Camp

I went back to camp today. It was fantastic.

I spent my childhood at camp. All my best memories are from there. As an only child with over-protective parents, camp was my safe haven. I was able to climb trees, get muddy, play with bugs and even swim in the lake, my favorite. I could be loud... like really really loud, a giant no-no at home, as was being dirty, moving too quickly or being outside for extended periods of time.

I would have been put up for adoption faster than you can say "You got a lil' something right there."

I'm not complaining, my mother wanted me to be safe. But because I had no siblings, and other children tended to like to play outside and not quietly read indoors.

Knowledge is power, but that is a horrible weapon against the taunting laughter that will follow when you tell another child that you don't know how to play red rover.

So camp for me was magical. You couldn't keep me still in the car on the way. Tipping canoes? Cool. Playing with fire? Awesome. Being encouraged to scream as loud as you can while running rampant in any direction and with ice cream? Sign me up every. single. year.

This was me at camp. And is what I secretly yearn to do while at work on Tuesdays.

And every single year I went. For the entire summer, and weekends, and any other time they'd let me in. When I got too old for camp I did the counselor in training programs, then was a counselor in college during summers at my childhood camp, and several others. I loved it.

I've never felt better than when I was at camp. It's a simpler place, which speaks to me on a deeper level. You wake up with the sun, walk everywhere, breathe the fresh air, eat fresh food, get plenty of exercise, and sleep like a baby every night with the grasshoppers and frogs singing you lullabies.

No joke here. Seriously, no one would need Ambian if we all slept under this every night.

Going back to camp today made me never want to leave. Alas, I couldn't stay and play, I had to get my photos and interviews and get back to write up the story.... but oh I wanted to stay. The thought occurred to me to call into work and never return, which considering that the camp ended the next day might have been unwise. But on the way home, I actually considered changing careers. Seriously. I spent the 40 minute drive home doing the math on how I could take my vacation days all at once and be a camp counselor or even quitting all together and somehow becoming a year-round camp-master. I've considered it before, other than writing, camp has always been one of my greatest loves. It gave me a place to learn who I was without my parents around and I was given a lot more space, and limitless inspiration to do so. I thought about becoming a teacher, because it was the only occupation I could think of where I could run a camp during the summer.

They're swarming, I hate it when they swarm. I do much better with kids when I can push them in the pool if they bug me.


Perhaps this is one of those dreams that will have to wait awhile though. I don't think I'm quite done with this journalism thing yet. It was because of journalism that I even got to go to camp today and bring back all those good memories... I even got to write a story and publish half a dozen photos of the camp that will hopefully help it get more donations and positive publicity. I'm doing good works here, meeting awesome people, and getting to tell their stories. That's worth something, but don't be surprised if one day I say goodbye to it all to run rampant with 11-year-olds in the woods and eat s'mores every night.

You and I both know these are worth giving up a long-trained for writing career.

The Derby Bio

Name: Dixie Snarlin'
Number: 2
Position: Blocker
Height: 6'1 on skates
Favorite things: hitting, striking, and maiming people... also tacos.
Quote: "I will punch you in the neck."
Bio: Dixie was born from a hurricane in the dirty south. She raised herself on the river, wrestling gators and hitting people for raising their eyebrows in her general direction. She was transplanted to Columbus when the Port Authority and the National Wildlife Association combined forces and ruled her "an endangerment to the preservation of the alligator population." A river rat, she's hell on wheels in a tank top and a tutu.
In real life: She works for the newspaper writing obituaries, it keeps her humble to see that there are still deaths that come through that she hasn't caused.
When not on skates: people mistake her for a sweet, harmless southern girl in little dresses and ballet flats. But that's okay, the one's who don't see it coming have much funnier looks on their faces when they go down.
Fun Fact: Dixie is perpetually armed and has weapons hidden everywhere, all over the world... and behind you.

I'll continue to update on my roller derby shenanigans. It's too fun not to.

Better

I'm almost scared to write this, just in case the universe might be tempted to prove me wrong... but things feel better. My house is clean, I understand my job, and I even bought some cute new boots yesterday.


These aren't them, but I like the ones on the top left.

