Snagged from Stacey, I couldn't resist.
The Name Meme
1. YOUR ROCK STAR NAME: (first pet and current street name) Alex Mt. Vernon
2. YOUR MOVIE STAR NAME: (grandfather/grandmother on your dad's side, your favorite candy) Marta Chocolate
3. YOUR "FLY GIRL/GUY" NAME: (first initial of first name, first two or three letters of your last name) E-Hin
4. YOUR DETECTIVE NAME: (favorite animal, favorite color) Dog Blue
5. YOUR SOAP OPERA NAME: (middle name, city where you were born) Marta Metairie
6. YOUR STAR WARS NAME: (first 3 letters of your last name, last 3 letters of mother's maiden name, first 3 letters of your pet's name) Hincassam (um, can this be right?)
7. JEDI NAME: (middle name spelled backwards, your mom's maiden name spelled backwards)Atram Nolletsac
8. PORN STAR NAME: (middle name, street you grew up on) Marta Lake Village - this is not exciting at all
9. SUPERHERO NAME: ("The", your favorite color, the automobile you drive) The Blue Train - can I technically 'drive' the train? I don't drive, so it is my current mode of transport. In any case, I tag Casey, DP, Crack Sammich, and E-Mac
Saturday, May 13, 2006
raindrops keep falling on my head
I always think of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid when I hear this song. But for the moment, it's the theme song of Boston. It's been raining for something like four days now and I'm really over the cold, rainy, this is why we call it "new" England crap that makes it somehow okay for it to be COLD and rainy in the month of May. May is almost half over and I'm wearing a sweater and pulling a blanket onto my lap as I type. What is wrong with this picture? In protest, I am going to sit on the sofa and watch my DVDs of the West Wing. Sam is already curled up on his rug and I suspect he will not move from that spot for a while either.
Four days till we touch down in the homeland. I'm excited to see my family and friends but, more than that, I'm excited to experience how good it is to be from the South. I know I already wrote one gushy blog on this so I won't bore you with another, but the other part of this visit is going back to Natchitoches to see the little brother graduate from high school. Those of you who have known him since he was a squirt - and he now has the nerve to be a hell of a lot taller than me - are just as shocked as I am that he's graduating from high school, but I'm happy for him. Hopefully he'll go to college and find out what it means to be passionate about something other than his latest girlfriend. I am told that I will meet this girlfriend when I come to visit and I'm really not sure how I feel about this. In all fairness, he did meet almost every guy I ever dated, but that usually resulted in someone getting a piggyback ride or the two of them going to play with Legos, and I don't think he was old enough to really comprehend that I was involved with any of them anyway. I digress. So we get to go to Natchitoches, where it all began, and I get to see my old teachers and, by an even stranger coincidence, most of my seniors because it's their ten year reunion. This is a topic for another blog where I talk about how old I feel and how I'm not emotionally ready to go to my ten year reunion.
And to my beloved Casey, it's a date for Thursday night. The Chimes better stock up on Abita because we're gonna drink 'em dry!
Four days till we touch down in the homeland. I'm excited to see my family and friends but, more than that, I'm excited to experience how good it is to be from the South. I know I already wrote one gushy blog on this so I won't bore you with another, but the other part of this visit is going back to Natchitoches to see the little brother graduate from high school. Those of you who have known him since he was a squirt - and he now has the nerve to be a hell of a lot taller than me - are just as shocked as I am that he's graduating from high school, but I'm happy for him. Hopefully he'll go to college and find out what it means to be passionate about something other than his latest girlfriend. I am told that I will meet this girlfriend when I come to visit and I'm really not sure how I feel about this. In all fairness, he did meet almost every guy I ever dated, but that usually resulted in someone getting a piggyback ride or the two of them going to play with Legos, and I don't think he was old enough to really comprehend that I was involved with any of them anyway. I digress. So we get to go to Natchitoches, where it all began, and I get to see my old teachers and, by an even stranger coincidence, most of my seniors because it's their ten year reunion. This is a topic for another blog where I talk about how old I feel and how I'm not emotionally ready to go to my ten year reunion.
And to my beloved Casey, it's a date for Thursday night. The Chimes better stock up on Abita because we're gonna drink 'em dry!
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
eight days
Eight days until what, you might ask. Eight days until the apocalypse? The end of the fictitious gas crisis? This string of seemingly meaningless questions?
Eight days until I go home. Home, to humidity, flat interstate, mosquitos the size of Buicks, and the best damned food I've ever put in my mouth. I had lunch with one of my friends today - he's from the Carolinas (which some might consider part of the South) and we were talking about how the more time we spend on the eastern seaboard, the more we want to move back home. Where people are nice, land prices are low, and no one looks at you funny when you say you're going to fry a turkey for Thanksgiving. People don't scoff when you tell them that you can't go out because college ball is on TV, or that you're absolutely dying for some fresh catfish. (FYI, here in the north, they sell catfish under the guise of an exotic fish. Boy are those yankees stupid. There is nothing exotic about those ugly things other than the spices you fry them in.)
Home where I can twang if I want to and no one looks at me with the slanty glance. I'm so sick of being nice to rude people, even though it's what my momma taught me to do, instead of turning around to them and saying, "well, I could say something like that, if I was a Yankee jackass like you, but I'm from the South and we know how to treat people, even if they don't deserve it." Even the rude people in Mississippi are nicer than polite Bostonians. Do I want my kids to grow up thinking it's okay to not hold doors open for people who are carrying bags or offering to help someone with their exceptionally large suitcase up the stairs? Not a chance my friends. Just you wait, as soon as this blasted doctorate is over, we're packing up, throwing the dog in the car, and skee-daddling back your way.
