I Have Something to Say

Now that I have a little experience….

2009-01-05T16:27:00.000-05:00

Blogging time does not equal billable hours.

I guess it’s flattering, but I recently got in trouble with a friend who says that, if I am going to blog, I’ve got to commit to it, “own” it and do it more often. Well, when the lottery comes in, I’ll be blogging every day and writing a novel and and and…. Until then, I may disappear for four months at a time, blogwise, anyway.

Reinvigorated and ready to go!

For now, I have been forecasting a bit about the new year. I would say “reflecting,” b/c I am indeed contemplative, but it’s more about the new year and the new opportunities it presents. More of a positive look forward.

You see, I’m going to try to take my own advice re: PR this year. In addition to helping my clients show their best sides, I’m going to do a better job of promoting me in 2009. I promise, however, not to turn into one of those PR people who turns every client opportunity into, well, an opportunity to talk about themselves. Mostly, if I make my clients look good, they’ll tell other folks about me…but I have to be ready to help them do that.

I had gotten busy doing what I do and had not tended to my own plot of land. My collateral materials need updating. My Web site is out of date. And I’ve been so busy helping other folks network that I have not done as well as I could networking for me.

2008 was busy; don’t get me wrong. In fact, much of it was standing-on-my-head busy. Too, a very positive aspect of work during the year is that I really and truly got to work with a lot of folks I really like and in whose work I believe. Can’t beat that.

But I need to up the ante a bit. Thus the recommitment to re-launch my Web site, turn out a snazzy new biz card and other materials, and tell friends and colleagues what I have been up to and what I want to do in 2009.

I know the bad news – the many bracing economic indicators. Still, about all I can control is how I help myself and my clients and I’m ready to redouble my efforts…so long as it’s fun and fulfilling. Not every second, but most of it.

You see, I’ve never done anything else for a living – really, since during high school – but I also can’t think of anything else I’d rather do.

So be on the lookout for my re-launch, and if you don’t see it soon, call me on it!

Happy New Year!

I'm taking up a collection....

2008-09-12T13:13:00.000-05:00

Please send money. You see, I've flipped over my latest Dean & Deluca catalog and found that there is a $2,000 ham available. Actually, it's not even the whole ham. It's like a ham leg. The clincher is that it comes with a carving stand.

I'm thinking this is the kind of ham I would buy if I could sell Cindy McCain's earrings. Now that's what I'd call change, America!

In the meantime, it's just not in my budget to shell out for a $2,000 ham. I know that stand is alone worth probably $1,923, but it's just not do-able right now.

So, if you care a thing about me, please save your pennies. I must have this ham.

A visit from my favorite people

2008-09-05T10:02:00.000-05:00

Today is my nephew's 12th b-day; that's him in the middle of the pic. He is headed to Hotlanta with my sis/his Mom; that's her in the subtle purple suit.

Nephew Will is one of my favorite people, along with his two sisters. I've made sure to tell them this over the years because I think everyone should have at least one or two or seven people who think they are, well, the bestest people in the world. Unconditionally.

And, it's not difficult to think so about My Favorite Redheaded People. Being an uncle is a good job.

Today I am remembering when Will -- who is the third of three -- came home from the hospital. His eldest sister, who is 6 years older, exclaimed, "I was just getting used to (sibling #1) and now I have HIM!" Not surprisingly, she and her sister have risen to the occasion and the three get along surprisingly well.

We're going to visit the aquarium, swim in the (chilly!) pool, eat lots of chicken fingers and fries, eat something chocolate, play games, make farting noises, and generally fawn over the person I call "Wilburtuna" for his b-day.

I hope you are an uncle and a nephew too.

Word: Fulcrum

2008-07-29T11:04:00.000-05:00

I always thought "Fulcrum" was a street in San Francisco where gay leathermen have a big festival every year. Turns out that’s “Folsom.” Dictionary.com says Fulcrum is the support or point of rest on which a lever turns in a moving body. Like in a seesaw, I guess. This Word of the Whatever comes to you compliments of Miz Paula Collins. For this she receives my undying affection, which she already had. Maybe this she means she has achieved the fulcrum in her life. Or the Folsom. Or something.

Lube me up, but please don’t kill me

2008-07-19T11:02:00.000-05:00

This is not a column about safer sex.

Rather, it’s about a trip to have my oil changed at a national chain of, well, oil-change places. (That's my dipstick in the photo. Really.)

The otherwise unremarkable trip at first was only punctuated by the standard poor customer service and efforts to “up sell” me. As I waited I noticed that the young lady behind the pay/reception desk seemed unusually keyed up. And she was furiously writing.

I can understand that, being a writer and all. Of course, she did seem to grunt and wheeze occasionally. She also periodically punctuated (literally and figuratively?) whatever she was writing by poking the paper really hard with her pencil. Sometimes multiple times.

When she got a call from the oil-change shop about my car and took the opportunity to relay a question to me, I had the chance to see just what she was writing. It was a hate note. Or maybe you’d call it a threat note. (How do you distinguish the two?)

Yes, right there in pencil on notebook paper or a lined tab, mostly in block lettering, but also some cursive, was her vitriol. Boldly at the bottom or top of the page – can’t remember which, ‘cause I was trembling at this point – was the clincher: “I am going to kill you!!!!!!”

Note: It had umpteen exclamation points after it just like Reesa (the big red-headed girl who picked on you) would have included in a note she passed you in art class in ninth grade. I believe this key phrase was also underlined. I remember or have since invented that the lettering and multiple exclamation points got larger toward the end of the sentence.

