Ciao Baby!

Dying of Thirst

2006-12-23T00:52:00.000-05:00

Three hundred miles away and what do I miss most about St. Louis? Iced tea.

I guess one could say I drink a lot of tea- pretty close to a gallon a day. But I'm an iced tea snob and it can only come from a few sources if it's to be really good iced tea. Hartford Coffee and the south county Hardee's both make a drinkable tea but the supreme iced tea maker, the exhalted beverage dispensing king of them all, is Quick Trip. Any Quick Trip, at that! Extra large cup, filled with crushed ice (you know, because at QT I have the option for crushed or cubes-another bonus)gurgling with unsweetened, freshly brewed tea made with filtered water and seven packets of Splenda. Dayum, I miss that.

In a moment of adventurous weakness, I purchased a diet raspberry flavored Snapple from Walgreens and promptly wretched upon opening the bottle. 'Twas too vile to touch my lips. It smelled like skraight-up vomit.

So, I'm back to my former fave, Diet Coke, until I can get the hell out of the state of Indiana and back to the things I love the most...like QT iced tea.

The Frustration of Tags

2006-12-17T04:53:00.000-05:00

Who doesn't have a bone to pick with the DMV or Department of Revenue? In the ongoing efforts to have my new vehicle titled and plated, I've come up with a few gripes not covered by every stand-up comedian currently working the comedy club circuit.

1. There are no men working at either bureau. No hotties to make the waiting in line a little less monotonous.

2. The women who work there are all morbidly obese with badly bleached hair. And, their clothes look more like they're off to the coin laundry instead of to their goverment protected and well-paying jobs.

3. Their beverages (I seemed to notice a preference for 1 liter bottles of Pepsi) are enormous. They swill these sodas every 12 seconds, you know, because they're so thirsty from the strenuous job of ignoring the line of angry people.

4. There must be some madate requiring that a maximum of two (2) service windows be open at a time, regardless of how many people are sacrificing their lunch breaks to get vehicle plates or driver's licenses. The other DOR/DMV employees just sort of mill around looking smug and superior without actually doing anything.

5. Employees laugh at dejected customers who have waited for an hour or more if they are missing a piece of documentation or paperwork. I witnessed this several times. Nice, huh?

6. They should all wear those t-shirts that say, "I can only please one person a day and today ain't your day. Tomorrow isn't looking too good, either." This should be the motto of the DOR and the Omega Moos on Stools should actually say it when folks approach the infrequent open window. The line should be delivered using the standard smarmy, condescending voice they all use.

7. When they say, "I can help the next person in line." They really mean, "I hate you all and I hate your children. Hope you have two hours to hang around while I waste your time."

I'm already dreading next year's visit.

Jubilation, Appreciation and Promises

2006-10-18T17:50:00.000-04:00

For those readers who may have lost track of the time the kids and I have been alternately couch surfing, homeless, housesitting and living above the cafe, it's been a little over three months. Three months of renovation, screw ups and transient, Bohemian living. This Saturday, it is ovah.

I tried to tease the news to my youngest daughter. "Did you hear about the big excitement?" I asked her. ""Oh my god," she gasped. "You're adopting another kid!" Funny how that thought entered her little stream of consciousness before the possesion of an occupancy permit did.

Thanks to those who let us use their laundry facilities, sleep in their guest rooms, fed us home cooked meals and otherwise let us impose on their lives while we were in transition. Special shout outs (shouts out?) go to my partner and all around road-dog, James and his wife, the lovely and gracious Dr. Stephanie Strand. They generously took in daughter two and provided not only shelter, but family to a kid who wasn't doing well with suitcase living. I will be forever grateful to them. Also, thanks to my mom and dad for their mutli-faceted support and encouragement. Y'all may think you have good parents but none could hold a candle to Mr. and Mrs. McGinn. My older daughter roughed it with me, slept on floors and kept her shower stuff in a contantly mobile tote. Her humor and resiliency are astounding and I don't know how she got to be so cool without me ever noticing. My main man, Carlos, spent more than a few late nights cutting tile and teaching me how to grout. He also kept a watchful eye on the sometimes disreputable individuals doing work on the place.

