Dirty Dozen

My G man, aka Brainiac, turned 12 last Saturday, celebrating in style with mud fights, stream exploring, football and lemon pound cake. He invited 16 kids, including 2 girls, to party with him at my friend's place in Gerton. Thirteen showed, including one brave girl. Did I mention there were mud fights?



I get all weepy and sentimental when his birthday comes round. He was born pretty sick. His APGAR scores were in the toilet. I can honestly say, I didn't give a flying flip. I had been pushing him out for over two hours and was so exhausted that it didn't register things were bad. They cleaned him up a bit and whisked him away, in a very calm fashion, to check his breathing. Me? I'm still reeling from all that "natural childbirth" pain I signed up for in my birth plan.

Can somebody please give me some drugs now? A shot of tequila? A pill? Anyone? Finally I got a shot in my expanded hinnie. Big target. Damn that was good stuff and I drifted off to la-la land. But the boy, yet unnamed, was struggling to breathe. Pneumonia. He lay sleeping under an oxygen hood, turned up to its max. Before the beautiful narcotics sent me spinning, the DH said we should pray for the boy. Pray. Serious bizniz for the scientist who has difficulty believing anything he can't touch. And for the first time, I felt the gravity of the situation. Then I slept, despite my concern. Exhaustion + childbirth + drugs = dreamland.

At midnight (he was born at 9:23 am), his breathing improved and his oxygen was turned down. Whew! He was the biggest kid in the NICU. I hung with him for two days then the insurance company sent me packing, leaving my beautiful baby boy behind. Dude, if it happened today, I wouldn't take that bull shit. I'd have insisted on staying with him. But the nurses at Durham Regional Hospital rocked. They called me when nursing time came round and I was up there in ten minutes. He was home a week later.

Now I look at him and can't believe I have the privelege to be his mother. How can I deserve him? If you ever meet him, you'll understand.

The party lasted 5 hours, the mud fight a little less than 2. They were 15 minutes into the mud fight when one kid, Jacob, seemed to be struggling with a clot of mud packed in his ear. I watched from the pavilion as a couple of other kids tried to help. One genius filled up his Super Soaker with STREAM WATER and commenced "soaking" Jacob's ear. I'm thinking ear infection. Gross. But it seemed to temporarily resolve the issue and worked for the duration of the party, so who am I to judge? I bet his mother had to deal with it later.

A dozen memorable years I have been blessed. Thank you God.

Really

Whew! I still don't believe it's true. The DH is asleep. He stayed up too late watching football last night. What a choice. Football or History. Football. History. Really. So here I sit, watching by my lonesome, doing the best I can not to scream that someone made a last second catch for the touchdown to win the game.

At 9:30 pm the Brainiac headed for the pillow and left me with his electoral map to color in blue or red- his homework. He also left me with strict instructions to wake him when I knew who was president. And to make sure he really heard me. I just returned from his room. "G", I whispered. He stirred and I said in my most restrained voice, "Obama won. He's the next President." He lifted his head of the pillow and asked, "Is it projected or did he really win?" I think he must have been awake. I responded, "Projected, but McCain is just about to concede the election to Obama AND Obama won Florida, Ohio and..." "OK, OK, I get it," he huffed and rolled over to get away from me. He is 11 after all.

Just before McCain conceded I switched to Fox to watch the coverage. They were so somber that you would have thought they were covering a funeral.

I just received an email from Obama. He is headed to Grant Park to speak. I can't wait to watch it.

This is history. And I am witnessing it. Really.

Happy Halloween

Go Obama. Thanks to my neighbor, Amy, fellow Obama supporter, for taking this photo of my pumpkin. My camera is MIA.

Coach

The Firecracker is playing soccer and flag football this fall. Football is a new sport to him but he has excelled. It helps that the most of the other kids are 6 and he's almost 9.

At Monday's football practice the coach asked DH to coach tonight's game. DH couldn't but he volunteered me. Nice.

Stop laughing. I do have some experience with flag football. I played one season when I was 9 or 10. The only girl on any of the teams. I distinctly remember my team sucked. But I had a few moves to impress the boys. Football moves.

