Magnolias & Moonpies

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I got this from my ABCs, who got it from someone else, who probably got it from someone else . . . you get the idea.



Funny part about this little activity is that some of my information brought up limited to no photos, so I had to improvise a bit. If you'd like to play along, just follow the directions below to create your very own Mini-Me Mosaic.

Directions:

1. Type your answer to each of the questions below into Flickr Search.

2. Using only the first page of results, pick one image.

3. Copy and paste each of the URLs for the images into Big Huge Lab’s Mosaic Maker to create a mosaic of the picture answers.

The questions:

1. What is your first name?

2. What is your favorite food right now?

3. What high school did you go to?

4. What is your favorite color?

5. Who is your celebrity crush?

6. What is your favorite drink?

7. What is your dream vacation?

8. What is your favorite dessert?

9. What do you want to be when you grow up?

10. What do you love most in life?

11. What is one word that describes you?

12. What is your flickr name?

Last night, the ABC's (our girls' club) went to the premier showing of Sex in the City dressed in our finest denim, khaki, and/or cotton blends - as one might expect from the cool, casual chicks that we are. Our newest member pre-ordered our tickets to ensure we'd get a seat, which, at the time, I believed was a thoughtful gesture, but completely unnecessary. For all I knew, we were just going to see a movie. No big deal, right?

As the one member of our club who is oftentimes out of "the know," I had no idea how much the media had sensationalized this event; I was completely clueless. Therefore, nothing could have prepared me for last night's spectacle the Monaco.

I mean, nothing.

On the ride to the theater, I listened intently as my sisters of the ABC gabbed about the latest gossip and hype surrounding the movie premier and nodded in agreement, interjecting the occasional, "uh-hmm," as though I knew what they were talking about, when actually, I had no clue. Sure, I'd watched the series (when I could), and I laughed and cried with Carrie and the crew, while watching re-runs late at night as I graded papers. However, the thought never occurred to me to visit web sites and read articles and reviews about the upcoming cinematic event of the summer. All I'd seen were the movie trailers.

Within fifteen minutes, we were circling the parking lot (with fifty other cars) in search of a parking spot. Limousines of all shapes and sizes littered the parking lot, and local news and radio station vehicles lined the sidewalks in front of the theater. After ten minutes of driving up and down the parking lot in a serpetine pattern, we realized that there wasn't a parking spot within three miles. It was girls' night. We deserved to go all out, so we opted for valet parking. Pulling up to the curb along side three or so empty vehicles, one of two valets approached the driver's side window. At first, I believed him to be eager for a tip, seeing as how he and his co-worker were idly lounging by the valet station shootin' the breeze. I couldn't have been more wrong.

He greeted us with, "I'm sorry, but we aren't able to park your car for you."

You've got to be kidding me? I thought.

"All of these cars are ours," he continued gesturing behind him, "and that cop down there is watching."

What?! Who has ever heard of valets getting busted by the cops for parking cars a la valet-style?

The valet then lazily returned to his perch leaving the other three or so cars to - I don't know - park themselves, I suppose.

Right then, I should've suspected that this was no ordinary day at the movies.

We then pulled around to the back side of the theater in a most civilized manner, but not before Ethyl (that's not her real name) yelled out the window to the oh-so-busy parking attendants offering her most sage advice as to what they could do with their valet sign.

The theater was buzzing with high-society wannabes - women of all ages dressed in sequins and stilettos clutching Cosmopolitans in one hand and the backsides of the few men present with the other. Giggles and cackles rang out from all sides as we made our way through the perfumed throng of inebriated socialite hopefuls to retrieve our tickets from the automated ticket booth.

"Wow," I mused. "I feel a tad bit under dressed."

Handing our ticket stubs to the little ticket-stub-taker, we headed straight for Theater #3 to snag the "good seats." We did not stop for popcorn; we did not stop for drinks; we did not pass "Go" nor collect $200 for fear of being stuck sitting in the front row. One by one, we entered the dark theater. Unable to adjust to the darkness that quickly, my eyes deceived my feet and I tripped up the steps - twice - but I don't think anyone noticed.

