My parents should just accept this by now

When my family came over to my apartment to celebrate my birthday, they began to dig in my fridge. (Let's not discuss why they were in my fridge because I have no idea. Let's just accept this as fact and move on.)

"James! Your refrigerator looks like it came out of Cribs. All you have in here are condiments and beer!" scorned my brother.

"Wait. I have beer?" I got all excited; I thought I had been out for at least a month or two.

"No, that's just a Diet Coke can."

I slumped back against my couch. I had hoped I was wrong.

Since then I have reclaimed Charity Case status among my family. It took me a few days to figure out why my mother kept inviting me to her house "for food." Not as in a meal, but as take-everything-we've-horded-in-our-freezer-since-Y2K. There was even a mention of how I should have gotten food for my birthday instead of presents, but that's already been established as a not-okay thing to do.

My dad called. He wants to know what I've been eating. My mother called again--she wants to know if I have put anything else in my fridge yet.

I did, I tell her.

I bought beer.

Lady Lazarus

Have you ever heard a song and by the time it was over, you knew it was yours? Felt it wrap around your heart like a lover's boneless embrace?

I feel if I reveal anything more, I'll destroy the reasons I love this song.

"SYLVIA PLATH" - Ryan Adams

I wish I had a Sylvia Plath
Busted tooth and a smile
And cigarette ashes in her drink
The kind that goes out and then sleeps for a week
The kind that goes out on her own
To give me a reason for well, I dunno

And maybe she'd take me to France
Or maybe to Spain and she'd ask me to dance
In a mansion on top of the hill
She'd ash on the carpet and slip me a pill
Then she'd get me pretty loaded on gin
And maybe she'd give me a bath
How I wish I had a Sylvia Plath

And she and I would sleep on a boat
And swim in the sea without clothes
With rain falling fast on the sea
While she was swimming away, she'd be winking at me
Telling me it would all be okay
Out on the horizon and fading away
And I'd swim to the boat and I'd laugh
I gotta get me a Sylvia Plath.

I must be doing something wrong. Or totally right.

I found this little gem in my inbox this morning:

---

From: Michael
Sent: Thursday, April 26, 2007 7:40 AM
To: Jamie
Subject: RE: Dress on Friday

I don’t know why I thought of you when I saw this, but it might come in handy.

---

Hilarious.

I read the product description. "Whathaveyou" is actually not one word like they suggest, but based on what they're selling, I guess they can't all be grammatical geniuses.

And then I read this:

I don't believe I'll be strapping that around my abdomen any time soon. But a lot of other people are: the item is backordered.

They must think only those living in California actually get the cancer.

Attention:

Today is my birthday.

Buy me pretty things.

Tell me how happy you are that the world made me.

Sing to me and light small fires using lots of tiny wicks in my honor.


But mainly, buy me pretty things.


* "pretty" may be substituted for "shiny" where applicable.
** Both may be substituted for "expensive."

Proooooooom! Revisited

As posted on MySpace:

I finally had time to go through the party photos from last week and I deleted 30 pics deemed too hot for MySpace.

And I'm still left with over 70 inappropriate photos.

These things are a mess. I guess that's what happens when someone spikes the punch (we done good Andrew :)

When my friends and I ventured to Aveda to get our hair done for prom, we had a difficult time conveying what we wanted:

"It's prom, but it's not."

"You can just have at it, we're not actually serious."

"The bigger the hair, the closer to Jesus."

After explaining that no, we don't look like we're in high school because we're actually celebrating my 26th birthday, they were able to get into the spirit with us. We actually invited them to come, but they all had to work that night.

Then we headed over to Lenox in our eighties' hairstyles, fully conscious of how ridiculous we looked. We had the same problem conveying our wants to the makeup counter ladies, but they also got caught up in our excitement.

It wasn't until we were sitting in the car in front of the Olive Garden--until we actually had to mingle among the non-eighties-prom public--that we began to second guess the idea, but we wore our blue eye shadow with pride. One couple arrived late and told the hostess to just seat them with the table that was all dressed ridiculously, to which the hostess replied, "The younger group or the older group?"

The table erupted in laughter at the story. "I'm afraid to ask if we were the younger group or the older group."