So I showed up tonight with 6 plays that the FC drew out for me. Sounded like a good plan, but I could barely remember the kids names so the plays were out of the question. I let them all take turns being the running back. "OK, Caden, your are the running back. Where do you want to start? Left, right or middle?" It worked pretty well but my little FC wasn't happy that he didn't get as much bill time. He was part of both the touchdowns, though. He ran one, and threw the pass for the other.

They lost 18-15. I think. They lost anyway. I couldn't wait for it to be over. I made me totally anxious.

After the game the coach's wife remarked, "He would be proud." Before the game began, upon finding out I was coaching, she exclaimed, "She's coaching!"

My sentiment exactly.

Driving, Ms. Sassy

I have several elderly neighbors living round me. One is 85 and totally together. She has a pacemaker and is taking Coumadin but doesn't let it slow her down. She is very active in her church and a big reader - we trade books. I loan her the saucy ones, like The Other Boleyn Girl. She loans me the intellectual ones, 1776 and From Palestine to Peace. I haven't read either. Yet. But this isn't about her.

There is an elderly couple that lives on my street. A long retired social worker, she is sassy and stubborn. Retired from the CIA, he has enchanted us on several occasions with his beautiful rendition of some German song he learned long ago, but now is vacant and obedient. We love them - my family and our neighbors. A couple of years ago, their old-lady-ride Oldsmobile bit the dust and she bought a VW Passat. I'm not sure of her reasoning but she sure differentiates herself from other old ladies in our town. If one ever comes up on an Oldsmobile in this town, it is a safe bet there is a perfectly quoiffed older lady behind the wheel.

She shouldn't be driving. Not only because her diminutive stature impedes her view over the steering wheel, but because she doesn't have the metal facilities to operate a vehicle safely. One such indication is that she has repeatedly told different neighbors that her mother is visiting and driving her crazy. Of course, Mom is dead. On Sunday, she backed out of her driveway and hit a car parked on the street curb. Not a big deal. Except she left the scene. She was headed to Ingles to buy something for our neighborhood block party. She showed but didn't know any of us. She became agitated with me, called me rude and said I shouldn't speak with strangers like that. Sigh. We were all alarmed and saddened by her diminished mental state. I vowed to call her daughter who lives in another state.

However, last Spring, three neighbors, including me and my other elderly neighbor, separately called her daughter to express our concern. She dismissed it. She has been trying to get them to move to a retirement community in her home town but without success so she said she would get them some "help". I haven't seen any evidence of help, but even so, she shouldn't be driving. Many neighbors have witnessed her erratic driving on Merrimon Ave.

Yesterday, instead of calling her daughter again and waiting another six months for "help" to appear, I called Adult Social Services. I spoke with the agent for over an hour reporting what I know, which apparently isn't much; there were many questions I couldn't answer, filling me with doubt about my judgement. But earlier today I saw the County issued vehicle parked in their driveway. My guilt and sadness for subjecting her to the indignity of social services questioning her ability to care for herself and her husband is tempered by relief that maybe soon she will cease driving and the roads will be a little safer.

My Bumper

On Saturday I was across the street visiting with my neighbor on her front porch when we noticed this woman walking by. She didn't appear to be out for exercise, as she was dressed too nicely. We figured she must be taking a break from the tennis tourney going on at the Country Club that is practically a stone's throw from my house. My van was parked in my driveway, the bumper facing out and she stopped to survery my stickers -Well behaved women rarely make history and Another Mama for Obama and It will be a fine day when the schools have all the money that they need and the Air Force has to hold a bake sale to buy a bomber and Those who would give up essential liberty to purchase a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty or safety. After apparantly reading them all, she remained still and gazed at my house. I wondered what she was thinking? The rancher house doesn't match the veiws espoused on my bumper?