We were in luck! Nobody had claimed the very back row, so we plopped ourselves down in the first four seats in order to have quicker access to the powder room, if the need should arrive, during the two hours and fifteen minutes of what we'd hoped would be the best episode of Sex in the City yet.

Much to my chagrin, another band of Carrie Bradshaw wannabes marched to the back row and maneuvered their buxom, pot-bellied selves into the seats adjacent to ours and began squawking incessantly about their shoes, their purses, and their fake hair. One, in particular, was louder and more obnoxious than the other fifty-somethings in her group, and she remained vocal throughout the movie.

"No, I can't hold that popcorn!" she shrieked. "Do you see this outfit? This is linen! You hold it - no, you!"

During one of the most climactic scenes,our cinematic neighbor became quite excited. Arms flailing, feet stomping wildly, she hollered, "OMG! If he don't get outta that car, I will leave this theater. I will walk out right now!" and then she added, "And I mean it!"

He didn't get out of the car, and she didn't leave the theater despite her affirmation at the end.

At that moment, I wanted to reach around my friend and stuff the rest of that bag of buttery popcorn in her mouth. Instead, I leaned past my also-annoyed comrade and shot one of my best "would-you-please-shut-your-pie-hole" looks in her direction to which she politely replied, "Oh, sorry!"

She didn't talk the entire time though. Midway through the movie, she stampeded over us and presumably headed for the powder room. (I think she went to the bar, myself.) Our reprieve was short-lived, however, for she returned in full force.

Not to give away the movie, but Carrie changes her hair color, an event that happened while this woman was indisposed.

"When did she dye her hair?!" she asked incredulously, as though offended that "Carrie" didn't consult with her first before embracing the Clairol.

Really. You do know this is just a movie, right?

Probably the most annoying part of our loud-mouthed neighbor was her constant comparisons of she and her friends to the characters on the screen. "You are so Miranda," she said to one,"and you are so Charlotte," she said to the other, "and I am soooo Carrie!" *giggle*

Blech! Keep in mind, this woman had to have been at least fifty, as were her girlfriends, but she acted more like she was fifteen and had just hit puberty.

Despite the crazy distractions, I thoroughly enjoyed going to the movies with my best girlfriends. My favorite part was watching the next batch of Carrie-crazed women enter the theater for the second showing.

One twenty-something girl caught my attention: wearing a black sequined cocktail dress and much-too-high stilettos, she stumbled through the entryway tugging at the hem of her dress while calling to her denim-clad friends, "Hey! Wait up!"

Guess they didn't bother to give her the memo. What would Carrie Bradshaw say about that?

I'm so used to spending most of my 'free time' writing, but it's the stuff I've been so used to writing that has almost ruined this kind of self-expression. Stuff like:

• Fragment/run-on/comma splice
• This sentence doesn't logically follow.
• What?
• I have no idea what you just wrote.
• Are you kidding?
• Did you read the same book that I read?!

Okay, so I'm only kidding on the last few. I didn't actually write those comments - I thought them, even said a few out loud.

I've come to realize that creating handouts and grading essays has predominantly been my writing outlet. Occasionally, I have written with my students - whatever assignment/prompt they were given, I sat down at my desk and wrote along side them. When I'd read over what I'd written, I noticed that I began every piece of writing the same way - with a participial phrase. After a while, I noticed other patterns - the occasional fragment, heavy alliteration, the dash, compound nouns and adjectives - which gave way to discovering quite a bit about my writing style.

I know, I'm a nerd. I fully embrace my nerdiness and welcome all the brain wrinkles created by these nerdy thoughts.

One day this summer, I'm going to clean/organize my jump drives and file folders on my computer condensing, purging, deleting (yes, permanently erasing documents that took hours/days of my life to create). I don't need to waste any more time creating handouts - I've got thousands as it is. I can't remember when it all began, but it ends now - this is the summer to declare freedom from that which stifles, constricts, strangles.