"We're the older group. Evidently there is an actual prom party here as well," which simultaneously solidified the cheese-factor for our prom and made me feel bad for the kids who actually chose to go to the Olive Garden because they thought it would be a good idea. To drive the point home, our waiter scooted a square table against a round one for our party. It should be mentioned that there were six more empty square tables surrounding us. And our armchairs had wheels.

Exiting the restaurant, one family wished us a good time at the prom. We couldn't stop laughing as we thanked them.

At the party D's and my date presented us each with a bouquet of flowers and his original prom invitations from high school since he never got to go. I can't believe he kept the invitations all these years and thought enough of us to give them away. While the punch was being spiked (Andrew's and my concoction, neither of us having any experience with the making of the hunch punch: you could smell its flammability before even reaching the bowl), everyone took turns posing awkwardly. Awkwardly was replaced with a fish face after the punch was had.

In the classic style of prom, there was voting for Prom King and Queen, Best Dressed Couple, and Most Outrageous Guy and Grrrl. D and our mutual date won Most Outrageous, and surprisingly, I won Prom Queen. Yes it was my birthday party, but that wasn't a widely advertised fact. It was thrown at someone else's house and I assumed she would get Prom Queen because of all the effort she put forth. That's why I voted for her.

By midnight the hunch punch was gone and we were onto champagne. This would be the point where we began rocking out to our eighties' playlist. Journey was played. So was Whitesnake. Bon Jovi was ever-present. There was singing and dancing and air guitar.

Then Bonnie surprised me with a birthday cookie cake. I've never had friends get me a birthday cake before, so I was really moved at the gesture. Save three people, everyone at the party I had never hung out with until two months ago, and I just elated that they were kind enough to light some candles and sing just for me. It was just so moving.

Crown placed firmly on my head, and tulle puckering off my hips, I slipped the Guitar Hero guitar around my neck and began rounds of the game. Heady from spirits, I did not perform very well. As in I didn't win once.

No matter though, it was the best prom birthday party of my life.


Not enough drunken shenanigans? See all of the photos over on the MySpace Account.

Proceed cautiously: adulthood ahead.

Today I opened up a HSA.

That's grown-up slang for a health savings account.

I have a health savings account.

*Hangs head in utter shame*

Judgment call

"So you think if something isn't already out there, it can't be good?"

"Yeah, you know: 'standing on the shoulders of giants,'" I explained.

"You don't think one person can affect the world?"

"I do. It just has to be someone special; I am nothing special."

"Hmm, imagine what you could do if you only thought you were special," he said. The playful tone behind his suggestion voiced more, that perhaps he disagreed with my self-portrait made with a concave mirror.

And lately I have been thinking about what I could do if I only thought I was special.

It makes me smile.

Concussed. And nonplussed.

In my prodigious list of Stupid Things I Do, I can now write one more off:

Knock self unconscious.

Amazingly enough, it wasn't at prom where I took it upon myself to make the last two bowls of hunch punch (pictures are coming as soon as I get my camera back), instead I managed to do it the following afternoon.

The Boy had just walked out the door and I began to tidy up my apartment: start the dishwasher, box the games we play, and collect my laundry. In my bedroom I stopped to straighten the duvet and sent the remotes clacking behind the bed. I huffed and moved to the foot of the bed and

WHACK!

I walked/bent down into the poster bedpost. Knocked myself right out and collapsed forward like an unloved Raggedy Ann doll. I was out for only a flash, but I lay on the floor and cried for about another 20 seconds.

Still lying on my stomach, I reached up and gingerly touched my forehead. In the same place as my really bad car accident when I was 17, and my "incident" when I was 21, was yet another squishy lump.

My poor forehead. I'm going to require bangs for life.

Even though it was only 4:30, I took it as a sign that I should pretty much end my day right there and I messed the duvet back up as I slipped between the sheets. I did have enough foresight to set my alarm for every two hours to wake up and check for disorientation.

I've done this sort of thing before.

Something I did not think of, however, was ice. Two days later and I still have a noticeable goose egg and bruising. And a perpetual headache.

And the remotes? Those bitches are still under the bed.

Proooooooom!

