Columbus, Mississippi (Part Two)

This post makes more sense after reading A Fond Look Back at the Welty Symposium and Columbus, Mississippi, Part One first. Assuming you're in the mood to indulge me. :)

A quick shout out to the Hampton Inn who so kindly put a full-length mirror on the outside of the bathroom door! The door opens in to the bathroom. If you’re a lone traveler like me, you, of course, don’t close the door to tinkle. So, before even thinking, you sit to take care of business and look in front of you at a full-length, up-close, birds-eye view of your entire self sitting on the toilet.

I could’ve died a happy woman NEVER seeing this. I wonder if I have a lawsuit on my hands here. I certainly feel scarred for life. That’s got to be worth something. I’d complain for a complimentary free night’s stay, but I’d have to pee again and relive the horror.

Maybe I’ll just start closing the door. And I leave tomorrow anyway - for Memphis! I’ll stop by and say a few words to my dead. I’ll drive by my grandmother’s house. I’ll remember and smile and feel a little loved.

The Welty Symposium! At first, I was a little disappointed. It was in Cochran Hall this year, not the historical and traditional Poindexter Hall I loved so much.

Cochran Hall is a dormitory and certainly didn’t have the atmosphere to fit the event. The events were held in Cochran’s ballroom, which is a recent room addition to the front of the building connected by one set of doors like an adjoining hotel room .

It didn’t feel Southern, it wasn’t old, and I didn’t feel any ghosts. Not to mention the constant slamming of doors from student traffic to and from their rooms. It was frustrating that nobody in charge ever thought to close the ballroom doors to muffle the noise.

But the authors who spoke and read made up for most of the logistics. Nan Graham, Rilla Askew, Ellen Douglas, and Karon Luddy were my favorites. I’m so glad I came, as usual. I feel special every time, like I’m part of a secret club. To hear Southern women writers read their own stories and talk about their writing lives is like a long, slow, warm enveloping hug.

I will always regret missing the 2002 Symposium. That year, Jeanne Braselton, Rome, Georgia author of A False Sense of Well Being, read. She killed herself the following Spring.

With any luck, I'll be back next year. Not to the Hampton, of course. I couldn't take that again.

Columbus, Mississippi (Part One)

This post makes more sense after reading A Fond Look Back at the Welty Symposium post first. Then Part Two after this Part One. If you're indulging me, that is. :)

It’s true what they say. You can’t go home again.

Most of the drive here was beautiful! The leaves in the mountains of Kentucky, especially. Not quite at peak, but enough for my foliage fix. With the good, comes the bad. I had to drive through Alabama this time. Alabama is not my favorite state in the union. In fact, I don't think they realize they actually ARE part of the union. Being raised in Georgia, I'm obligated to live my life according to the unwritten state law that requires participation in at least ten Alabama jokes every year. Despite moving away from Georgia eight years ago, I have yet to have a problem meeting quota.

So, I was driving toward the Alabama/Mississippi state line on Highway 82 when I came upon an unexpected sign: TOLL AHEAD. It made no sense. I was in the middle of nowhere. There were signs about Tuscaloosa, but I never saw any signs of it. When I reached the booth (of course there were no exact change lanes), I asked, “Collecting for what?” 

She opened her mouth, as if she might speak, but let out what can only be likened to a monkey giggle.

I repeated (because it’s kind of fun and you just can’t help yourself), “Seriously, where do the funds go?” She said she didn’t know. I’d like to think she went home and looked it up or made a mental note to ask a co-worker, but <imagine sound of me snorting> the likelihood of that is as remote as she was.

Anyway, the closer I got to Columbus, the fewer cars I saw, even though it was prime 5 o'clock traffic time. I counted two cars and NO trucks in my rear-view mirror when I made the Military Road exit.

But this morning, from 5am to 7am??? All I have heard is truck after truck after truck after truck. At times, it sounds like they’re coming in the room. How can that be? Maybe they’re all heading further west, where I wouldn’t have seen them driving into town? It makes sense, because East is Alabama, after all, and nobody in their right mind would purposefully head in that direction.