With this chapter of my life coming to a close, you'll see a return to regular posting here and at 52nd City. Be on the watch for these stories:

Tres Leches cake
Colossus restaurant
Why my love affair with McDonald's is over forever
Teenage girl drama
Shorts, jorts and women who wear them
St. Louis Powerhouse church and ministries
The United Nations of clothes washing

Thanks for hanging in there, folks. I'm back!

Last Wishes

2006-09-23T01:05:00.000-04:00

I'm going to die. You're going to die. Hopefully, we all die with a little dignity and our selfish families abide by the directions we give them (while still alive) about how to handle our deaths.

Not only do I have a living will (I think it's also called an "advanced healthcare directive") but I also have written instruction on my funeral arrangements. Now, you can call me Quasimodo but I got a hunch that my kids aren't made of the stuff necessary to put a pillow over my face should I ever become incapacitated-physically and/or mentally. I've made a solemn pact with my best friend to do the dirty deed for me when the time comes.

Mourning is another matter altogether. All decisions are made by the murky lot known as "next of kin." Chances are, this will mean the girls. My verbal and written wishes are that my useable organs, yup- all of 'em, be donated to live recipients. Farm me out. Take my retinas, skin, kidneys, lungs and heart and give 'em to the next matching person on the transplant waiting list.

Next, I want a quickie cremation and an Irish style wake. Play music, tell stories, drink and eat all in celebration of life. Not necessarily my life, just life. I don't care at all what they do with my ashes. As a teen, I wanted my ashes scattered surreptitiously in a big fountain in the mall. Now, I don't care. Just please don't lay me in a Webber grill and let meat juice drop on my eternal remains. I have these additional requests:

1. Don't cry for me. I'm not in a better place, I ain't with God and I'm not at peace. I'm just gone and everyone will carry on with their lives. This is the way of it.

2. If any of my ex-husbands show up to the wake, be gracious to them and offer them a drink and a chat. Feel free to call them "sons-of-bitches with a lot of nerve" after they've left.

3. Fight over my personal effects. If someone could actually take or give a punch over something that belonged to me-well, that'd be incredible. My life would have meant something.

4. Do not, I repeat, do not, load up into a limousine and ask other folks to follow behind you with their headlights on and drive to some sort of place for a memorial. This is irritating and a misuse of public roads. Limousines, particularly stretch limousines are absoulutely gauche. Nothing says "middle class" like a stretch and I deserve more respect than that. If you loved me at all in life, don't do it.

Yup. I think that's it. The do's and don'ts of death. My requests have been made known. Hold each other responsible, will ya?

Little Mike Gives Advice

2006-08-31T10:15:00.000-04:00

I overheard this lecture being given to a thirty-five year old man by a ten year old boy:

You gotta find a good woman. Here's the things you gotta have. You can't have a fat woman because, when she cooks, she'll eat all the food and not leave any for you. And you can't have a woman who wears much jewelry 'cause she'll just want you to buy her more and more jewelry. She has to have a job, for sure. And here's the important one-she can't love you for your money. She has to love you for the person you are.

I asked the kid, "What if he doesn't have any money? Then do you know she just loves the man?"

All men have money. Except for poor men.

"Dude, did you make this up or someone schooled you?" I pressed him.

I just thought it myself, right now. Nobody told me.

He was serious like a heart attack.

Not sure why I found the whole exhange so remarkable and I wonder what happened in the lad's young life. His assertations smacked of a kid who's parents had a nasty split and, while neither mom nor dad would openly disparage the other, the hurts were communicated, if not directly to-then around the kid, in the form of random musings. Somewhere, someone done somebody wrong in Little Mike's life and he, being an observant and sensitive boy absorbed it, processed it and regurgutated it in the form of relationship advice for a grown man.