Mama Bear

The Brainiac decided at age 11, to take up baseball for the first time this past spring. I was worried that he would be relegated to the bench, considering his lack of experience and skill. But we/he lucked out with a coach who was very supportive of all the kids and played all the kids equally despite their skill level. B even got a chance to play the infield a few times, as all the kids did. It was a very pleasant introduction to baseball.
B ejoyed playing so much he decided to sign up for Fall Ball, which is a differnt league than Spring Ball. It's not the same supportive environment. His team has ten players. Nine are needed in the field each game. The season is half over and B has spent half the time on the bench, swapping playing left field with another kid while all the others get to play the whole game. All get to bat regardless of their playing time on the field, so it's not about getting the best bats in and out. The good ol boys who are coaching the team are too lazy to rotate the kids in and out. So they have chosen to just swap B out with this other kid. The team, The Hillbilly Astros (I kid you not) is getting their asses waxed just about every game, so it's not about winning the title, etc. And even though he isn't a great player, he's just as good as the other outfielders.
B decides to take issue with this and we encourage him to speak with the head coach. After a recent game he approached the coach and told him that he wants more playing time. And the coach agrees. Then the B says, I won't be here for the next two games. He joked with the B- you ask for more playing time, then you say you aren't going to be here! We were proud of him for taking up for himself and felt like the issue was resolved.
We hit the road for Atlanta and missed the two weekend games. When the B showed for the first game back, we both realized that either the head coach had forgotten the previous conversation, or he just didn't give a flip. So when B took his place on the bench after his only inning playing, I approached the the coach and asked if he remembered the conversation he had with B about playing him more. He looked around as if I must be talking to someone else, then muttered, "I'll work on that." But he only played two out of four innings before the game was called because they were losing by so much.
It was my instinct to call out the coach for being so short sighted or lazy or just plain cruel but since I had a couple of days to think it through (and didn't have the coach's number), I settled down. The B said he would like to quit if the coaches weren't going to play him more and I supported it- he's not having fun and it wouldn't hurt anyone. But I thought he should give them one more chance. Show up for one more game. Give him the benefit of doubt -blah, blah, blah. Deep in my heart, I didn't believe they would but I was trying to fake thinking the best of these folks.
When we arrived on Saturday, we walked in with one of the assistant coaches who saw B but didn't even acknowlege him. Not a good sign. But to my surprise, they played him 4 out of 5 innings. In the outfield, of course, where he saw zero action. But he played.
At game's end, we encouraged B to thank the assistant coach for playing him more. He smiled, embraced him the way most men do only in the context of athletic endeavors, half hugging hugging, half pushing and said, "Aint nuttin against ya. I don't pay attention to all that suff."
Well, I'll take it. You can't write the script for these things.

Joe Six Pack?

What in the Sam Hill? I'm watching the Vice Presidential Debate while trying to multi task and blog about something within my realm of expertise- my children. But Sarah stopped me in my tracks. Joe Six Pack? Sheez!

She is totally ignorant to important issues. In her interview with Katie Couric she made cheerleader Katie look like the class president. Surely everyone watching gritted a collective cringe when she couldn't name one news outlet that she referenced to keep herself informed. Sheez! I can't profess to being more knowledgeable than her, however I'm not running for second in command in this country. I CAN name a few news outlets.

But she seems to be holding her own. So is Biden.

I'm watching CNN. There is some "uncommitted Ohio Voters" graph running across the screen, a green line for the men and a orange line for the women. But I don't know what the hell it represents. Maybe Sarah can tell me how to read that.

Gas Crunch

The worst is over "they" say with the gas crisis in Asheville. We have been short for over two weeks now and it got really messy last Wednesday. The lines of cars waiting for gas were ridiculous - 3 and 4 hours long.
We were supposed to leave for Atlanta on Friday afternoon for the DH's class reunion. I wasn't about to sit in line for hours to go a leisure trip. The thought of it nauseated me. In fact, anytime I was out in the last two weeks, which wasn't often, I become anxious and sick just passing the gas stations with lines. Then there were the tales of people behaving badly - cutting in line, taking advantage of the gap in cars created by a driver, already out of gas, pushing his car to the pump. It really brings out the worst in some people. I know it is a small minority and I am thankful for that, but I guess I'd just rather not witness people behaving like the world was ending.
I avoided the lines and panic until Friday when I struck out to fill up so we could make the Atlanta trip. I ended up at Sam's, a place I don't shop anymore since watching the movie, The High Cost of Low Prices, a not-so-flattering documentary about Wal-Mart. Sometimes ignorance is bliss. But once I became informed, even though I didn't really shop at Wal-Mart, I had to break it off with my man Sam. He had provided me savings on wine, tires, a six pack of sports bras, and large quantities of chips but sometimes that's just not enough for a girl, so we parted. He didn't even seem to notice.
But I came crawling back on Friday. Sam had an orderly line inside his parking lot with three attendants directing traffic. I waited 5 minutes. No nausea. No anxiety. Just a twinge of guilt.
The compromise was worth it. Atlanta, the reunion and the break from the soccer mom routine was just the call for me.