Let’s just say it was a real serial killer moment. I got a little worried that she could probably tell I was trying to read her missive upside down. (And what bad actor will play me in the Lifetime television movie version of this saga?)

The writing and panting (hers, not mine) continued a while longer, and my car was eventually sprung from the service bay. I can tell you that I was really polite (not my usual) as I paid and “checked out” with Threat Lady/Receptionist.

I did the right thing, I hope: I went home and immediately sent a letter to the corporate office of the national oil change place recounting my experience and the threat that might be posed by Threat Lady. Hopefully they too found this disturbing and took action. Of course, these are the same people who hired her, so who knows?

I now make partner Billyjosh take the car for oil changes…and take it to another place…and carry pepper spray.

And, whenever we drive past said oil-change place we look at each other and say, “I am going to kill you!!!!”

Word: Broccoli rabe

2008-07-18T09:05:00.000-05:00

Okay, it's more of a phrase and more vegetable than word, but please stick with me through this digression. Broccoli rabe. Or Broccoli rapini. Not to be confused with broccolini or the more plebian (just) broccoli. Broccoli rabe is an Italian green. Jagged leafy greens that have a little broccoli-looking head in the middle. I’ve seen it in the market with little yellow flowers on it. Dumb me: I thought it was broccoli with something wrong with it. Now is the part where I casually mention that I was once dining with two-time Tony award-winning star Christine Ebersole (though she only had one Tony at the time…) and she ordered broccoli rabe. It made me want to know about this vegetable and, well, it also gives me great cause to *casually* mention “my favorite broccoli rabe story” at the drop of a hat. Eat your vegetables; eat them with a fabulous Broadway star, if at all possible. (Photo courtesy of Wikipedia.org - one of my fave sites! Pls visit that site and contribute.)

Victory is mine...sort of

2008-07-15T13:01:00.000-05:00

Today someone defaced the "Liberal" bumper sticker on my car. This enterprising person - who apparently always has a Sharpie at the ready - scrawled "Ahole" on the sticker. Actually, they have really bad handwriting (or maybe carpal tunnel syndrome from frequent acts of vandalism), so it looks like they wrote "Ahold."

Yeah, I should count myself lucky that the Ahole who wrote "Ahole" didn't do worse worse to my gas-sucking Japanese car, but I'm just going to enjoy the fact that I struck a chord with them.

I'm proud that my sticker provoked a strong reaction. I'm equally pleased that their, er, penmanship is so bad that the commentary sort of loses something. Hey, if you are going to deface my bumper sticker, print legibly and clearly and have your Ahole friend check your work.

And, just as Ultra Conservative Aholes blame everything vaguely and vehemently on "Those Damn Liberals" and "Bill" and "Hillary," I'm going to blame this squarely on the nefarious influences of Ronald Reagan. Makes no sense, huh?! Well, there you go. All politics is logical.

Liberal. Liberal. Liberal. Liberal. Liberal. Liberal. Liberal.

Two words

2008-07-13T10:44:00.000-05:00

Heidi Fleiss.

Word: Hoi Polloi

2008-07-06T11:53:00.000-05:00

I often hear this misused to mean the upper crust. It actually means the opposite: The masses or the common people. You often hear it as the hoi polloi, but hoi means the (in Greek, dontchaknow), so you're really doubling up, but it’s okay to say it this way (common usage, pun intended). A sure sign that you are one of the hoi polloi. A delightful lady named Buffa Buffington used to use this word in conversation and I took it as a sure sign she was not hoi polloi.

Coping is not as good as the real thing

2008-06-28T11:25:00.000-05:00

I have not been blogging a lot lately. In addition to the usual – busy with work and home doings and such – we’ve been preoccupied with our friend Scott from Charlotte who I wrote about here previously. Scott was diagnosed with cancer nine months ago and died just over a week ago.

Obviously, since we’re in Hotlanta and he was in The Queen City, our actual visits were minimal. Still, a lot of mental time is taken up when a 44-year-old friend is seriously ill; especially when it becomes clear he is on a downward trajectory.

Even so, Scott went quickly and peacefully, which is the most any of us can hope for.

He also was surrounded by a bevy of people who loved him. A great partner, some family, friends across several states, neighbors, colleagues, caregivers and more. It’s great to see people come together like they did for Scott. It makes you ask the obvious: Can’t we all pull together in the absence of crisis and heartbreak?

It’s also interesting to see how various folks cope – or how they don’t. Some people fight, some organize, some crack jokes, and some have Klonopin and vodka for breakfast.

One way we all coped after the fact was by again coming together around Scott. In dribs and drabs we rolled into Charlotte. We gathered at the house, we became friends in grief with neighbors we barely knew, we helped plan, we did errands, we took part in a beautiful inurnment (look it up), and participated in a wonderful service that drew a crowd worthy of our fine friend. We also had a wake of sorts back at the house.

It was easy to do there because Scott and partner Mark had lovingly created their dream house not even a year before Scott became ill. Every detail of the home and its furnishings and its yard evoked Scott for us.

Some people talked about anything but Scott, but most of us talked about our friend. I’m sure we will continue to invoke his name, sometimes self-consciously, then increasingly casually.

I remember my first trip to Charlotte after Scott’s diagnosis. I know I can be…a little much…so I asked Scott, “Can I be full-on Drew or do I need to hold back?” In typical candor and with a trademark smile on only one side of his mouth, he said, “Can we do some of both?” And so we did. Thank goodness I didn’t actually have to be nice 24/7; if I wasn’t razzing him at least part of the time, Scott wouldn’t have known just how much I care.