Either that or he's just a dope-ass kid with mad, crazy smarts.

I can't wait to hear more wisdom from the fourth grade. Will keep you posted.

Memory Building

2006-08-28T11:31:00.000-04:00

After a few very tense days and another late, sleepless night, this blogger was hungry. Four AM dining options in the city are relatively few and my disdain for eating alone is well known.

I used to be a conscientious parent-putting my kids' wants and needs before my own. My every action was based upon what was in their best interests. Last night? Not so much.

With a few gentle pokes and insistent whispering I woke my younger daughter, totally disgregarding the fact that she was due at school in just under four hours with a social studies test looming shortly thereafter.

"Psssttt....hey! Are you hungry?" Her eyes barely open and most certainly not focused, she looked at me like I'd just asked if she would be willing to axe-murder a small child. "I know where there's a twenty-four hour McDonald's and we can get french fries!" The idea seemed to be catching on. She fumbled for her shoes as I shushed the canines, also roused from sleep by all the activity. We started to laugh, suddenly aware of the absolute absurdity of the scene.

She loved seeing St. Louis at night. Without much traffic, we could roll through the streets with ease and enjoy the lights of post and moon. Alas, the Mickey D's was only "open late" and not round-the-clock. On the way to our backup plan of the Courtesy Diner, we discussed throwing pebbles at the apartment above the Royale and treating SFS to a little sleep interruption of his own and lamented our lack of bathroom tissue, for decorating his purple neon sign seemed like a fun idea as well.

The kid couldn't quite punch in the numbers of the jukebox correctly and instead of listening to thirteen-year-old girl music, we jammed the the shredding guitar solos and raw vocals of some, unknown, eighties rock. The cook, a younger lad with a K-Fed demeanor and look, nodded appreciatively at her music selections.

We giggled and shoveled cheese and eggs into our mouths. We shivered in the meat-locker temps of the Courtesy Diner. We agreed that those wee hours were well-spent, U.S. geography be damned.

Nobody recalls what her birthday present was last year. And those astronomically expensive Nike shoes from a few months ago are kickin' it somewhere at the Goodwill. But, I have to believe, she'll remember for a long while the time her crazy mother took her to a grubby diner in the middle of the night.

Oxygen!

2006-08-13T21:57:00.000-04:00

My idol and friend, Julia Smillie (her link is on the right) frequently offers up a topic in the reader forum called, "Fitness Police." People post their challenges and successes for the week in the areas of responsible eating and exercise. They cheer each other along and absolve the transgressions of big dinners and ice cream.

After too many days off I leashed up personal security canine extraordinaire, Miles Davis, and hit Tower Grove Park tonight. Before the break, I was able to run most of a half-park trek. Alas, I could do no such thing today.

Not only didn't I run it, I couldn't even walk the damned thing. In a gigantic admission of failure, I cut through the ball fields to shorten the journey back to the Shaw neighborhood. By the time I returned the still spry dog back to his home my shirt was soaking and plastered to my body and, in a flashback to the Presidential Physical Fitness testing of sixth grade, there was a disabling cramp in my side. To round out my humiliation, my face was beet-red from exertion.

I fell into the house and face down onto the floor. A model of poor health and total lack of stamina. Gross.

Hooked on You

2006-08-06T12:09:00.000-04:00

Sleep is elusive these past few weeks and I find myself in the wee hours of the morning punching ridiculous phrases into Google, just to see what pops up. A couple of those I'll cop to include "midgets on bicycles" and "hats made from household materials." Disgusting and pathetic, I know.

Skipping around a bit here..

There is an employee at the cafe, we'll call him "Hal." Hal likes to set his paws on this here computer-any opportunity he gets. On the job, off the job, folks waiting in line, they matter not as Hal needs him some Wi-Fi. As is evidenced by the address toolbar, he frequents My Space, Livejournal and the unknown-to-me, Xanga. Hal is also a frequent You Tube visitor.