Hurry Up and Wait

The geeks at the local computer repair shop have held my hard drive captive for OVER a month now, tyring to pry it's contents from it's bones. It melted down in August and I surrender it to their expertise just after Labor Day. I have the old machine back with a new hard drive, but all my files for work, charitable work, pictures, finances, etc are locked down on that old dying drive. YIKES!(Of course, backing up now seems like a REALLY good idea). I keep calling to check on it because, well, they don't call me and the always polite young man on the other end promises to call back, but never does. I don't want to complain, lest I piss someone off and I never get my files back. Yesterday, I did receive a call back. They have the part they need to hopefully retrieve the information. I had to approve the charges before he could try.

He'll work on it and call me back. (Sigh)

Customer Service at Ingles?

What is up with the folks over at my neighborhood Ingles? I shopped there on Sunday afternoon, a time I don't normally shop, and the surly teenagers who seem to run the place, despite the visible adult managers roaming round pretending to be in charge, were actually polite and courteous. Two different young male employees asked if they could help me find something. When the second one asked, I thought my head might spin off. Up until now, I have never encountered a teenager there who was anything more than disinterested. Typically, when I find myself in the teenager's line I am subjected to their conversation about someones date last night. Once, I came upon an empty line where the attendant couldn't be bothered to pause her conversation to ask for my advantage card. She just kept blabbing on to the bag "boy" while she scanned my groceries. I had to interrupt her to get my 78 cent discount on my fakin' bacon.

Now I will say that there are some fine, friendly and efficient older folks working there. If I shop during the weekdays, I will seek them out. Mike is one of them. He dresses as a woman every Halloween. Not that I have ever seen that, but I have somehow gleaned it from having a conversation with him -Hmmm, there's a novel idea: a conversation with your customer. There is another older gentleman, Floyd, that often bags for Mike. He will use my cloth bags without question(or an audible sigh). Last week, just after I arrived, I did a 180 to hop back home to get my advantage card; there was more than 78 cents at stake. On my way out I mentioned it to the night manager who was out having a smoke. He said that any of the cashiers can find my number by my address - something they had never volunteered to do before- and he snuffed out his ciggy and ran in to retrieve my number for me.

I have to give props to one affable young man I have had the pleasure of interacting with lately. He works in the deli, where ordinarily I feel like I've interrupted a druggie from getting his fix. "Can I help you?" is what comes out of their mouths but their body language screams, What do you want?

When I was in high school, I worked at a Chick-fil-a for two years. The expectation was to be kind and courteous to the customer. If I had behaved any differently, I would have been canned.

This is big. Customer serviced at Ingles. I wonder what happened? Did the expectations from management change? Or was it anomaly for Sunday afternoon shopping? Perhaps now that the economy is sour, management has some leverage to get people to expend a little energy to keep their jobs.

Whatever the reason, I like it!

Drug Talk

Last week, I was driving my firecracker and his friend from church to their All Star practice when I realized that his friend, who is 8 years old, was talking to my FC about Pot. We had just passed a store called the Octopus Garden and he was explaining to FC that the store sold Marijuana paraphernalia. FC had never heard of this, so his friend, in the most matter-of-fact way, began to explain what Pot/Marijuana/ Weed is. That's right, he knew all the terms. I managed to add that it is illegal to grow, sell or smoke pot. FC asked why people smoke Pot. I explained that it made people feel funny. His friend added that it made people feel like they were in another world. Then he said that people who smoke it aren't very smart. Setting me up for the follow up question from FC.

Mom, do you know anyone who has ever smoked Pot? (I guess he figures I know lots of no-so-smart people).

Yes.

Who?

Me.

Why did you smoke it?

Because she felt peer pressure, his 8 year old friend answered.

That was a good enough answer for me.

I went on to warn of all the brain cells that are lost when you smoke pot. I have no idea if this is true, but I believed it when I was a teenager. I guess I figured my brain cells needed a little room to move about.

I thought this conversation was years away. But it really was as natural as talking about the College Baseball World Series.

Off the Map

The longer I stay away, the more I feel I need to explain my absence. I'm not sure why. Maybe I'm really explaining it to myself. Life got busy at the end of the school year. My brainiac graduated from 5Th grade and both the boys were playing baseball so we spent most of our spare time happily watching our boys participate and most of our money at Jersey Mikes.