There is also a critical gas station/convenience store next door to the hotel. So, I hear lots of air brakes (isn’t that right?) followed by backup beeps followed sometimes by idling or sometimes full-blown re-start-ups.

I keep telling myself to be thankful for the trucks in this world. They bring us stuff. Apparently, Columbus needs lots of stuff or has lots of stuff that needs to be taken to other people first thing in the morning.

But, it’s all trivial and laughable, really. Austin is safe and had a good report from the doctor yesterday, and, despite renting a hearse, I must have driven in-between all the terrible storms yesterday.

And at last night’s opening ceremonies, Ellen Douglas read from her books and closed by saying, “Thank ya’ll for being so proud of me.”

That was worth the 5am wake-up call. That, and there’s a Waffle House (the real kind, not the kind north of the MD line) down the road.

Run Granny Run

Run Granny Run airs on HBO this Thursday, October 18th, 9pm.

http://www.hbo.com/docs/programs/rungrannyrun/index.html

I recently had my own personal “run”-in with Granny D. She was the keynote speaker at our Citizens’ Summit last month and I had the pleasure of driving her to her hotel for a rest after her speech.

During our entirely too short car ride, I learned that our organization’s fearless leaders had taken her to a restaurant where belly dancers entertained at the table.

She said, “It was certainly something to see!”

Worried that I might be in for an earful, I treaded lightly.  “Well, it sure is a good thing you weren’t offended by it.”

To which she enthusiastically replied, “Ohhh, my dear, it was offensive, indeed. But I loved it!”

There are no words. Like everyone else, I gushed about how remarkable she was, but it really didn’t even scratch the surface of what I meant.

Being detailed oriented

I love days like this. In 2005, I worked on a project with a woman who became the fourth person on my list of “deal-breakers” (people with whom I refuse to work – so far there are five).

She was a combination of idiot and attempted bitch. Attempted, because it’s impossible to be both.

There are so many things to choose from, but….

She had Bible scriptures taped all over her overhead cubicle cabinets. I think it was her contribution to teach and help her fellow man, because they were all at perfect eye level for passers-by or visitors, but, of course, out of her line of sight.

She loved to start sentences with, “I’m sorry if you feel that way” and “Since you're not an employee here”.

She carried her $1,500 purse to meetings. Most meetings were twenty feet from her desk. And the damn purse always managed to make its way to the middle of the conference room table. (I used to love watching her repeatedly move it here and then there - all the while scouring the room for attention.)

She put MBA beside her name in her email signature.

‘Nuff said.

Well, maybe just one more….

She was a certified personal trainer, and loved to talk about how cute that made her. She also fell asleep for hours at her desk every day. On particularly fun days, you could hear her snore. It’s hard to be impressed by a fitness expert with that kind of energy.

Then, today, almost two years later, a gift from the Heavens. Her name popped up on some networking website I ran across.

Her list of credentials and skills said many things, but ended with this:

Creative and detailed oriented.

That’s no typo, my friends.

Precinct Inspector Rutherford

November is election time here in Indiana. I volunteered to “work the polls”. I’m a big fan of a true populist democracy and, as every year passes, am increasingly concerned about its future. So, it seemed like a perfect fit: an opportunity to help voters have a good voting experience, ensuring repeat customers, especially in light of the hulabaloo about the last election here because of botched records and polling place mayhem.

Of course, no good cause comes without a catch. I have to report downtown at 4:30 am. AM! Apres morning. I just looked it up and it’s actually Ante Meridiem (Latin for before noon, not French for after morning).

Anyway, I could not care less about democracy and its privilege to vote before sunrise.

Or do I? Maybe democracy is why I haven’t had to care about certain things, like bombs and mortar shells and police states and home invasions, in the middle of the night.

It’s the reason I get to choose my beliefs and speak publicly about them. I get to assemble and protest. I get freedoms and pursuits. I get to worship whomever I choose.

It’s the reason I don’t have to worry about it in the middle of the night. It’s like the good kid in the family.