"Never trust a person who doesn't like dogs and theme parties."
--Bonnie Harvey

I'm sitting on my couch right now in my underwear and clenching my fists like I do when I get really excited (uh, pressing my hands together that is, not sitting in around in my underwear). I could sleep for one more hour before have to I get up, and my slight hangover suggests that this would be a good idea, but I am one kitten's ball of energy.

Prom is tonight.

Tonight.

Prom.

I am an exclamation point.

The dresses have been purchased. The girls went to Filene's Basement and scoured the racks for the ugliest dresses we could find. We did pretty well and I was able to find a prom dress that fit all my criteria:

[x] Obnoxious fake flower
[x] Glitter
[x] Tulle. Glorious tulle.

Our original plan was not an 80's prom, but the prom dresses this season were definitely an 80's throwback. My obnoxious fake flower is located at my left hip, just like my dress in 1988. G's dress is pink and black polka dots. D's dress... well D's dress is just a hot mess. And I picked it out. And when it came to choosing a theme for our prom (yes, our theme party has its own theme), there really was no choice but Back to the Future's "Enchantment Under the Sea."

If it was a fish and was for sale at Party City, it has been purchased.

Yesterday I just sat at my desk from 5 - 5:30 p.m., hollering "Prooooom!" every few minutes. This will wear on your coworkers, especially the beloved Cubicle Neighbor. The past week, anytime someone from the group has called, we've been answering the phone not with a "hello," but with a "Prooooom!"

My day today starts at noon where the big 80's hair will be acquired at the Aveda school. The word "crimped" is also being thrown around. Personally, I'm gearing towards a low, side ponytail, which has also come back this season. Afterwards, we're hitting up Lenox mall and telling the makeup counter cows to just have at it.

The night will be kicked off with our big dinner at--that's right folks--the Olive Garden. We really should have someone's mom come over and take pictures of us in Bonnie's front yard beforehand. Then we're spiking some punch, grinding to some early 90's rap, and then busting out the Guitar Hero.

Ooh, I'm squeezing my fists again just at the thought.

Proooooooom!

Like the Fantastic Four, but without the fantastic part

Hey, don't write yourself off yet
It's only in your head you feel left out
-- Jimmy Eat World, "The Middle"

The double-edged sword with large families is the invisibility factor. At any given point in time, at least two of us will feel wholly invisible. My parents don't hide the fact they have favorites and every holiday we gather around and guess who the favorite is. My vote has been on my sister since she had a baby a year and a half ago. She recently won the incumbency by getting pregnant a second time.

Sometimes being invisible works. For instance, if things aren't going well in life--you don't have a job and the dog just hacked up something on your carpet and your brake lights went out on the trip over there--you totally don't have to talk about it.

Sometimes I convince myself I'm making the whole thing up. Like when I saw my siblings for the first time since New Years on Easter. They didn't notice that I'm not blonde anymore. I mean, the last time I was a brunette was 15 years ago, so I could see how easily it could slip every. single. person's. mind.

Hmph.

Then sometimes something happens and I know that I'm not melodramatizing life as the invisible woman.

STEPMOM: I just called your brother and both he and his wife can make it, so I made a reservation for six at Sotto Sotto for your birthday dinner.
JAMIE: You mean seven. Seven people.
STEPMOM: Well there's your mom and stepdad, me and your father, and your brother and his wife.
JAMIE: Yes. But I'm going too.
STEPMOM: ...

If wishes were horses, I'd be riding them in golden fleece

I was late to work this morning because I spent the first 10 minutes in bed, trying to figure out how I could wear my pink fleece pants with yellow rubber duckies to work today. I actually tried to think of a medical condition that required both an elastic waistband and the warmth and softness of synthetic sheep.

I still maintain that if you could actually own up to explosive diarrhea--actually say the words--work will let you get away with anything. But I'm waiting until a sunny day and an afternoon Braves game before the old "I ate Indian for lunch" flares up.

No, I needed my pink fleece pants stamped with yellow rubber duckies because it is cold outside. It's mid-April in Atlanta and yesterday when I walked out with the boys for lunch, I stepped outside into snow flurries. In mid-April. In Atlanta.

And right on schedule, my father has the pool people coming out this week to open the pool for the summer.

