Buried

Two friends find buried treasure.

I wish.

That reminds me of my childhood friend Renata. Well, she wasn't so much of a friend as she was the daughter of one of my mom's friends. They lived overseas and Renata would come to Ruston every summer to spend some time with her grandmother. I had to play with her when she came to town.

I am picturing us sitting there on her grandmother's screened-in porch, with the old-timey iron floor fan swooshing around stale humid summer air. Wooden floors, patterned quilts draped over antique mahogany; watermelon for an afternoon snack.

We spent an entire day out there once making rubber bouncey balls by pasting rubber glue onto wax paper, letting it dry and rolling it up with our fingers.

But what we liked to do the most was to bury treasure.

In fact the folks that live at 3001 Belcara Drive in Ruston, La. or anyone in the surrounding Hundred Oaks/Northwood Hills neighborhood might come across several items of note if they try to dig up some trees in their yards.

(We had to do it at my place because Renata's grandmother wouldn't let us dig in her yard).

Things we liked to bury included beads, boxes (more particularly an old, broken Strawberry Shortcake jewelry box), anything I could steal from my sister's room that she might not notice was missing, Monopoly money, Barbie dolls that had seen better days, etc.

One summer, Renata and I had come into some cash from a very well-planned and executed lemonade/chocolate chip cookie stand.

I remember it being quite a bit, actually (perhaps supplemented by overly enthusiastic parental units?).

Instead of running out to spend it on peach ice cream or more rubber glue, we decided it would be wise to bury our money and save it for a rainy day.

(Like our options of activities would be any different).

Not wise.

Renata left to go back to wherever it was that she lived (England? France? Massachusetts?)

I don't think I ever saw her again.

Time passed, and of course I forgot where the money was buried. I remember searching when we moved out of that house, but no luck.

Years later I would go jogging down Belcara Drive, past my old house sometimes. I always wanted to stop by and ask the new owners if they had ever found a shoebox of money buried in the backyard.

I'm Declaring Today Mustache Recognition Day

And one more time for the road

what is wrong with me?

Everything.

Everything about my sister's wedding.

I can't seem to help it. I WANT to behave like a normal person and get all excited and girly and blah blah blah - but it's just not in me.

I got nothing.

Between the luncheons and hats and invitations and showers and dealing with my mother and my sister, I am going to explode.

It's nice how my sister sends emails to me saying "your mother has done this..." Like it's my fault she is dysfunctional.

I refuse to wear an "Easter" hat.

That is all.

ugh

I'm still in disbelief over the amount of food I've consumed in the last two days. I mean really, did I REALLY need that funnel cake after downing 2 slices of pepperoni, a corn dog AND roasted corn - with the butter? (Oh and when I say "with the butter" I mean dunked into a vat of melted yellow sauce and then, just to make sure the entire cob is entirely coated, brushed with the very same "you will have a heart attack today if I have any thing to do with it" liquid, followed by an evil chuckle. [OK so I'm lying about the chuckle, but you get the picture]).

And there's another thing about the corn.

Just as I had (rather appropriately) dumped, unevenly, a half of a shaker of Tony's Seasoning on my cob and began to crunch into the first bite, the middle aged man responsible for roasting the corn came to speak with me. Apparently I was the first one to purchase said corn. He wanted to know how it was. I nodded as melted butter dripped from my lips. Then I noticed his hat. Well, all I can say is that it's been a while, ladies and gentlemen, and a few state fairs, since I've seen someone wearing one of these.

Yes, delicious corn, shithead.

I feel so gross today. On top of the food, and the beer (ahem, 40 ounce Bud Light - yes it was a carnival of class hereabouts), I am sunburned - my arms, face, lips and most painfully on my head, where my hair parts. I've spent the day lathering on Neutrogena After Sun Treatment, which, by the way, is awesome.

On a more pleasant note, I am headed out to Charleston, SC this weekend for the bachelorette fiesta of the infamous Jessica "W-E-A-R like you wear clothes."

Paige has promised to bring an arsenal of sunscreen.

Holy Hell

I just felt like saying that.