During his final days we sometimes lapsed into unspoken code when talking about The Inevitable. In fact, once, Scott’s partner – a manufacturer’s rep – made reference to “when the show is over.” I just automatically thought he had created a euphemism for Scott’s death. It took me some time to realize Mark was literally speaking of an upcoming show in which his company would take part. I had to laugh at myself for convoluting the way life goes on in the midst of tragedy.

And life will go on, but it’s still a bit surreal. On the way home from Charlotte after the funeral I mentioned to partner Billyjosh that it may take some time to realize Scott is really gone. After all, he was always there in Charlotte; it’s almost like he’s still over there now.

And, corny as it may seem, Scott will always be with us, just not in the way we want.

Word: Hegira

2008-06-17T21:23:00.000-05:00

Hegira: I originally misspelled this as “hegina” and it just had so many more possibilities to talk about naughty, tingling parts. Well, I was wrong: It’s a journey (literal or figurative) to a more favorable place. Could also be a placename of somewhere in Georgia. Peacocks, Flannery O’Connor (alive), dusty dirt roads, ice cold Coca-Colas, tobacco farmers; the whole shebang.

Yum-O? Dunno...

2008-06-15T17:52:00.000-05:00

Sometimes it’s the right now, right here small things that bother me, like people who won’t hang up their cell phones or stop texting long enough to actually look at and communicate with the barista at Corporate Coffee. Or wherever else they happen to be rudely ordering or paying for something while being the center of their own personal universe and not acknowledging someone who is trying to help them.

But sometimes it’s the really little insignificant things that stay on my mind. Okay, the absurd things.

Backtrack, backtrack, backtrack.

I love reading The New Yorker. Used to read it occasionally in the doc’s office or wherever and finally realized…okay, after stealing a copy of two from the doc’s office…that I should just subscribe. (Note to lie detector-toting future clients: I did always surreptitiously return the magazines, even mailing them back once….)

Well, in any case, I love everything in The New Yorker from the cartoons to the odd little people stories to the fiction to the reviews and show openings to the exhaustive essays on any and everything and nothing. If you know me, it’s likely you’ve been the recipient of something from the magazine I have scanned and sent to you. (Note to The New Yorker: This was always for educational purposes and never for profit.)

So, I usually have two or five issues of The New Yorker going at once, along with a book. (Mother-in-law Gloria, also a New Yorker reader, occasionally checks in with me to see how caught up – or how behind – I am on my New Yorker reading. She always has me beat.)

Among these several issues I have going I start seeing an ad for almond butter. I am not really sure what that is, but it purports to be “organic and alive,” which is supposed to be heartening, I guess, but sort of creeps me out, too. Is it going to crawl out of the jar?

It’s one of those teeny ads closer to the back of the mag. Maybe the eeriest part is this photo in the ad of someone smiling while they scoop up a big hunk of what I take it must be almond butter. I am not sure if this almond butter eater is a guy or a girl, but they have something on their head which may be a toboggan or a do-rag.

Maybe the do-rag is a weird symbol of something, like the ostensibly nefarious scarf Rachel Ray was wearing in a recent ad. The only way Rachel Ray terrorizes anybody is by being too happy and chirpy, but I digress.

After I saw this almond butter person, I went right on through the magazine. But then I would see it again in the next issue and start wondering if the head covering in the photo indicated illness and if almond butter was maybe curative or some such.

I haven’t done anything logical like look up the Web site or wiki “almond butter,” but it’s on my to-do list, and is likely the only way I can move on to my next absurd fixation.

Almond butter; whodathunkit?

If you happen to have a chance to look it up before I do, let me know. In the meantime, lay off the texting and adjust that do-rag.

Word: Gobsmacked

2008-05-31T11:10:00.000-05:00

Think of someone exclaiming by cupping his or her hand over their mouth. That’s where this word comes from. Essentially: Flabbergasted. Taken aback. Usage: Mrs. Spears felt gobsmacked by the suggestion that one of her daughters might not be acting like low-rent trash.

Come next Sunday...

2008-05-27T15:23:00.000-05:00

I have many obsessions, not the least of which is the Sunday Times Styles Section. I disappear into Sunday Styles and generally don’t come up for air until I’ve finished.

Truth be told, I might take breaks before I actually get to it all, but I pretty much have to read all weddings and wedding-related matter straight through. For one, I pick out the common threads that always seem to run through the weddings.

You know, seven of the bride’s mothers are psychotherapists in private practice. Or four people in seemingly unrelated wedding announcements are from Blue Bell, Penn. Or one person from each wedding party seems to have gone to Hofstra.

I was thrilled recently to stumble upon someone I actually knew vaguely in the Times weddings. At first I thought, “Could it be?” but his name is a hard-to-miss adjective and then I realized the rest of the puzzle pieces were there. Yep, it was him.

It’s not just weddings; my Sunday Styles orgy has a process, the whole section through. I tend to start with Vows – the big wedding write up that somehow warrants more ink. Then all of the weddings. Then maybe back to the front page for an intriguing lead feature, like the one this past Sunday on how people who back Ron Paul are so obsessed they’ll get their babies tattooed with his likeness.

Next I tend to hit On the Street (schmancy fashion, plus dandies, plus well-shod pooches) and Evening Hours (facelifts and names, names, names!), then returning to A Night Out With. Sometimes I don’t even know who the folks are in A Night Out With, but it’s interesting to see where people go, especially if you catch them going to/from fabulousness, like just having been on stage or returning to the public eye after some hiatus.