I feel like I'm controlling things, which for a control freak like me, is fantastic.
And yes, I'm aware that at any moment, the world might decide to squish me like a bug, or upset my life so badly that I won't know which way is up, but in the new-ness of the new year, I feel like I can handle it.

I make a list of resolutions every year, just like most people, but even more important to me than setting goals for myself and trying to be better, is making a list of things I've accomplished.

It's easy to remember that I didn't lose the weight or sleep more, or give up sodas like I'm sure I pledged to last year, but it's a little harder to remember what things I did that helped me in ways I couldn't have even thought to ask for at the beginning of 2010. And when I sit and think of that list, it comes to me that I'm okay with not kicking that soda habit, because this past year was the one that I:

-finally learned to whistle
-graduated college
-got a big kid job (WITH BENEFITS!)
-learned how to play roller derby
-dyed my hair blonde (and rocked it)
-moved into my own apartment
-got a pet
-got a tattoo
-got closer with my family (despite the tattoo)
-let myself fall hard for a boy

Looking back, I did okay. Letting myself fall for a guy led to getting my heart broken, but I'm okay now and know more about myself, love and life; Getting a real job led to learning some startling realizations about fairness and how to deal with people; and roller derby, well, mostly it just led to bruises... but just think about how cool it's going to be to tell my kids and grandkids about it all one day.


"See kids, there the paramedics are, taking away that hoe from the Alabama team... it wasn't Granny's fault that she got her nose broken, bitch was back-blocking."

Yes, I made a lot of mistakes this year... I fell on my ass several times both literally and figuratively, but I survived everything. Sure there are things I regret doing, or not doing, but I don't want to focus on that. I want to start this year focusing on the all thing things I accomplished. And hey, even if I fail at that, there's always next year.

A Borrowed blog from Adele Elliot

This is a borrowed column from a friend of mine who writes a column for The Commercial Dispatch. Adele, If I could switch with you so you could be Snarlin', for a day, I would in a heartbeat.

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The Commercial Dispatch
Adele Elliott: Pseudonyms

In an early scene of "Sweet Bird of Youth," Chance Wayne tells The Princess Kosmonopolas that he always keeps a spare name in his pocket. "Don't you?" he asks her.

This is a concept that I have long embraced. My various aliases have distinct personalities. Some even have their own appearances. One of my alter egos writes all my letters of complaint. The real "me" is too Southern and too polite to cause much trouble.

In New Orleans, my various identities not only had unique names, but distinctive wardrobes, as well. Occasionally, we all need to wear different hats. It's just that in my case, switching the "hats" also involved extensive costume changes.

Some people only need one name. Cher and Madonna come to mind. "The Madonna" is someone else, altogether.

Of course, a few of us require an entire title. New Orleans musician Ernie K. Doe was the self-proclaimed "Emperor of the Universe." "The King of Pop" always means Michael Jackson. Elvis was just "The King," and John Wayne will forever be "Duke." These guys certainly have a lot of royalty between them. That's not the only thing they have in common. They're all dead, too. Maybe it's not a great idea to claim a regal designation.

Recently, it has become apparent that I need another fictitious persona. I have been following the Tri-City Roller Dolls, our own roller derby team. They all have a stage name, usually one that aims to inspire fear.

"Dixie Snarlin" is a personal friend, and a lovely person. I didn't think this moniker was at all appropriate for her. She is a photographer and a talented writer. I have never seen her snarl.

"Sonja Blade" may be a terror in the rink. However, I know her as a very kind person, into animal rescue and a mother of two beautiful girls.

But, I do grasp the concept. A name says so much. There are names that make you think "bimbo," or "nerd," or maybe "redneck." (I won't say which ones.)

I've known a few "Diannas" in my life. They truly believed that they were goddesses. Just "Diane" is entirely different. Changing a letter or two removes any connection to the divine.

"Elizabeths" have the most choices. They may be "Liz," or "Beth," "Betty," "Lib," "Lisa" ... well, I found 50 in English alone. (I didn't count the ones in other languages.)

Each nickname evokes the image of an entirely distinctive person. Surely, a "Bess" is so very different from an "Izzy."