So I pretty much just stuck my entire head into the Folger's coffee cannister. You know - smell - wake you up? No so much. I think I have granules stuck in my hair now. At least I've got it brewing.

I only became a coffee drinker in the last year or two, So I'm a little lost as to the proper office coffee etiquette. I mean I see the inside of the machine says clean once a month - but dude, let me tell you, that bad boy has not been properly cleaned in, well, probably ever. Who's job is it to clean the machine? I feel a little responsible, so before I brew I usually wipe out where the filter goes, pour out yesterday's coffee, swish around some hot water (maybe soap) in the pot and wipe out the inside of it.

Anyhoo, I coasted into work on fumes today. Why is it every time the gas light goes on in my car I'm always like fuuuck. It's not like it's some unexpected disaster. I know it's coming. It's easy to stop and get gas, but still, always the cursing at the little orange light. I didn't feel like stopping before work (see Folgers coffee cannister incident referenced above), so I hope I can make it to 7-Eleven around the corner when I get off.

Song of the day, on repeat, in car with little or no gas left.

newsies

The top mover on msn search is roma tomatoes. strange.

This is just too much. Seriously. Of course, I plan to watch.

Oh and congrats to the new "face of the church"

Is it just me or does the new church face bear a striking resemblance to Ian Holm, aka Bilbo Baggins?



ADDENDUM:
Delay on Bolton Nomination. Imagine that. At least someone's trying to stop him.

I'm a makin cookies

Nestle Tollhouse Ultimate Chocolate Almond Fudge cookies to be more precise.

I found myself torn between watching The Contender or Look Who's Talking so I resorted to chocolate to help me with the decision.

At least, that's how I'm justifying it.

This weekend was quite excellent. Friday I got off work early and spent some time by the pool, soaking in much needed sun and really getting into Desolation Angels.

Went to see Woody Allen's new flick, Melinda and Melinda, Friday night after dining on some delicious pizza of the Italian sausage and green onion variety at Campisi's.

Will Ferrell, whom I maintain is the funniest man alive, is in the movie - perhaps influencing my warm reception of the film.

Love. Will. Ferrell.

Saturday morning I went for jog - yes, I actually exercised on a Saturday - must have been something I ate. Then more sunning, fresh air and reading at Starbucks.

Let's see, after that we wheeled over to Dave G's to assist with his acquisition of a new TV - actually I just watched and played around on the computer.

The evening brought about massive beer consumption and the uncontrollable urge to be the loudest table in the Elbow Room clapping for The Hosty Duo.

That night I was introduced to the term fraidy hole (scroll down) several times. First there was my initial inquiry when they played the song the first time. Then the singer's explanation after or either before they played it for a second time. And then there was the scholarly interpretation, unsolicited, by the girl in the line for the bathroom:

Girl(slouching and sliding against the wall): "You from Oklahoma?"
Me: "Uh, no."
Girl:"D'ya know whatta fraidy hole is?"
Me: "I think I figur-"
Girl: "It's where you go when there's a tornado coming."
Me:"Ah..."

She then made me hold her place in line so she could stumble over to check for another bathroom. Although, I'm not quite sure she made it that far - it seems the Polaroid picture-taking people might have sidetracked her and then she forgot what she was doing.

She clopped back over just in time for her turn in front of me.

Shots, a disaster with the red pepper shaker, and more beer followed. Enough beer,in fact, to make me try to convince everyone at the table that I was going to become a documentary filmmaker, starting with, of course, the life and times of the Hosty Duo.

So then there's today. Today I had some delicious migas and a headache.

good times, indeed.

I'm tarred

Not as in "and feathered," but more of a haven't gotten any sleep in two days kind of way.

I think I need to turn down the coffee intake a bit, but see, I've found myself in a vicious cycle where I need the coffee to counteract the effects of sleep deprivation.

Sigh. What's a girl gonna do.

I wish I was on vacation.

I want a cheeseburger.

At least I've got Britney.

I'm gonna go with the more traditional "I don't wear shoes or shirts that cover my midriff" names like Shayla or Erika - that's with a K not a C people -if it's a girl, and Bobby (give or take the Joe) if it's a boy.