Possessed comes soon after, especially if it’s someone fab (Christine Ebersole!) or Joan Collins is featured. I love learning what makes people tick, and that’s what this column is about. Sometimes they barely even get around to mentioning that something which possesses the featuree, but you can do that when you are The New York Times.

Pulse can be fun, too, especially if it’s something universal like this week: Eloise at The Plaza. Reminds me of my first-born niece and all of the adult-like things kids do. (Aren’t we all just little people trying to make a big hotel our own?) So that brings me to Modern Love.

The Times includes a broad definition of the subject matter, from romantic love to sperm donors, adoption-gone-wrong and divorce. The stories can be sweet (awwww) to shocking, weird and disturbed. All the way to schmaltz and back.

So, while you are worshipping at Saint Mattress, going out for Chinese food, or frantically dashing between kids’ events, I’m on the screened porch with husband, cat and dog, buried in Sunday Styles – and loving it. As obsessions go, it ain’t bad.

Word: Cynosure

2008-05-19T09:28:00.000-05:00

Cynosure: This is a word you will never use, so don’t worry about it other than the fact that it describes my friend Tracy Markowski (http://www.foxydoxie.blogspot.com/) to a “t.” Now, stop sitting there looking somnolent and go look up cynosure. Then look up somnolent, too. What are you waiting for? www.Dictionary.com works nicely.

South Beach is close to Rancho Mirage, er, Palm Springs

2008-05-16T15:42:00.000-05:00

I thought the tough part of being on the South Beach Diet would be starvation, but not drinking (Phase I) and drinking less (Phase II) has been the bad part.

And it’s not what you think: I have not been plagued with DTs or such. No, the bad part is the lack of that little buffer alcohol gives you. You know, sort of takes the edge off things – and people.

I don’t tend to be real tolerant or patient anyway. Now, standing at a social function while someone drones on and on is even tougher.

Omigosh, it must be so fun to be in PR! Is it fun? What? Hillary Clinton is running for President? When did that happen? Do you get manicures? I love that gay men will get manis and pedis; I can’t get my husband to even trim his nails! Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

I have to overcome my natural bent toward Tourette’s Syndrome, being careful not to yell, You are so f-ing boring! Or, Give me a cocktail or hit me with a mallet! Or my personal fave: You have used up all of your words!

But I realize that obtuse and/or boring people cannot help themselves. This is my problem. So, not only do I need to lose a whole bunch of weight, but I also have to work on being more forgiving and patient.

If I had known a little dieting was going to lead to wholesale personality changes I would have gone on a reality show. Or to Betty Ford. At least with the former I might get rich and with the latter I’d be in Palm Springs. (Okay, Rancho Mirage, but it’s almost the same thing.)

Maybe I can just settle for thin. Thin and drunken and faux-polite.

Now that’d be okay for Palm Springs, and I wouldn’t have to room with Larry Fortensky.

Word: Pastiche

2008-05-05T10:06:00.000-05:00

Pastiche: I just love a good pastiche. All that garlic, the pasta, tomatoes, fresh basil, buffalo mozzarella. You can even throw some grilled salmon on top. So good! Actually, Dictionary.com (a fave site!) says a pastiche is “a literary, musical, or artistic piece consisting wholly or chiefly of motifs or techniques borrowed from one or more sources.” You stole a bunch of stuff and put it together. Use this word in a sentence today.

If you are ugly, a facelift won't help

2008-05-01T21:57:00.000-05:00

When I see your picture in the “Evening Out” feature in The Times, I am not necessarily staring at you because I know your name or countenance from the financial or society pages. I’m staring at your extreme plastic surgery.

Hello, my name is Drew, and I am obsessed with plastic surgery. Now, don’t get me wrong: I think some well-done work here and there is fantastic. In fact, I am envious of such.

But if you think it will substitute for hard work or staying out of the sun or moisturizing, you are delusional. And if you think we somehow won’t notice the eyebrows that are now L-shaped and somewhere on your temples…what were you thinking?

Now, I loves me some good “work.” You know, the “did she or didn’t she?” tweaks. Or the lifts that make someone look younger or healthier or just plain better…but still like themselves. If you are Caucasian and suddenly look Asian, well, your surgeon was not paying attention. In med school.

My other face-lift favorite is the dodge that comes from the people who obviously have work and then proclaim to have achieved renewed beauty through facial massage or some such. I have no doubt that facial massage might do you some good, but it’s not the reason your hairline is two inches farther back.

Legal skirmishes over plastic surgery are interesting to watch, too. I don’t mean true malpractice cases. Rather, I mean the actresses who sue a media outlet over reports of a facelift. Through a publicist, they decry, “Insert Your Name Here has not had a facelift!”

What they mean is, “she has actually had a boatload of face-freezing chemicals, an eye job, a neck lift and lip enhancement.” Don’t have all that work and then deny it based on a technicality.

Partner Billyjosh and I have a running joke: If a lift or pull or tuck is especially bad, we say that I did the work myself…with a butter knife.

And, although I think he has finally relented, my friend (we’ll call him “James Albert”) used to say, “You think everybody has had work!” At the same time, he seemed to think no one actually had. So what are plastic surgeons doing – sitting around playing Scrabble in their offices?

My greatest plastic surgery satisfaction has come during several celebrity interviews I’ve been lucky enough to do for magazines. They never talk about their own nips and tucks, but they’ll rat out each other. I’ll be glad to turn my tape recorder off if you want to get anything off your chest about someone else’s fake chest or recent eye job.

So, next time you see someone on the Society Page who looks surprised, consider the fact that she may just not be able to move her face into any other expression.

See you in recovery.

