How the Heck Do You Spell "Heinie" Anyway???

"I wanna scatter my hashbrowns all over your sweet ________ (insert your spelling here)." --Michael

I'll explain later.

Well....I just read my little bro's blog entry for the day and I'd just like to say, it's good to know that there are other people out there living their lives, making things happen, and not sitting at home watching soap operas. Which I'm not doing, by the way.
Agh! This unemployment thing is about to drive me bonkers. To compensate, I've developed this semi-preoccupation with cooking that I'm sure would bore you to tears if i told you all the details and the extent of my enthusiasm but it keeps me entertained. I've made "bruschetta" and various forms of "egg" and "kabobs" and "brownies" out the ever-popular "wazoo". Yes, everything's in quotes for good reason. It's my own version and it might not be what it's traditionally expected to be. But it's usually edible and arguably quite good. It's like that barbeque/mexican restaurant I went to eat at with friends over Valentine's Day weekend in Boone. Odd combination, you say? Why yes. That thought had struck me as well. I can't remember the name of it because i'll probably not go back unless i need a live bluegrass/baked beans fix one weekend but those who live up in that neck of the WOODs know where I'm talking about.
Anyway. What I was slowly getting at was that the menu at this restaurant had two sides, the first being your typical barbeque fare (hushpuppies, corn on the cob, reconstituted pork bits, etc.). The second side contained "Mexican" dishes and what disturbed me a bit was that everything on the "Mexican" side of the menu was in "quotation marks." For instance, you could choose between a "Beef Burrito" or "Quesadilla" and they had several varieties of "Taco"s. Don't know about you but that sounds a little "iffy" to me. Things that make you go "Ohhhhh! Where's the bathroom in this joint???" *clutching wildly at your clothing while sweat breaks out on your forehead*.
Not that any of my cooking has inspired such a reaction. At least not so far. My "Beef Taco Bake" was even a success. I'm trying Italian more recently and that's proving a little easier, seeing as how all you have to do is slap on some tomato, olive oil, and rosemary or basil and...as the Greek apparently say...there you go. Anything tastes pretty darn good. I'm also developing a strange appreciation for long loaves of bread and Cheese/Fruit combinations. MMMmmmmmm. I think I'm really a European somewhere in this "hey y'all" facade.
Just to let you know, the press releases are going pretty well so far. My first three received a pretty enthusiastic "We're in business!" so I guess that's a good sign. Wish me luck still, however, as I keep working on these last five. I've "got a ways to go" as we say around here.
In case you're wondering what the quote at the beginning of this entry is all about, as i often do when reading Nathan's blog, I have to attribute it to Michael, a good friend of Jeffrey's at State. The three of us went to Krispy Kreme a couple of nights ago and I can't remember exactly how it came up but that statement was made (NOT, i must point out, to anyone in the car at the time) and at the time, it was absolutely hysterical. Now.....it's a teeny bit weird in that uncomfortable way that Waffle House humor usually is after 24 hours or so. Not sure if that's the first impression Michael would like for my small handful of blog readers to have of him but there you go. He said it and Jeffrey and I heard him.
Hmmmmm.....
Okay, I'm out of stuff to ramble about so I'm going to go frolic in the sunshine with my itty-bitty dog, Bandit. If there's one thing I could choose to leave you with, it'd be this:

When Life hands you a beer, say "Where's my lemonade, foo'?

Aliens Don't Have Eyebrows Because They Don't Have Sweat Glands

The title, ladies and gentlemen, refers to a comment my Father made at lunch yesterday and I thought it especially thought-provoking. Look at Michael Jackson and conclude what you will (do those look like they consist of actual hair to you?).