But, back to my "roller derby" name. I will never again don roller skates. (My last experience ended badly, with a sprain and a fracture.)

However, I would like to have a name that arouses a bit of respect, if not complete terror. I would use this when dealing with aggressive telemarketers and rude people of every sort. You've heard of "road rage," well this is my answer for "phone rage."

Surely, The Princess Kosmonopolas understood what Chance meant by "keeping an extra name" in his pocket. She was really movie-star Alexandra Del Lago, traveling incognito. Oh, Tennessee Williams. If only you were here to pen my "roller derby" pseudonym.

Adele Elliott, a New Orleans native, moved to Columbus after Hurricane Katrina. She can be found sharing life lessons and musings every Sunday at cdispatch.com

Bad habits

I'm lazy.

I know we're all lazy to some degree. Save a few dynamos like my sister-in-law Beth who somehow both works and keeps a huge house immaculate. She also finds time to do all sorts of side projects like building, painting and selling birdhouses, jewelery, valentines day baskets, etc., and doing work at her church. She also always remembers to send birthday/anniversary/just-thinking-of-you cards/ thank-you cards, always perfectly on time of course; and is the most organized woman, financially and in every other way, I have ever met. But I have never been able to do any of those things, and despite a box full of thank-you cards and stamps on my bookshelf just a-waiting, I don't think I've sent a thank-you card since I was 10.

I think that if I had more drive, better self-control, I could be more like Beth, but I succumb to sloth every time.


Sloth's are cute, but unproductive.

I haven't vacuumed my house since I my new roommate moved in, which was almost five months ago. My room is a mess, as is the kitchen and other rooms of the house which I frequent and the majority of the mess is my responsibility. (My roommate is very neat, with the exception of an aversion to dishes, which I share and cannot blame him for. Fortunately he seems mostly indifferent to my newly acquired messiness as long as it doesn't directly affect him.) I used to be neat, annoyingly so even, but I also had smaller spaces of living to play with. But I have so much open space now... nearly 1500 square feet of it in my antebellum basement apartment. And it's so much easier to just clutter an area and move to a different one. I like my apartment, and love the rent and that I have space to stretch out and have company, but I hate that it's hard to keep up.

I hate being messy and having clothes on the couch, and the chair, and the dresser, and clean in the laundry basket. But I can't bring myself to take care of it all. I don't have all the time in the world, but I do have time. When I get off from work, I'm tired, but I could do productive things instead of relaxing with online TV until it gets dark or I have to go work/derby/do something. I could, and yet almost daily choose to do only a little, if anything at all. And I hate myself for it. I can do better... I will do better.


Always have I envied the people who get an assignment and immediately do it. They just do it. No waiting, no need for a deadline or pressure... they can just accomplish things. And then they're done. While I procrastinate (usually with excuses of "doing better work under pressure" or something equally lame). And I have a really bad habit of letting all my good habits fall away when one does. If I'm doing well, I'm doing REALLY well, with eating right and taking my vitamins, everything is in place, but If something happens and one thing falls away, like dominoes, everything falls down. And it is so hard to pick up all the dominoes in a set and then one-by-one replace them where they were... it's why very few people play dominoes.

So I'm a mess. I have a lot of self-destructive habits that need to be fixed, and I've found the mess to help me. I needed someone who didn't have everything all together to help whip me into shape. Why not someone with the golden glow of perfection like my loving Beth? Because a fattie doesn't want to take dieting advice from someone who's obviously never eaten anything. They won't be able to get it as well. Things that are habits for them are just that -- habitual, meaning they don't need to think about it. So how are they going to help me?


I will force-feed you a cheeseburger.

So J is my newly enlisted life coach, and though she may think she's unqualified, I think she's going to be amazing.... if nothing else, we're going to have some great stories to tell (much like the time we both got swine flu and went camping). I'm glad to be back, or at least trying to get back. And I'll keep updating on the journey.

Work day in Haiku

5 a.m.
Five more minutes please
It's too dark to go outside
This bra pokes my back.

6 a.m.
Giant stack of work
Calls: "Did you get my obit?"
Fax out of paper.