Change can only truly come from within . . .

I must preface this post with the fact that I love, love the Google! They definitely market to women - the iGoogle homepage that can be decorated and personalized and redecorated (as many times a day as I wish) is a girly-goodie I thoroughly enjoy each time I power up the laptop.
Tonight, my husband decided he wanted to find and read what I had been writing. So, I told him to Google the name of my blog thinking it would pop right up.

I mean, I just pulled this title straight from the inner recesses of my brain late one night and, thinking myself to be rather clever and quite imaginative, used it as the title for my blog (as you can clearly see). All he had to do was type the title, and *poof* my blog would miraculously appear.

No-brainer, right?

Wrong.

(This is where the 'dangerous' part comes in.)

My blog did NOT come up. At all. Someone else's did from a different blog site. I was stunned.

Although this other blogger's title was the name of her post (and it was spelled differently), I couldn't help but feel this stabbing pain of failure in the pit of my stomach.

This nasty little tidbit came right after finding out (just lastnight) that the stories I've written over the past seven years and kept hidden in this ratty spiral-bound notebook were all published last year. By other people. This devastating news produced a blackish, soul-sucking cloud - similar to the one that follows Eeyore - over my head that riddled my brain with endless ponderings, which subsequently led to the following line of philosophical questioning:

• Why didn't I do something with these stories seven years ago? (stupid, stupid, stupid)


• Were my ideas that unoriginal that random people from Randomville, USA could write the same stories?
  
• Do I scratch these stories and start over?


• Had I not an original idea left in my head?


• Were there any original thoughts left . . . anywhere?

After that last question, I found my answer.

According to most literarians, there are only seven basic plots. Seven. Out of the millions of published books, each contains one of seven possible plots. Considering those small odds, I guess it's only natural for story ideas to have similar odds. In fact, my students can read the same novel and write completely different essays about it - some good, some bad, some really, really bad. The differences come in the diction and syntax and style and voice - those elements of writing that are unique to each.

With that in mind, I am compelled to continue writing, setting myself apart from others with my choice of diction, syntax, style, and voice. As Commander Peter Quincy Taggart used to say: "Never give up, never surrender!"

A little side note that sparked giggles, then outright guffaws:

Ugh! I keep getting e-mail about my 20th class reunion. Some of my classmates - I graduated with about 600 - have created a web site dedicated to our class reunion. I have to admit, the web site is pretty neat. I spent almost an hour browsing through the names and pictures and profiles - I hardly recognized any of them. I don't think I even knew half of those people in high school. I looked through the photo albums and found pictures of both high school boyfriends. There was even one of me - weird. Of all the people in my graduating class, only 50 or so have confirmed, a handful have regretfully declined, and the rest, I suppose, are hiding in some remote area on the planet - smart.

Call me crazy, but I've decided not to make the six-hour trek to my hometown - Ft. Walton Beach - with my husband and child this summer to spend the weekend with a bunch of strangers who just so happened to graduate the same year that I did from the same high school that I did. Yes, I realize that my hometown is on the beach . . . so what? Why would I want to pay $162 to hang out with a bunch of people that I didn't hang out with in high school?

Besides, I went to the 10th - it blew chunks!

I so looked forward to meeting up with all my friends from high school, seeing old boyfriends, laughing, catching up on good times . . .

Yeah, not what happened.

The first night we met at a local bar. It was summer (of course) and hot and humid (naturally), but the bar had NO air conditioning whatsoever. And there was not a cold drink to be had in that god forsaken place. I mean, the "ice water" consisted of a small, white plastic cup with a beer logo imprinted on the side filled with warm tap water and two half-melted slivers of ice that became one with the other elements in that cup within mere seconds of taking the first sip. (My hands and feet are swelling just thinking about it!)

Those who were there early had obviously been to the bar many times in search of the one cold drink and hadn't yet given up hope in finding it. As I walked through the throng of drunken high school wannabes to begin my quest of the one cold drink, I was stopped by one of my classmates - the one who tried to steal my boyfriend AND my best friend in the same year (girls don't forget these things).

