A Wedding and a Funeral

My best friend from college got married this weekend. The wedding was really beautiful. It was simple, elegant and classy like the bride - my best friend, but it was also rustic and country (it was in a small church in rural SC) very much like her fiance (now husband). All in all, as I watched from the back row, I thought it celebrated their union very well. I almost, however, didn't make it in time.

I had said that I would videotape the ceremony, and was going to arrive early to do so, but I was a complete dumbass. I misjudged the time it would take to get to the church, and then there was traffic - a lot of traffic. Now we already know I am an unintentional lead foot, but in this situation, I was a bat out of Hell. The moment I realized my error in time, I shot up to 15 miles over the speed limit. Then I hit traffic, and had to slow down well below the speed limit.

That didn't stop me from riding some ass, however, and I managed to drive what was supposed to be an hour and twenty minute drive in under fifty six minutes.

I swear I did not think it took that long to get to Whitmire from here, but after I climbed into the driver's seat and started to go, something felt odd. So I calculated the minutes in my head - then I panicked. I called my friend's mother and sister to let them know about my mistake, and to have someone set up the camera for me (I wasn't providing the camera - thank God). No one answered, because in typical wedding fashion - at 3:30 they we already ready and prepped for the ceremony at 4.

What really bothered me is that I had put so much time into getting ready for the ceremony, and I was careless with the one thing that mattered - getting to the church on time! I had realized on Friday that I needed shoes. (Shoes are in Birmingham). So on Saturday I went shoe shopping, but I also discovered I needed a tie (None of my ties matched my shirt) - and some new slacks wouldn't hurt (I didn't want to wear too much black). I spent the whole of Saturday morning searching for the perfect outfit for this wedding. So, I was royally mad at myself for not being better prepared for the drive.

I also started to worry that I had ruined the couple's happy day (of course, this is disaster thinking, and it's something I am working on), but it didn't make me much happier with myself. I envisioned my friend angrily kicking me out of her wedding, frantically yelling about how I had ruined her ceremony. (Thankfully, my friend is not nearly this high-strung, and very level headed). Luckily they had a backup, and everything went off without a hitch. I arrived at 4 on the dot, just in time for the ceremony and to see my friend walk down the isle.

She was absolutely stunning in her gown. I have always said that she is the most beautiful woman I know, but there truly weren't words; she was glowing. Her husband is truly a lucky man, and he knows it. She makes him so happy; when I was talking with him at the reception, he was glowing too.

No one was angry with me; they were just happy I arrived in time. It took me the rest of the day to stop beating myself up, and I still regret not being able to be punctual, but in the end I have to remind myself that everyone makes mistakes.

On a happier note, my outfit was amazing. I had silver/grey slacks with a soft blue tonal striped shirt, a bold blue paisley tie, black vest, black shoes, and black belt. My vest and socks were the only items of clothing in my possession before Saturday morning.

This was the second wedding of close friends that I have had the privilege of witnessing. The other took place a little over a year ago in Michigan. Both ceremonies were short, intimate, and two of the most beautiful weddings I have seen. It wasn't necessarily about the location - (although the shores of Lower Heron Lake and the rural church in Whitmire were both beautiful) - it was about the love. I am so happy my friends have found love, and I wish them all the happiness in the world. I only hope that one day I can find someone who'll love me, and I can love - the way those couples love each other. I think then, I'll be truly blessed.


While my good friend was getting married, another friend was saying goodbye. Last year, around the same time my father passed away - her father passed away too. On Thursday, her mother passed away. I couldn't go to the funeral, because I was already committed to the wedding, and only an act of God (or a car accident) would have kept me from the wedding. I'm going to visit her tomorrow. I'm not sure how one goes about dealing with the loss of both parents within a year, and I'm not sure how much of a comfort I can be. Hopefully I can give her a crying shoulder or a listening ear for at least a little bit of time.


In other news: Phase 2 of the move to Birmingham (Phase 4 total for those keeping count) begins Wednesday. I am setting up my bedroom getting a few things in order in Alabama before heading to Detroit on the 3rd to begin the road trip with Cara! So - get ready... road trip stories will be starting soon!

Lead Foot Chasing Clarity

If there was one thing that I truly learned during Phase 3 of the move, its that I have a lead foot. Truthfully, I've known this for quite sometime, but this last road trip really brought my need for speed to light. There were moments during the trip when I found myself well over 90 - approaching 100 - in 65 to 70 mph zones. I always slow back down, but there is something about driving over 85 that feels so right.

It begins as a gradual acceleration. I rarely intend to travel that far above the speed limit. (I do normally drive about 10 mph over the speed limit, but who doesn't on the Interstate?) I even set the cruise control, so I can stay at a constant speed, but my damn lead foot eases onto the pedal - without my knowledge - and before I know it - I am 15 mph over my cruise control speed.

Ironically the increases in acceleration tend to occur because I've slowed down. If I have to break my cruise control speed because I can't pass a Slobodon (my word for people who drive too slow), I reaccelerate quickly back up to speed, but before I remember to reset the cruise control - I have eased my lead foot back into position - and have slowly pushed my speed into the 90s.

I know why I have this problem; it stems from the simple fact that if I'm driving below 75, I feel like I'm standing still - especially on the Interstate. I expect to go slower in certain locations (like parking lots - or in front of schools, but on the Interstate where there are no children or old ladies with frozen foods, I want to go. I do slow down when I hit road construction zones (I don't want to be responsible for hurting a road construction worker), but I long for the open roadways where I can just let my foot slowly sink down on the accelerator.

I feel like the German Autobahn with its advisory speed limit (80mph), but no official speed limit, would be the perfect driving environment for me. There I wouldn't have to worry about how fast I was going, or slow down rapidly when I discover I'm driving at least 20 miles over the speed limit. Yet another reason I feel a strong connection to Europe and Europeans.

The problem extends beyond the Interstate, however. I have recently caught myself driving 60 in a 35. If I feel like I'm standing still while driving below 75, I feel like I'm going backwards if I'm driving under 50. I'm like the Red Queen from Lewis Carroll's Through the Looking Glass, a chess piece who must run as fast as she can in order to stand still (and even faster to get somewhere). Alice is baffled by her, but I completely understand her. There are times when I feel like the world is spinning so quickly that I must go faster and faster just to catch up - just to stand still.

There are other times, when I do not feel like the Red Queen, but nonetheless need to go faster and faster. In these moments I feel like the world moves too slowly, and I have too much potential energy to stand still. I have too much stored within me to not move faster and faster until my right foot hits the floorboard and the landscape zooms past. This is generally where I find myself when other drivers are present.

It's an odd paradox that both of these conflicting feelings would produce the same end product, but it is true for me never the less. I just hope this paradox won't lead to a speeding ticket, but I feel that if I continue down this path, the speeding ticket is inevitable. I can't think of a police officer that wouldn't stop me for going 20+ mph over the limit, and I know that if I were a cop I would probably stop me too.

How can I feel that the speed limit is fast enough? How can I change this mindset? Is there some magical solution for me to realize that I'm not standing still at 75? Maybe I need to find another way to stimulate my brain, so that my foot doesn't take over and decide to go faster. How much brain stimulation is okay though while driving? Shouldn't the mind be focused on the road?

I'm very focused, and when I'm speeding I oddly feel more focused. Everything seems to be coming at me with clarity. The Universe finally seems to make sense. If I go slower, I feel I may get careless - I may lose focus as clarity slips further and further from me. I know experts would argue that I am most at risk when speeding, but how does that explain the rush of clarity? Why do I feel safer? Why do I feel more at peace? Why do speeds below 75 feel dangerous? Is there a need for speed in my brain? Am I somehow addicted to the clarity I receive from going faster?