See you on South Beach

2008-04-28T15:14:00.000-05:00

I am on the South Beach Diet again. I would pretend to ruminate about “How did it come to this?” but that would be a lie.

I’ve done South Beach before and it works. You just can’t spend the rest of the time eating…anything...and everything…and second helpings of it all. This is not to mention the empty calories from booze and a pronounced lack of exercise.

I didn’t decide to diet after the second-hand poolside chair collapsed under me back in August. Nor was I moved to curtail my food intake when I moved to plus-sized jeans around the same time. Even the fact that I could no longer button the collar on any of my dress shirts did not move me to dieting.

There was no revelation, per se. Just a growing realization that I was…growing.

At least I know what it was that forced me to my all-time-high weight: Marriage. We’ve been together 6-plus years now, and I can tell you I have spent those years eating pie. That’s how our marriage has been – blissfully and inactively basking in the glow of middle-aged marriage done right…and eating pie.

Obviously, that’s a little fib. It wasn’t just pie we were eating. There also have been a lot of home-cooked meals. (And olives in those martinis.) I cook, he cleans up; what a deal! Where was THIS system during previous attempts at nuptial and gastronomic bliss?

In any case, this diet started Sunday. We’ll see how it goes. Still, I am feeling committed and looking forward to not being quite so…voluptuous. (Hey, my day job is in PR; you knew I’d find another way to say that.)

I am most looking forward to other people no longer commenting on my weight. You know: “Have you always been big?” “I love to eat; Drew knows what I am talking about, right, Drew?”

I’m never going to be thin-thin, but I’ll settle for healthful and not so…Rubinesque.

Word: Luddite

2008-04-27T20:38:00.000-05:00

Luddite: A rare material used in the making of bathroom countertops for only the wealthiest of Republicans. False! Nowadays, this describes anyone who is opposed to technological change. Originally more specific: British workers who destroyed machinery they thought might take their jobs. Now that’s the kind of factoid that sets my mother atwitter.

Taking a break with Sadie and Starbucks

2008-04-26T16:40:00.000-05:00

Partner Billyjosh and I both work at home. Different professions and different home offices, but both home-based.

I love working from home and on my own. Along with the freedom to choose clients I like, partnerships that are fulfilling and a schedule that’s flex, I have a four-legged fringe benefit: A canine named Sadie.

Sadie and I are both spoiled by this arrangement. She gets to visit with her two dads off and on throughout the day, and we get her, well, her consulting services. (Good to know: She bills at a higher rate than I do.) She truly is one of my best advisors.

I tell people that she would be lost if one or both of us humans went to work outside the home, but I think that’s a two-way street. I might have to ask an employer to hire me and the dog.

Among other things, Sadie often accompanies me on quick jaunts, weather permitting. (Can’t leave my baby in a car that is too cold or too hot or otherwise not to her liking!). Sometimes she navigates as we head to the Post Office or the office supply clusterhostel.

Still, a favorite break we take almost daily is to Starbucks. Around 3-ish I grab my keys and Sadie gets…keyed up. She knows where we are headed. She rides in the back seat, running back and forth to stick her head out of the windows on either side, alternately. We meander through the neighborhood to our fave Starbucks.

They know us and know to be looking for the schlumpy guy who may or may not have showered by that point and who has a little black and white dog peering out the window of the car in the parking lot. They’ve even tried to give her treats, but Sadie is having none of that. Food from strangers? “Nah,” she says. Good judgment, that girl.

Or maybe she’s just holding out for the sour cream doughnut. After all, she is my daughter. And one of my favorite things about working at home.

Word: Precis

2008-04-22T21:30:00.000-05:00

Precis: It’s rather obvious that this should be the name of a Toyota. Or at least a Kia. Alas, it is not. Precis means a summary, usually of a book or article or such. Usually in your own words. It most often refers to a concise summary that includes no interpretation or conclusions. Nothing outside of the text you are interpreting. To boot, it also can be used as a verb; you know, like to make a summary of. And, I think it is supposed to have a little accent doodad (that’s the official term) over the “e,” but I’m not getting into all that.

We needed a new hot-water heater, so we bought a bed

2008-04-21T15:28:00.000-05:00

The other night my partner said, “I can’t wait to get in bed….” He meant nothing passionate.

It’s just that we bought a new bed and restful sleep would be ours again. Ahhhh, the wonts of an old married couple.

You see, we’ve been renovating our master bathroom, which necessitated our move to the guest room. Well, wouldn’t you know it? Our guests have been too polite to tell us that our guest-room bed was, er, inadequate.

(Actually, it wasn’t so bad for one person, because you’d roll to the center of the v-shaped mattress. I kid you not.)

The bathroom renovation saga began the week of Valentine’s Day. The hot water heater became incontinent and had to be replaced. Our fab plumber emerged from our crawl space to wonder aloud if we planned to do anything about the active leak under the master bath….

Come to find out the subfloor and the floor joists were rotten. Sort of explained the reason the wall between the master bath and master bedroom was sinking.

We really didn’t want to do a bathroom reno right now, but since our contractor’s diagnosis was, “I really don’t know what’s holding the floor up,” we decided it might be a good idea.

Ultimately, we’re making the best of it. After all, we’ve wanted to re-do the tiny 1950s bath since we moved in. Nothing like a rotten floor to motivate you.

Good: We sold the old bathroom parts on Craig’s List. I am convinced you can sell anything on Craig’s List. Well, except New Coke. Better: We found the coolest tile. Newly fab, but with a nod toward Mid-Century Modern – or at least ranch-house chic. Best: I’m gonna’ have a heated floor.

