I Found a Poem in your Facebook Status: #4

Like Weeds

still ! I need

to get bak to pullin squash
an find my potatoes loved
the rain we finally got but
miss the weeds i was used to
pullin .

went to home town was gone
a week came back 
to weeds somewhere

in that mess 
is my potatoes 

Pulled directly from a Facebook status in my feed. Minor edits to spelling (for clarity only), title and line breaks added. 


Visine, Injectables, Fictional Football. Not in that order.

My little toilet paper-tube owl, hanging out in my office. Made by Birdy.

I got my flu shot this morning in the Pre-K art room at my kids’ daycare, which was awesome and convenient and super hassle-free. But now I am having my typical/ expected reaction of low-level anxiety over injections in general. Specifically, once it’s in there, it’s in there, you know? There’s no going back, no removing it, no pumping the stomach. Medicine slinking around, getting all mixed in with body fluids that are now chemically different than than they were just a second ago. And if there’s something funky about the batch of medicine (thank you federal de-regulations), you’re just screwed and you could even die. I feel like there should be an entry for injections on this site, but I didn’t find one. However!  You should visit it anyway, because it’s brilliant and because it helps distract me from the idea that I might have just been irreversibly poisoned by a perky nurse in the art room.

“Clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lose.” This phrase, I tell you. It’s everywhere all of a sudden. And now, the presidential candidates are throwing it around (I’m looking at you, Mittens). What IS that? What does it even mean? I didn’t / don’t watch Friday Night Lights, obviously, but all it makes me think of is this 1996 television commercial for eye drops.   I liked it better when the candidate for the nation’s highest office was talking about The Wire. Oh, Indeed.

Rolling down, Riding up. Tights doing one thing, camisole doing the other. Wanna know what’s going on under this dress? It’s all kinds of hot if you’re into that kind of thing, and by “that kind of thing” I mean exposed flab and bunchy fabric in all the wrong places. Lookin’ good on a Tuesday is much easier if nobody looks too close.

Time Machine (indulge me): 6 years ago this month. I was working with terminally ill patients and going through massage school; Bird was about to have her very first birthday and she was going to be a bunny for halloween. Andy was still working at the university. My, my how times have changed. If you’d described for me then what my life looks like now– one more kid, one less dog, huge career risks/ changes/ awesomeness just behind us as well as on the horizon–I would have either smiled knowingly or laughed you out of the room. Maybe both.

Today’s links: 

Ten Great Ways to be an Unhappy Mom — Loved this post and happy to have been introduced to her blog.

Completely Wrong. Google it. 

On owls, and taxidermy, and fascinations with severed limbs: David Sedaris in the New Yorker. This is me holding a ticket for a Sedaris reading on November 1 and getting all excited.

Old Lady Bosoms and Other Stuff

There are lights on the deck now. Okay, lights on half of the deck. It was a good weekend all around.

1. On the whole, I could really do without teamwork. I hate to be like that, but I am. And when I look back on 36 years of livin’, I find that I’ve never loved team activities. Case in point: soccer = stand around and hope the ball doesn’t come to me  vs.  bowling= ignite weird competitive spirit and yell out and shove my arms in the air without even realizing I’m doing it. I’m a personal-best player, which makes so much sense in the grand scheme of things here lately. It also makes me the A-hole in “TEAM”, which is kind of what’s happening on a daily level right now, as I find myself in Super-Turbo Teamwork Land.

2. Also, Coffee cake. Can I get a FUCK YES.

3. We got Birdy  a bunk bed for her birthday, which we put together with a teeny allen wrench and many, many curse words. It came from Walmart (shame) and it’s reasonably sturdy, but I can’t shake the irrational fear that it’s going to come crashing down on Ophelia (little sister/bottom bunk is Natural Law) in the middle of the night. I don’t know if it’s because it came from Walmart or because we put it together ourselves or because I have 6 tons of gripping, unchecked anxiety, but there, I said it.

4. Speaking of Walmart, I realized this weekend that the two pairs of jeans I own are both thrifted and not without the kind of minor issues and discomforts you might expect from a pair of thrifters. I then realized that one of my pairs of thrifted jeans is a Walmart brand. (The other pair is Seven for All Mankind, so together they put me in some kind of brand- neutral place in the world of thrift store finds, but still.) I bought Walmart jeans at Goodwill. AND I WEAR THEM TO WORK.