But it desperately needs tending to. So 4:30, it is.

Besides, another checkmark in the pro column is that my job title for the day is Precinct Inspector. I wonder if I get a badge. I bet I get a clipboard. I think I get minimum wage, too.

Me, me, me. I’m democratic after all.

Those wacky Christian schools

Say what? Oral Roberts U is being sued? For questionable and outlandish personal spending habits? Say it’s not so!!! I just can’t believe that a religious school might be guilty of anything, much less exorbitant spending. That just can’t be right, can it? Not here, not in America, not by organizations working for God and creating better people and all. I mean, Holy Crap.

Mr. Oral Roberts U gave a speech about the lawsuit to the school….in the chapel. He mispronounced litigious. He concluded, “Make no mistake about it. This suit is about money.”

I wonder if he knows he’s funny. He needs to spend some of that travel and home remodeling money on a speech writer. And a dictionary.

What makes me giddy with excitement, though, is that the former professors who filed the suit have accused Mrs. Oral Roberts U of texting male students in the middle of the night. Now that I can sink my teeth into! How fun! Over-the-hill women acting caarrr-aaaaazzzz-y. I love it! You go girl. Tell me more. Tell me more.

Realistically, though, I’m pretty sure that today’s headline will be the last. Things like this have a way of disappearing. Dammit.

http://www.cnn.com/video/#/video/us/2007/10/08/roberts.oral.roberts.scandal.cnn

Whoa

It’s scary to think that this time next year, things will be so different. I’ve lived with someone for the last twenty years, seventeen of those being just with my son.

We’ve had our problems this year. Since he turned seventeen, it’s been a little like living with someone you want to divorce. It sounds harsh until you hear that he feels the same way. In fact, I’ve been told recently that the happiest day in his life will be the day he no longer has to live with me.

Yea, I’m an ogre, whatever, been there, done that.

Still, it feels lonely already. No sound of a key in the door at midnight on weekend nights. No nightly conversations about what happened that day. No noise or lights or flickering screens coming from his room each night. No constant ringing of his telephone. No truck in the garage every morning. No 6am alarm to fix breakfast. No “I’m home from school” phone calls.

I’ll be the mother of an adult. That means motherhood no longer defines me. I’m just going to be me. Scary!

At the same time, it feels freeing and exciting. I can go places. I can do things I want to do, without weighing his enjoyment. I can take some time off. I can get my graduate degree. I have options I don’t even know about yet.

Frankly, I’m a little grateful for the dog and the college bills to come. Because of them, I can only take baby steps into this new life full of just me. ACK.

What Will Be

When the one thing your chemistry has craved since its inception eludes you,
When the movie screen inside your forehead plays the same scenes each day and into each year,
When you know, with less years ahead than behind, that you are the same person you were on the playground,
The road ahead is perfectly clear.

The vision is a comfort, because you know yourself and your heart and soul and your mind
But it feels heavy with the burden of the still years of an unwavering need.
It will keep inviting itself and celebrating in otherwise happy moments
Reminding you of who you are and who you always will be.

You stand by your convictions and have recently become friends with your flaws.
You are proud of the good things you’ve done and you’ve learned from the bad.
You like your company and you like your dreams.
But, in the end, nothing matches the one thing you never had.

So, you’ll stand at the window looking out at your life’s last corner
Dreaming the dream that was never meant to be
Imagining how life would be different
If your reflection wasn't the only thing to see.

Two posts in one day

What the f-heck is going on with Paul Newman’s Mango Salsa in this town? It’s not at Kroger, it’s not at Marsh, it’s not at Meier, it’s not at Trader Joes, it’s not at Wild Oats. Every other flavor – bean and corn, pineapple, peach, what have you – but no mango. It’s maddening. It’s discrimination. Or maybe it’s just me – sure wouldn’t be the first time.

The only place I CAN find it is Wal-Mart. Wal-Mart! I feel about Wal-Mart the way private school parents feel about public school kids: no good can come from being that close to the unwashed.