I do slow down, however, when I realize I am going too fast. I slow down quite a bit, reset my cruise; and for a period of time, I travel at an acceptable speed. My brain knows to slow down, but my right foot disagrees. Is it possible that my brain is fighting my addiction, but my foot wants it? My body - my being - pushes my consciousness out of the way - and makes the decision for me. The lead foot chases clarity.

There must be an internal struggle - the need for speed versus the understanding that the speed can kill. Why else would this be a dilema? I would just drive well over 80mph and not give a shit. I would enjoy the clarity, and continue to chase the speed until the speed consumed me - until the inevitable ticket or accident. Instead I fight the urge, I recognize it as a danger, but I can't seem to shake the feelings that either I'm moving too slowly or the world is moving too slowly. What is clear, is that I really need to find a new way to chase clarity. I must overcome the lead foot.

Just an old futon...

Yesterday I sold a futon that has been in my possession for eight years. It was a gift from my parents back when I was an undergraduate - a nice solid poplar frame futon with a thick mattress. With the move to my new place in Birmingham (Phase 3 of the move out of Mississippi, Phase 1 of the move to Alabama) in full swing, I realized that I would not be able to keep the futon. For the past year, it has been sitting in my studio/guest room - collecting dust, and after tomorrow, I will no longer be renting a two bedroom townhouse; I will have downsized to a one bedroom flat. The townhouse was really too much space for me, so I was happy with my decision to downsize.

Downsizing, however, means change. There is not enough room at my new place for the futon, so I had to sell it. I was okay with my decision at first, but as time drew on and I had no takers, I started to wonder if this futon were destined to travel with me to Birmingham. I stated to consider how I would work it into my life. After all, it's just an old futon...

"I could make it fit," I thought. After all, Travis and I had left enough space on the moving van just in case it didn't sell. We could make it fit; I could have it in my living room in the new place. It might be tight, but I would find a way. That's when I really started thinking about the futon. It had been in my life for eight years; we shared quite a few memories together.

I kissed my first boyfriend on that futon - the first boy I ever kissed. I was twenty. It was a magical Autumn evening. He had curly blonde hair, blue eyes, and a soft voice. Later I would regret ever dating him, be furious with him, finally forgive him, and take with me great lesson. I knew I was gay; I had known for a long time, but nothing quite felt as right as that first kiss. Kissing girls never felt that way. It was special, different, and life affirming. The futon shared that moment with me.

A year or so later, when a boy would truly break my heart, that futon was there too. I had fallen in love, but had fallen in love with someone who would never love me back. After the phone call that ended what I naively thought would last forever, I sat on that futon staring at a cinder block wall in a cold dormitory with cold florescent lighting. I had given him so much of my myself, and for what purpose? Was it worth it to ache for him? Worth it or not, I couldn't go back. The futon shared that moment with me.

After undergrad, I left the futon with my parents while work took me to Maryland, Washington, DC, Virginia, and finally Detroit. After re-covering it (someone had spilled hair dye on it back in undergrad - stupid Bree), they placed it in their sitting room, and every Christmas Eve my Dad and I would sit on that futon watching my nieces, brothers, and sisters-in-law open their gifts. Christmas used to be a magical time for me. A time where everything seemed right with the world. For several years, the futon shared those moments with me.

My father got very sick in 2006, and almost died. While he was recovering, it was very hard for him to share a bed with mom, and he had a constant stream of visitors. He spent much time on that futon: sleeping, sitting, recovering. It was easier than the bed, and could fold into a couch for company. It was the perfect solution. I was and still am thankful for the futon in that moment.

When I moved to Mississippi, I had great plans for the futon. It was going to be the couch in my studio - one where I could sit and work, and not worry if paint spilled, or if something got on the cover. After all, it was just an old futon...

I never had a chance to assemble my studio. Work kept me too busy, but that futon sat there in that room working nonetheless. It held a bunch of boxes for me - art supplies and various things that I didn't always need. It served as a bed for guests. They said it slept well.

Just an old futon. A futon that I shared so many memories with. A call came, and it quickly sold. It was/is in great shape. It was sad watching it leave, but like all things - it could only be with me for a season. The memories of it, however, I will take with me for a lifetime. I just hope the new family realizes what a gem they have purchased as they share their moments with it as well. Thank you futon; you'll be missed.

One Vulcan Julep Please.

So my friend Travis - the one who is helping me move - and I left Birmingham yesterday, but before we left we visited Vulcan Park atop Red Mountain. No, STAR TREK fans, this is not some park dedicated to Leonard Nemoy, and the phrase "Live Long and Prosper" is no where on site. Kind of sad, I know, but cool nonetheless.

Instead, the park is centered around a stature of the Greco-Roman god Vulcan. The statue was designed by Italian artist Giuseppe Moretti, and was cast from locally mined iron. To this day it is still the largest cast iron statue in the world, and it overlooks Birmingham, Alabama! Who knew? The park has spectacular views of Birmingham, and I'm sure I'll be going back after I move. You can actually take pictures from the observation deck around the statue, but I'm too cheap to pay the $6.

After we arrived in Mississippi, I took Travis out to dinner for helping me move. It truly is the least I could do. We settled on a nice local restaurant called Julep. I have heard people rave about it before, but I was a little afraid to try it because I had assumed it to be overpriced. (The prices were reasonable, FYI).

It seems Julep, however, attracts quite the cast of characters. Travis and I walked in and were greeted - or should I say we weren't greeted - by the hostess. In fact, she ignored us. You think if two guys, one white, one black, walk into a restaurant and stand in the foyer looking around someone should greet them and ask "how many?" or at least wait for a punchline. No, not this one, she was too pretty to do her job. After several minutes of waiting, I said: "two please," hoping she in fact was the hostess (there wasn't a clearly defined host station, so it was rather confusing.) I was greeted with: "oh you guys want to eat?" And had to fight the urge to say, "no, we came to stand. How much to stand by the door for an hour?"

That's when I decided that I feel uncomfortable with underweight restaurant hostesses. I want a hostess to be a big girl. Veronica, I have found a new job for you! Move to Jackson, and be the hostess at Julep! Big girls make sure people are fed, and generally aren't standing around waiting to be discovered.

After Too Pretty deigned it necessary to seat us, we were greeted by our energetic but socially awkward waiter. He spilled my tea while giving me a refill and apologized. I didn't mind, he cleaned it up as soon as it happened, and none got on me. It was a simple accident. The next time he came around to refill our drinks I exclaimed: "Perfect Score!" and threw my hands in the air. He then disappeared for the remainder of the meal (until it was time to bring us our checks, that is). I think I scared him.

I was too busy checking out the guys at the bar to worry about our waiter though. There was one - with one of those sexy skinny ties - and a cool mustache. I was digging him, but he was into a fake-and-bake blonde who had come to dine with his hetero (or at least hetero-curious) friends.

The other guy at the bar - his goal in life must be to become an anime character. He was Asian with swoopy emo hair with dyed maroon streaks. He knew how to tend bar, however. He was mixing drinks faster than any bartender I have seen, and he still managed to find the time to replace the well vodka.

That's about the time the interesting customers came in. I should have brought a note pad and handed out citations. These people clearly needed notes before going out in public. One came in with a handlebar mustache, but was clean shaven everywhere else. It looked like an overgrown caterpillar had grafted itself to his face. Another came in with a Pillsbury Dough-boy t-shirt that read: Poke Me! I wanted to pull him aside and say: "No Thank You."

Don't even get me started on some of the women that came in. It would take too long. Contrasting floral prints, ill-fitting tops, you name it - it happened. I kept looking for Clinton Kelly and Stacy London to leap out from behind the bar and surprise someone with a make-over. It was that much like a commercial for TLC's What Not to Wear.

I wish today had ended the cycle, but when we came to McDonald's this morning (or should I say SlowDonald's, it took forever to get our food) there was a man with a shirt that read: "Nobody Rides Free." I told Travis: "Too bad nobody would pay."

