the professional mourner

All these years I’ve been wasting my talents. I’ve officially found my niche in life – a professional mourner. You have the funeral, and I’ll bring the tears. To think I’ve missed out on this particular career path for so long.

pre-thanksgiving poem

With the help of my Play Cousin I wrote a special Pre-Thanksgiving poem. Share it with your family and friends next year.

The night before Thanksgiving.

God save the small town

Growing up I lived in a major city, but after high school I started living in smaller and smaller places. These days I live in a small town. There are a lot of downsides to a small town, such as the lack of a dating pool, cultural diversity and just having something to do on the weekends. My current location is three times bigger than the last one so I will survive (just like Gloria Gaynor) However, living in a small town isn’t all bad. There are also many some a few advantages. People are generally friendlier, and everybody knows your name. It’s like Cheers all over the place. Traffic is practically nonexistent, and I can typically get from one end of town to the other in 15 minutes. That never happened in my hometown.

Reunion Buddies Wanted

Sorry that my Writing Wednesday posts were on hiatus for so long. I was sick, on spring break and a tad bit lazy. Now I’m back. I owe the WW pot at least $100. No more breaks are planned for the future.

Coming soon to a writer near you...

Where has the time gone? It seems like just yesterday I was a goofy high school freshman. Now I’m a goofy adult. Several weeks ago I was telling my friend, Ebonita, how 2012 marks five years since we’ve graduated from college. It made me think of another approaching milestone– our 10 year high school graduation anniversary in 2013. At first I was all excited because that means a class reunion is coming. Then I realized I need a reunion buddy. Reunions are no fun without one.

Where are my ZZZs

I just want to sleep.

Has anyone seen the Sandman? You know the guy that supposedly brings dreams. He’s been avoiding my house lately. It was cool that first night. I wasn’t even too annoyed with night two. But after three nights of no sleep, I am concerned.

Contacts v. glasses

The end has come for my reign of wearing glasses. I’m returning to contacts. I finally set an eye appointment for Thursday after a four month delay.


I hate wearing glasses. Absolutely. Hate. It. My vision was just fine until fourth grade when the world became blurry. I had to get a pair of giant coke-bottles, and four-eyes became a common insult over the years. In 10th grade I discovered contacts and never looked back. I still kept a pair of glasses handy to rest my eyes as needed, but contacts were a constant in my world. If I went to sleep with contacts, I would wake up thinking my sight had returned.

Sure contacts had a downside. Wear them too long and you risk dry eyes or infections. They easily pop out if you barely rub your eyes. And the slightest scratch hurts like the dickens. The bad outweighed the good of glasses any day. I didn’t start wearing glasses on a regular again until about four years ago. Blame the working world. Long hours in front of the computer aren’t good for the eyes. I only wore glasses to rest my eyes at the end of the day.

A few months ago I only had one pair of contacts left. For some reason I kept putting off an eye appointment. I thought I would get to it before anything happened to that last pair. A scratch beat me to the punch. Now I’ve been stuck wearing glasses since March. This is a cruel and unusual self-inflicted punishment. Glasses make me look 10 years older, and I refuse to take pictures with them on. They are not a flattering look for me any way you put it. I do not look like a sexy librarian, teacher or whoever.

Enough was enough, so I finally made an appointment. I can’t wait to pop in my first pair of contacts in months. It will open up a whole new world of sight. Someone once told me I could just get Lasik and be rid of glasses and contacts forever. Lasers. On my eyes. No thank you. I’ll stick to contacts, and the occasional pair of glasses.

fear of falling

I’ve got fears. Lots of them. Most are logical in my opinion. I don’t like clowns because I watched “Killer Klowns from Outer Space” and later read “It.” I’m now convinced clowns are the devil. Cabs make me nervous because there was a guy in Jacksonville killing girls in his taxi several years ago. I try to avoid riding them.

One of my biggest fears is falling in the shower. I can see it now. I get into the shower for a wonderful washing experience. Unbeknownst to me, there is an extra slippery spot in the tub. Right when I prepare to get out … KARPLUT! I slip and fall head first and bust open my skull. No one is home, and brain juices ooze for hours. By the time they find my body, it’s too late to save me. And then the world shall mourn. Gruesome little scene isn’t it? Well it could really happen, because I almost slip in the shower at least once every other month. I don’t really know how. It just always happens.

Nothing could replace this fear in the top 10 spot, or so I thought until IT happened Tuesday morning. I was enjoying a washing experience and dropped the soap. I bent down to reach it but came up yelling in pain. Somehow I managed to cut my shoulder on the shower door handle. Tears formed soon as I saw skin had been removed. In place of the brown, there was nothing but white, and soon it was turning red. Immediately I hopped out the shower, forgetting my fear of falling, and grabbed some peroxide and a Band-Aid. One top fear was replaced for another.

It’s been two days since that incident, but my shoulder still is tender from the cut. Lifting my arms causes a bit of pain these days. Now I get into the shower with fear and trembling. Not because I could fall. I’ve got bigger problems. I could cut myself. What if it’s a main artery and I slowly bleed to death? Just when you thought it was safe to take a shower, you realize it’s not. Maybe I should switch to safe little baths.

The Family Rules

Think I could write a book of reunion survival tips?

It’s family reunion time! This weekend yours truly is kickin’ it with the kin for the annual Lawson Family Reunion. We’ve been going strong for five years now. Yes, our reunion gatherings are fairly young, but momentum continues to build. The reunions have been in a variety of places including Belle Glade, Jacksonville, Atlanta and Orlando. This year we’re heading to West Palm Beach.