I guess I’ll buy a case this afternoon, after I drink lunch to steel myself for the trip. I must “man up”, because I could literally drink this stuff. I’d like to think it’s the good-for-me lycopene in the tomatoes and the fruity goodness of the mango bits, but I’m pretty sure it’s the high fructose corn syrup. YUM!!

So, when I get home this afternoon, first a shower to wash off the grime, of course, and then a dinner of mango salsa and chips, looking at a cartoon drawing of Paul Newman (I eat right out of the jar for this reason) and knowing that, beyond my instant gratification, my $1.96 per-jar/$23.52 per-case contribution to his causes outweighs my sacrifice.

If only...

Today would be Clay McKemie’s birthday. He would be a Senior this year and enjoying his last birthday lunch with his high school buddies in the cafeteria, probably talking about the weekend and college applications. Plus, this year, his birthday falls on a Friday, which would make it perfect for celebrating along with after-school games, events, and parties.

If only.

In honor of his (and Sean Wilkinson’s) memory, I want to post this note to encourage any parent who stumbles upon my blog (and I thank you) to be vigilant and diligent about information.

Obviously, we shouldn’t make decisions without information. But when information isn’t available, how can we, as parents, make responsible decisions - decisions about things that would never even cross our minds?

Please, please, please read and search and TALK, TALK, TALK to each other. We can speak our minds, voice our opinions, and communicate our thoughts. We can ask our questions loudly and boldly. We can tell people about our own experiences. We can tell people what we’ve read, what we know, what we’ve heard, what we’ve seen. We can offer to them what we would and wouldn’t do and why.

Just imagine what might be different. Of course, nothing changes for Clay and Sean’s families, but we might change the future for another family. Clay (and Sean, and the families, of course) would really like that, I think.

I can’t even express how happy that would make me. This, my blog/diary/column/opinion/editorial/voice, has never been intended to be negative or controversial, but to be used for freelance marketing and original expression. I think both are apparent to the reasonable reader. And if God’s plan is that any of my beliefs, opinions, or unanswered questions (I’m known for those!) about any of the hodgepodge of topics here resonate with a visitor and possibly spark a connection for conversation, I am grateful.

But, supremely, I am grateful for Clay and Sean telling me their stories from 500 miles away. I think of them always and I know I always will.

Today, I remember and celebrate both boys’ birthdays. Today, from now on, and in nothing but Love.

48 days times 2

Color me stupid, but I thought you had to have a pod or be a pod or be in a pod or be somepody to listen to podcasts. Were they ever only playable on IPods? Or am I just THAT old? :-|

There is a ridiculous amount of stuff I could have been listening to all this time!

For example, I love Dan Miller! He’s a life coach from Tennessee and not one of those that teaches by bragging about all of his many accomplishments and how you, too, can be just like him for only $99.99.

He’s from the Dave Ramsey School of responsibility and stop-whining-and-just-do-it, but he hides it better than Dave does, which helps, being the nurturing life coach and all that he is.

As of today, there are 96 days left in the year. That’s 48 days times 2. That gives me 48 days to catch up on podcasts and another 48 days to just do it.

So, in October, the month that, according to numerology (not a huge fan, I just think it’s fun to play with), is the best predictor of the following year, I’m committing to one-page-a-day to get the toughest chunk of this thing on paper/screen. Then, by November 1st, I’ll be soooo ready for the annual NaNoWriMo, which I’ll use to finish.

Thanks, Dan. It’s obviously newsletter day! Now that I gathered all that strength to push the button, it’s podcast day, too!

Like sand thru the hourglass...

I know it's an irreverant phrase, but I am wasting time.

Boston Legal’s extra-long season premiere airs tonight!! I love, love, love that show. It’s the imaginary place where morality sits right beside legality, and both always win in the end. Well, if they don’t, we somehow understand – mad cow and all. John Laroquette joins the cast, too. I don’t know how the writers will have time in each episode to fit his and Alan’s closing arguments, but I can’t wait to see. Michelle Pfeiffer must beam with pride every day.