Apartment Hunting in Alabama

So today I went apartment hunting in Alabama with a friend of mine. I had a few requirements: I wanted a one bedroom with a dishwasher, preferably a unit with a washer and dryer, and a place that didn't look or smell like ass. I had assumed the last one would be self-explanatory, but apparently not. I also like units that are clean with great views and blinds that don't break when you touch them. Some things, however, are just hard to find...

Yesterday I scheduled several apartment appointments for today. I had found an apartment unit that I really liked, and several others that I wanted to check out as well. I also developed a list of alternates that I wasn't quite sold on, but would take a look at if we had time.

After setting off this morning for a relatively boring road trip, we arrived an hour and a half earlier than we anticipated, so we went straight to the first alternate. The first one was an old renovated hotel that is currently renting out large studios. I was willing to settle for a studio since their studios were only slightly smaller than their one bedrooms, and not a single one bedroom was available.

The first unit was a small studio, and I wasn't impressed. Studios have to have a good layout for me to consider them rentable, and this one had a counter top that jutted at an odd angle into the living space. The larger studio was nicer, but every wall was covered in waxy looking old plaster with thick grooves; the walls looked rough like sandpaper - and were a yellowy orange color. The closet was large, however, and the bathroom was nice. The whole space had character - maybe too much character.

I pointed out a small door in the kitchen to my friend. The door was about a foot above the counter top and was about 9" wide by 14" tall. There was a single hook and eye clasp holding the door closed. I opened it to discover a wonderful view of the hallway. It was a leprechaun door into the hallway - otherwise known as a way for someone to steal your coffee pot - and various other small kitchen appliances. Granted, the thief would have to work a little, and you would have to leave the appliances within an arm's length, but it could happen.

After passing on the small spaces with the doors for tiny thieves, my friend and I drove down to another alternate. That's where we met Veronica, and as Beyonce might say: I wasn't ready for those preserves. You would really have to love jelly to love Veronica - she jiggled from almost every angle - and was incredibly slow. I swear it took her ten minutes to get the keys to the apartments. The first one she showed us, I bypassed immediately (no dishwasher), and then we followed her - by car - to the next apartment. She turned down a road with a gigantic hill, and up at the very top were beautiful apartments lining the peak. Her car climbed closer and closer to the peak, when it approached a sign that read: The Hillside. Then she turned - into a parking lot, or a pothole who decided to go to a costume party poorly disguised as a parking lot - to the most ghetto fabulous (or just straight ghetto) apartments I have ever seen.

The first car in this ditch of a lot was a jacked up purple sedan with huge tires and silver rims. I could almost see Snoop Dog smoking some herb. This was sign one.

Sign two was the fact that the stairs up to the apartment were broken. Sign three was the fireplace. It was poorly constructed, probably a fire trap, and one half of it was stained while the other was not.

My friend decided to check out the view from the bedroom. It was okay, if you like dumpsters. This apartment - decrepitly lurching precariously aside one steep ass hill - overlooked a mother f*!cking dumpster - a dumpster sitting atop what used to be a swimming pool that had been filled in with concrete - surrounded by the same ditch-like parking lot (apparently it was tiered). What made it better was when my friend opened the blinds to examine the belle vista, they broke! Vertical blind slats went falling to the floor.

Veronica tried to explain how the complex was going to make the view better - her body still jiggling from the stair climb. But a dumpster, really Veronica? A swimming pool filled in with concrete? There's no coming back from that. I really shouldn't make fun of Veronica, she was nice. Being nice, however, does not make up for bad apartments. Veronica, if you're reading - the jiggling comments are only meant in jest - sure you're a big girl, but big girls need love too... Let's find you a chubby chaser!

The next apartment is the one I hopefully will end up getting. I find out tomorrow or Monday. It was my first appointment and was shown to me by Dietra. Dietra was pretty awesome. She took my friend and I around the apartment community on a golf-cart, showed us the model, and took us to where my unit will be. Amazing community. It's in the northside of the city, and I can walk to the library, the post office, the art museum, restaurants, a street full of kitchy little stores, the YMCA, and a community farmer's market and garden. Words can't really describe how cool this apartment is... I'm very excited.

I almost ended my search then, but I wanted to check out the southside of the city, because it would be closer to work. Granted, the alternates had been in the southside, but these appointments had looked nicer on-line.

The next apartment we looked at was shown to us by Laura. Finding Laura's office was quite the challenge, but once we found it, all was nice. The office was far away from the rentable properties - very off-site. We followed her to our final destination: 33rd Street. The road seemed to stretch on forever, and as we rounded curves and parks, the neighborhood seemed to be more and more beautiful. I found myself thinking that southside might just be better than northside, and that it would be a dream to walk to places in this very gorgeous setting.

We arrived at 33rd Street, went to the top of another hill, looped around and entered the one ghetto block in the entire neighborhood. We pulled up to what looked like a converted house block down a shifty pot-holed driveway. I turned to my friend: "I'm not even considering this if it isn't one of the units in the front." Of course it was a side unit. A side unit that faced the broken down alley-way, and a side unit that the maintenance crews had forgotten to clean! Laura kept apologizing for the cleanliness, but I wanted to tell her that polishing a turd only leaves you with shit. If by cleaning she mean razing the walls and sowing the fields with salt, I might be convinced.

After parting ways with Laura, we met up with another woman whose name I cannot recall. She was nice, but she was one of those women who, you can tell, hasn't really ever grown up. I bet she's at home right now reminiscing about her glory days of high school when she was a cheerleader and a size 0 instead of a 4.

High School's apartments were nicer than the last. I actually considered one of them. The location was great - close to southside restaurants, night-life, and other things. Plus, it had exposed brick in the shower! I'm still not certain that is entirely sanitary, but it led to some fun discussions with High School.

After showing us the two nice units, High School sent us off to another unit (coincidentally across the street from Veronica's units). I was already unimpressed. My friend turned to me and said: "This looks like every movie or TV show where there's a drug sting," and I had to agree. It was clearly a drug dealer neighborhood.

When we entered the apartment, we were pleasantly surprised. It was actually very nice! Great hardwood floors, new appliances, etc. Everything inside was wonderful, except for the smell. It smelled funky. It was a funk that permeated every room and was rather obnoxious. Needless to say, I passed on that one.

At the end of the day, nothing really came close to the apartment on the northside of the city. It was really quite close to perfection. Let's all cross our fingers and pray. I really want this apartment.

Dinner with Nikki Haley

I'm not sure if you follow SC politics at all, but you should, as my home state produces quite the cast of characters. These characters cause, well, depression and anger for the citizens of SC, and hilarity for those not blessed to live in the Palmetto State.

You may remember our current Governor, Mark Sanford, from last summer when he "disappeared." No one really knew where he was, and then he phoned to let everyone know he was "hiking the Appalachian trail." As you probably well know: "hiking the Appalachian trail" is code for "banging my Argentine mistress." Yes, our Governor came forward to apologize for abandoning his state, fleeing to South America, and hooking up with an Argentine reporter. He also called her his "soul mate," which left his wife Jenny Sanford - none too happy. (FYI, he phoned Jenny after the public "apology" to ask how he did. Dumb ass.)

By the way, Jenny Sanford is a very classy woman. She handled herself with grace and dignity, retiring for a while to the coast, avoiding the media, and did her best to keep her kids out of the spotlight. We could all learn a lesson from people like Jenny Sanford. Coincidentally, she dumped Mark; smart woman.

Our latest claim to fame has been the Nikki Haley(a current SC Republican gubernatorial candidate) scandals. Two men came forward claiming they had inappropriate sexual relationships with Nikki Haley while she was married to her current husband Michael. Nikki Haley has denied the accusations. These accusations - coupled with a man being found guilty of having sex with his horse - have elevated SC to "The Friskiest State." A moniker I hope they start putting on license plates rather soon.