Hello again, small handful of people who think it worthwhile to read my thoughts. God loves you and I do too.
Not a whole lot going on right now (story of my life lately), but I figured I'd update you on the anti-progress I've been making lately. I know you're out there, Yam, so this one's for you because I stink at phone calls. For that matter Yam, share this one with Muffin Salley.
Completely by luck and the ever-amazing Sloan Networking Skills, I've landed myself a gig writing press releases for the bank here in town. Well...not a steady job,unfortunately, just an "every now and then when needed" thing where I'm apparently working for my Dad but being, as he put it, sub-contracted out. I'm extremely, giddily happy about this because, not only does it give me something to do and that something being writing, but it gives me the extremely valuable and ever-elusive Experience that one so desperately needs when job-hunting. Which I still am. My first three press releases are on their way to the bank via email as we type so more news on that later. Breathe in the meantime.
That being said, no luck so far in the Job Department. Turns out the Department wouldn't even look at my resume. Oh well, so it goes: no luck with one prospect so all you can do is move on to the next. It's as I told my boyfriend Jeffrey recently when we were discussing his summer internship, you've got to put your name in as many hats as possible and hope someone hot draws your name. Maybe that's the wrong hat. I'm going to hope instead that the right employer will draw my name. That'd make me happy. Hotness would just be an added bonus. Kidding. (J.T., Refer to previous IM conversation).
Aaanyway, reverting in an awkward manner back to the press releases, yesterday was my first hard-core, serious, "i'm gonna get these suckas done!" day of working on them. Murphy and his Law passed me the big Fatty of Distraction, however, and everything that could come along to delay work on the press releases came along. I won't tell you all of them because i did a test-run of trying that with Jeffrey last night on the phone and i'm pretty sure i bored him to tears, so I won't assume that reading them would be any better. But not all of my day was un-productive. In addition to getting almost five of the eight PR's done, my grandma, my Aunt Marilyn and my 8-year-old cousin, Anna Grace came to visit around ten-thirty am. Grandma's car had to be taken to the Buick dealership in smithfield (a place rarely frequented by anyone under sixty) for a tune-up and in the meantime, Dad and I got to eat lunch with her and my aunt and cousin. Before long, I found myself crammed into my dad's PT Cruiser with everyone, playing car games with Anna Grace and my aunt. The game of choice was the ever-popular "There's a Bug, I'm Gonna Slug" (known more popularly as "PunchBug!!!...smack!) Aunt Marilyn, in order to defend her arm from the persistent punches of her daughter, invented "There's a Cruiser, I'm Gonna Bruise Her!". Being in a row of car dealerships along Brightleaf Blvd. in Smithfield, there were many opportunities for them to inflict a girlish amount of pain on each other as we girls tend to do when we're being playful (you know about how hard we can hit). In fact, Dad even made it a point to drive through the Chrysler dealership on the way to Ruby Tuesday's so that Aunt Marilyn could pummel Anna Grace for about twelve Cruiser's worth. This went on for quite some time, inspiring me to invent my own version of the game which I call "There's a tractor-trailor, I'm gonna beat the crud out of you." Not very popular with the eight-year-old crowd but very amusing to myself. Especially since Ruby Tuesday's affords a fairly unobstructed view of I-95. I also gave "Look, A Minivan, Bust You In The Face" a try, but that wasn't a big hit either (no pun intended). Oh well.
They say that if you can laugh at yourself, you'll never cease to be amused, right?

Peace Out and don't give up the booty.