Today is the last day of registration for the Muse Online Writers Conference. I’ve never done something like this, but think I will try it out. It sounds like fun!

The Indiana Clean Elections Summit is Saturday! This group should be so proud of this accomplishment. I’m so happy to be a small part of it.

National headlines:
Bush announces a health plan.
Hillary’s not a lesbian.
Clooney is in tux after bike accident.
Jessica Alba admits to being super-dorky.

These, when the real news is that it’s raining in Indiana this morning! I might be able to skip a dose or two of the allergy meds, if it keeps up.

But seriously, did you know that an assembly of more than five is considered an illegal gathering in Burma (Myanmar)? And that the last time they had a protest like the one this week, the military opened fire on the crowd killing thousands of the protesters? And that, right now, the military is heading towards the crowd who are still protesting? God bless them. Where would we be without people like this?

After reading about this, I have a renewed strength to stand up for the (much smaller) things in which I believe, and a new appreciation (mixed with a pang of guilt) for a few silly American headlines and another irrelevant blog post.

“Never think you’ve seen the last of anything.”

It’s that time of year. Fall, yes, my favorite. I also enjoy the beginning of the end of another year when I stop to think about the last months’ accomplishments and shortcomings and the goals for the next year. I even get a kick out of repeatedly figuring out where the heck my Halloween and Thanksgiving and Christmas decorations are.

But I’m happiest because it’s time again for the Welty Symposium at the Mississippi University for Women. And, this year, I’m going!!!

The first time I attended, in 2001, I cried. I can’t explain why I cried – yes, I can – I was overwhelmed by the sensations of Southern academia, literature, authors and the ghost of Ms. Welty in an intimate and appropriately dimly-lit auditorium. I remember my seat; I remember the faces around me waiting for a story or two. I remember the huge, proud and protective trees outside the beautiful ceiling-to-floor window next to me. I breathed too deeply and quietly cried. It felt like home, like Love.

But that was my first and only visit because we moved to Indy the next year, and I haven’t been able to go back for this or that reason.

This year’s line-up is too good to pass up. Plus, I’ll get to drive through Kentucky to see the Fall leaves (something I’ve sworn to do since living in Indiana) and stop for a dinner with Sheila and an afternoon with Miss Hazel.

Home. Love. Mississippi? :-o

“Long before I wrote stories, I listened for stories. Listening for them is something more acute than listening to them. When their elders sit and begin, children are just waiting and hoping for one to come out, like a mouse from its hole."

For Wasatch Academy Parents

Some still active Google search results relating to the Rome Georgia boating tragedy killing Sean Wilkinson and Clay McKemie, which was led by Steve Hall, former Darlington teacher who now works as Outdoor Recreation Coordinator at Wasatch Academy in Utah (as of 9/21/2007).

As of November 2007, the school has been made aware of Hall’s past and asked to take extra precautions. They have understandably and predictably “lawyered-up”. There is a liability release form on their website for parents to sign before letting their children participate in rigorous excursions. Now that the school is informed, I wouldn't imagine that it would hold much weight if something terrible happened, but who knows. I just hope they are legally able to at least hire a more reasonable chaperone for the chaperone.

http://www.stpetetimes.com/2005/03/01/Tampabay/Trip_paddled_into_dan.shtml

St Pete Times witness and Coast Guard quotes (in case the above link is removed)

https://www.piersystem.com/external/index.cfm?cid=586&fuseaction=EXTERNAL.docview&documentID=64966 (Yankeetown) Coast Guard Press Release

http://news.mywebpal.com/news_tool_v2.cfm?pnpid=680&show=archivedetails&ArchiveID=1090664&om=1

Rome News Tribune 2005-03-02 (PDF) Cell phone!

http://news.mywebpal.com/news_tool_v2.cfm?pnpid=680&show=archivedetails&ArchiveID=1093029&om=1

Rome News Tribune 2005-03-11 Lady Tigers 9-0 (PDF)

Rome News Tribune 2005-03-02 (PDF)