The claims about Nikki Haley came about just before the primaries, making it look like a last ditch effort on the part of candidates - like current Lt. Governor Andre Bauer - to boost their poll rankings. (Google Andre Bauer - you'll find excessive speeding, drunk driving on Assembly Street in downtown Columbia at 3:00 in the afternoon, and not wanting to feed poor children; he's a gem - that one.) Nikki Haley has long since been a Tea Party favorite and Republican front-runner - having been endorsed by (you bethca) Sarah Palin. It's natural then, that her fellow Republican candidates - some of whom wanted the Tea Party endorsement - would so some serious mud-slinging.

Do I think she had the affairs? Honestly, I could care less; she's the best candidate on the Republican ticket (notice I said on the Republican ticket), and the lesser of many many many evils. (Would I honestly want Andre Bauer as Governor? Oh Hell no.) Her affiliation with the Tea Party and her endorsement by Sarah "let's ban books" Palin are frankly by far the greater concerns than who she's bumped uglies with, but I digress.

Then enter Jake Knotts, a Republican SC Senator. Jakie boy went on an internet talk show and referred to Ms. Haley as a " f*!king raghead," claiming "we got a raghead in Washington; we don't need one in South Carolina." He later apologized for using the F word, and claimed he used the term "raghead" in jest. Because we all know, racial slurs are okay if used in jest - especially on political talkshows.

Ms. Haley is an Indian America, a Methodist descendant of Sikhs. Mr. Knotts believes that since her father wears a turban around Lexington (a city on the west end of Columbia's metro area) that Nikki Haley is probably ashamed of her religion - and hiding behind the cloak of Christianity to gain power, the same way he feels Barack Obama must be hiding his Muslim heritage. Again, we all know the fastest way to gain political power in America - and the world for that matter - is through the SC Governor's mansion. I know when I think of how many international statesmen and Presidents that have gone through the SC Governor's mansion - I just fall into a tizzy. Honestly, if Nikki Haley came up with that plan to disguise who she really is to become Governor of SC - we should f*!cking elect her, because if she could pull off that one, think of what she could do...

Mr. Knotts justified his calling use of racial slurs by exclaiming: "We're at war over there!" He later clarified that he knew the US was not at war with India, but "foreign countries."

Did I mention that he wasn't even the scheduled guest on the talkshow? He just showed up and started blabbing. The show Pub Politics is filmed at the Flying Saucer in Columbia - a local bar - and is supposed to be a "light show" in a fun atmosphere. Jake Knotts defended his comments to reporters after the broadcast - which again, he wasn't scheduled to attend - by saying this talk show is the SNL of SC political talk-shows. He does have a point here, racial slurs and whatnot are generally okay on SNL, but that's because the people there don't actually mean them.

Anyway, I had dinner with Nikki Haley the other night. Well, not exactly with - we sat next to each other in a local restaurant. I had taken a good friend of mine out to eat Tuesday for her belated birthday dinner, and unbeknownst to us - we were seated next to Nikki Haley and her husband. We had no idea at first, nor did anyone else in the restaurant, since Ms. Haley is rather nondescript in appearance, and is generally quiet. I, however, kept getting annoyed that this woman next to me kept answering her Blackberry. (I have the same Blackberry, and I kept mistaking it for mine.)

I really wanted her to put her Blackberry on silent, and even contemplated saying something when I turned and realized I was sitting next to the woman who took 49% of the vote in the Republican primary (2% short of being declared a winner without having a run-off, but light years ahead of her competitors, esp. Andre Bauer).

I turned to my friend, eyed to the table next to us, and mouthed "is that Nikki Haley?" She, at first, didn't understand that what looked like the onset of a seizure was a question, but eventually she caught on. "No, is it?" she said as she talked me into taking a covert picture of her, so we could verify for sure. I couldn't use my Blackberry (they have a build in flash), so I had to use my friend's LG. We pretended she was having phone trouble, and while I was attempting to "fix" it, I took a picture. It was a perfect profile, and it was clearly Nikki Haley.

Outside, we searched for a campaign car - further evidence, and sure enough we found a state representative's car with a Nikki Haley for Governor bumper sticker. We had had dinner with Nikki Haley.

Now having dinner with Nikki Haley is fun and all, but frankly I would have preferred to have dinner with Mr. Jakie Knotts. "How dare you," is probably how it would have begun. I would have gone into his stupid racist views, his inability to tell the difference between Muslims and Sikhs, and his lack of knowledge about any and everything in general. Then would have come the kicker:

How dare he force me to have to stand up for a politician whose politics I find questionable! I dislike Sarah Palin and the Tea Party, but now I find myself having to agree with them. Nikki Haley has been mistreated and abused, and this election is going to be about gender discrimination and not the issues. (I highly doubt iif she were male any of this - the "raghead" comments or the "affair allegations" would have happened.)

She is a strong woman in a position of power, and Jakie boy can't stand it. Him and the other good old boys don't like that she's outplaying them at their game, and are doing anything to undermine her. If anything, they should be on the same team! They agree with each other on most of the issues! Jakie Knotts - and people like him - always have to demonize the other. When they can't find an "other" in a political opponent, they make one up. The woman isn't a Sikh, she isn't a Democrat, and she probably never had an affair. What the f*!k is he so afraid of? That's not to say if she were a male, he wouldn't have done something else, or shown his racist ass in another ignorant way - but I doubt it would have been this extreme.

The bad news here is that Nikki Haley is likely to ride a wave of sympathy right into the Governor's mansion. She outranks her Democratic opponent by what is probably an insurmountable margin. At least she's the best of the Republican Candidates. I actually have respect for her - not her politics, but for her as a person, and that's more than I can say for Jake Knotts, Andre Bauer, or Henry McMaster.

But, I won't have to deal with her. I'll be in Alabama; I got the job!

And in other news...

Today's post will be mostly a hodgepodge of my life's current tidbits. None of them really long enough to merit their own post, but each of them interesting.


Joey has developed quite a frustrating habit. We have never shared a room before - until now - and he has decided to wake me up as soon as dawn's first light comes streaming through the windows. He never did this in Mississippi, but again, we never lived in the same room. As soon as light hits our bedroom, he's awake - proclaiming the new day by barking at me until I get out of bed. This isn't a sweet chirp - "oh I'm happy the sun's up," - sing along either... This is a guttural, angry - "Daddy, get out of bed NOW!!!" - type deal.

So, to placate him, I started letting him out of his cage, and putting his playpen next to my bed. That way he could play and be close to me, but I could still sleep. This worked for a day. The next day, when I moved him and his playpen, I quickly learned that I had merely moved my nature made alarm clock closer to my head. He squawked for another half hour before I finally gave in and got up.

This morning I decided to open his window and let him play on his cage, instead of moving his playpen. This worked less than moving his playpen. There I was in a half-asleep stupor being shouted at by a parrot, contemplating burying my head between my pillows - when I let out a fart (classy, I know). The fart was so loud and powerful that it billowed the sheets and terrified Joey. He tried to fly away, but his wings are clipped, so down he went - to the floor, where he sat quietly and waited on me to pick him up.

The lesson I learned: to get someone to shut up, all you have to do is fart. I don't think I'll try this around humans though - at least not intentionally.


My dreams have been off the wall recently. Every night over this last week has been a new adventure. Last night, for instance, I dreamed that I was still living in Detroit, but I was about to move (this was probably brought on by Phase 3 - coming up on Friday). My apartment was my old Detroit apartment - The Nine, or the Penthouse - as people referred to it in my imagination. Very few things about it, however, were similar to the real apartment. The only thing that remained the same was my back fire escape / security door was in the bedroom. Everything else was completely different, but this door played a pivotal role.