7 a.m.
Computer is slow
Photo loading takes too long
I will kill you Mac.

8 a.m.
Stupid broken clock
I thought it was 11
It's not even 9.

9 a.m.
I forgot breakfast
My stomach is eating me
Lunch in three more hours.

10 a.m.
"Put this on page one?
It's a religious brief."
-No, I won't, you loon.

11 a.m.
"Have you got my pic?
I haven't sent it yet."
-Of course, I'm magic.

12 p.m.
Went shopping for a car.
Guess women can't do that.
Asshole lost a sale.

1 p.m.
Afternoons are slow
Seth is being sarcastic
And my foot itches.

2 p.m.
Work can wait tonight
I'll get to it tomorrow
Adios suckers!

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I turned around and went home.

Do you ever wonder if you're on the right path?

If it's even possible for you to be on the path that you or God or life intended when any of a thousand tiny decisions you make each day could send you reeling off in a different direction, from which there is no return.

I sit and wonder what 8-year-old me would think of my life now. She would think my house is cool, my car is crap, my boyfriend is sweet, and my job is depressing. She would find it inconceivable that I haven't read an entire book in the past month, and she would wonder where all my friends are...I'd have to tell her they moved away and left me behind.

If I were to wonder what 18-year-old me would think, she'd wonder what happened to all my dreams. Why aren't I helping people, why am I still in the south, and why haven't I been to see my family in almost four months. I'd have to tell her that things come up, stuff happens... and she would tell me to suck it up and make it work. A mere four years ago, I was unstoppable. I didn't bend with the wind, I punched it in the face until it went around me. I miss that girl.

I miss the 8-year-old dreamer that thought she had magic turtle powers and wanted to grow up to be a toaster.
I miss the 18-year-old that knew things would work out if she fought hard enough.
I miss having options and not being afraid.



When you're in college, you have nothing but options. You can change your whole person with a change of major form, and with each semester of classes, you can be a different person. The semester I devoted myself entirely to literature courses, I became a philosopher, a seeker of knowledge who was filled with wanderlust. The semester I took ceramics, I became the earth goddess. I marveled at the small things in nature and studied the forms of the things I created.

But now the world says I need to pick something, and I'm terrified I've chosen wrong. If you choose wrong in college, you have to deal with your mistake for one semester at the most. In life though, the choices you make can completely change your option list for years, if not forever.

I tell myself that the job I'm doing now is good because I'm still writing and I can pay my bills, eat and such for a year or two until I can try for the dream again.

What I'm really afraid of is getting stuck. Stuck in this town, stuck at my job -- both of which I love, but neither of which are what I want for the rest of my life.
I've seen too many scared people stay somewhere they didn't want to be, slowly but surely letting go of their dreams because it's hard to let go of something safe and it's easy to save your dreams for when you sleep. Only time will tell if I'm going to be another one of those sleepy dreamers.

This is a public plea, someone out there, please promise me that you will come whop me upside the head with a wiffle bat if I'm still working the same job in three years. I will thank you for it.

People are going to think I have a thing for vampires, but this is funny.

My Roller Derby Team covered by The Commercial Dispatch

Rock 'n' Roller Derby



In the foreground, Sonja Webb of the new Tri City Derby Dolls roller derby team hoists her colorful cast at practice July 5 at Skate Zone in Columbus. Members practicing included, kneeling, from left, Hayley Gilmore, Megan Dareing, Kaitlin Davison and Tarina Trzebiatowski. Standing, from left, are Stephanie Gieseler, Marsi Hardin, Sarah Wilson, Lauren Lowrey, Jenny Sullivan, Misti Hudson, Coach Bruce Wright and Katie Coffey. About 20-25 women from around the Golden Triangle have joined the new Derby Dolls. / Luisa Porter

The Commercial Dispatch
July 10, 2010 6:13:00 PM
By Jan Swoope

Weaving, shoving, blocking, falling. So, maybe it's not every girl's idea of a fun sport. But a unique band of Golden Triangle women with heart, nerve and flare think roller derby might just fill the bill.