Rome News Tribune 2005-03-16 (PDF)

http://queensbury.injuryhelpline.com/index.rwl?category=news&section=wrongful+death&article=florida+officials+say+boating+trip+was+not+properly+planned&id=195

http://www.woodenboatvb.com/vbulletin/upload/archive/index.php/t-43531.html

http://lists.infoteam.com/pipermail/paddle/2005/000113.html

http://www.staugustine.com/stories/030105/sta_2920408.shtml

http://articles.latimes.com/2005/mar/02/nation/na-rome2

LA Times Article 2005-03-02 (PDF)

http://lists.infoteam.com/pipermail/paddle/2005/000114.html

http://www.naplesnews.com/news/2005/mar/03/ndn_official__poor_planning_in_florida_boating_tri/

http://www.thebackpacker.com/trailtalk/thread/36892,-1.php 

http://www.wichitapaddler.com/Articles/CNN_WetExitDeaths.pdf

http://www.xanga.com/Remember_Clay

http://www.christianindex.org/1125.article

http://wmac-am.com/news/2005/feb05/022805_students%20mourn.htm

http://www.darlingtonschool.org/Alumni/letterView.asp?letterID=134 

http://www.kayakforum.com/cgi-bin/Technique/indexh.cgi/noframes/read/22698

Remembering September 17th

My mother would have been 77 today. She died at age 50 on October 17, 1980. My father told everyone she was 49, because her birthday was only thirty days before and he knew she would have liked that. She hated getting older. I think she might have grown accustomed to the idea eventually, but at 49/50, she hated it. Everything around her was changing and she was terribly unhappy, which I think was the largest contributing factor to her heart attack.

Anyway, it took me years to figure out that my teen angst, forever frozen, was misguided. She was the stability, the driving force, the one who worried and cared and gave a damn.

I’m sorry for those years. I like to think she and I have worked out our differences since, because I’m pretty sure she and her mother are our guardian angels. There have been too many signs and blessings to be unexplained.

Anyway, happy birthday, Mom. Thank you for adopting us. I know that you struggled and that you had the best of intentions. And I know that was love.

Texting!?! After this week, I'm happy to pay it.

I added text messaging to my son’s cell phone bill earlier this year. He had started doing it, “texting” I think the kids call it, only 10 or 20 times each month, so the added amount on my bill, before we officially added it to the plan, was minimal.

We’ve coasted along all year with right around his allotted 200 text messages. Cool beans.

Until now.

340. Three hundred. And forty.

And he’s a boy.
And he’s not a girl.
And he’s unemployed.
And he’s back in school (doesn’t he see these people every day?).
And he has a phone (obviously). And a voice. And a dialing finger (should be easier than the opposable texting thumbs).
And he’s been talked to about this before. In fact, just the other day, when I heard umpteen incoming buzzes in a row.

But he’s a good boy. And it seems trivial in the scheme of things.

Maybe I’ll make him dust or brush the dog or run get me something or Windex my car windows. Or all four. Two hours of work at $10 an hour, less the usual mama tax, should cover it.

But he’s a good boy.

I think it's the water

I'm convinced that all the trouble with the ground water in Rome, Georgia, has created some of the scariest minds I've come across in my 44 years. I could write a book (ha). This is just another (and more serious) example.

I tried to see if the Editorial Page Editor of the Rome News-Tribune would publish my plea to Rome or Darlington parents to contact Wasatch Academy if they had any information or experiences to share. After a lengthy exchange with him - which ended in nothing more than insult lobs (one he liked was about my not being "local" (that one makes me laugh, because he has no idea how grateful I am that I was able to escape the asylum that is Rome) - this is just one part of his last email.

I sensed a diversion of attention to the idea that kids die even on trips with their parents (to which I ask myself: what about the parents of Clay and Sean who had NO idea that the trip leader, Steve Hall, was going to put their children in the Atlantic Ocean in t-shirts and shorts and canoes and kayaks on a stormy day in February (48F water temp))?

And "what not"?