Eight days till drive-thru daiquiris and po-boys from the truck stop. Eight days till "y'all" is normal parlance again. Eight days till fresh seafood and all the cousins I can hug in one day.
Can't wait to see all y'all.
Eight days until I go home. Home, to humidity, flat interstate, mosquitos the size of Buicks, and the best damned food I've ever put in my mouth. I had lunch with one of my friends today - he's from the Carolinas (which some might consider part of the South) and we were talking about how the more time we spend on the eastern seaboard, the more we want to move back home. Where people are nice, land prices are low, and no one looks at you funny when you say you're going to fry a turkey for Thanksgiving. People don't scoff when you tell them that you can't go out because college ball is on TV, or that you're absolutely dying for some fresh catfish. (FYI, here in the north, they sell catfish under the guise of an exotic fish. Boy are those yankees stupid. There is nothing exotic about those ugly things other than the spices you fry them in.)
Home where I can twang if I want to and no one looks at me with the slanty glance. I'm so sick of being nice to rude people, even though it's what my momma taught me to do, instead of turning around to them and saying, "well, I could say something like that, if I was a Yankee jackass like you, but I'm from the South and we know how to treat people, even if they don't deserve it." Even the rude people in Mississippi are nicer than polite Bostonians. Do I want my kids to grow up thinking it's okay to not hold doors open for people who are carrying bags or offering to help someone with their exceptionally large suitcase up the stairs? Not a chance my friends. Just you wait, as soon as this blasted doctorate is over, we're packing up, throwing the dog in the car, and skee-daddling back your way.
Eight days till drive-thru daiquiris and po-boys from the truck stop. Eight days till "y'all" is normal parlance again. Eight days till fresh seafood and all the cousins I can hug in one day.
Can't wait to see all y'all.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Shiksa on the hunt....
.....for sandals, that is.
So I bought a new pair of Dansko sandals a few weeks ago. I've been wearing them around the house in hopes that they will be as comfortable as my Dansko clogs, which I wear every day, and to almost everything, with the exception of performances (and I usually keep them on until right before I go onstage anyway). This was not to be, unfortunately. I managed to wear holes in both pinky toes, while wearing socks AND moleskin, so today I sadly skulked back to the shoe store. Shopping for shoes has been an ordeal since I was a kid. Mom tells me how my first pair of baby shoes was a pair of sandals because I had huge feet and she couldn't stand to sandwich them into little shoes just for the sake of being cute. In some ways, I wish I had been subjected to foot-binding at a young age because it might have prevented some of the teasing, not to mention personal trauma, to which I was subjected since, oh, I entered the school system. Who's got big feet, glasses and reads for fun? Bigfoot, over there. Had I been more self-possessed in the third grade, I would have told them where I was gonna put my big foot if they didn't shut their fat mouth. I digress.
So I decide to go to this huge shoe store near my house. It's a Sunday afternoon, the hubby has work to do and the dog is sunning himself in front of the window, so I grab the car keys and take off. I have come to the conclusion that, unless you look a respectable age and are dressed as such, salespeople will invariably ignore you. I get ignored in stores with some frequency, except in Sephora, where everyone loves me and I love everyone. I tried three times to ask the salesman if they carried a certain brand and if this shoe (the one I'm waving right here in my hand? It's not just for show, I'd like to try it on please!!) is in stock in my size. I gave up after a while. I had tried on all of the Dansko sandals they had on the wall, everything was too narrow and with an arch that's not high enough (shame on you Dansko, I thought we were friends) and tremendously frustrated, I came home.
Home, to my old Birkenstocks that have seen better days and my $2.50 flip flops from Target.
I remember being about seven and asking my mom why I didn't have little feet, like Barbie. Her response is classic Miss Jean:
"Honey, if you had little feet like Barbie, you'd fall over!"
That's right. I would fall over. *sigh*
So I bought a new pair of Dansko sandals a few weeks ago. I've been wearing them around the house in hopes that they will be as comfortable as my Dansko clogs, which I wear every day, and to almost everything, with the exception of performances (and I usually keep them on until right before I go onstage anyway). This was not to be, unfortunately. I managed to wear holes in both pinky toes, while wearing socks AND moleskin, so today I sadly skulked back to the shoe store. Shopping for shoes has been an ordeal since I was a kid. Mom tells me how my first pair of baby shoes was a pair of sandals because I had huge feet and she couldn't stand to sandwich them into little shoes just for the sake of being cute. In some ways, I wish I had been subjected to foot-binding at a young age because it might have prevented some of the teasing, not to mention personal trauma, to which I was subjected since, oh, I entered the school system. Who's got big feet, glasses and reads for fun? Bigfoot, over there. Had I been more self-possessed in the third grade, I would have told them where I was gonna put my big foot if they didn't shut their fat mouth. I digress.
So I decide to go to this huge shoe store near my house. It's a Sunday afternoon, the hubby has work to do and the dog is sunning himself in front of the window, so I grab the car keys and take off. I have come to the conclusion that, unless you look a respectable age and are dressed as such, salespeople will invariably ignore you. I get ignored in stores with some frequency, except in Sephora, where everyone loves me and I love everyone. I tried three times to ask the salesman if they carried a certain brand and if this shoe (the one I'm waving right here in my hand? It's not just for show, I'd like to try it on please!!) is in stock in my size. I gave up after a while. I had tried on all of the Dansko sandals they had on the wall, everything was too narrow and with an arch that's not high enough (shame on you Dansko, I thought we were friends) and tremendously frustrated, I came home.
Home, to my old Birkenstocks that have seen better days and my $2.50 flip flops from Target.
I remember being about seven and asking my mom why I didn't have little feet, like Barbie. Her response is classic Miss Jean:
"Honey, if you had little feet like Barbie, you'd fall over!"
That's right. I would fall over. *sigh*
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