We spent a week at the beach with our boys plus 2; they each brought a friend. Sounded like a good idea in theory but it made me nervous to be responsible for two other precious lives while I watched the waves pummel and toss them in the angry sea. I gave them the rip tide speech every day.

If you get caught in a rip-tide swim parallel to the shore until you swim out of it. Whatever you do...

We know, we know, they said rolling their eyes for effect, you told us yesterday.

I'm more than a little nervous around water and kids.

When I was 4 or 5, my father hurled me up on his shoulders and waded into the ocean. It wasn't long before a nasty wave knocked us about and I was separated from him, tumbling in the foam and water. I had no idea how to swim. I was at the end of breath (which was probably 5 seconds) when my dad plucked me from the waves, dramatically saving my life. At least that is how I remember it.

Fast forward 30 years. My boys were 2 and 5 years old. We were swimming at an Asheville pool over Memorial Day weekend. I guess I heard the man's voice first - Lifeguard, help me. She's not breathing. I looked up to see a man in the middle of the pool holding a limp girl. The teenage lifeguard seemed to freeze and moved off of his stand at a snail's pace. The first responder, was another dad at the pool. My husband assisted. We cleared the pool and everyone became eerily quiet, except my two year old who wanted a snack. We watched the two responders work on the girl for what seemed inordinately long while her Dad stood over them, his hands clasped towards the sky in prayer. My boys and I said prayers also. Finally, the girl lurched and water came pouring from her tiny body. She lived.

Later my husband told me it was the first time that the first responder had done CPR. And that the girl had no femoral pulse. She was gone. Thank goodness for their quick response.

So swimming at the ocean with 4 boys wasn't my idea of relaxation. But they seemed to enjoy it. And we all came home in one piece.

Away

Yeah, I've been away for a while. But I have thought about coming here, A LOT. There's a lot going on here, mostly good but let me start with this.

My boys had duel well appointments with the Pediatrician yesterday. My oldest is about to embark upon middle school and my youngest is headed for 3rd grade. They are two and 1/2 years apart but only 1 & 1/2 pounds apart. My youngest, the Firecracker, is 8 and weighs 65 pounds. He had gained 1 pound and 2 & 1/2 inches since last year. Finally, with some sleep, the growth hormone has kicked in!

My basset hound weighs 66 pounds. They are all hanging in there together.

But that's not the point.

They both were due for vaccinations which much to my husband's chagrin, I question. But after a lengthy discussion with our Doc, I decided to get a couple for the Brainiac and one for the FC.

FC was adamant he wasn't going to get a shot.

It reminded me of the time when I was 8. Some friends told tales of getting their tetanus shot and how many nurses "had to hold them down." I was determined to have at least that many hold me down, so I would have a story to tell - it never occurred to me to lie to my friends instead of causing pain and drama to all involved. So I pitched a fit. I bet my mother thought, WTF? It took two nurses and my mom to hold me down.

FC was headed in that direction but I somehow coerced him into may lap and before he knew it, the shot was over. Really not a big deal. I'm just glad they are well.

Passed Out

The Brainiac turned 11 on Friday and had a big weekend. Friday night he attended an Obama Rally, where Gladys Knight sang and Michelle Obama spoke. When we arrived, he discovered many of his friends were there and they played at the back of the quad while the many introductory speeches droned on. When Michelle finally took stage, they found a tree to perch in and listened for a while.

Saturday he had a soccer game, a baseball game and 7 boys sleep over. They were asleep by 10:30 last night but they hit the ground running this morning, racing down to dam up the creek that inspired a mud fight yesterday evening. The last boy dispersed at noon so he had a little down time before he went to practice baseball. At 6:45 this evening, we found him passed out.



I think it's safe to say it was a good weekend.




After tending to 8 boys for 24 hours in a two bed room cabin, I'm ready for my bed too. Nighty night.

Brainiac Baseball

My brainiac, who is 11 today, has decided to try baseball for the first time. I was a little weary of it, considering his lack of skill set for the sport. Surely all the other kids would be so far ahead of him that he would feel inferior and spend all his time pining the bench in the dugout.