In three short months since their first interest meeting on Easter Sunday, the Tri-City Derby Dolls have armed themselves with an official logo, team T-shirts, a dues system, regular practice schedule, fundraiser plans and the all-important "derby names."

By day, they're mothers, nurses, college students, waitresses and chiropractic clinic workers. But two evenings each week, they strap on the quad-skates and gamely try on bits and pieces of their still-new alter egos -- like "Tarinasaurus Wrecks," "Molly Toff" or "She Who Must Not Be Tamed."

Megan Dareing ("Linchpin Luci") of Columbus is credited with getting the wheels rolling on the fledgling team.

"I'd joked around about it before. But I was watching the movie 'Whip It' with my boyfriend and said I'd start a team. The next day I thought, 'I can't turn back now,'" she said.

With the help of Facebook, e-mail and flyers, Megan spread the word. To date, about 20 to 25 women with varying levels of skating skill have shown real interest in the start-up team, which practices at Skate Zone in Columbus on Monday evenings and Skate Odyssey in Starkville on Thursday evenings.

One of those skaters is 23-year-old Jenny Sullivan, admiringly labeled "hardcore" by a few of her teammates. The New Orleans native, a self-described former "military kid," is experienced, having played street hockey, roller hockey and later ice hockey for several years.

"It takes a different kind of person," the Columbus resident said when asked about what it takes to embrace this aggressive sport. "It takes a lot of heart. The average person is not going to want to run into people and fall down all the time," she grinned.

On track, on stage

Roller derby is part fast-paced contact sport, part sports entertainment. In most leagues (there are about 500 worldwide), these high heels on wheels are encouraged to play up the camp or punk aspect.

Dressed out in striped socks, short pleated skirt, purple tights and nails to match at practice Monday, Jenny seems to exhilarate in the drills and games of "Red Light, Green Light," as the girls test their quick starts and stops.

"It's kind of a derby tradition that everybody dresses funny," she remarked. "I kind of want to get in the habit of wearing the short skirts now, I just want to go ahead and get comfortable with it."

The dress and derby names add a theatrical element for the participants that "normal life" may not afford, noted Megan.

Comes with the territory

Sonja Webb ("Sonja Blade") would normally be on the track with the others. For now, she's watching and cheering them on, sidelined with a broken arm, a souvenir from a previous practice. Ironically, it's the left arm; mimicking the pin-up style skater depicted on Tri-City's logo.

The medical assistant and mother of two from Columbus takes her injury in stride. It's the sixth broken bone for this 33-year-old who once raised horses with her dad.

"I was a veterinarian technician for six years, and that was a pretty tough job. At least here I don't have to worry about anything biting me," she laughed.

Boot camp

As the Derby Dolls organized, help came in the form of the Southern Misfits out of Hattiesburg. That roller derby team sent members up to conduct a boot camp.

"It was awesome," said Tarina Trzebiatowski ("Tarinasaurus Wrecks"). They gave us guidelines, told what we needed to do physically and how much dedication it would take to get to a point to ever compete. It was very empowering."

The Misfits introduced the Dolls to how the game (bout) is played and how to fall, and threw in some helpful hints -- like wearing two pairs of leggings to prevent "rink rash."

The Tri City team is coached by Bruce Wright.

"Good job, good job!" he praised Monday, as skaters wrapped up a drill in which they rotated at different offensive and defensive positions -- as jammers, pivots and pack members. During breaks, some girls do stretches, some leg lifts, and one, push-ups.

Bruce, 25, has lived in Columbus for about 10 years; he works with a landscape contractor and came to this coaching position through his friend, Megan.

"I told Megan I'd turn her marshmallows into freight trains," he grinned. "My goal is to keep them moving almost the whole practice. ... This team is a family; that's what I try to inspire in them."

Open door

The Dolls encourage anyone interested to watch a practice to see if the sport appeals to them. E-mail tricityderbydolls@gmail.com for details. "You don't even have to have skates; you can rent those from the rinks," Megan said.

The group hopes to be ready for a scrimmage with "fresh meat" (beginning players) from another league -- perhaps from Hattiesburg, Jackson or Birmingham, Ala. -- within six to 12 months.

