Beware the Crocs

I hate to fly. Not so much the flying as much as the close proximity to so many strangers. Yeah that's it. I hate mass transportation in small seats. Here's why.

I view flying as a means to get somewhere. I'm not interested in hanging out or learning something new or making a friend...I just want to get where I'm going. When the awkwardly shaped girl with the perm from 1986 tries to make an obvious joke in my direction about how waiting in line for the flight is like a "cattle call", I inwardly yawn and outwardly...well, yawn. I'm not into tired comments with nowhere to go but the next obvious boring comment (It sure is crowded in here! I hope the flight isn't delayed!). I just want to board so I can de-board and get on with it.

This morning I was flying back to Nashville from Chicago. I had been in Chicago with one of my bands and oh, I love Chicago. It's where Ryan and I fell in love. That city's got life. Hustle and bustle, if you will. If I were young and single and ridiculous I would totally move there and get a job driving the trolley for tourists wearing fanny packs. And I wouldn't even make fun of them.

I made it all the way through waiting and boarding without too much invasion of my personal space. I was in Boarding Group B so I knew seat pickins would be slim. I quickly sat in the first available aisle seat (windows were all taken by the A Group - jerks) next to a safe looking woman in a rayon shorts ensemble. She had a short brown bob and milky, wrinkly knees shaped like a wobbly post on the stairwell.
She wore black footie socks in her turquoise Crocs that matched her vericose veins.
Right away, or at least after it was too late for me to change seats, I sensed that she was the high maintenance type. She had an entertainment bag just for herself. You know the one...Moms always have one handy to entertain the kiddies. Hers had a book, pillow, neck pillow, Diet Coke, magazines, prescription pills (labeled AM/PM), yogurt, apple, hand lotion, make-up bag, jewelry pouch, tissues, extra black footie socks and gloves. I know all of this because she got everything out of her Entertainment Bag and then put it all back in. Then she took off her watch and her bracelets. Turquoise Crocs off then on. Neck pillow on then off. Then on again. Then off. Then she turned off the air above her head. Then on. Then she ordered a coffee, black, and water, cold. And a napkin. Don't forget the napkin. That's black coffee and cold water and a napkin - did you get that? The very second the seatbelt sign went off she got up to go to the bathroom. This meant she had to squeeze past my very long legs which made for some awkward touching on both our parts. What is it with people who wait until they get on the plane to take a potty break? I go to great lengths to prevent EVER having to use the airplane bathroom.

I'll spare you more details...because they only get more tedious. There was more packing and unpacking of the Entertainment Bag. Putting the watch back on. Take it off again. Asking for a second napkin, don't forget the napkin. Taking a second....I said second....bathroom break.

And people, the flight was only 45 minutes.

Goodnight Sweetheart

Have you ever fallen into an empty well and landed with a painful thud?
Have you ever been kicked in the face by a mule?
Have you ever gotten an Indian burn that lasted for an entire day?
Have you ever had your toe stomped on so hard that your toenail broke off?
Have you ever read an unexpected letter and felt your heart stop?

For me, one of these statements is true...although all of them feel true. I definitely felt a loud thud. The burning hasn't subsided. I got an ovenighted letter delivered to my front porch today. It was from my publisher. It was a break-up letter.

I thought getting married meant that I wouldn't have to break-up anymore. I thought I had hung up my "Break-Up Queen" sash for good. I thought I had heard "you're not pretty enough to be my wife" and "I'm depressed because you're here" for the last time. (For you newcomers...both of those statements were actually said to me by men I stupidly loved.) But today, the day that started out horrific thanks to the Maury County DMV, turned out to be the day I got dumped...again.

I'm sorry.....what? Come again?

Yup. I got dumped. Sure...the letter said things about financial blah blah and wrong timing whatever. But what it really said was "We don't like you anymore so we're sending you this letter that says psuedo nicety nice things that are really just a clever disguise to say that we're over it. We're over you. Don't call us." After I already turned in my manuscript. After I already signed the contract. After I already had a release date for the book. Apparently my first book was "disappointing" although all I ever heard was that it was "exceeding expectations". Funny. Were their expectations so low?

And I get it. I've been on the Dumper side of things when we've had to let bands go due to financial blah blah and wrong timing whatever...and it sucks. It hurts. You try to say things that will help or soothe or correct. But nothing works. It just hurts.

So that's it I guess. The book I worked so hard on, the book I cried over and prayed over and then cried some more over....dumped.

I am heartbroken.

I haven't really told anyone yet. It's too fresh and too humiliating and too.....horrific. I realize that my friends and family will be nothing but understanding. I realize that none of them will laugh at me or judge me. And I'll tell them...I will. I'm just too chicken at the moment. I'm not ready to say, "Hey, by the way, I'm a huge failure." And I do have friends who read this blog - I know that writing this will blow my cover. But this is my only way to deal at the moment. Somehow, it feels safer to tell The Internets (friends included). Like typing my letter of woe to no one in particular will send me a collective hug of comfort.

And dude, I need a hug.

Portrait of an Angry Dog

I gave Minnie a bath.
She didn't like it.
This...is the portrait of an angry dog.
(Narrated by Minnie Dog)


Let me out Let me out Let me out Let me out LET ME OUT


Let me out Let me out Let me out Let me out LET ME OUT


Let me out Let me out Let me out Let me out LET ME OUT


Wipe it off Wipe it off Wipe it off Wipe it off WIPE IT OFF


Ok, I've told you I don't like baths...more than once. And I'm serious. I do not like baths. Stop with the baths. I'm going to stand over here by the door and stare meanly at you until you agree to no more baths. I mean it. I'm mad.

Grossest.....Thing.....Ever.....