5. “That Granny is a Busty lady” is the text that me & my friend autocorrect sent to my mom when I couldn’t get my granny on the phone to wish her a happy birthday. Autocorrect is such a jokester, especially when it’s had a few, but seriously, it needs to back off of the Granny jokes. Sheesh.

6. Here are some links. I’m lazy.

Baby Frieda Kahlo

Will be listening to this in the near future, especially after reading this.  BTW does anyone else read Terri Gross’s name in the transcript as a part of the quote,  like, “GROSS! I didn’t know that.” ? Just me?

Hurry up, little suitcase! GAH! This is especially funny  because my nickname in college was “Little Suitcase.” So, funny to me at least.

I took a pretzel from a goat

Modern portraits are so much better than old ones — love this idea

Ghosts, Smells, Drivers.

This is just a cabbage. A tiny one.

If you thought i wasn’t going to talk about the bathroom at my office this time around the bloggers’ block, you are wrong-arino. Somebody used the last of the air freshener spray in the upstairs bathroom and it never got replaced, leaving me no choice but to use my signature crazy person’s figure-8 windmill arm move for waving the useless plastic gel-smell thingy around. It is awesome and surprisingly effective, though it makes my shoulders ache.

In other office news, it seems the ghost (haunted office for real) made off with some Chex mix sometime between 9:00 and 10:30 a.m. Do you have a halloween story to beat that? I DID NOT THINK SO.

The Mazda dealership courtesy driver this morning could not have been more than 18 or 19 years old with kind of a shaggy hipster haircut and cool glasses. He was really quiet on our morning trip but by afternoon he had warmed up considerably and told me all about his summer project making and selling Adirondack chairs on craigslist with his girlfriend down in Smyrna. They were planning to finish one up tonight — a special blue one that someone commissioned, and all they had left to do was paint the Bud Lite logo on it. Work it, Dakota the Courtesy Driver. Work it.

The links for today are as follows:

For Procrastinators and other people who love Miranda July

For Storytellers and people who love/ have tattoos


That’s my grandma’s Corelle mug. I got the whole set when she moved to Assisted Living, because out of all 14 grandchildren I am the favorite. Or most likely to need a set of dishes. Either way.

It seems like just yesterday I was worried that the Tennessee heat would boil my babies’ organs in their soft little skins, like adorable little blonde ravioli. And all of a sudden this morning we are chilly and asking for chapstick! This whole seasons thing is the most predictable surprise, and yet it always catches me off guard in a tank top and bare feet, thrilled and freezing.

In fact, I actually wore my jacket to the grocery this morning and was all What the WOW POCKETS! For my phone and wallet and stuff! Also while at the grocery it became apparent that somebody needs to offer a free course to all residents of east Nashville called How to Behave in a Parking Lot 101, which would also count for credits toward Intro to Don’t be a Dick/ Mind Your Babies.

And also grocery-related, I somehow I spent $120 in about 40 minutes on mostly non-extravagant items- sure, I bought olive oil but it was store brand; yes, I bought decent coffee but shitty coffee is worse than no coffee; I balance it out (or so I thought) with store-brand beans and soy milk and frozen tator tots every damn time. And yet! $120 gone in a flash, spent on food that will also be gone in a flash in a matter of days. How do I fix this? Costco? Coupons? Rationing food to the children?

I’m reading (on and off with other things) this book, and the author talks at one point about her three conflicting food spending personalities: the one who values quality/ health over frugality (organics/ high end), the one who works to pinch the family pennies for the greater good (Aldi, y’all-di), and the one who takes every opportunity to support local business and locally sourced stuff (get thee to the farmers’ market). And how those three never, ever agree on a damn thing. I feel that. Big. Hoping for a little more spending/ eating/ grocery-ing clarity when Job 2.0 kicks in next month. Next month! Color me giddy and terrified and holding an improved grocery list.

Makes a great gift!

Ophie and I dropped the big kid at gymnastics this morning and  headed to the neighborhood bike shop to take care of some important business: repairing the leak in the front tire of the jogging stroller and even more importantly, getting mama a cup of fancy coffee. I forget what it’s like to be with a two year old one-on-one sometimes, and it’s pretty great. She has a lot to say when she’s not saying mom mom mom mom mom mom mom and competing for my attention. Things like “MOM! THAT DOG HAS A WEIRD HEAD!” (it totally did). And this neighborhood, I tell ya. So much in love, still.