She wanted to catch up on old times, as though they were such wonderful memories worth rehashing. She talked of similar acquaintances, and teachers, and colleges, and careers - bor-ing. As she rambled on about people and places I cared nothing about, I envisioned an entirely different conversation that went something like this:

ME: Hey! Remember the time that you accidentally dropped that note to my boyfriend in my locker because you though it was his locker, but it wasn't, and you told him how much you loved him and wanted to "be" with him - in the Biblical way - and then asked him to break up with me so that he could be yours forever?

HER: Uh . . .

ME: And remember the time that you tried to turn my best friend against me and bribed her with tickets to college football games and wild, high school parties and then she realized what you were doing - because I told her what you were doing - and she told you that she would be your friend, but that I was her best friend, and then you got mad at her and cut up all of her school pictures into teeny-tiny pieces and put them in an envelope and sent your cousin to her house with that envelope and a paper sack filled with dog crap, and he put the envelope in her mailbox and threw the paper sack on her front door, and then you called her and told her she needed to check her mail?

HER: Well, I . . . uh . . .

ME: That's what I thought. Guess we're done catchin' up!

Reunions. Bleh!

So, my friend Rachel, who would never try to steal my boyfriend or throw dog crap on my front door, has sent me my very first meme:

1. Pick up the nearest book.

2. Open to page 123.

3. Find the fifth sentence.

4. Post the next 3 sentences.

5. Tag 5 people.

Okay. Those of you who know me know that I love, love, love picture books. Since they don't even have 50 pages, I grabbed the first book next to my pile of Olivia books - Diary of a Wimpy Kid by Jeff Kinney, but page 125 only has four sentences. Then I grabbed the second closest book with enough pages - The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants by Ann Brashares. And lo and behold!page 125 is a picture of the pants with a single quote from Mario Andretti (I kid you not! I couldn't make this up if I tried.). Third time's a charm! And the winner - God Save the Sweet Potato Queens by Jill Conner Browne. I haven't read this yet - it's in my To-Read pile.

So, here goes:

Page 125, fifth sentence ff:

"But, as I was saying way back there, we were having a girls' gathering, and someone was getting out the bowls for the Fritos, someone was putting ice in the glasses, and I was making Chocolate Stuff, naturally, and someone else was making Armadillo Dip. Only one in our company had been sitting idle this entire time, holding up her end in the chatting but not doing any real work - lolling, as it were - and by and by, she asked if she couldn't do something to help. I surveyed the work at hand and suggested that she might want to chop the onions for the Armadillo Dip. She said okay, got up lazily from her perch at the kitchen table, looked sort of far-off, and then she said, to no one in particular, 'I guess I should wash my hands first, I just had sex an hour ago,' just as casual as you please."

I know I added an extra line, but it was the best one! Besides, without it, the previous lines would've been quite uninteresting, and anyone who's ever read any of Jill Conner Browne's Sweet Potato Queens books knows that they're far from boring! I have to add that I'm currently listening to Rick Springfield's "Love Somebody" as I type this.

Oh, the irony!

Ahhh! Summer Vacation!

The time for slathering coconut-scented suntan lotion liberally over my extremities and lounging by the pool - with a good book, of course - drenching myself in melty sunshine.

This lasted about 10 minutes before tiny beads of sweat began to trickle . . . well, everywhere. Normally when this occurs, I put the book down and jump into the pool to cool off before resuming the aforesaid lounging position.

Today was different.

As hot as it was, the pool was not. I headed to test the water, and I got in as far as my big toe. The temperature was a cool 80 degrees, far too cold for me. Although 80 degrees sounds warm enough, it's not. Keep in mind that the pool was close to 20 degrees cooler than the average body temperature, and I'm pretty sure that had I actually jumped in, hypothermia would've set in within five to ten minutes of entering the water.

Doggone it! I needed a new cooling-off plan.