Megan explained, "We'd eventually like to find a practice space that we could rent-to-own, maybe; a place dedicated for our practice and actual bouts." For now, dues of $20 per month per member help pay for facility rentals. Sponsorships from supporters would be most welcome.

"This sport is really fun and gives us a chance to work out our frustrations. We're Southern ladies but this gives us a chance to be a little bit more dangerous," Sonja said, with a hint of mischief.

Jenny summed up, "When will we ever get the opportunity to do this again? I guess we could all pick something like golf or tennis or swimming ... but it's not nearly as colorful."

School Unsupplied

Stores are starting to stock school supplies. I can't help but wander down the isles fingering the binders, pens and notebooks, drinking in the bright colors, smelling the new, fresh paper. I've always thought school supplies smelled fantastic, like possibilities and new beginnings.

Ever since I was a little girl, I have loved new school things. I would beg my mom to take me shopping for them, and I would oh-so-meticulously choose what I would be bringing to school with me every day for a year. It was a big decision: you had to get the cool pens, the right markers; everything had to be perfect. And once everything was bought (and the ban to not use them until school started was issued), school couldn't come fast enough.

Summer was fun and all: swimming, camp, watermelon, it was all a blast, but I was always ready for the new school year to start. There was always a new class, teacher and books to look forward to, and honestly, just the excitement of learning made me smile. The love of school followed me all the way through college. There was always at least one class I was pumped for, and, even though it was college, the supplies for that special class were selected all the more carefully.

Yeah, I was a nerd. Still am and proud. There has always been a book on my bed stand and in my bag and I take notes like the security of the nation depends on it... but not anymore.

Now the school supply isles just ask me questions, tell me things I don't want to hear. "You don't need this stuff anymore, what are you going to do now?" "Come on Sarah, this isn't like any other year, there isn't anything waiting for you in the fall, you have to do something."

I've graduated now. Whoop-de-freaking-do. I have to do something with my life, anything really. What will make me happy is mostly out of the picture now. All the plans I had for post-college life failed or fell through, and that well-earned graduation money is nearly gone.

I've worked any job I could find since I was old enough to work. Waitress, delivery driver, call center telephone operator, cleaning lady, nanny, dog walker, retail associate, fireworks salesperson, you name it; I've done it. But now that I have a degree, I feel like I should at least be doing something a little better than I was before college. That's why we spend (or borrow) the $40,000+ it takes to get that little sheet of paper, right? It's fine to work the crap jobs when you're in school, but once you're out, you aren't supposed to work in food services anymore.

But so far, waving that degree hasn't attracted the attentions of many employers. In fact, I would have been better off had I just folded it up and used it as a fan to cool me during this hot Mississippi summer. The little work I do get to do in my field isn't enough to live off of, much less even contemplate those horrifying student loan payments approaching fast, ready to strike at me as mercilessly as a stepped-on snake.

I'm not sure what I'm going to do, maybe be another college graduate working at Kroger until I can find something better, hopefully, I won't get stuck there like some people do. And the worst part is that about 70 percent of the people I graduated with are doing this exact same thing. So much for college advancing you right? All I know for now is that I'm avoiding the school supply isle... I can't afford it anyway.

Take Me Back to the Beach

Somebody please, just take me back to the beach.
The beach, where things are always simple.
My beach, where the cool salty air is eternal, and calming.
My place, where I've always gone, to think, scream, cry, pray, stare at the sky...
and then let die what's hurting me.

Digging my hands and toes into the soft sand anchors me to the world,
and then it sticks to me, and my car, and stays with us long after we depart.
But I have been so far away, for so long that nothing's left to keep me here.
It's starting to feel impossible to get back, perhaps it was even all a dream.
And now I'm directionless, purposeless, floating and in pain.
No ocean to cast my sins in, no sand to cradle me.

I've lost my beach, I've lost myself and somehow I'm still drowning.
I might could swim again, if only I could get back to my beach,
But I've lost my way, and my sand-less car and I are both to tired to go on.

Good Lord, Someone Else's Vampire Column

I know the vast majority of the internet world (who cares at least) will hate me for it, but... I don't completely hate this "Vampire Frenzy" that has swept the world post-Twilight.