As my grandmother would say, “What will they think of next?” (Then she’ll ask how much we spent on the bathroom. I'll tell her I am not providing that information unless she is going to pay for the bathroom. She'll tell me I have a smart mouth or that she was just wondering or that I am being mean. Then she will ask what my sister paid for her bathroom renovation.)

Ya’ll come visit. Well, give us a chance to move back out of the guest room first.

Next up in the marital excitement department: We got a new wheelbarrow today. I am ecstatic. It’s all about perspective.

Who said gay marriage wasn't throbbing with excitement?

Word: Vociferous

2008-04-17T18:38:00.000-05:00

Vociferous: This word had gone off my radar screen. Just don’t hear it much. Then it turned up in dialogue from the smart, funny and Tony-winning Grey Gardens on Broadway last year. Since, I have looked for ways to use this fierce-sounding word. Means vehement, noisy, plaguing. We’ll take our usage directly from Grey Gardens: After vociferous complaints from neighbors, the Board of Health took legal action against the reclusive pair….

It can be tough, but it’s a no-brainer

2008-04-16T11:48:00.000-05:00

Partner Billyjosh and I are getting ready to head back to Charlotte. Our friend there has been battling cancer. We want to be there to do what we can. And, well, just to Be There.

It’s not so much that our presence is crucial. Sometimes I am not even sure it is logistically helpful. Charlotte Friend is more than capable of doing much on his own. It’s a great sign that he physically and mentally can and wants to “go and do,” as my grandmother would say. But he is not running at 100 percent, so we and so many others are there to assist.

Billyjosh and I are both self-employed and have the flexibility to work from Charlotte instead of Atlanta (ain’t computers wonderful?), so we show up when we can and when Charlotte Friend is amenable. Of course, the logistics of work and travel aren’t always the impediments to Just Being There.

When my previous partner John was ill and obviously near the end, some people just went off radar. They didn’t have any ill intent. They just didn’t know what to say or do or how to act or how to be. And I didn’t have the words or the maturity or maybe even the knowledge yet to say that they just needed to Be There.

Show up; the rest will work itself out.

When John didn’t win his battle, a great cadre of friends said, “when and where and what?” They didn’t pause and they didn’t question. But there was that other set that didn’t know what to say or do, so they did nothing.

I’m not holding a grudge. I prefer to see the positive lesson: Showing Up, Being There…does not take special skills. Just willingness.

Think creatively about what you might do for a friend in need. Of course, asking, “what can I do,” is always a good start too. Again, Just Be There.

And be open to being re-directed. You know, when your Friend In Need says, “instead of bringing dinner Wednesday, can you make it Thursday?” Or, “what I really need is for someone to drive me to such-and-such next Tuesday.”

In the midst of all else, Charlotte Friend’s housekeeper quit. So maybe I’ll have to scrub toilets while I am there next time. No matter that I don’t clean my own house. The point is that you Just Do. It’s not about glamour, it’s about friendship.

And I know that sometimes you cannot literally just get in the car and go to Charlotte. Being There can mean phone calls and cards. Letting someone know you are on their team. It’s trite, but it means a lot.

A personal coach I know likes to espouse the “eat that frog” theory. You know, pick the most daunting task and Just Do It, as Nike would tell us. That’s sort of how it is with Being There. Swallow your discomfort or uncertainty or whatever else it is and pick out a card or write a note or make a phone call or schedule a trip.

There are a lot of things in life that are plain old complicated. Being There isn’t. And it does not make you a hero, it just makes you human.

Word: Latitudinarian

2008-04-12T10:04:00.000-05:00

Latitudinarian: A mousy, bespecled woman who reshelves books over a great distance. The truth is less fun, less disparaging: Holding or expressing broad or tolerant views (American Heritage Dictionary). Secondary meaning, again containing trivia that Mom would love: (Pejorative description of) British churchmen of the 17th century who held to the Episcopal form of government, but rejected its divine authority.

Choosing a career...in sixth grade

2008-04-10T10:52:00.000-05:00

I decided what I wanted to do for a living in a language arts class in sixth grade. I know, it’s a young age at which to pick a career, but this was among the first classes ever that did not bore me and which held my attention. Well, as much as my attention can be held.

Teacher Jane Fuqua treated her pupils like people. She told us about her former career working for a major insurance company and how they had discriminated against her because of her gender.

This was big stuff; although it was the 1970s, no one much treated us like little adults and this is the first mention ever in my presence of gender equality. It also was intriguing for a sixth grader to hear about a teacher having had another life. You know, as a human and as another kind of professional other than a teacher.

I’ve wandered far afield; been doing that since before sixth grade.

Back to the point about my career choice. Okay, I didn’t exactly say, “I’m going to be a public relations flak or a free-lance writer,” but I knew I wanted to work with words and messaging and images and varying perspectives and tell stories and work with other creative people.

You see, Ms. Fuqua had us each produce a slide show. That’s the project I really remember. We had to choose our own subject, script it, learn how to use a camera to take slide photos of pictures from a book or such, synchronize the whole shebang and more. My slide show was about John F. Kennedy.

In our I-Pod, YouTube, everything-on-the-web and satellite radio world, these language arts projects may not sound like much, but this was big doings for sixth graders 30 years ago. If nothing else, we were entrusted with a lot of responsibility and, as is bound to happen when you give kids a chance, we rose to the occasion.

Of course, one of my language arts projects kept the teachers laughing in the teacher’s lounge for days and also got a note sent home, I think. We got to write poetry and Ms. Fuqua would give us different themes. The theme must have been Popular Culture or Something on Television, because I decided to memorialize my prepubescent infatuation for my favorite of Charlie’s Angels:

Last night I watched Kate Jackson,
While I fiddled with a fraction.