Having run out of creatively offensive and potentially embarrassing things to search for, I caved in and paid a visit to You Tube while the rest of you were sleeping soundly.

Oh. My. Heavens.

I laughed and cried. It was better than Cats! Watching a three minute short about the infamous Zidane headbutt was a far superior 4AM experience to learning to make a baseball cap from a plastic milk jug.

It's okay. Hal's bigger than me, but I'm pretty sure I could take him, especially for some You Tube time.

United in Voice

2006-08-01T00:09:00.000-04:00

There was background music, I remember, in the store. I don't recall the tempos, the artists or the lyrics but I'm certain there was music.

Then, as I flipped through rows of denim, the unmistakable sound of Queen's "Somebody to Love" came soaring through the store. It wasn't any louder than its predecessors but something about the song cut through the aisles and wrapped itself around my ankles. I couldn't resist singing along softly.

There was an older, African-American woman across the racks from me, and she was singing, too. As was the kid restocking tried-on-but-refused garments, a young mother pushing two toddlers in a stroller and a heavily tattooed Lemay dweller bearing more ink than teeth. Everyone subtly sang along with Freddy Mercury and all paused respectfully but with appreciation during the arena rock, shredding guitar solo.

How did so many different kinds of people know the words to a 20 year old song? Why did everyone feel so comfortable, singing among strangers while shopping for clothes?

After the tune was over, it was like the whole event had never happened. Silence ensued and folks returned to their regularly scheduled conversations, scoldings and, in the case of Tattoo-deep sniffling/snorting.

I can't get it out of my head, not the song and not the experience.

Shout Out, Quietly

2006-07-23T23:49:00.000-04:00

You know who you are.

Among other things, for the kindness and for the company, I am grateful.

Thank you.

Art, Culture, Music, Life

2006-07-18T23:32:00.000-04:00

I know, I know. The posts are coming fast and furious but, no worries, it won't last long.

My mom "encouraged" me to participate in a variety of activities when I was young. By "encouraged," I mean that she bought two tickets and I'd better get a skirt and tights on 'cause I was going.

Some I really enjoyed. We saw Baryshnikov dance Don Quixote, stalked Andy Warhol in New York city, (really!) and ate Japanese food on authentic tatami mats.

Other events, I played along because I knew they were important to her, but at best I was disinterested. I didn't know who Grant Wood was and was supremely irritated to wait in line for a three-minute viewing of some painting of an old couple and a pitchfork. Juried art shows were also particularly painful for my twelve year old self. Looking back, I see how fortunate I really was to have this exposure.

My girls are pretty cooperative about ethnic eating, exploratory road trips and urban foraging. They're also good sports about attending live theatre shows and even sat through countless hours of recent World Cup soccer.

An evening spent at the Tivoli Theatre watching shorts from the 48 Hour Film Festival yielded uncharacteristic enthusiasm from my former gymnast while writing and artistic collaboration on a 'zine seems to have lit a fire under the teen planning a career in medicine.

Where am I going with this? I don't know. Gratitude to my mom and dad? Hopefulness that my children learn to be true to themselves? Fascination with the never ending opportunities for learning?

Yeah. I still don't know.

It's An Irish Thing

2006-07-18T00:34:00.000-04:00

I have said, frequently, that I am a lucky person.

Last October, an ancient man in a brand new Cadillac Seville t-boned the car I was driving on the passenger side. He was cruising along at about fifty miles per hour and my vehicle, known as Elvis, was decimated. Every day, I deal with the injuries from that accident and they have truly impacted my life, but my kid was totally unharmed.