Someone who used to live in the apartment (with the help of his friends and younger sibling) tried to break in with an old key, but I had the security bar in place, so they couldn't get in. They were convinced, however, I held a fortune in the apartment, because of a secret code I had stored. I was a touch paranoid, about them getting in, and getting the code - and as I should have been since they were quite determined. The code was meaningless without another code to decipher it, which they didn't know about. My one mission (should I not be able to keep them out, and away from my the codes altogether) was to keep the codes separate.

They were trying to make me look crazy, and blackmail me out of the code - while at the same time messing with my belongings. It was pretty deep psychological warfare they were playing - part of which included videotaping me as I confronted them about being on my balcony. It all came to a head when I ended up in a knife fight with the main guy, after stealing his little brother's professional newscaster grade video camera. Anyway, I carved him up pretty good, but he threw my laptop over my balcony crushing it, and drove away. Welcome to the world of my dreams.


Lastly, I have a date on Wednesday! It will be my first date since August of 2008, when my last boyfriend and I called it quits. I haven't met a decent enough guy in almost two years to consider dating, and haven't really had the time. This is very exciting. The only worry I have is that he has a kid. I'm not sure if I'm ready to be involved with someone who is already a parent. That being said, this is only date one, so I can't over-think this now. (There will be plenty of time for over-thinking later.) I'm not going to let silly worries interfere with me having a good time. Also, he is really cute, and from our recent talks - we seem to click personality wise. Hopefully, even if we aren't romantically compatible, I'll at least end up with a new friend.

Waiting

I've been rather bored recently. I attribute this to not being able to go to work everyday. Work gives me a sense of purpose - of greater being, and not having that in my everyday routine at the moment is driving me a little Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. I try to find things around the house to do, but dishes and vacuuming themselves get boring after a while, and you can never see the long term effects of housework.

I would get a part-time job, but if I move to Alabama, I'd have to quit it in August; and with both Phase 3 of the move and the road trip in the near future, it isn't practical to even apply. I will apply next week, however, if Alabama turns me down, and let them know I can start as soon as I get back from San Diego. Hopefully Alabama will hire me, and then I won't have to worry about it. I can go and enjoy the road trip, without the ever-looming job hunt in front of me. I do have another potential job here in SC (one I could also swing a part-time job with), so if Alabama doesn't pan out - I still can hold out hope for them, but it's the waiting that is driving me crazy.

I wish the answers were instantaneous when you interview/apply for a position. Think of how nice it would be if you didn't have to wait, if as soon as you applied for a position, you knew the outcome. Maybe it's because I'm part of the Burger King Generation (I want it my way and I want it fast), but I feel like a lot of the hiring process could be streamlined to take less time. For instance, sometimes I have been asked to submit materials repeatedly for the same job. That seems redundant. If you have submitted materials once, especially electronically - the materials should be able to find their way to the appropriate places without the proverbial hoops to jump through. This will probably come with time - technology seems to make things more difficult for a while before it makes things easier. I guess I shouldn't complain, however, because if paper copies had to be submitted for everything, I'd probably still be applying insead of blogging.

Truthfully, Alabama is being rather quick with their decision. I have been given a deadline next week, and when that day comes I will know. I'm just getting a touch stir-crazy from anticipation and waiting.

The SC job hasn't yet given me a date, so I'm not sure. I followed up two weeks ago, and was told that the decision would be made toward the end of summer. I understand their reasoning for the wait, but I'm not sure what they mean by "end of summer." Does that mean when shcool starts back? Does that mean when the season officially changes from summer to autumn? It only adds to the waiting - the being in limbo.

Both jobs are incredible opportunities for me, and I know it will be worth the wait, if one of them comes through. It's just the waiting makes me restless, and the restless makes me bored, and I move without purpose. If there's one thing I dislike - it's moving without purpose. Movement needs to be purpose driven for life to have meaning. If my movement lacks purpose, how long before my life lacks meaning? I know that's a stretch, but that's part of the waiting.

I guess everyone is waiting. John Mayer is waiting for the world to change, and maybe we all are. I know I am. I'm waiting to hear about job opportunities - just like a bunch of other Americans. The world is waiting on BP to clean up the Gulf and stop the oil spill. We're waiting on a world free from terrorists. Some are waiting for our perfect partners or spouses. Others are just waiting for Godot. What are you waiting for? Is it worth the wait?

Meth and Kickball

So recently I learned through a friend that someone I went to high school with was arrested for meth. The friend wasn't really sure whether he was using, dealing, or had a lab in his basement, but I was told it was pretty serious. I wasn't that shocked; I mean, I was saddened because in a way it reflects poorly on my hometown, but people can easily become chemically dependant. I asked who it was, assuming it would be someone I had heard of distantly, but had not really ever spoken to. The shock came when I learned it was a relatively popular person - one I had known since elementary school.

When I say I knew him, truthfully we probably wouldn't have recognized each other, and I guarantee we wouldn't have spoken to each other if we had. We ran in different circles, (I went to very large schools) and hadn't had a class together - that I can recall - since sixth grade. We didn't dislike each other; we never really ever spoke or interacted at all really.

That's when I remembered, I thought he was so cool in sixth grade. He had this jacket that I wanted, and I remember being jealous of his clothes. And the last real interaction I had with him was a class game of kickball in the gym. (He may or may not have been wearing that cool jacket; the memories are colored with the rose tint of time.) I wasn't terrible at kickball, but he was really good - I do remember that. If I remember correctly, he was the "pitcher" and I "fouled-out" rather early on (again, rose tints). If you don't know what kickball is, it's basically baseball, but players use their legs as bats and a generic inflatable ball. Basically it's like if soccer and baseball had a love child that ended up resembling baseball more so than soccer.

So, I googled the whole situation to see if I could learn something about what had happened. What I discovered was shocking. There is another person with the same name (spelled slightly different) busted for meth and cocaine - same age as the guy I went to school with - but completely different ethnicity. Unless the guy I knew had a white-ectomy and a heavy dose of melanin, I doubt it was him. Now there could be two people - with the same name and age - dabbling in meth in my hometown at the same time; it would be highly improbable, but it could happen. Until I hear otherwise, however, I'm going to assume it wasn't the person I knew from school, and this whole case has turned out to be one of mistaken identity.

Yet, the discovery didn't stop me from thinking that somewhere, this new person - this new meth addict - had played kickball before too. That somewhere, there could be people at home on their computers trying to figure out the details of his descent into chemical addiction. That somewhere, people were just as shocked as I was to discover an acquaintance had succumb to crystal-meth. After all, he too was a sixth grader once. He could have been a sixth grader with a cool jacket. He could have been a sixth grader who played kickball with his classmates. Somewhere, someone was just like me, researching him. (How ironic would it be if our names were the same only spelled one-letter differently?)

So the next time you hear that a person has fallen into chemical abuse and dependancy, think before you judge. That person was once a little kid - playing kickball. How does a sixth grader playing kickball grow up into a meth-addict? That's what we should be asking.

Love is a Bundle of Feathers.

I know all responsible pet owners love their pets, and there are a thousand stories just like the one I'm about to tell, but still, my Joey is one of the most important beings in my life. Even though this hand-sized ball of feathers bites sometimes and can be incredibly stubborn, he continually gives me unconditional love and endless joy.

Recently, I found myself pondering Joey's mortality; what would happen to me if this hand-sized ball of feathers were not around? The answer is simple; I would be entirely devastated. I don't think I could handle a tragedy befalling my little buddy. There have been days this past year when I found it hard to get out of bed, until I heard my little parrot chirping and fussing. There were days when nothing went right at work, but I had a cheerful feathered baby at home who would give me birdie kisses and ask me: "who's my Joey?" I would respond, "who's MY Joey? You're my Joey," and then he would rise up high on his little feet, puff up, cluck and respond, "I love you!" "I love you too baby."

