a good sign. I don't want my joke-taking abilities tested on national TV, nor do I want to be "on" all the time. Because when I'm "off," I come across as somewhat of a turd.

To woo me onto the small screen, a better approach might have come from someone who casts a show like Wife Swap: "You look like you could use a break. How 'bout swapping places with a wife who doesn't have to do anything, whose husband will be out of town and whose kids are away at college? They have satellite, WiFi and a full pantry. Johnny Depp lives next door. And sometimes he doesn't wear a shirt when he mows the lawn."

But this reality show is probably nothing like this. Which is not a fair thing to say because I've never actually seen a full episode of this particular reality show that is being passed around like a hot potato. This is not to say that I wouldn't enjoy this program -- it's just that I don't watch a lot of TV. And that, I suppose, would make me an ideal candidate because I don't know the rules. And that could be sort of funny, I guess.

"Who's the dumb chick from Alabama who doesn't know the rules?"

"I don't know, but she was much funnier last week."

"Well, she's not funny now. She's kind of a ... turd."

Note: For those who are wondering ... while I was indeed flattered, I declined the offer. I'm holding out for the full-service spa and 24-hour tiki bar, too.

Little Gnome Facts--A Restaurant Review

2008-08-22T05:00:00.003-05:00

I'm no food critic, but I know a good thing when I find it.

While working late Wednesday night, I received an invitation to take a break and come enjoy a late-night snack at a little eatery that just happened to be located just one flight of stairs from my home office. The proprietors had just closed after a long opening day and graciously extended their hours for their weary mom. Their diner, The Little Gnome Café, had been in the works for well over two days, so they were weary themselves.

At the entrance to The Little Gnome Café is a small chalkboard, listing the establishment's hours (an ambitious 12-hour workday). Beside it sits the restaurant's namesake, a miniature plastic gnome named Billy.

I thought I had lost my way because directions weren't really clear. But good signage is always a plus.

In this case, it led me directly to the restaurant's front door.

I was greeted at the door by my waitress, who was sporting a pink apron and a wide grin. She led me to my table and said something to me, but ZoeGirl was playing at top volume from the CD player on the dresser.

"What is this? A bar? I can't even hear myself think."

"Let me turn this down."

As the music softened, I became more comfortable. The seating was adequate, but taller patrons might have to sit side-saddle, as their legs probably won't fit under the table. I chose to sit about two feet away from my plate so that I wouldn't cramp up.

My waitress brought me a menu, whose pages were not bound, causing mild chaos as they were shuffled out of order. My waitress sort of lost her point of reference. I recommended a staple, or perhaps a simple binder. She rolled her eyes.

I ordered coffee, a bagel with cream cheese and chocolate-dipped strawberries.

There was another clumsy moment, after I placed my order. I asked my waitress, "Do I hand you the menu, or does it go between the napkin dispenser and ketchup bottle, like at Waffle House?"

She rolled her eyes AGAIN and said, "Just give me the menu, Mama."

Snippy attitude. That will cost her when it comes tipping time.

A small fight broke out in the kitchen about whether the bagel was actually a biscuit, and words flew. I asked if this was The Little Gnome Café or Hell's Kitchen.

A simple place setting and an elegant napkin ring go a long way toward spelling h-o-s-p-i-t-a-l-i-t-y. The colorful menu might strain an older pair of eyes, but I found it delightful. A clear report cover would be a fine addition, as it would protect the pages from food splatters. But what do I know.

The coffee cup was unusually small, the bagel was void of cream cheese, and the strawberries were naked. So I registered my complaint with my waitress, who gently explained that I would have to use my imagination. Then she brought me a dirty plastic knife with the imprint of make-believe jelly on the blade.

"There you go ma'am. And please use your imagination."

"I'm imagining I won't catch a virus."

I munched and munched.

"So," I asked. "Have you had many customers this evening?"

"Well, yes, Daddy was in here earlier."

"He was, was he? He sure didn't tell me anything about it. Just gallivants around town, never telling me anything. Did he leave you a tip?"

"He didn't bring his wallet. He didn't even wear pants."

"Didn't wear pants? What kind of place are you running here?"

"He was wearing a t-shirt and underwear."

"I don't like the sound of this at all. You should consider posting one of those 'no shirt, no shoes, no service' signs on the door."

From the Dora kitchen, I heard a faint, "That doesn't say anything about pants."

She may be kitchen help, but she was right. "Well, maybe you should make a sign that says 'no pants, no service.'" I think management is taking it under advisement. And well it should. That sort of thing could really hinder business opportunity and growth. And appetites.

I wiped my mouth, pulled at my waistband and sent my compliments to the chef.

"Here," I said to the waitress. "Take this imaginary $5. Use the extra as a tip to go toward some sort of janitorial service and get this place cleaned up. You've got toys EVERYwhere."

Out of nowhere, I heard a shout from the Dora play kitchen, where the associate was moving plates and bowls around in the plastic sink. "We handwash all our dishes!"

I took a sip of cold coffee and told my waitress, "If I had known that, I would have taken my business elsewhere. Sink water doesn't reach an adequate temperature to kill e coli and salmonella. The health department would have a heyday with this place, you know."

As I stood at the door of The Little Gnome Café, I offered one last gesture of my appreciation to my hard-working hostesses.

"You know, I'll be glad to sign a black-and-white glossy of myself playing the guitar. I could sign it with a Sharpie, if you have one, and then you can hang it on the wall behind your cash register."

Again with the eye-rolling. Good help is so hard to find.