Tonight, while stopped at the traffic light at Kingshighway and Arsenal, a loopy woman dressed for the club scene plowed into the back of Elvis' successor, breaking the rear axle and knocking the left back tire off completely. She then swerved and hit the two cars in front of me as well. Luckily, I had adequate space between my front bumper and the van next in line, and there was no chain reaction of rear-endings. I walked away, with only a bump on the head and a seatbelt bite on my chest, from another SUV requiring a lift from a flat bed tow truck.

Am I disappointed about yet another car accident? You bet. Is this a really inconvenient time to have to deal with having no ride and insurance companies? Hell, yeah. Will I be sore tomorrow? Absolutely.

But.

Each day I feel immensely grateful to be alive, to be walking and to have two incredible daughters. My parents cherish me. I have a few friends and a couple of bucks. I am loved.

And for all that, I am lucky.

Pardon My French

2006-07-14T16:26:00.000-04:00

I was totally amped up to play trivia tonight for my favorite St. Louis magazine, 52nd City. And even went so far as to assemble an all-star team of assorted professionals and academics. (Okay, they're my rowdy buddies but they're also really smart!)

Little did I know that the jokesters planning the game played on the coincidence of today being Bastille Day. That's right, French themed trivia. My crew won't be able to answer a damn thing unless the topics involve kissing, potato preparations or people who allegedly hate Americans.

You'll see me moping about tomorrow, new print issue in hand, looking embarrassed.

(Check out

52nd City

for the online issue of "Faith." The site will also tell you where to buy the latest 52nd City magazine.)

Too Much Information

2006-07-12T23:58:00.000-04:00

Funny, the things one learns accidentally while staying in another person's home.

Let me state this: I am NOT a snooper. I'm not tempted to peek in other folks' medicine cabinets, I don't care what sort of DVDs they keep in their bedrooms and their U.S. post carries no interest for me. If it's not sitting out in plain view, I ain't lookin' for it.

On the other hand, if I need to put my wet clothes in the dryer and someone else's stuff requires unloading, I can't avoid seeing what's in my hands. Namely, undergarments. I'm too adolescent to handle underwear not belonging to me without a fit of giggles and the occasional "Oh my god!" However, I am proud to say that I resisted the powerful urge to sling-shot the skivvies around the room or at the dog.

Another unavoidable area is the refrigerator. Hey, a girl's gotta eat. I'd like to know why there is a water glass filled with water and whole carrots? And why is there a gigantic pitcher filled with what looks to be juice but is labeled "bird food- do not drink"? The dairy drawer contained no less than seven different kinds of cheeses. Who needs that many cheeses? And finally, why, in the middle of every organic product known to man, is there a giant box of cheap-ass corn dogs?

Curiosity killed the cat... and the housesitter.

Retire Number Sixty Six

2006-06-29T22:41:00.000-04:00

I prefer to buy my clothes at resale shops and thrift stores. It's much easier to find quirky, quality apparel at St. Vincent DePaul than at, say, Dillards.

This evening, I was wearing one recent find. I really like the t-shirt because it looks like a baseball team discard. Just a plain, white Hanes with number sixty six on the back, a "C" on the left sleeve and the team name (a reference, I'm sure, to the team's lack of speed around the plates) on the front. It's a bit smaller than I'm accustomed to wearing but too fun to leave at the bottom of the drawer.

The kids and I were roaming through the new house in our new neighborhood-a decidedly diverse area-when I invited them on a short walk to the corner QT for a beverage. On the trek, we seemed to be garnering a little more attention than I'd expected. Indeed, there were some sidelong glances and extended looks. Ok! We're new! We're white! I get it!

Just before entering the store I realized a possible culprit for the uncomfortable stares. Jersey sixty six. Team name? The African Sloths.

Oops.

Baritone Tonight

2006-06-22T23:00:00.000-04:00

I'm currently rehearsing for a Broadway musical review. The voices that have been cast in this show are amazing. Strong singers, all. I've got to be in top form just to keep from embarrassing myself.