I Brake For Squirrels

I also brake when a soccer mom in her overly enormous top-of-the-line SUV decides she wants to tailgate me at 8:45 in the morning.

I am so mean.

Diane Von Furstenberg was my first real interview

Yes it's true. About 2 years ago. It wasn't a complete disaster, but is wasn't pretty either. And by real I mean actually in person - not calling up some honor student's mom on the phone confirming the spelling of her kid's name.

You'd think that they would send out the intern - with no prior experience - having worked there for only two weeks - you'd think they'd send me out to report on something, say, along the lines of recapping the unique fellowship of Erma Ray's afternoon knitting circle. Not, however, to interview the creater of the wrap dress (something I'm embarrased to admit I didn't know on several different levels, but particularly because my family owns a clothing store, which, in fact, at one point carried her line) about her new cosmetics line. I'd just graduated from Clinique, people - what the crap did I know about some fancy overpriced make-up created by a bored fashion diva that wanted to add on to her already quite substantial empire. My editor helped me come up with questions.

So I head out to Sak's at the Galleria. A nightmare to get there in Dallas traffic. I have the cell number of Diane's assistant, Alexis, she tells me to meet them at the cosmetics counter where they will be giving free makeovers all day.

I should mention that I get really claustrophobic very easily - I'm talking sweat, red face, and general can't breathe-type panic. So you can imagine how I felt coming down the elevator into a swarming sea of teenage girls smacking on various flavors of fruity Bubbalicious. I push past the crowd and swing through the glass cases scanning for Diane. I make it all the way through where I'm spit out into the mall itself. No Diane. I walk back through the other way, meanwhile dialing up Alexis. Voicemail. I stand there not knowing what to do when a bushy, red-cheeked Sak's sales girl, clad in the typical "I'm a cosmetics consultant" black apron, asks me if I need help.

"Uh, yeah, I'm here to interview Diane Von Furstenberg..." I explain where I'm from. I don't think they entirely believed me, and being only an intern, I had no business cards to back up my story. But they did retrieve Diane for me. It seems she was behind the same counter I had walked past twice looking lost and panicked.

She seemed very calm. She's also really, really short. For some reason I'd expected her to be tall and commanding - not hidden behind the freaking counter.

Anyway, the interview, well, they plopped us down right in the middle of this mob of fans and makeover hounds. The Bubbalicious girls kept popping up while I was trying to ask a question, or she was attempting to answer. I was trying my best to seem professional, but it was really hard to hear through all the resounding "Oh my Gawds" around us. There were a lot of "can you say that again" and "what was that" and general looks from Diane like what the hell did you just ask me and I have no clue what you are talking about.

"Uh..." "Um..."

I got the general information - like her favorite item is the pink cheek stick. The article ran several (several) months later. Mostly because Alexis kept flaking out on sending images. (Again I don't think they believed I actually worked for a real publication).

I like to think I'm a little better at the whole interviewing thing now. But to always remind me of that first one, I've got a signed copy of Diane: A Signature Life sitting on my bookshelf. Of course, I've never actually read it.

ooh eeh ooa

ooh hoo ee ooa

I may in fact be going crazy this week. I'm not saying it's a sure thing, but there are some pretty clear indications:

1. I woke up this morning and my hair, hair which has spent the last 25 years in a flat, fine, sometimes limp but always straight groove, has gone curly. I'm talking kinked out, frizzy, finger-in-the-socket frizzy, medusa-like coils, crazy-lady-next-door-that-doesn't-shower-funk curly.

2. I am purposefully flinging my car into each and every pothole I see. Granted, this is for work (editorial content - pothole of the month), but I'm kind of enjoying it. It's getting a little out of hand. My shocks are not happy. And neither are the drivers around me, I suspect, as I careen all over the road after hitting a particularly large and uneven rut.

3. Then, after almost hitting the curb after craning my neck to see if an indention in the road was actually a pothole, I swear to God I saw an entire footlong sub sandwich sitting smack dab in the middle of the street. I had a very strong urge to run it over.