Lunch: Brought to you by Scabby McSnotty

Chick-fil-a. Everyone's got a soft spot for it, right? Well, those of us who eat poultry anyway, or so I'm going to assume for the purposes of this blog entry. Chick-fil-a is arguably one of the best places to get a chicken sandwich on the planet and their sweet tea is, in the words of the Teen Girl Squad, "Soooo good!"
A little "Me Trivia": sometimes, I inexplicably crave Chick-fil-a sweet tea. No apparent reason. No particular time of day. I can't ever tell when it's going to strike, it just does. And when it does, I must succumb. I awoke to one such craving out of the usual blue this morning about nine o'clock and went about the first part of my day determined to enjoy some of that delicious tea over lunch. My sister Elizabeth appreciates Chick-fil-a sweet tea almost as much as I do so when i mentioned my plan to her as she was trimming my hair late this morning(lovely job, by the way), she happily accepted my invitation to join me.
Now most people can appreciate how busy the local Chick-fil-a tends to be more often than not on any given day (except Sundays, which I more than don't mind)between the hours of twelve and two. Elizabeth and I pulled into the parking lot and had a bit of trouble finding a place to park before weaving our way nervously through the long drive-through line that had wrapped itself around the building.
Upon entering the restaurant, we were greeted with that unmistakable, mmm-mmm good Chick-fil-a chicken smell and in my eagerness for a large sweet tea, I more than patiently took my place in line to give my order at the counter. When we finally were able to place our order and get our change from the gentleman behind the register (shortish, thirty-ish and with a schnoz that was begging for a mustache), we were presented with our two sweet teas....taaadaaa!
Ladies and gentlemen, it's hard for me to describe to you the disgust bordering on horror with which I beheld ....well, what I beheld. What was it? You probably would rather not know, but I'll tell you anyway. The aforementioned shortish gentleman that prepared my and my sister's sweet teas had, wrapped around the middle finger of his right hand, the most grotesque, scabby, brown, peely looking band-aid I've ever seen in my entire life. The finger around the band-aid was rather red and irritated looking and it was all i could do not to stare at it in blatant disgust. He smiled at us innocently before dismissing us quickly and looking behind us with a loud "Next!". I looked at my sister to see if she could have possibly missed what I had seen. She had already turned but I caught up with her at the (and this is for Jeffrey) condiment counter where I waited for her to notice my disturbed expression.
"Did you see that?" I asked her. "The band-aid? Yeah, that was pretty disgusting. I wondered if you'd noticed," she replied. "I didn't really want to touch my cup after I saw that. But at least he didn't touch the tea or the straw."
I found little comfort in this but we collected our food and proceeded to our table where, for the next fifteen minutes, I observed our scabby little friend wiping down counters, picking up trash, dumping and wiping off nasty trays, and waiting on customers, all without stopping to wash his hands. And as if this wasn't bad enough, Elizabeth said that (and sadly I missed this spectacle) she even saw him wipe his nose on his sleeve!
Needless to say, my appetite was a bit dried up after that. I was incredulous that the manager would allow him to persist in helping customers with a dingy, brown band-aid dangling from one of his fingers.
Amazingly, we made it through our meal, trying to distract and passify ourselves with the comfort of knowing that Scabby at least hadn't touched our food. And he didn't touch the contents of our drinks either, but come on! That's disgusting! I waited all morning long in anticipation of that sweet tea. Alcohol and cigarettes I can more than happily do without in my life but for the love of dear Pete, let me have my sweet tea! And have it with the sound assurance that I'll find no scabby finger remnants in it! I couldn't enjoy this tea, even with it's whimsical little cows wearing sandwich boards saying "eat mor chikin" on the styrofoam cup and despite the fact that it was just the right amount of "sweet". Crap.
People in the food business: please, oh please, take into account that your personal hygiene has a drastic effect on the appetites of your customers!!! My dad loves to tell the story (often when the family's out to eat somewhere) of the time he went out for dinner with a bunch of friends, only to completely lose his appetite at the sight of their waitress's infected belly-ring. Come on!! Who can eat in the presence of infection?? Who?? Who????
I realize that maybe, just maybe, there could be a small handful of you out there who possibly think i'm overreacting. You just eat the food, you don't worry about where it came from or who prepared it. And that's a nice little bubble to live in. I'm happy to live in that bubble most of the time myself. It's comfortable in there and most of the time, there's A/C and digital cable. However, when my food is prepared in front of me (a la Subway or Moe's) or in this case, my beverage, I can't help but notice and take into account the appearance of cleanliness in whomever prepares it. Wash your hands, people! Brush your frappin' teeth!! Scrub and comb that hair! Dandruff does not a desirable burrito topping make!

All that being said....buon appetito!

Which way to the poop deck?