There was one day, several months ago, when I came home, sat down in my chair - and just cried. It was a deep heavy sobbing from a deep heavy pain. Joey hopped over to me on his playpen next to my chair. Normally he is very self-absorbed, "good Joey," "pretty Joey," everything involves Joey, but not this time. He came over on his perch, clucked softly once, and then sat very quiet - just staring. I reached over to pick him up (still crying heavily), and he came to me and just sat on my chest - quietly watching me with his big brown eyes. "Daddy's really sad," I told him, and he just stayed at my collar line - looking at me with those large bird eyes. It was like he knew that what I really needed was just a friend to sit and quietly listen - to just be there. He sat there quietly until I had calmed down, and then played on his playpen. He had - and still has never been - better behaved than on that day.

I think this is the power of our furry and feathered children, their ability to sense our moods, wrap themselves around us, and love us just for being. People really forget to love each other; we're too quick to not forgive; we let life stop us from loving and caring for others. Our pets, however, remember to love us in spite of our moods, and don't let unimportant things stand in front of their love for us. Somewhere in humanity's endless pursuit of being bigger, better, and more evolved, we have forgotten some of the "human" qualities of creatures like birds, dogs, and cats - abandoning some instinctual nature for "self-betterment."

Now, I'm not saying that animals are perfect; Joey poops whenever and wherever he feels like it, but people could truly learn a few things about love - particularly the unconditional kind from their pets. What if we loved each other the way a dog loves his master, the way a cat loves to cuddle up next to his owner, or the way a Joey loves his Daddy? The world would be a better place.

I can't help worrying about Joey; I think of him like my child. Really the only difference is Joey has a cage and doesn't have diapers. (FYI, I know birds are different from human babies, and an actual baby is a Hell of a lot more work, but right now Joey's what I got.) He turned 1 back in April, and I threw him a "Birdie's First Hatchday" party complete with presents, cake, ice cream, beer, party hats, a card signed by all the guests, and a button for his cage that read: "It's My B-day!" I may have gone a touch overboard, but he deserved it. He's a good bird, and I spoil my baby.

If you have a special animal in your life, let him/her know how much they mean to you. They may not understand the words, but they do understand love. Joey has added so much richness and warmth to my life; I hope we share many many more years together. Here's to my feathered baby!

Lawyer is the Magic Word.

Today I threw a grade A hissy fit. I mean it was record worthy. It all began when I received a new EOB or Explanation of Benefits from my insurance company. EOBs are basically statements explaining what you owe to your health care provider, and what will be covered by the insurance company. For many years I was uninsured, and when I moved to Detroit, I might as well have been (my HMO was fairly terrible). I was excited when I took the job in Mississippi, because I would have an excellent benefits package (or at least a package better than what I had prior).

Yet, even with my nice new insurance, I ran into one small problem... They refused to pay any of my claims! Finally in March, I was reimbursed for half of my prior claims from November through March, and I thought all of my troubles were at least halfway over. I, however, was very very wrong.

The reason they only paid half of my claims was as follows: I had been seeing two doctors for routine visits and whatnot since October and November. They were not covering either Provider even though both Providers were in their network. Finally, they began to pay for Provider A (after much complaining on my part). They were still refusing to pay for Provider B, however, because Provider A had yet to fill out paperwork - which they claimed was vital to my services rendered by Provider B. Until Provider A faxed in the appropriate paperwork, Provider B would not be covered - even though they are two different Providers at two different practices.

They claimed Provider A had been sent paperwork twice since December, and had not received anything. My Provider claimed that she had not received anything from the insurance company relating to me. I asked my insurance company to resend the paperwork, which they did. When Provider A received it, she let me know that it had been completed, and had been returned to the insurance company. Then the insurance company claimed to never have received the paperwork.

Finally, I had had enough - I asked to speak to a supervisor. He told me to call Provider A and have her re-fax the paperwork to his line, and he would personally call me once he had received it. I did just that, but no phone call ever came - that was about a week ago.

Today, I received another EOB. I expected once again to have half of my claim denied, because I had not received a phone call, but this time the whole claim was denied. They were now denying coverage for both Providers. I thought I had had enough before, but I had not... I had barely had any compared to the enough I had when I opened my EOB.

I immediately called my insurance company, and some poor guy (I think his name was Thomas, but it could have been Dave or David) picked up the phone. I feel bad for him now; he didn't know what was coming. When he asked how I was doing, I told him I wasn't doing well and was very unhappy. I told him my claim number and asked why the company had not allowed my claim. Guess what? Paperwork. Now they were claiming that Provider A yet to fill out my initial intake paperwork, (which I know she did, because that's what they finally processed in March that allowed my benefits to finally kick in) so I lost it.

I lost it. I lost it. I lost it. I informed him that not only had she done the paperwork, but she had sent it to them months ago, and that they had already paid a substantial portion of my visits with her, and it was complete bullshit to deny my claim now. He then told me that my language was uncalled for... I lost it, again.

I told him that my language was out of frustration because they had been denying claims for months, and now they were denying ones that they were formerly paying. I was tired of being nice, and I said that I had been nice during every other phone call I made to them (which is true, FYI - I never lost my temper with anyone there until this), and I said if he didn't believe me he could check the calls himself, because after all - "aren't they monitored for quality purposes?" I told him it was extremely unfair for me to have to deal with this, and that I was sure he didn't have to worry about any of this. He could sit there and have all of his claims processed, because he worked for the insurance company, and I was going to have to call a lawyer for them actually pay my benefits. Then I asked to speak to his supervisor, and then I said "no, I want to speak to your supervisor's supervisor."

I was put on hold for 25 minutes.

I am sure they were hoping that the crazy person on line one would just hang up after a few minutes of waiting, but not this crazy person. This crazy person grabbed a chair next to the clock, counted the minutes, and reloaded.

I was ready to take aim when a man named Scott came on the line. He listened to my problem - (I explained it calmly, and without profanity). I was stern, however, and asked "why do I even pay for insurance if you guys won't pay anything?" A few minutes into my conversation it was clear that Thomas / Dave / David / what-the-Hell had sent me to the person who could actually do something about my problem. I apologized for going off, but said I didn't know what else to do, because no one seemed to be listening or doing anything about the problem on the insurance company's end. Scott then offered to take on my case personally and see to it that my claims were processed. He was going to contact the Providers directly if he could not track down the proper paperwork for me. He gave me his desk number, and told me he would be in touch, but to call him if anything else happened. I normally don't believe people when they offer things like that, but this time - I honestly believe Scott. He was the first genuine person I have spoken with at the insurance company.

I learned today that the magic word isn't please, it's lawyer. I doubt if I hadn't brought up lawyers that I would have been transferred to Scott. And, I don't blame what's-his-name for not being able to help me. He answers the phones at an insurance company. He reads off of a script, and only has access to certain information. I do feel bad for having to yell at him before I could get anything accomplished, and I hope he can let it go, because it was never my intention to hurt his feelings. The way the system is set-up, however, no one gets the help they need until they throw a hissy fit. I would never have been given assistance without raising a fuss. Like I said in a previous post: the squeaky wheel gets the grease to shut it up, and this wheel squeaks.

.

Banking with Idiots

I wrote this a while back, but instead chose to post SIMPLE THINGS, because it was more relevant to my life. Right now, I'm testing out a new living situation with one of my oldest friends. We've known each other since 4th grade, and I recently moved in with her. We're doing a trial run to see how things work out (i.e. to see if my cat allergies don't drive me crazy, and if a parrot can safely live in the house). So far, so good, but we still have many days left in the week. Anyway, not much interesting happened today, so I thought I'd share this from a a week or so ago:

So today I had to stop by the bank to deposit a check. The check wasn't for much, but a deposit is a very quick bit of business if you have done your work before you arrive. I arrive at the bank, and immediately head to the drive-thru to find it rather packed. All three lanes are busy, and a single car is backed up rather far from the other cars - blocking the pass through, and creating a long line. (BTW, how hard is it to pick a lane? I mean just pick one; it's a drive through.) After another car leaves, the indecisive one takes its place, and the rest of us file in behind other cars in the lines. I get behind the indecisive car, (like a total idiot) and soon discover I have made a big mistake.