Again, tonight I work.
A freelance project I’m happy to have, but in a cruel twist of fate I’m writing product descriptions for Christmas decorations– which always have been and forever will be at the top of my list of the Most Useless Bullshit in the Whole Entire World, Period. But! This is work, and good (potentially repeat) work at that, so it’s all “elegant” and “festive” and “adorable” and blah blah fine. I’m containing my decor-related scrooge-ness, but it’s getting harder to stay in the spirit the further I get down the spreadsheet. Just twenty more to go.

You can’t buy a mousepad in East Nashville. You can buy a sticky pad at Rite Aid designed to trap and kill mice, but that probably isn’t going to work, thank you for your help and have a good night.

Working on a Friday night.

But don’t you dare cry for me– I’m sitting with my laptop on the deck in my jammies with a Yazoo in hand, listening to Stan Getz while I write sappy, over-the-top product descriptions for a line of dolls to be sold in the Southeast’s favorite General Store.

Andy’s five feet away in the office with the windows and door open, throwing a little light my way and editing a big project, making good progress.

We’re in this together, I reckon. This is just how it looks from now on and I love it already.


Any meeting that starts with me declaring, passionately, “Our goal is to remind the consumer how unhappy they really are,” sets off a chain of alarm bells and internal, soul-ish questions that send me straight into Substop’s melty Arms of Cheese.

I don’t have a lunch in the office fridge today because A. is sick with the backyard scoots (you can thank my Granddad for that expression) and therefore nobody packed one for me. Helpless! Lunchless! Screw it!

So. Substop, again. My panic hunger place. Home of dark wheat bread and a melty mix of smoked cheddar/swiss/provalone, plus nearly painless parking, even at noon. I typed “Substop” into the ruthlessly  honest MyFitnessPal app/enemy to assess the caloric damage while I waited with my call number, and whaddayaknow, no matches! What lies behind 58B is an unknown, an off-the grid steamed sandwich treasure. Ignorance is bliss. Fatty, sloppy ignorance and big-assed bliss to protect me from my own carefully cultivated marketing jackassery.

Also today: I have been doing a bit of internet research on children’s clydesdale costumes, and it seems that my Bird is the only child to ever request a clydesdale costume, ever. We will set the internets on fire with this, my friends. We will become the gold standard of child clydesdales, for all who are interested.

Would you like some links, cutie pie? 

Freshly Ground Cool Ranch awaits

About to start this book (after the weekend, though, as there is much work to be done and the Midwesterner in me is entirely too sensible to set it aside for a moment)

Relationships make life great, not jobs.” Nice piece on NOT doing what you love. This would have helped clear a few things up for me six months ago, when I was grappling with these kinds of questions.

The weekend is upon us. Go out and do it.

New Syndromes, Horses.

I just saw an ad on Spotify that wanted to know if I suffered from Disruptive Nasal Allergy Syndrome. I love that. So dramatic! This sneezing is SO MUCH MORE SERIOUS THAN YOU EVEN KNOW. I am headed to the DMV to get a handicap parking sticker, for I am suffering gravely from this syndrome and can’t risk coming into contact with a cat or a dust mote while walking from my car to the front entrance of Walmart.

In other news, we have successfully dissuaded Birdy from dressing up as a “Sassy Girl” for Halloween, which consists of “wearing leggings and makeup” and is actually the 6 year-old version of “Slutty Nurse/ Kittycat/ Police Officer/ Angel/ Devil,” a phenomenon you may recognize from every October house party or pub crawl in your mid-twenties. Naturally, we put the kibosh on that mess because Slutty Halloween is what you celebrate when you have a little crackerbox dorm room or studio apartment in which to spend hours curling your hair and fretting about whether or not you are showing too much cleavage and then deciding, after a wine cooler or two, that it’s Halloween goddammit and when else can you go out dressed like a tramp with some kind of cutesy tail pinned to your butt? Carpe the diem of racy costumes and youthful confidence, girl. But not while you’re under my roof.

Her next-best idea was to be a Clydesdale, and I am so 100% on board with this– and she is, too, because it involves furry ankles and a shit-ton of hair elastics. Perhaps we will rig a little wagon of Budweiser for her to pull. Perhaps we will dress Ophelia as a keg. I do not know! But we will head out as a family and beg for candy all around the neighborhood in mere weeks and I’m thinking about it reasonably in advance, so there’s that.