**No fleece pants were worn during the writing of this blog post. Although there may have been a pause to reminisce about when the pants were still on this morning. I miss the duckies.**

Quotes from last night

JAMIE: Hi Jef, I'm Jamie. Nice to meet you.
JEF: Yes, we've met before. You were in your underwear.
JAMIE: ...If you were only the first person that's said that to me.

(At the Mexican restaurant, G orders some queso dip. It arrives with a plate of tortillas for dipping. Everyone grabs a tortilla and begins to tear it apart. G, however, lays hers pancake-style on top of the bowl of queso dip and watches it sink. Everyone laughs as she then fishes it out with her fork and then rolls it up. Cheese is everywhere. She then tries to fold it, but cheese is pouring off the tortilla and running down her wrists. The rest of the table is doubled-over laughing.)

BONNIE: Have you never had tortillas with cheese dip before?!
G: No.
JAMIE: That just made my entire night. And it's not even 8 o'clock yet!

(4 out of the 6 people used to work at the same telemarketing company in college. Like a Michael Stipe sighting, it was a rite-of-passage for living in Athens.)

JAMIE: Did anyone else get put on the sex products program?

(Two shake their heads no, having no idea the program was even there. BONNIE gets excited.)

BONNIE: Yeah! (Explaining) It was mostly herbal supplements. You know, for penis enlargement and the like. I got so many prank calls on that. It was hilarious!
JAMIE: You know those 1-800 numbers in the back of magazines advertising that junk? Those calls have to go to somebody. Well, in college they went to Bonnie and me. (Pause) So you know when you don't really know what someone is asking, you were supposed to recite the question back to them? (Everyone nods) Well I had my own vocabulary when working those calls because we were mixed in and sitting with people working on all the other programs. Instead of saying "penis," I would say "shaft." Instead of saying "erect," I would say "obtain the desired effect." I was so proud of myself. Well this one guy calls up and he's not making any sense and he's running the conversation in circles, and I got confused, so I just recited the question back to him:

"You can't get hard?"

(Everyone doubles over laughing again.) I know! Both people on either side of me were in the middle of taking Bank of America credit card applications and they just stopped and looked at me! Even the supervisor heard and popped his head up to make sure I was legit!
JEF: I bet he was like, "No personal calls, please!"

A half-life is the time it takes for something to decay to half its original value

I once had a relationship with a poet. A real, honest to God poet. I think we worked because our writing styles are completely different. Me and my Hemmingway-esque memoirs and him with his floral and verbose language (Hemingway is currently spinning in his grave over me turning his name into an adjective: a superfluous part of speech he despised). The poet was, and still is, very complimentary and supportive of my work. He's one of the few people I've shown my writing to and he loves it, simple sentence structures and all. That means a lot coming from a real, honest to God poet. I don't know if I'd still be writing otherwise.

Of all the artists I dated, he was the only one to incorporate me into his work. I have a love/hate relationship with his first poem about me. It was written right after we broke up two weeks before my birthday, which would be right around now. He removed my dedication in a later version because a friend told him my name took away from the meaning of the poem. I still haven't forgiven him for that. He knows this. The poem is framed and lying against my couch, its resting place since I bought my leather reading chair close to a year ago. My copy still has the dedication.

A month ago he sent me another batch of poems. He said he had been working on new stuff while thinking of me. I sat on the e-mail, afraid of its potential Pandora's Box status. Last thing I needed was to be immortalized in an angry-as-fuck sonnet. I imagined an Italian one: two quatrains about how much I suck followed by six lines of how warmer the north is compared to my soul.

I have a healthy and vivid imagination.

I finally opened the e-mail this week, and had he not expressly informed me that I was the muse, I never would have known. My blonde hair did not resemble a "raven pendulum." We never ran down the train tracks and tagged boxcars like he wrote. And frankly, I would never be caught in a pair of Levi's.

I don't know what I was looking for, but I was disappointed that I couldn't recognize myself. Was he speaking in metaphors that I could no longer read? Most likely. I would love to see myself in something other than my jumbled and discombobulated thoughts. My half-finished sentences. My half-lived life. I would love to see myself in something beautiful for once.

Just, uh, without the raven hair reference. I'm still a blonde at heart.