I like her looks,
They’re better than books.

I then had an inner-action.

I swear I did not know what I was talking about, other than being enamored of the smart, spunky angel. But the poem seemed to tickle Ms. Fuqua and that means a lot to an insecure sixth grader. Besides, she was unwittingly helping me choose my career. Or maybe it was not so unwitting.

Thank a teacher. And Kate Jackson.

Word: Portmanteau

2008-04-09T09:20:00.000-05:00

Portmanteau: This should be a kind of hat, don’t you think? Well, if you tell people, I am going out now and I intend to wear a portmanteau, they will think you are headed out wearing a suitcase or other bag of clothing that opens into two halves. There also is another meaning that has to do with Lewis Carroll, but people who are into Alice in Wonderland are just a little bit too into it, so I’ll just let you learn that meaning on your own. If you are a crossword-er, I bet you already know this other meaning of the word.

My old Kentucky soft drink

2008-04-08T15:32:00.000-05:00

Just back from a trip to Kentucky. Nothing to do with Kentucky bourbon, though I did have a nice Brunello di Montalcino (DOCG) while there. Nothing to do with the horsey set, either; the Kentucky horse stuff isn’t my thang.

No, this was a trip to see family and friends.

Anywho, on the trip I remembered and then sought out a Kentucky-something I do enjoy: It’s a regional ginger-ale-ish soft drink called Ale-8-One. Get it? “A late one”?

It’s got a caffeine zap to it that I like, but is great for the taste alone. I also like the retro-ish green glass bottle and homey label, which tells the story of founder G.L. Wainscott.

The fab and fine label also drove me to www.ale-8-one.com, where I discovered you can sign a petition to help make this drink the Official State Beverage of Kentucky. Not only do I like this throat-tingling drink, but the whole petition signing thing appeals to the political upstart in me. (You have to be a Kentucky resident to sign the petition, though, damnit!)

But the real reason I probably connected with Ale-8-One so naturally is that it reminds me of Buffalo Rock, a not dissimilar regional ginger ale I used to enjoy when visiting my great grandmother, Mama Myrtie, in Birmingham. It was a treat because we could only get it there.

Mama Myrtie and other old timers thought ginger ale was medicinal, which is another good excuse to enjoy it.

I also associate Grapico, a regional grape soda, with summertime visits to Mama Myrtie’s house. Grape soda is not something I would normally drink, but the nostalgia factor weighs heavily, and I’d love to have a Grapico right now.

I may just have to break down and order some Buffalo Rock and Grapico; I’ve at least been stalking them online and found out one is even owned by the other now. www.BuffaloRock.com.

Krispy Kreme doughnuts are another Mama Myrtie-Birmingham memory. I guess we could get them at home, but visiting my great grandmother was always an opportunity to procure some – usually on the way to her house. We always said they were for her and that she loved them, but it’s more likely we scarfed most of the doughnuts ourselves.

I suppose I’m glad you can buy almost anything anywhere nowadays, but things did seem more special when you could only get them certain places. I made it home from Kentucky with one Ale-8-One and I’ll savor it. Still, going forward I may limit myself to only enjoying this spicy, tangy treat on subsequent visits to the Bluegrass State.

It will keep it special, like Buffalo Rock and visits to Mama Myrtie.

Word: Herpetologist

2008-04-02T08:00:00.000-05:00

Herpetologist: A medical professional who specializes in the treatment of herpes; Studio 54 employed an in-house herpetologist during the height of the disco era. Real deal: A zoologist who studies reptiles and amphibians (so says WordNet). To refresh: Reptiles are people who have worshipped the sun for far too long. Amphibians are people who have had such extensive plastic surgery that their mouths seem extra large and extra wide. Then again, Ryan Seacrest looks like that naturally. Maybe his mouth has been stretched around something.

The car ate my brain

2008-04-01T20:39:00.000-05:00

On the way to the dealer to have my car serviced, a hasty motorist in a same-make car swung around me on the wet streets, flipped me off and flew by. Was it my speed-limit driving or my “Liberal” bumper sticker? Somehow, minutes later, in the pandemonium of us all trying to get out of the way for a speeding ambulance, said hasty driver ended up behind me again.

Of course, I didn’t know this until I pulled into the service bay at the car dealer…and he pulled in smack-dab behind me. I didn’t have to say a word about his having flipped me off moments before. He looked at his feet. Literally.

And, as if karma had not already dealt with him thoroughly enough, he was left standing with me and only me at the service counter only a few minutes later. Sheepishly, he gave me a rather tentative, “hey, Dude.” A-hole! I just smiled a parentally condescending smile. Again, I didn’t need to say a word.

My smugness started wearing off the moment I got my loaner car: It was smarter than I am. Really.

My car is nice, but it is 8 years old. New cars have things on them that hadn’t been introduced when I bought the car I call Rose Louise. And, even the facets that are the same all look different and are found in different places.

I’ve always laughed at the Jesus-is-my-co-pilot license plates; now I thought I might need Baby Jesus just to help operate this vehicle.

Enamored of the satellite radio, I tried to turn it on. While driving. I bumped something wrong, I guess, because the nav system was suddenly talking to me. It didn’t tell me I was an idiot, but I felt it. And I turned it on unwittingly at least two more times. Maybe I would have to give back my master's degree.

Too, even though I am used to a full-sized sedan, this was an SUV and I felt like something was following me. I also felt like my carbon footprint was swelling out of control. But I made it home.