Not so. There are plenty at his level, though thankfully there are some who are more advanced so the game actually looks like baseball. And his coach is a sweetheart. He even played B at third base one inning during their first game yesterday.

His first bat found him with a full count, the bases loaded and two outs. He struck out. I would have been crushed had it been me. But it didn't bother him. Partly because he just doesn't take on that kind of pressure. Partly because he doesn't quite get the game yet.

His second (and last)bat he was beamed by a pitch. A hard pitch. Stunned, tears streaming down his face, he walked to first, trying to shake it off. Lucky for him the very next pitch was a passed ball and he was sent to steal second. Safe. Still reeling, he rubbed his arm but the next pitch passed the catcher again and he was sent to third. Safe. Two pitches later, another passed pitch and he was headed for home. As he closed in on the plate, I heard his coach yell, "Slide." At this point, I'm thinking, he doesn't know how to slide, but then he hit the dirt, one foot gliding over the plate. Safe again.

His team won 7-6 in the bottom of the last inning. Of course, we pointed out that his run was critical in that win! The best part to him, though, was the reception he received after scoring the run. Lots of high fives and folks slapping his helmet.

I think he's going to like this game.

Crack TV

I've been a fan of American Idol since the beginning. No, I'm not bragging. It's a sad state of affairs. At least it's better than Rock of Love. And yeah, I have watched of few episodes of that train wreck. Kind of like watching a cat fight in high school.

But back to Idol. Seven years ago, when I ran across it, flipping channels, I was hooked from the beginning. I couldn't wait until the next week to get my fix - see the whole spectacle over again. It is fundamentally flawed as a talent contest because it is NOT a talent contest. It's a popularity contest. And to ever make it in front of Paula Abdul, Randy Jackson and Simon Cowell, you first have to pass through a preliminary round with Fox talent judges. You only move past them if you are so absolutely terrible that you are laughable and will be good entertainment, or you have a decent voice AND a story -your Dad's in prison, your a single parent, your husband's face is tattooed, your a total goody two shoes and you've never seen a R movie, your a chick who rides a Harley, etc. It makes for good TV ratings you see.

But still, these kids - OK some of them aren't kids anymore - don't care. They want a chance to show their stuff. Can't blame them for giving it a shot. Two of the most, if not THE most talented performers have already been voted off this season- Karly and Michael. Coincidentally, neither are originally from America. Perhaps that hurt them. Surely, they would land on their feet. I'd buy their albums. If I had any money.

Of the four that are left, one stands head and shoulders above the rest.

First, let me digress and say that it was time that Brooke got booted from the show. She had a decent voice and did a good job of picking songs that complimented her narrow range but she doesn't have the goods to make it in the industry, unless she perhaps breaks free as a singer/songwriter. I think her wholesome girl, golly gee, act was wearing a little thin. I'm not saying she wasn't genuinely wholesome but it finally lost it's luster to the folks, the viewers, that are voting. Now I love me some crack TV, but I'm proud to say I never, ever, not even once, voted. I feel like that has kept me from falling over the edge and never finding my way back.

Ok, back to the one that stands out. David Cook. He's da bomb, as Randy Jackson would say. He can sing and perform and play the guitar and rearrange the song to suit his style. I'm not sure how he got through the preliminary rounds though, as he doesn't seem to have a "story". Of the other three, one can flat out sing; David A. But I'm so over him. He's the same every week. He just sings, always nailing the song and knocking the judges socks off, but he doesn't perform. He'd be so boring in this age of Videos. Then there is Syesha, who has a decent voice but is an incredible performer. She could get a record deal though, if someone else picks her songs. Last is the John Travolta look-a-like, Jason. A little bit of James Taylor mixed with Bob Marley. He's likable but so incredibly mellow. I think it would be hard to fit him in a specific music genre.

Now I dig the competition, but I really dig Simon's candid critique of the contestants. Most of the time I agree with him. I wouldn't be so blatant, but I love that he is. Someone has to balance Paula who apparently has more than soda in her Coke cup. She has difficulty articulating her thoughts almost every time she speaks. And on this week's show she started critiquing Jason's second song when he hadn't even sung it yet. Huh?

But Paula has inspired me.

To get bangs cut. She has good hair.

Campaign Slogans

In a recent conversation with some friends we remarked that sound bytes and catchy slogans really seem to work and grab the attention of American Voters - remember Bush 2 with 'compassionate conservative'?