With a full music, singing rehearsal tonight, yours truly slept about three hours last night and then spent the entire day in smoky bars, drinking caffeinated beverages. In retrospect, perhaps Janis Joplin wasn't the best choice of warm-up music on the drive to the theatre, either.

I alternated between croaking and screeching, then gave up altogether and just mouthed the lyrics. It took all of about two minutes to be busted by the muscial director for pulling a Milli Vanilli.

Maybe I could do a piece from the Wizard of Oz? "If I Only Had a Brain" seems applicable.

Equal vs. Splenda

2006-06-17T02:09:00.000-04:00

Entering week three of the sugar fast. Absolutely no refined sugar of any sort. As a matter of self-discipline, I've also elected to cut out honey, fruit, pasta, rice and as much white flour as possible with the exception of a couple Tap Room pretzel sticks.

When people ask me about the fast, their responses could just as well be on continuous loop. "Don't you just feel so much better?" It's an easy answer. No. I do not feel better. I feel like I want to walk into MacArthur's bakery and take a birthday-cake-buying hostage until the entire staff hand feeds me strawberry layer torte with whipped cream.

I'd like to thank the crew at Hartford Coffee (a few readers here, to be sure) for lying straight to my face when I ask how the freshly baked cookies taste. They've become really creative and believable with comments like, "There's a weird aftertaste. Probably too much baking soda."

My appreciation also goes out to my frequent dining partners who, largely without complaint, keep going back to the same restaurants with agreeable menus and willingly eat the same meals I cook for myself. The support is priceless.

My goal is to be sugar free until 1 July.

Beginning 2 July, you may send cards, flowers and balloons directly to my room at Barnes-Jewish hospital. Visiting would be a wasted effort as medical research hasn't conclusively determined the level of awareness in hyperglycemic, comatose patients.

But when I come around, I'll know you were thinking of me. How sweet!

Crusher of Dreams

2006-06-12T22:05:00.000-04:00

Original post deleted by author on 6/12/06. Edited to minimize potential embarrassment of the parties involved and re-posted 6/13/06/.

Before my current career in the food service arts, I worked in social work/nursing/educational settings. I spent years with teenagers. Having filled this role I know, through both clinical and a practical experience, a bit about adolescent development.

So I’m not too freaked out that my kids are starting to develop their fledgling skills with the opposite sex. It’s normal. It’s age-appropriate. It’s even healthy to have interest in relationships.

All this being said, I failed miserably at the first test of my intellectualized parenting techniques.

Sunday evening was to be my younger daughter’s first official “date.” Granted it was only having her new friend over for dinner and a small gathering, but it was a planned meeting with a boy in whom she had more than a friendly interest. She did the inviting and supplied all the necessary information of time and location.

The date preparations began early. Hair up, hair down. Repeat. There were several costume changes and multiple layers of glitter lip-gloss applied. Some minor lamentation over not having earrings that matched the final outfit. Lotion, lots of it and perfume. Between each stage of primping, she’d demand the time.

On this exciting cusp of hopeful embarkation into her first boyfriend relationship, I decided to give her some advice gleaned from my personal experiences of dating.

“Don’t be disappointed if he doesn’t show up. In fact, he probably won’t.” Stellar!

Her whole expression sank. She looked away and said softly, “He’ll be here.” but there was a deflated tone just beneath the affirming statement.

“Yeah? I wouldn’t wait by the door all night.” Superb!

Only after she did wait by the door and Prince Charming did arrive (ten minutes late!) did I start to feel like the jerk I really am.

Perhaps tonight I could follow up with some wisdom like, “He won’t stick around long.” or taunt her with “Bet your ‘boyfriend’ didn’t call today, did he?”

Brilliant!

I Blame Bob Reuter

2006-06-09T18:45:00.000-04:00

Friday afternoons, I’m not myself.

For any readers not familiar with the St. Louis community radio station 88.1 KDHX, I recommend you check it out. Pretty sure you can listen on the web if you’re out of range.