Of course, by the time I headed out again, it was raining. I managed to back out of the driveway, though I felt a bit like Shirley “this series ruined my career” Jones driving the Partridge Family bus. I had to stop on the street in front of my house to decide how the wipers worked. After two full minutes I mastered the wiper on the back window and briefly considered just backing to my destination.

Flummoxed, I realized about halfway there that I was driving back to the dealer instead of to my intended lunch destination. Luckily, the two places weren’t too far apart. My guilt over another barrel of oil mounted and I corrected my course.

Then, I was behind schedule and out of sorts, sitting still behind a city bus that didn’t seem to have lights or signals and didn’t seem to be taking on or letting off passengers. Just as that little voice inside was suggesting I might pull into the turn lane and around the bus, I looked at the odometer – digital and hard to find, of course – and saw that it registered 666. The devil’s number.

Now, I am not much for numerology or religion, but that was the only sign I needed to stay put. I’d be late for lunch. Fine. I concede. The car is smarter than I am, but I am smart enough to see a sign and stay put.

Later, when I made it back to the car dealer, they wanted to know if I wanted to see someone from the showroom. Nome. I’ll stick with what I’ve got, even if it’s only so I can feel superior to a piece of machinery.

Even so, when you pass me, think twice before you flip me off: Karma will sort your ass out.

Word: Effulgent

2008-03-31T19:58:00.001-05:00

Effulgent: A compound used to clean makeup and ear fudge off telephones. Nah! It means “shining forth brilliantly.” You know, as in, His well-worn polyester was effulgent when viewed in just the right lighting.

My blog has a matriarch

2008-03-30T15:18:00.000-05:00

There is a reason this blog is called, “I have something to say.” Stick with me. It’s a story that’s been percolating for 91 years, and I think it’s worth hearing.

You see, my grandmother is a tiny Southern dynamo, with all four feet-eleven inches of her (well, she used to be that tall!) in a whirl of motion pretty much always. It’s only in the last year or so that she has begun to slow down. And even then, it’s her mind that is failing; her body is remarkably intact, as she’ll demonstrate by grabbing one hand with the other behind her back. She’ll gladly demonstrate her senior-cize for you.

Still, “Mama Sadye’s” most marked characteristic has always been her outspokenness. It’s taken her from rural Alabama to rural Tennessee to rural Kentucky. She’ll not only tell you what’s on her mind, she’ll tell you what should be on your mind. Mama Sadye can seem bewildered when everyone does not simply adopt her likes, dislikes, opinions and associations. One of her trademarks, which increased with age, is the use of the phrase, “I have something to say to you.”

This was normally delivered after she had sidled up to you and was looking up at you, right in your eyes. The pronouncements that followed were often things she had been told not to discuss; or told you didn’t want to discuss. That didn’t matter to Mama Sadye. Nope. She had something to say and you needed to hear it. Further, you needed to act on her wisdom and direction.

Some of her famous pronouncements include, “Your hair would be so nice if it just had some style to it; why don’t you get some style in your hair?” She really meant it as a question. She really wanted to know. Then she would offer to take you to see Miss Whoseywhatsit in her built-in carport beauty salon down the street, right there and then. My sister and I both had our hair redone by our grandmother’s preferred barber or beautician as children; it turned me gay. But that will be the subject of 811 other posts.

Mama Sadye is also fond of commenting on people’s weight. “You are such a pretty girl and you have such a pretty face; why can’t you just lose some weight?” Mind you, she is a bit rounder herself these days.

My personal favorite pronouncement was not actually preceded by my fave Sadye phrase (“I have something to say to you…”), but is CLASSIC. When my parents divorced after 39 years of marriage, Mama Sadye’s response was, “Well, I knew it would never last!” as if this were a starter marriage that had crashed on the rocks early. She absolutely saw no irony in the statement. She predicted it and didn’t mind saying so. She also could tell you about the specifics, even if you didn’t ask and even if she didn’t necessarily know all of the facts.

Now don’t let me leave you with the impression that Sadye is the gloating type; not at all. She’s never been one of those Southern biddies who took pleasure in bad news or being right; she simply felt no compunction not to say exactly what was on her mind. She felt it was her duty. After all, wasn’t anything and everything she had to say helpful?

An irony we all share and that is magnified in Sadye is that advice-giving is not a two-way street. Mama Sadye’s feelings can be hurt tremendously and easily if you dare say what you are thinking to her. In fact, a frequent tearful retort has been, “Well, that hurt my feelings….” Never mind that she may have just told you what she thought of your unwanted pregnancy or career choice or spousal choice.

Some Sadye zingers that have been leveled at me – and, yes, they were usually preceded with, “I have something to say to you….”
· I’d hug you if I could just get my arms around you….
· It looks like you haven’t missed a meal….
· WHY do you want to wear your hair like that?
· Do you think your hair looks good like that?
· WHY would you have that stuff growing all over your face?
· Atlanta? WHO would want to LIVE in ATLANTA?
· You are a big boy. A big boy. Just a big boy.

As we say in the South, bless her heart. We’d all like to be as unfiltered as Sadye. She wouldn’t know political correctness if it came to her door and delivered itself. Still, she means no harm and would actually be sorry to know she hurt anybody’s feelings. In fact, she has a hug for everyone and several if you wait around a few minutes these days. “Have I hugged you already? Let me hug you again.”

So, that’s why, “I have something to say to you….” You can read on or click off or “hug my neck,” but I’ll still have something to say. And, unlike Sadye, I hope you’ll talk back….