I'm not sure why "Rome" should "get involved" without there being a concrete reason for this. Certainly, you could try to address the general topic of whether parents should send their kids on such outdoor excursions no matter who is allegedly looking after them. However, keep in mind that before our society started relying so much on surrogates for parenting duties, lots of kids died on "camping trips" with mom and dad … drowning, fallen off cliffs, eaten by bears and what not. However, not having a reason to drag Darlington into this, except perhaps obliquely, I'm not sure how "local" the end result would be for someone removed from this area. (Whereas we would consider a local parent worrying about this, etc.).

Email Two Years Later

(Director of Communications! I can only pray that Wasatch has no emergencies!)

-----Original Message-----
From: Chris Hall [mailto:chris.hall@wacad.org]
Sent: Tuesday, September 11, 2007 12:33 PM
To: Karen Rutherford
Subject: Re: Email

I am the same. I'm so sorry but I don't seem to remember you! Can I help you in some way?

Chris Hall
Director of Communications
Wasatch Academy
435.462.1455

----- Original Message -----
From: Karen Rutherford <krutherf@comcast.net>
To: <chris.hall@wacad.org>
Cc:
Date: Tuesday, September 11 2007 10:31 AM
Subject: Email
Hello,

I was just wondering if you're the same Chris Hall from Rome, Georgia, married to Steve Hall who taught at Darlington?

If so, I'd love to hear from you.

Thanks!

Karen Rutherford

Ramblings

After a whirlwind August, with the move, start of school, project change, life, etc., September has been such a reward. Too many moments to list here, but near the top are the bathrooms at this new job. They are FABulous! Like a bank of hotel, nice restaurant or new truck stop (so I’ve heard) bathrooms, each with its own full-concrete-walled stall and shutter-like wooden doors, automatic sinks and towels, timed aroma spray. Just lovely. A breath of fresh air. Well, for a bathroom.

Last night, during the 29th episode, I finally remembered why I stopped watching Big Brother after Season One. The rewards go to the most conniving, the most hypocritical, the most obnoxious, the most lying, and the most turn-on-a-dime player. This will be the LAST season I watch. I swear. Unless I forget again in another seven years. And that's like dog years to me now.

My freak magnet is in full force and surprisingly entertaining. I was banished by the team manager, along with two other gals (one of whom is now the third person on a permanent deal-breaker list for future projects – first being a man that gurgled all day, second being a crazy person), to a $100 lunch in August to work out our communication problems. Told “don’t come back until you have this worked out.” AS IF.

I came back long enough to send a g'bye email (unprofessional move #2 in 10 years, but it had to be done). *I sound tough here, but I heard about my current job when I got back to my desk from lunch.*

Then, last week, I went to a free event at the WC and got behind a lady in the registration line who wanted to register under “her stage name”. I got a cold chill thinking I had signed up for an audition! I had nothing prepared.

I used the word “conversate” in a meeting the other night. I was using it in a joking way, but the joke wasn’t clear and I got some blank stares, hopefully confused by a rare sign of my being an idiot . I hate when that happens. It’s so hard to overcome. I’ll have to use a big word at the next meeting.

Austin is so seventeen. I asked about a last mom and son trip for the two of us, he said I should save my money to pay for a Spring break trip to Florida with his friends. I asked about a laptop for Christmas since he’ll need one for college, he said he needed a MacBook. I asked about a new television (ours are older than he is), he said he needed an Xbox 360 to go with. Funny, last year, I thought I had done a pretty good job raising this kid.

Superman

Train and Brandi Carlisle music. The Story. Superman. Beautiful, unattainable boys. Why? Why now?

New, really lovely people and closer connections than I’ve felt in years and years. Centuries, even (ha).

Maybe it’s a universal reminder that I really shouldn’t be in a place so close to things I can’t have. A place where I can’t control my mind from wandering. The sad endings (so many) that I haven’t thought about in ages are suddenly and still so familiar.

All coming along with a reminder that there are these women to admire and emulate. I can take pride in them and me. Can I be happy with that? This is what I’ll find out soon.