From noon till two on Fridays, there’s a show called Bob’s Scratchy Records. He plays old songs. The kind of songs I heard my parents and grandparents play on LPs back when our record player was housed in an enormous wooden cabinet, larger than the dining table with the leaf in it.

I try to run errands and make deliveries during lunch on Friday, just so I can listen. If the truth be told, some days I just say I have things to do and then park under a huge tree in Tower Grove Park for an hour or more, pretending to be someone else.

My mind wanders, listening to those songs.

I imagine standing at a drive-in, leaning up against an old Chevy and wearing a pencil skirt with ballerina flats. Other times, I’m transported to a small frame church in the south, where I’m a heavy black woman in my best Sunday dress and hat just movin’ to the music. Around I spin to juke joints, to Beale Street, to a sock hop. I feel like I can see 'em all and sometimes, if I’m lucky, I’m part of the scene.

Usually, by two fifteen, I’m back at work. Dazed, exhausted and a little disoriented from my travels through time.

It’s worth it, Daddy-O. Well worth it.

Seriously Mixed Messages

2006-06-01T21:53:00.000-04:00

A close friend travels every year to Mexico with a group of Americans. This group spends several weeks across the border building shelters and facilities for the indigent of whatever town the charity chooses that year.

Admirable. To spend one's free time (or to make free time) in the service of those less fortunate is a valuable gift to both parties. When my daughters asked if they could participate this summer, I applauded their willingness to be sweaty, blistered and generally uncomfortable for the sake of others.

The travel coordinator for this group advises, "There are no laundry facilities. We recommend purchasing multiple inexpensive t-shirts at Wal-Mart to be discarded after wearing."

Let's recap, shall we?

A humanitarian non-profit, committed to bettering the lives of the poor in poverty stricken areas of the world are advocating the patronage of a massive corporation responsible for the closing of countless independent businesses in the U.S. and who routinely contracts with known foreign sweatshops to produce their wearable goods.

Additionally, they suggest throwing away clothing that has been worn one time. One time! Because it's dirty and can't be washed right away! Landfills be damned, let's all put our shirts in the trash! Two kids, times 7 seven days, equals fourteen shirts if I'm not wrong.

Sorry, girls. We might have to tie-dye 'em when you get home, but you will not contribute one single Wal-Mart t-shirt to a Mexican dump. And shame on those who do.

This Little Piggy

2006-05-22T21:03:00.000-04:00

I should probably seek therapeutic help for this little episode. And for those of you who are a bit squeamish,(and you know who you are), I'd suggest you skip this column.

It's been more than a month since I've changed my toenail polish. This is an unusual occurrance as I'm usually a seven day pedicure/twice weekly polish change kind of girl. Sad as it may be, my feet are my best feature and I keep them in excellent to near mint condish. No callouses, no wonky hammer time and most importantly-flawless color on the nails. Vanity, thy name is tootsies.

How many men have lucky shirts? For bowling, for baseball, for babes? They believe the magical shirt brought them good fortune or perhaps, the shirt just reminds them of good times. I know several women who wear an item of jewelry because it holds fond memories for them.

I was wearing the toenail polish in question on a perfect day. It was, quite possibly, the best twenty four hours of my adult life.

When I remove the color, it'll be like taking an acetone swab to the last tangible evidence of complete contentment.

So, I'm torn. A lifelong dedication to impeccable foot hygeine and grooming or holding on to a feeling I'll probably never have again.

Stay tuned to my local flip flops for updates on this story.

Too Sappy for You

2006-05-16T12:19:00.000-04:00

I come from very different parents. My mom, frequently referred to as, "The lovely and gracious Mrs. McGinn" and my father, who is known to most as "That son on a bitch."