Heading back to my lounge chair, I spotted my young son donning his swimsuit (okay, so he couldn't find his swim trunks and settled for last year's practice shorts) standing eagerly at the pool's edge.

"Let's go swimming, Momma!"

"You're crazy! That pool's freezing . . ."

SPLASH!

As I sat watching my young son glide effortlessly through the icy water, my mind drifted off to visit my seven-year-old self . . .

I'm not sure which natural (or unnatural) law explains the temperature tolerance disparity between children and adults, but this is a concept that baffles most of us nonetheless. As I continued watching my child frolic unabashedly, I found myself longing for the days when I could spend hours upon hours in the over-chlorinated pool splish-splashing around until my fingers were pruney and not once feeling the effects of the cold.

But at the present moment, I was hot, sweaty, and my hands and feet were beginning to swell. No way was I getting in that pool, so I opted for the next best summer treat: a popsicle.

It's official. Go ahead and add me to the blogging addicts. . .

Links, links, and more links. Links to some of my favorite authors. Links to some of my favorite illustrators. Even links to reading about reading and writing and drawing. The fact that this excites me only proves that I'm a nerd (as if I required proof!).

I've spent the last few hours accessorizing my blog, and I'm stopping for now.

Excuse me, but I've got some reading to do . . .

Well, I s'pose it was about time I jumped on the blogging bandwagon and created my own blog spot of silly Southern musings and such.

As my first official day of summer begins (yes, I do know that summer doesn't officially start until June 21st - that's why I inserted the 'my' - get it?), so too does the newest outlet for my sarcastic ramblings.

I think we all have some aspirations to be writers, even if we seriously suck at. This is the very reason so many literary agents and editors offer free advice on how to suck less (at the writing part, that is) so they won't have as much sucky-ness to read. Unfortunately, many decline their sage advice and continue their wayward wrongness anyway.

I've been writing since I first learned how to draw my ABC's, a craft I've been honing since I was five. My handwriting has greatly improved since then. Telling stories actually began a few years earlier, or so I've been told. As a gifted child with ADHD (or Will-you-please-pay-attention-when-I'm-talking-to-you-and-quit-that-fidgeting! as it was called back then), I was a victim of over-active imaginationitis. Everyday happenings became stories embellished with a little frosting here and there.

I don't remember much before Kindergarten, but I couldn't write then either. I do, however, remember my Kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Allen. She was the epitome of the gentle, soft-spoken teacher that we only see now in fantasy and fairy tales. I'm sure I frosted a few fables for her, but nowhere near as prolifically as those I conjured in the first grade.

Miss Isaacson. Not Mrs. and definitely not teacher (she hated being called that the worst!), but Miss. Keep in mind, she had never been married (what a surprise!), but she was also a bijillion years old. She reminded me of the wicked witch in The Wizard of Oz (you know, the one with the green face), and she was just as mean and just as ugly. She even had that same big nose and that omnipresent chin wart. I often expected a house to drop on her at any minute, which is why I never sat too close to her in our reading circle. She didn't like me, and I certainly didn't like her! This is the part where the story telling comes in . . .

The overwhelming fear and dread of entering that classroom led me to conjure many a tall tale. If I were really as sick as I pretended to be, I would be typing this blog from my giant, germ-free bubble. From the basic belly ache, to open, festering wounds, to invisible tree bark in my eye (I got to wear a really cool eye patch with that one!), I frequently visited the nurse's office. I became more creative with my afflictions, as it was necessary in order to get out of class for longer periods of time. Unidentified kids bit me, knocked me down, or pushed me out of the swing; random blows to the head rendered me dizzy, even unconscious at times; I even developed a sudden case of food poisoning from my bologna and cheese sandwich.

When the bee sting on the buttocks story backfired, I'd like to tell you that I'd learned my lesson. I didn't. Instead, we moved. So, I was able to recycle those stories and use them on the next school nurse.

As you can see, I have a flair for the fantastic (and the love of alliteration), so this blog will serve as a story board of sorts - a venue for reliving past stories and creating new ones.