Prom and Taxes

I took a sip from my pint of beer and grabbed a napkin from the center of the table. With the back of my hand I wiped my lips and pulled my pen out of my purse. I took the pen to the napkin and then balled it up and tossed it at The Boy seated at the other end.

He was mid-conversation with someone else, but opened the napkin and laughed, shaking his head.

Boy,

Will you go to prom with me?

[] Yes

[] No

[] Maybe

It may have seemed like a silly question, but I was, in fact, serious. My friend and I decided to throw a joint birthday party--a prom-themed one. The idea came up at dinner a few weeks ago when I said I saw the prom dresses out in stores and I just wanted to put one on and twirl. The guys already have tuxes and spiking some punch seems easy enough.

The Boy picked up a pen off of a receipt and answered before pitching it back to me.

Boy,

Will you go to prom with me?

[] Yes

[] No

[X] Maybe -- When is it?

"MAYBE?!"

"Well when is it?"

"You were right there when we decided the date."

"I wasn't listening."

"MAYBE?!"

"It was a valid option! Why'd you put it there if it wasn't?"

"Because seven-year-olds don't give ultimatums!"

"You didn't even sign it. How do I know who it's from?"

"You saw me throw it at you!"

He leaned to our friend, "It's best to see how mad she gets early on."

"I'm going to keep this napkin for future reference."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me at all."

Frustrated, I grabbed a fresh napkin.

Boy,

Will you go to prom with me on April 15th 14th?

[] Yes

[] No :*(

X James

"I can't read the date."

"Yes you can."

He scribbles on the napkin and then laughs, obviously very pleased with himself.

Boy,

Will you go to prom with me on April 15th 14th? --Please clarify

[] Yes

[] No :*(

X James

I flipped the napkin over and wrote furiously. This time when I threw the napkin back, I aimed.

I KILL YOU!

To which he replied,

I KILL YOU!

[] Yes

[X] No

Dear Savannah, I win.

In what has become a Life and Joy Intrude series, I went to Savannah again for St. Patrick's Day. Behind Boston, Savannah ranks as the second biggest St. Patrick's Day celebration in America. I know they do have a large Irish population and the Savannah River is naturally green, but other than that, I have no idea as to why this could possibly be.

It was a last minute trip and a lot of details weren't ironed out (read: I had no idea who we were staying with). I drove using the most colorful directions ever: "Go over bridge. Turn right at blinking light between two trees." There you will meet Guy in Yellow Coat. You will provide the secret code, My bags are loaded with sanguine pleasures, and he will then take you where you need to go.

I still protest that the street was lined with trees, but there was indeed a driveway after a blinking yellow light. We gasped at the sight of the house, which was about the size of a hotel. In the fashion of true Southern hospitality, our hosts had a Honey Baked ham and a variety of breads and cheeses for our late night snack. Afterwards, we watched a movie in their private movie theatre.

Anyway, pictures!

The next morning, we saw the view from our bedroom:

(Click for big.
You should know this by now.)

We were on the river. Hmm, that driving-over-bridge part all of a sudden makes sense.

Our hosts fed us breakfast and loaded us up with a case of beer to take to the parade. The beer didn't even last long enough for us to get downtown. The boy's family that we were staying with had went down the night before and roped off a spot on the parade line, giving us an awesome view of the parade:




In the highlight of the parade, the Budweiser Clydesdales made quite an appearance. Last time I went in 2003, the trailer drove by with the door open so you could see the Clydesdales inside. This year, they walked:



And now for my favorite photo of the trip:

It's customary to wear obnoxious colored lipstick and run out and kiss the parade members.

2003:

2007:

What is supposed to happen is that the boys aren't allowed to react to you. They have to keep looking forward and keep marching (kissing a moving object while drunk does make things a little tricky). However this year we hit up a group of firefighters, who do not have to follow the military decorum. Instead I got Gropey McHandsey who not only stopped and grabbed me, but moved his head and stole the kiss.

Firefighters. Puh.

And now for me as a brunette:


After the parade, we made our way onto River Street where the drinking continued:

Click to read his hat. I love it.

I really think the Drink Responsibly wristbands make the photo.

Then a barge made it's way down the river. It was quite a startling image:


There was one more performance:


We're a classy bunch.