I'd just like to take a few moments to say...if you happen to go to NC State University and your voting hand isn't broken, you have the unique and not all-too-often-presented-outside-of-theme-parks-and-mental-institutions opportunity of voting a little insanity into your leadership on campus. And I mean insanity in the best and most entertaining way. Of what am I speaking, you ask? Why, of none other than NCSU's own: The Pirate Captain, running for Student Body President. Can anybody out there tell me why you wouldn't want to vote for a guy dressed as a pirate with a snarly (and may I say very genuine) accent to lead your student body to greatness? The only place I could think it wouldn't work would be at ECU where, quite frankly, we're saturated in the pirate market. We all dabble in piracy (music and otherwise) there and mutiny is a constant issue among the fraternities, where the guys seem more than happy to drink themselves off the end of a plank (which the rest of us find to be a very positive and somewhat amusing element of student life).
But getting back to The Captain. Aside from dressing and talking like a pirate, he even has his own "Scurvy Crew" to back him up. That's right...this guy comes packaged not only with a bad wig and his own cutlass, but also with a handful of sketchy looking characters in bandanas and red-and-white striped shirts you can't find anywhere else this side of Waldo. I'm not sure if it's because of The Captain's muy macho image or his willingness to "split the booty" fairly among his men, but they all seem eager to tell anyone with a video camera what a fair and generous leader the Captain is.
In visiting Jeffrey at State a couple of days ago, I was treated to several internet video clips and sound bites of The Pirate Captain in action. I have to say I was very impressed with his ability to debate the issues logically and clearly while maintaining a convincingly brusque accent that couldn't help but demand respect. Well...at least I was properly intimidated. Despite the many chuckles that could be heard in the background at times, The Pirate Captain maintained order with a firm "Quiet on the deck!" before continuing with the debate.
After State students voted earlier this week, it was discovered that The Captain managed to pillage 44% of the vote. Impressive, but not enough to prevent a run-off which will take place next week. So...to all of you out there who could've voted and didn't, get yer....uh....booties....out there support The Pirate Captain. For all the rest of you...sigh over the fact that you'll never be scurvy or have to get your sea legs and then entertain yourselves for a few minutes with the following website: http://pirate.phora.net/crew.html.

I'll be seein' ye.

Alright, alright...you want the monkey, you've got the monkey.

Well, here you go, all you anxious (some even slightly naggy)friends, family, and otherwise general acquaintance of mine who've been after me to write something over the last week since FINALLY receiving instructions from my brother on how to contribute to my own blog. That's right. Don't blame me for my tardiness, blame Nathan. I'm sure this could become a common theme on this, my own personal soap box. Nah, who am I kidding? If Nathan hadn't set up a blog for me, I'd probably never have done it and then Val, my best friend, would have to take the brunt of my rambling in several daily emails. So thanks nathan. And thanks for the lovely pink background. If anyone out there could tell me who that's a monument of in the top right corner up there, I'd really appreciate it. For right now, I'm going to call him Gus.
This is a lot of pressure! I've finally got a blog and a brother whose writing on his own blog has developed over the last year and a half or so and fallen from it's cocoon with a somewhat amusing "thunk". And here I am, someone who professes herself to be an aspiring writer and i have the audacity to slap my jumbled, rambly (and not by any means guaranteed to be spelling and grammatical error-proof)thoughts up on a blog out there for all to see. Well here you have it. It sometimes goes down a bit better with a little Pepto so take a swig and hang in there.
To catch everyone up on just exactly where I am in my life right now, here's a brief summary:
I've graduated with an English degree (creative writing) from East Carolina University and now find myself kicked out in the Adult World, still wearing my Doc Martens and a "Life is Good" T-shirt. So far, the Adult World hasn't been such a comfy fit but I'm hoping that I'll learn to ignore it's restrictive and somewhat itchy fabric after a while. To make a long story short, I have recently found myself back out on the job market, surrounded by classifieds and online resumes. Why is it that after college, you're either under-qualified or over-qualified? There's got to be a happy medium out there somewhere and I intend to find it! In the meantime, I'm going to try my hand at writing and see how it goes.
My first self-imposed story assignment has been a recent full-scale Civil War reenactment that I attended with my family and I'm already finding some trees down in the road. For instance, why is it so hard to write about a couple of Union soldiers named George and ________? Because I can't remember the second guy's name, that's what. That's right, my big writing debut has been put on hold until I figure out how to morally go about quoting this guy (married 20 years to his lovely wife, lives in Norfolk, Va. and can tell you quite a bit about beavers and tree bark...but what's his frappin' name again????) when I don't have any idea what his name is. Aaron? no. Ken? I don't think so. Ferdinand Alexander Penswisher III? Could be, how the heck should I know? Maybe I could quote the guy and make up a name. Maybe he wouldn't even care. Maybe he'd like his new name better. To all those of you out there biting your nails in suspense, have no fear. I don't plan to let such a teensy thing as accurate quote attribution prevent me from doing the best I can with what I'm sure could still be a heck of a story. There's lots to write about from that day and I plan to kick some serious nineteenth-century booty in doing so. Let this be a lesson to me: Thou shalt not let thy pen and notebook leave thy hands on any occasion which thou planst to write about and also, thou shalt write continuously until thy subject dost shuttest his/her mouth.
To be continued. If I feel like it.