While I have read and don't much care for Meyer's series, I did consider it an entertaining read, and don't consider the hours spent in the books wasted. But those who have lived with me, known me, or visited my library to borrow books are well aware that my tastes vary according to my mood (and I have more literary moods than a post-menopausal Fran Drescher). One day I'll read Tuesdays with Morrie, quickly followed by a vapid chick novel, followed by 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea followed by fairy tales... just because I can. My choice in books depends on what I'm eating, wearing, sitting, thinking, etc. And while I've only read the Twilight Series once, It was perfect for a weekend my junior year of college when I had only a little work to do ( which I could put off until Sunday night), all of my friends were gone home for the weekend, and I wanted to lay around for three days in my pajamas, reading and eating foods that were terrible for me.

Let me be perfectly clear however, that while I didn't hate the books, I do hate fanatical Twilight fans. The freaky pre-teen skankettes that wear Edward underpants should have their own brand of required therapists and be studied so future generations can skip the madness. N*Sync and Justin were the hotties in my pre-teen days, but we did NOT act like the crazed lunatics today's fans seem to be.

There has, however, been some good in the aftermath of the Twilight-tornado. And that good is that all vampire stories are no longer being ostracized to places like the SciFi channel. A fantastic book series by Charlaine Harris called collectively "The Sookie Stackhouse Novels" is one of the hottest shows on HBO.
The premise is that the Japanese have perfected a synthetic blood and now vampires can come out of hiding and live among regular people in the real world. Based in the deep south, the show hits on a lot of hot-button racial and political issues in a fearless way.... and the actors are all gorgeous (Anna Paquin anybody?}.

Another show that has jumped on the vampire bandwagon (and landed flawlessly, I may add) is the CW's The Vampire Diaries. I honestly didn't hold much hope for the series, but having just watched the first season's finale, I can admit I was dead (ha) wrong.

The show did start slow, but you find yourself oddly drawn in to the Nina Dobrev/ Paul Wesley/ Steven R. McQueen love triangle. But it's an age-old story at it's heart: girl loves boy, boy is a good vampire, boy's brother is a bad vampire but loves girl..... okay, maybe not. But it is drama and it is fun. It's not quite as intellectual as TrueBlood, but it has me all the same.

Nighttime Bookology

There's an irreplaceable sensation one can experience only after reading a truly excellent book.

Your entire being is charged. It tingles...on the top of your cheeks, at your fingertips and on the smooth skin at the arch of your feet. Striking phrases circle your brain, you feel the need to close your eyes and replay the images in your head of what you've seen, experienced.



It's all magnified a thousand times when the book is a memoir. When you turn the final page and see a face to connect to every experience you've just laughed, cried and lived through. I can't help but hold my breath while reading the author bio. Especially when it's a sad story, you can't help but smile and give a mental ovation when you see that the author is happily married, has kids, dogs and has obviously put his or her past behind them. They are not forgetting, and are always learning from it -- but they're better off now, and you cheer for them.

For years I've tried reading to induce sleep... to the worst avail possible. You see, the plan backfires on me here: If it's a good story, I just can't stop reading until it's finished. No matter how weary I am, how bloodshot my eyes are, or how early I have to get up in the morning, I'm doomed. I have to know. I can't let the characters, the author down by just casting them aside for hours or days until I return to them. Nope, not happening.


While I am currently blessed enough to be in the midst of three (now two) spectacular books, the particular masterpiece I've just finished was simply extraordinary. Jeannette Walls' "The Glass Castle" rocked my universe. If you ever think you've had a bad childhood, bad parents or been through a terrible situation, Walls will teach you a lesson in the most humble way possible. While the memoir covers things most people try to convince themselves just doesn't happen, Walls never complains or whines. She just tells her story... in the most captivating way imaginable. Please, read it. You won't regret it.