We are in the lane adjacent to the bank, when the lady in the indecisive car begins to ask a bunch of questions of the teller. She wants to make a deposit, but hasn't filled out a deposit ticket. Apparently, she didn't know you needed one. The teller tells her that she needed to come inside and you know - actually fill out a deposit ticket. So the lady asks if she should come inside, and the bank teller says not to worry about it and goes away from the window to fetch the lady a blank deposit ticket. So, of course the woman then fills out the deposit ticket - in the drive through line, but before that she gets into a conversation with the teller about ATMs. Here is a sample of their long and rather loud conversation:

Teller: "Yes mam, you can use the ATM around the corner."

Lady: "Is it just like other ATMs? Will it have instructions on the screen?"

Me: "Of course it's just like the other ATMs!" (Did I mention my window was down, and voices tend to carry there?)

Somewhere in here, I back up (the line has cleared down a bit). I don't care what your third grade teacher told you; there are such things as stupid questions. "Will it have instructions on the screen?" No, you stick your card in and do the hokey-pokey. (I may have said that out loud too...) Of course it will have instructions on the screen; it's an ATM!

Anyway, I end up getting the space furthest from the bank (probably for the best - lest I say something else that might be overheard), and finish my banking, (rather quickly I might add), but it left me wondering... How do some people function on a daily basis? It must be a struggle for some people to put pants on in the morning. Then - out of the blue - I realize that others have enabled this lady to be an idiot. The bank teller let her fill out the form - while blocking the line - when she should have made her go inside. I got behind her in line, even though she had shown that simple line formation was a thinking skill far beyond her reach. And some other idiot at the DVM issued that woman a driver's license. To my count there are at least 4 idiots to blame for my extended time at the bank, or at least one idiot and three idiot enablers.

That's all I've got, and frankly if running into an idiot at the bank was the only thing that happened - I count that as one good and boring day on the perturbed rattle front.

God and Art.

So yesterday, I happened to receive the above picture in an e-mail from my aunt. (I have asked all my relatives to not send me e-mail forwards and junk e-mail, but occasionally they forget and I end up with several in my inbox.) This picture I later found out was part of a larger Power Point presentation which makes it less confusing, but on my Blackberry all that came up was this first slide.

This slide confused me. Is God the flower? Did God create the flower, so is it a symbol of His glory and power - a reminder of God, if you will - or is the artist trying to compare God to a flower? How is God like a flower? How is God different than a flower? Is all the power of God contained within a flower? Obviously the artist wants me to draw some connection, but I couldn't seem to figure out which one.

As I often do when I can't quite figure something out, I begin to laugh. I imagine someone else looking at it and instantly gathering meaning, and I laugh more because in my typical professorial fashion I am over-thinking it. Then I begin to wonder, am I really over thinking it, or am I thinking it as a reasoning person should? Should we accept a vague parallel because we think we know what it represents, or should we immediately question the parallel, because no definitive conclusion has been drawn? Or should I simply let it exist, and let the viewer draw his/her own parallels from the image? Isn't that one of the meanings of art - that the viewer takes ownership of the deeper reactions, the intellectual and emotional responses art brings?

Then I wonder, is this even art at all? Or is it merely a photograph of a rose with the word GOD next to it? What constitutes this as art? And if it is art, is it effective art? Does the artist's intent carry through to the viewer? Is something communicated through this work?

I wonder here if the intent is carried through; after all I just glanced at the work, and am now incredibly confused and lost in an existential quagmire. Something is definitely communicated, but what is supposed to be communicated? Am I interpreting the work in a way that affirms the artists intent? Or does that again even matter? It is the process, the fact that I am questioning that makes it art, right? The dialogue that has been created between myself and the work is what is important.

But does art require questions? Or does art require reactions? Is an internal verbal dialogue required, or is it merely a guttural exchange? I think as long as the work communicates something to you, then it is art. Then to me this is definitely art. However, a newspaper can communicate things to you, but it isn't art. What then are the requirements of art? This I ponder as much as the nature of God in the photograph.

God is beautiful like a flower, but God is not fragile like a flower.
God is complex like the many folds of the rose, but complete within His complexities.
We prefer to think of the petals of a rose, and not the thorns - just as we prefer to think of the loving qualities of God, and not the darker ones.
God is pure, like the pristine color of the Rose.
God created flowers, so the flower is a symbol of God. Then hurricanes and earthquakes must also be symbols of God, because those were created too. (Like the invisible thorns of our rose.)
The reflection we see of God in others, makes the picture of God more understandable, and His complexities more real.
God is suspended in time, like a photograph of a rose is a suspension in time.
God is balanced.

Art is expressive.
Art is propelled by an internal desire to communicate - to create.
Art causes us to ponder the realities of God and roses.
Art forces us to think or takes us to another place (either way there is an unspoken dialogue between the work and the viewer.)
Art is what it is.
Art empowers us as viewers.
Like the nature of God, the nature of Art is complex like the folds of a rose.
Can God exist in Art? Only if Art exists in God.
Is Art the bridge between humanity and the divine?

All of this from a picture of a rose and the word GOD.
Things to consider.

Threat Level Tara Reid

I know I'm not the only one who doesn't care for the color system for terrorist attacks issued by Homeland Security post 9/11. The system as seen to the left goes through a series of colors: red through green, indicative of our current "threat level." The system is just specific enough to be understandable, yet just vague enough to be quite an effective fear-mongering technique, especially when coupled with word choices like "significant," "severe," "guarded," "general," and "elevated." All of these words are as specifically vague as the colors. I don't know about you, but I'm not exactly sure of what constitutes a "general risk" of a terrorist attack.

It's clear, if you examine the color system, however, that the person who did this had little understanding of colors. If he/she had more understanding - (you know, like the average kindergartner's level) he/she would have reversed green and blue - making it how it appears in a rainbow.

On a more scientific level, blue is a cool color, it is recessive to the eye. Green, because it has yellow in it, best belongs between yellow and blue. Green is a neutral and can be pushed either direction - toward the aggressive warmth - or toward the recessive cool. Blue cannot do this - blue will always be cool. This leaves quite an odd discrepancy to the system. Why is green a lower threat level than blue?

For that matter, why is green on a threat level scale at all? (I guess terrorists could be envious of us.) Other than green with envy and pale green being a color of death (see Revelations) green is typically a color of balance - a color of Earth and harmony. It's all in how it is used, and when the negative connotations of green are brought about, green is typically used in conjunction with other colors like black (never in a rainbow). Green at its heart is a soothing color, natural and neutral (like Switzerland). I guess I could see it being at the bottom, but blue still cannot be placed before it.

Blues are the most relaxing of the colors, sometimes too much so. Too many blues can be depressing, and zap the energy out of a person. Why then is Blue on a terror scale? It makes less sense than Green. Blue is the anti-terror, if things are so calm it's actually depressing - I doubt we'd have to worry about terrorists.

Here I have a proposal: to avoid confusion, we just need to eliminate the color system all together, and go with something I think we can all agree on: irritating celebrities! In my new system, I have used obnoxiously horrible bad female celebrities in what I think is a much less confusing system. Instead of Green to Red we now have Tori Spelling to Lindsay Lohan.


I chose these celebrities because to me, their names better signify threat level scales than their color counterparts. For those still in love with the color system, though, I retooled it to put blue on the bottom, and to also indicate that blue isn't a very severe threat, neither is green. Paris Hilton has a General Level of Annoyance, so she is in the center at Yellow. Above her is Tara Reid at Orange because she's unpredictable, unstable, can cause an extreme ruckus, likely to go at any moment, and is without a modicum of talent.