As a kid, there was every indication that I'd grow up to be lovely and gracious. My mother was educated and cultured and made every effort to make certain I learned about the finer things in life. For example, I can spot a fake Gucci bag from 200 paces, my French is passable and I've read every Miss Manners edition printed since 1982. I know which fork is for eating fish and I can use it properly. I like the ballet. All these things are directly attributed to my genteel mom.

On the other hand, my dad was, well, crusty. A curmudgeon, if you will. He was a self-employed builder with little patience for people who didn't move fast enough to suit him. No stranger to eating while standing over the sink, the ol' man treated his regular injuries with duct tape and Bounty towels. He taught me a few things as well. I can walk like Redd Foxx in Sanford & Son. I know how to pop out and bondo the dented fender of a '42 Ford. Belching and other bodily functions are hilarious! Also courtesy of my dad; a hot little temper.

To summarize my unique blend of geneaology and personality:
I can cuss like a Teamster but with more fluidity and in better context.
After sizing up the situation, I ain't afraid to fat-mouth anybody.
I'm comfortable chatting up the Captain of the ship or the busboy from Peru.
My closet contains linen slacks and camouflage cargo pants.
Car show or Broadway play are both a fun evening for me.

I'll never be able to say it enough, thanks you guys. And I love you.

It Ain't Stairway to Heaven

2006-04-28T23:14:00.000-04:00

My idol Julia Smillie recently put up a post on her Read Julia forum about the worst songs made. There were some excellent choices such as, You're Having My Baby and You Light Up My Life. I cast votes for Kodachrome and Sky Rockets In Flight.

In a personal effort to be a more positive person, I gave some thought to what I would choose as the best song ever recorded. It took me all of forty-two seconds to come up with the definitive answer. Drum roll, please.

Baby Got Back.

Wasn't it a scandal at the time? A man singing about big butts? Of course, by today's standards the song is positively tame and even the video, which featured enormous sculptures of the female buttocks, freshly baked yeast rolls and one white woman lacking trunk junk, is nothing compared to the currently rampant misogyny of MTVJams.

I like that the lyrics are clear and easy to sing. I like the message of strong curves being more desirable than a skinny, unhealthy body. It's upbeat and energetic. It was recorded by a man called Sir Mix-A-Lot for chrissakes!

If you can rap, "L.A. face with an Oakland booty" without smiling, well, you're a much more sophisticated and cultured person than I am. Oh yeah, and you'd also be a humorless bore.

Yet Another Soulard Story or If There's a Hell, I'm Going For Sure

2006-04-10T21:54:00.000-04:00

I believe the saying about seeing a person's true character in times of crisis. Last Saturday, mine was put to the test.

We go to the market early because I don't like old people. There! I said it! Here it is again, I don't like old people and I especially don't like 'em clogging up the arteries of the farmer's market. They're slow and they don't pay attention to what's going on around them. Old people fumble around in their little coin purses trying to differentiate between singles and fives as I actually witness the bananas I'm intending to buy turn brown.

We'd stopped in between the flower seller and MacArthur's bakery to evaluate the tulips and snap up a fruit tart for sharing on the drive back to the house. I can't adequately describe the crashing sound we heard. It was a simultaneous scraping and popping noise followed by a gasping "Ohh!" from the crowd that could not have been better orchestrated without rehearsal and cue cards.

It was quickly clear that someone had fallen or collapsed and my crisis mode kicked in instinctively. This is what I was trained to do and with years of emergency medical experience behind me, I began to triage the situation immediately and made my way toward the shoppers gathering around the victim on the ground. As I closed in, I saw it. A damned cane.

What'd I do? Give you three guesses and the first two don't count.

No Autographs, Please

2006-03-30T17:33:00.000-05:00

Remember in grade school when your mom made you invite the grimy kid with the snotty nose to your birthday party? She forced you include the 3rd grade equivalent of a leper because she wanted you to learn charity.

In that spirit, those hip and happenin' hepcats from 52nd City have graciously invited me to do a little blogging for them. Please visit me there by following the links to your right.

Now. Do it now.