It was definitely good enough to inspire me back to blogging after a month of online abandonment. Email me, you can borrow it. This is a book I'm sad to have finished, because it's over. I want to meet the author, talk with her, write her a letter at least -- though I haven't the slightest clue what I'd say. Perhaps I would give her a high-five... that seems appropriate to me. :-) Though lots of inappropriate things do. I will go to bed now... probably. The other two books I'm reading are calling to me. Jules Verne's "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea" and Douglas Adams' "Life, the Universe, and Everything" are the others. I realize this is a fairly diverse collection of reading material, but I don't mind, possibly even prefer reading lots of different things. But until we meet again, may you have sweet reads and sweet dreams.

The difference between boys and girls

"Contemplative Girl"

"Princess"

"Man with Corndog"

More B&W pictures

"Sea Scratches"

"Firm Footing"

"Breathe"

Pictures of people whose stories I'd love to hear

"Catch me if you can"

"Mardi Gras Man"

"Queen of the Manhole"

Still tired, more contest photos

"Spent Dancer"

"Deep-Eyed Girl"

"Flying Dancer"

More B&W contest entries. I have a biology exam tomorrow. Please pray for me.

Tired today, Pictures for you.

"Open Sky"

"To Narnia"

"And you'll never believe what she said..."

These are a few of my black and whites. One was taken at the wedding of a friend, the other two at Mardi Gras in New Orleans last year. They were recently submitted to a MUW literary magazine, maybe one will get in.

Story of hope

Last night I went on a work assignment to take pictures of people who were going to see the African Children's Choir.

I had been planning to take the photos and scat before the show started, but I ended up being asked by my boss to stay at least until intermission to take a feature photo for her.

I entered the show and was thrilled. While I've never been a huge fan of African tribal music, I had so much fun watching those kids perform, no - play, on stage. While those kids were laughing, singing and playing onstage, while one little boy sang "I don't know what I am meant to be, it really isn't clear to me," a light lit in my heart.

I walked in thinking I wouldn't have anything in common with these kids. That I would enjoy a new cultural experience... one that had very little to do with me at all.

But I'm exactly the same as that little boy. I have no idea where God wants me to be. But as the chorus rose "We have hope, He gives us hope." I felt better. I've been having a hard time lately. Not exactly starving children in Uganda hard, but we all have our own set of problems. One of mine is that I'm graduating in two months and I don't know what to do with my life.

Should I try to be a journalist, as much as it stresses me? Should I work for Girl Scouts -- but where could that journey go? I'm unsure, I'm a little afraid and I wish I could ask my Mom for advise. But if those children from one of the worst places and situations on the planet can just give it all to Him, what the hell am I waiting for? What is stopping me from anything? I haven't a clue where I'm going, but I have God's love; I have hope.

And that's good enough for me.

Goodbye Uncle

Dad didn't tell me when my uncle died. Whether he forgot,
thought he told me, or just thought I'd somehow know, I'm not quite sure.
But I didn't find out for months. I guess that's the price I pay
for not going home or checking up on people.

You assume they just keep living. And usually they do,
but not in Uncle Carl's case.
He was old, sick and weak, but that doesn't mean I expected it,
it doesn't mean I didn't care.

He hated children, but had a soft spot for me. I was obstinate,
wouldn't take no for an answer - even from him.
I think he liked that he didn't scare me, like he did my cousins.
I'd clomp into the empty front room he'd always sit in with his cats,
while the other adults drank and gossiped in the kitchen.
But he wouldn't have any part of that.

He'd just sit there on the couch, thinking.
He'd tell me to go away and play. I'd ignore him, climb onto his lap
and hand him a book. "Read to me." I'd state plainly. "No. Go away. Leave me be."
he'd reply. "Read to me please?" And I'd have won the battle that day.

He'd exhale sharply, making an annoyed, grunting noise.
"Fine," he'd finally say.
He never read with voices, never acted out the characters, wouldn't let me look
at the pictures, and when he was done, he'd kick me out.
Tell me to go play, "Leave an old man alone."
And that's the way it was. No hugs or kisses, no fawning over my blue eyes and blonde hair or mindless babble of how smart or pretty I was like the other adults.

But he always bought me fantastic books for my birthdays.
While my cousins got dresses and dollhouses from his wife,
Tolkien and Lewis littered my bookshelves because of him.

My dad didn't tell me when my uncle died.
No tears, no goodbyes.
Just a memory of the days he read to me.