Lindsay Lohan tops the list for the same reasons as Tara Reid, with the exception that she has a modicum of talent. Crazy backed by talent makes it all the more disturbing and powerful, and thus threat level Lindsay Lohan makes a perfect replacement for threat level severe.

Tila Tequila ranks at the green level, because like green, she could go either way. Blue is Tori Spelling, because apart from her depressing acting ability she is generally benign. If she's not in a major role, we really have nothing to be depressed about, and thus she makes a great replacement for threat level low.

Think of it this way. Which of the following is clearer? The US Department of Homeland Security has placed us at threat level orange, or the US Department of Homeland Security has placed us at threat level Tara Reid. I know I get a much greater sense of urgency with Tara Reid. Orange just makes me hungry.

There is a trump card here, or a designation which is not on the standard threat level scale. This means something is imminent or in progress. It is the infra-red of threat levels, which cannot be depicted on the standard color system. This is serious. This is threat level Courtney Love.

Moving Motivation and Derailed Neuroses

I'm the kind of person who really needs motivation to get something accomplished. If I'm working on a project, I need to have deadlines, and reminders of said deadlines. When my students want something from me (outside my normal realm of everyday activity) - like a recommendation letter or to bring something in for a project they are working on in another class - I ask them to harass me about it. "Send me at least three e-mails a day," I say. "Remind me every time you see me." These reminders motivate me, because ( and I know you would never have guessed this) I am easily annoyed, so I perform the task in order for the reminders to stop.

Right now I'm moving, (I'm heavy into Phase 2, for those keeping score) but I seem to have a hard time getting motivated to clean or to actually empty the apartment. I packed my car today, and it held about as much as I expected it to, so I'm right along with the plan, and I'm doing great on time. I still have 28 days to finish moving, and all of my tchotchkes, paintings, photographs, books, dvds, and bookcases are either in my car or already in SC. Most of my lamps are packed - only three remain, and almost all my dishes (after I empty the dishwasher later - all the dishes).

What's left? Good question: my art trunk, my bedroom set, my clothes, my living room chairs, 3 lamps, Joey's large cage, my TV and radio, and my pots and pans. That will all easily fit into the moving truck during Phase 3. So, why do I feel behind? Why do I feel that I need motivation? Probably because the apartment is looking rather ransacked at the moment - with boxes and whatnot scattered helter skelter and everything out of place.

I like to keep my living spaces rather tidy. The tidiness of my living spaces is often indicative of my stress level. If I am not stressed my apartment looks lived in, but very clean and relatively clutter free. There are magazines on the tables, and maybe a drink glass on a coaster, but everything is where it belongs. If I am stressed, clutter begins to accumulate. If I am so stressed that I can barely hold myself together (i.e. threat level Tara Reid) - house keeping is the first thing to go. It's moments like this when chaos ensues and clutter overwhelms the spaces. It's different for work spaces - which are generally always cluttered (I'm a right brain person) - but living space organization is a good barometer for my stress. Right now, you would think I am barely breathing, the apartment is just - whoa crazy, did you bypass Tara Reid and go straight to Lindsay Lohan? (except for the bedroom which is immaculate! I have to have something. FYI, I'll explain my threat level system in Friday's blog post. Be sure to check it out; it'll be a good one).

Since I'm not stressed, but my apartment looks like I am - there is an odd disconnect. I feel like I should be stressed, and I feel like I must not be doing something because I'm not stressed. This makes me hunt for motivation, but I have a hard time finding it, because I'm on schedule. I'm doing everything according to plan, and there is no need for external motivation. This being on schedule overhwelms my gutteral urge to move faster (I must be going too slow with all this clutter), and thus I come to a stand still.

That may sound crazy, but we all have individual neuroses, and mine are all confused at the moment - derailed, if you will. So now, I am going to give myself some motivation: tonight I will clean up some of the mess I have made from moving. I will get done what I can, but not overwhelm myself. My priorities being the living room and the guest room. Now that I've shared my goal with all of you, hopefully I'll stick to it. I should. I think publicly announcing my goals may be what I need to get my neuroses back on track.

Following up with yesterday's post, I've posted a photo of the new 'do. Be sure to check it out. I won't be posting tomorrow, because I'll be driving all day, but be sure to come back Friday!

New Haircut Attitudes

So today, I got my hair cut. It was my first haircut in two years, and it was the first time I had ever been to an actual salon, and not one of those discount chains or a barber shop. If you have never been to an actual salon, let me tell you, there is a big difference. My stylist, Leah, made me feel so important - like I was the only person that mattered in the moment, and I received a deep conditioning mask - something I've never gotten at a discount chain. (I mean the discount places always did condition my hair, but they never let it sit. It's an in and out sort of deal.) It was extremely relaxing, and I found myself wishing that someone else would wash my hair more often.

My new hair looks rather amazing. (Think Jake Gyllenhaal in Prince of Persia.) It was exactly what I asked for, with a few additional touches added by the professional. I am incredibly pleased.

It is amazing how great a new haircut can make you feel. I feel on top of the world, lighter, cooler (temperature and otherwise), and I can't stop running my fingers through it. A great haircut really makes you feel so much better about yourself and your day. It's quite amazing the change.

After my haircut was over, I went to pay and tip my stylist. Now most places allow you to add the tip via your credit card, but this place did not. The lady who checked me out didn't seem to like it when I asked if that was an option, and informed me that the only accept "cash and checks only for tips." Her sour disposition and generally poor attitude rubbed me the wrong way. I asked if there was an ATM in the building, and I was informed there was not. I attempted to lighten the mood by saying "well that's unfortunate," trying to joke with her a bit, but she wasn't amused.

I had always been worried to go to an actual salon, because I feared that the people there would be bitchy, overly judgmental, bring their drama to work kind of people. (That and the cost difference, but you do get what you pay for...) I found my worries to be far from the truth, however, my stylist was great, the receptionist was nice, everyone I had met thus far seemed pleasant, but here I was face to face with what I had feared... a bitter Betty.

That's when I remembered that some people are just ants at a picnic. No matter what is going on around them, they have to poison the mood with their toxic attitudes. I also remembered that I shouldn't cast pearls among swine. No matter how nice I was, I wasn't going to change her attitude, so I stopped trying. All anyone can do is affect his/her own attitude - not anybody else's. So I stayed positive to keep myself positive, and it worked. There are no ants allowed at my picnic! (Not today at least).

The other receptionist, as I said before, was much nicer. She seemed a little worn down, but I probably would be too if I worked with a picnic ant. I'm glad though, that she is there. If she weren't there, there would only be an attitude problem greeting people, and attitude problems shouldn't be a part of the haircut experience (just like ants shouldn't be part of a picnic).

After traveling all over that part of town looking for an ATM (and a place that would make change), I finally drove back to the salon and tipped Leah. She was with a client, so I left it with the nice receptionist. I don't think they were expecting me back, but I wasn't about to let her go un-tipped. (My hair looks too awesome to not have tipped.)

In the end, I was proud of myself for not letting a picnic ant get me down. I think too often, we as a society let the moods of others affect our own. I know I'm guilty of it. I can be having a glorious day, and someone comes along and ruins it with a harsh word or a piss poor attitude. An entire day can be affected by the negative energy of someone else. But, we have a choice. We can choose to not let ants at our picnics.

I think the next time we encounter ants at our picnics, we should treat it as if we've just gotten new haircuts. I think part of my ability to let bitter Betty's attitude slide off was due to my new haircut. You feel so good after a haircut, your hair has been washed, conditioned, blown dry, and styled (all by someone else - a professional at that!) - it feels great to the touch, and you look your best. If we approach everyday with a new haircut attitude, there would be no ants at our picnics. I think I'm going to try this strategy.

Oh, and if you are like me, and have never been to an actual salon - it is very worth it. Don't worry about the price difference, it isn't that much, and you deserve to be pampered. Don't be your own picnic ant.