Anyway I was reminded of my bid for Senior Class Vice President of Pine Forest Senior High School in the early eighties. My slogans were:

Fred is Dead, so vote Tracey for VP

and

My Aunt Myrtle Wears a Tight Girdle so vote..

There was another, but I can't remember it.

I won. Shocking, eh?

Nite Out: Barack The Vote

Despite being sick and lame, I made it off the couch last night to go see Arrested Development, Bela Fleck and Abigail Washburn at Barack the Vote at the Orange Peel. It's only a spring cold but it still knocked me on my bum and I was this close to canceling. Lucky for me, I was carpooling two friends who didn't know each other and I felt responsible for getting them to the gig.

We parked just North of the Peel and as we walked past the City Bakery, some folks were advertising that Arrested Development was inside. We ducked in and they were there indeed, not eating a snack but all lined up sitting against a wall and behind tables, ready to sign autographs. My two friends had barely heard of Arrested Development and I had not heard of their music since the nineties and "Tennessee" so I didn't know the lead singer from the drummer. But they were terribly gracious folks, bantering with us as we moved along receiving each autograph on our newly purchased CDs. We thanked them for their obvious pro bono work; our tickets were $5 each. They told us they had done two other gigs like this for Obama; one in Columbia and one in Atlanta where they are from.

We moseyed on down to the Peel and lingered outside for a while, signing up for Obama yard signs. Then we filed inside for a beer which temporarily quelled my cold symptoms. Being a politically charged event, the atmosphere was lively and energetic. A few people took the stage to speak, including an older distinguished looking woman who gives "hugs for Obama" near Pack Square every Friday night. She captured the crowd with her genuine enthusiasm, warmth and sincerity - once she learned that the microphone had to stay in front of her mouth, and not swing side to side like a pendulum. She spoke to the lot of us as if we were all 18, voting in our first election but we didn't care. We got where she was coming from. Our Mayor, Terry Bellamy, also gave an impassioned speech. I've never seen her so animated, but I've only seen her at the City Council meetings.

I had never heard Abigail Washburn or Bela Fleck. Together with Ben Sollee on cello and a fiddle player (who was absent) they make up the Sparrow Quartet. They were amazing but being an acustic gig they were partially drowned out by many in the crowd who were talking.

Arrested Development was fantastic and engaging. I was bummed when they wrapped up their set around 11pm but in reality I needed to get home before I turned into a pumpkin. So we weaved our way up Biltmore Ave, my friend, Susan, stopping to intervene in an argument between two drunk young men. "Hugs for Obama," she said. That sentiment wasn't as appealing to these two but I think the shock from her intervention style stopped their arguing, temporarily at least.

I bussed my friends back to their abodes and came on home to nurse the cold. I'm glad I made it off the couch, even if I have to pay for it today.

Mr Curbie

Today is trash and recycling day in my hood. There was a time, back when the babes were in diapers that missing the trash folks was such bad news that I would load up the trash in my van and chase the trash truck through my neighborhood rather than be with the stinky mess for another week.

These days, the trash isn't the problem; its the recycling that is mammoth. We fill up four bins, half of it mixed paper. So this morning while parked in front of the computer, I heard the familiar clanking of glass and metal and realized that the Curbie dude, was on my street. Early. Still in my red velour snowflake pajama bottoms, hair askew and teeth not brushed, I slipped into my Carolina blue fluff Crocs, a Christmas gift from my brother, and hustled out the back door to my recycling pile. I grabbed one bin and hastened to catch Curbie four houses down. When Curbie caught sight of me, he said chuckling, "Girl, where'd you come from?" Graciously taking my bin from me, he volunteered to back up and get the rest. I huffed it back, as fast as any woman could in backless shoes, and in a feat not much unlike those who lift up two thousand pounds of a burning vehicle to save some one's life, I heaved two of those hefty bins, brimming with cereal boxes, newspapers and junk mail and shuffled to the street to meet Curbie. I watched as he unloaded them, waiting to thank him for his kindness. He then turned to me, stacking my bins on the ground next to me and said, "There's one thing I need you to do." And before I could say anything, he said with a sincere smile, "Give me a good morning hug," wrapping his arms around me in paternalistic manner.

What a sweetie, Mr Curbie.