So the other night Ryan and I walked out the front door to take Minnie for a walk. Before I took one step onto the porch, I saw it. The biggest, most disgusting HUGE LARGE spider. It was enourmous and pulsating and threatening. I screamed for Ryan to step on it immediately. He hesitated. I shrieked that I DID NOT WANT THAT THING IN MY HOUSE. So he stomped on it and in that moment...

...wait for it...


.....THOUSANDS of teeny tiny baby spiders shot out from the squashed guts of the Giant Spider from Hell and ran all over the porch in every direction. I am not exagerating when I say that I nearly vomitted and passed out all at once. It was terrifying and disgusting and unreal. U-N-R-E-A-L.

And The Duck didn't even flinch. He's brave.


(P.S. New digs thanks to Heather. It's good to have friends in tech places, ya'll.)

H to the B

Hello World, I'm Thirty Two-Riffic!!

So Friday was my birthday. My thirty second. I can't recall a thirty-second anything I've ever done unless we're talking chips-and-salsa or cupcakes. Or Diet Cokes. I'm now in my thirties. I'm now in my thirties. I always imagined The Thirties to be much different than they actually are. I'm much less grown-up-ish than I pictured. Much less woman-ish. I wear jeans to work every day. I market rock bands. I dance in the kitchen and watch American Idol and hang out with my friends. I don't know if I'm what I was supposed to be, don't know if I turned out to be more or less. I'm not a giant success at anything, not a VP, not a best-selling author. I'm not a mother. But I am a wife. I do have a great job and I did write two books. I'm me. I'm 32. Get used to it.

For my birthday Ryan took me to the aquarium in Chattanooga. A friend asked me who we went with and when I said "each other" he looked quizzical. I asked why and he said "didn't you go with someone who has kids?" NO! I went with Ryan because aquariums are cool! YEAH! (And Ryan IS 24....so technically.....uhh....)

Here's how the day went:

1. Ryan got thirsty.



2. We saw the shell of a big turtle.



3. We saw some little turtles. (How....did....they.....?)



4. We saw some Killer Otters.



5. We saw an eel that haunts my dreams.



6. We went on a 3-D safari at the Imax.



7. And drank razzzzzzzberry icees. The End.



But here's the best part of my birthday. Zeke Eckert came into the world. Welcome little friend. I'm glad you're here.

Words/Phrases/Actions I Will No Longer Tolerate

1. Passion: as in "I have a real passion for music."
2. LOL
3. Britney Spears
4. Amnesty
5. Past Due: as in "Bills"
6. Approval: as in "All things must be approved by X, Y and Z and then Z again to make sure."
7. Relevant: as in "What is the most relevant thing we can say to kids right now"
8. Smiley face icons on AIM
9. Liars: as in people who lie
10. Brangelina (this also applies to any other overly talked about celebrity off-spring, including the alleged TomKat baby)
11. Eavesdroppers: I've said this before but I'll keep saying it until I'm 100 years old and mostly deaf. If your life is SO boring that you have to CONSTANTLY eavesdrop on my conversations and then comment on them (commenting includes making noises or laughing or clearing your throat at parts in MY conversation you think need an audience) (and they do not) ......I will stuff your ears with cockroach eggs while you are sleeping. I will do it.

Thinking Again...

Is it just me or is life nothing but a series of stops and starts and waiting in line. We're waitng for a raise, mad we got fired, waiting to get married, mad we gave up the single life, chopping off our hair, impatient for it to grow back, waiting to have a kid, horrified at the impending responsibility and so on and so forth. Sometimes we talk about the good 'ole days but that's just a lie. My good 'ole days were frought with waiting for him to call and waiting for the right job and waiting to be a grown-up and waiting to finally feel like I belonged in my body. I don't know about you, but I'm ready to coast. I'm ready to just set sail and be free of the stopping and the starting and the constant waiting for something better to come along. I'm ready to wake up and say YES! This is my life and LIFE. IS. GOOD.

Because that's true, it's good. Sure, I'm plagued by enourmous doubt and feelings of failure and the current size of my thighs (a direct result of the doubt and the failureness). Sure, there are things I'm waiting for and wishing for. I have hopes for a someday. I just want to make sure I don't miss today for all the worry and audible sighs that last for days. I want to make sure I look around and drink in today. Because today I have the love of a man I never even dreamed existed. Today I have friends worth more than a winning lottery ticket. Today I have a family and a job and a second book and a home and the chance to laugh every single day.

Today I have it all.

P.S. Guess who's blonde again?

Heap

Can anyone tell me how Imogen Heap can be so glorious and transcendant and luminous on CD and so frightening and odd and confusing and terribly bad bad bad live?

Thinking

My blog has been so boring lately. I would have stopped reading already....if I were a reader. If you read, and then you stopped, I don't blame you. I'm almost inclined to tell you to run for your life, it's only going to get worse.

I feel like I should tell you something although I don't know what. I feel like there's something lurking in me somewhere that needs spilling. There's a bubbling up of unnamed ideas or thoughts or confessions....something. I told Ryan tonight that I'm a complete failure - and I meant it. When I said those words I meant them through and through. I feel like I'm failing at every turn in my curvy life. This week has been the worst. The. Worst. He proceeded to give me 20 reasons why I am, indeed, not a failure all of which I shrugged off. Dismissed. And even though that's true, I feel like a failure, that really isn't the true issue. I don't know what it is....this cloud. I'd call it a funk but it feels more susbstantial than that. I'd call it fatigue but that excuse is wearing thin. I'd call it change/adjustment at work but the truth is, I like change. I thrive in newness. I'd call it frustration, anger, fear, depression, a headache, cramps, blah blah blah blah blah..........

Nothing seems to fit. Maybe if I could name it, it would release it's deathgrip on me.