Family gatherings are always a joyous occasion for me. What’s not to enjoy? You’re together with all your family. The family elders talk about the past. The young folks talk about the present. The babies dream about the future. Family love is just all over the place.

There might be some people that find family gatherings less than appealing. Well no need to fear. If you’re headed to a family gathering anytime soon, I have a few survival rules to make the day as entertaining as possible.

1. Prepare funny responses to annoying questions and comments from family members, particularly Grandpa Buford, who you haven’t seen or talked to recently. If he asks, “When are you getting married?” just respond, “Never. I want to be a cat lady.” Then start meowing and rubbing your imaginary cat. This works if you’re a male or female.

2. When Uncle Buster starts telling you the stories from back in 1902 begin singing every last word of the sentence. He’ll look at you crazy, stop sharing and go tell Cousin Bridgette instead.

3. Do not, I repeat, do not eat anything cooked by Aunt Bessie who lives alone with two cats, three dogs, a ferret and a snake. They probably helped in the preparation process because she considers them her children. If she asks why you aren’t eating her runny potato salad, start asking to see pictures of her “babies.” She’ll forget all about it.

4. Once Cousin Bob and his new flavor of the month, Beatrice, start to argue, immediately find Grandma Bertha. Then grab a bag of popcorn to watch the fireworks that are sure to come when she gets to fussing at everyone. For some extra cash, pre-sell tickets to the upcoming fight of the century.
Ok maybe none of this takes place at your family gatherings. But just in case it does, you’ll be prepared.
*Disclaimer: Try at your own risk. I assume no responsibility for your family putting you in a jacket that makes you hug yourself all day.*

The fruitocalypse

Prunes and raisins have joined forces for a worldwide takeover. At least in my mind. Therefore I don’t trust them. How can you? Both are pretentious pieces of fruits.

First and foremost prunes and raisins think I’m stupid and don’t know their origins: a dried plum for prunes and a dried grape for raisins. That in itself makes me raise an eyebrow. Changing your name to hide your identity is a no-no in my world, at least regarding fruits. It means you’re too good for your past. If you’re too good for that, what else are you too good for? Other dried fruits – such as peaches, oranges and apples – don’t change their names, but such is not the case for prunes and raisins.

There can only be one reason for this name change: World domination. Attack of the killer tomatoes will have nothing on the prune and raisin revolution. And no, the revolution will not be televised because the deranged fruits will attack the camera men. The whole drying process messed up their brains. Now both have become disgustingly evil.

Anyone who has ever eaten a prune or a raisin will be singled out for annihilation. After all you were limiting their numbers. I shudder to think of the despair the revolution will bring. The world’s only opportunity for survival is me. That’s right; I’m doing my part to lead the resistance by making sure no one eats either fruit. I like the originals anyway. Food remixes are just not for me (yes pickles, I’m looking at you too).

Do not assume these two fruits are mild-mannered and easy going. That’s how they get your guard down. “Oh I’ll just pop a nice little raisin into my mouth,” you say. “Attack from within,” says the prunes and raisins. Fight the impulse to eat them if you come into contact with either one. No good can come from eating a prune, despite what Granny and Granddaddy say. Only the runs. And raisins are a choking hazard waiting to happen. Take it from a person who choked on a tic-tac. Those dissolve quickly. Not raisins.

Take this message to heart, people. We survived the non-rapture May 21. There will be no survival of the fruitocalypse if you don’t think, and eat, smart.

Lazy post

My mother bought me “The Children’s Book of Virtues” when I was but a wee lass. One of my favorite poems in the book was “I Meant To Do My Work Today” by Richard LeGallienne:

I meant to do my work today,
But a brown bird sang in the apple tree,
And a butterfly flitted across the field,
And all the leaves were calling me.
And the wind went sighing over the land,
Tossing the grasses to and fro,
And a rainbow held out its shining hand,
So what could I do but laugh and go?

Nice as that poem was, using that excuse in school will get you a big fat goose egg on an assignment. Good thing this is my personal writing post and not an assignment. Just before the clock strikes midnight and Writing Wednesday ends, I present an original poem:

I meant to do my post today
But a zombie was thrown from a tree
And an ambush was waiting in the field
And my roommates watched Zombieland with me.
And all in the scary Zombieland
Tossing zombies was a hobby to and fro
And I had to watch how the group joined hand in hand
So writing a post was just a no go.

Seriously, check out Zombieland. It’s a great movie.

A lesson in limericks

Poetry writing has never been my strength. I can appreciate a good poem, of course, but don’t ask me to write one. Unless it’s a limerick.

Typically a limerick is a stanza of five lines with the first, second and fifth rhyming with each other. The third and fourth rhyme with each other. Back in the early days of limericks the first and fifth line ended with the same word. Limericks are witty, humorous and full of nonsense, kind of like me. What’s not to like about this style of poetry?

A character in one of my favorite book series, “The Cat Who ...” by Lillian Jackson Braun, wrote a column dedicated solely to limericks. I might not have a column, per say, but I do have this blog. Here are some limericks I find entertaining.

The limerick packs laughs anatomical                
In space that is quite economical,
But the good ones I've seen
So seldom are clean,
And the clean ones so seldom are comical.
Readers be warned. Limericks can be raunchy.

There was a Young Person of Smyrna
Whose grandmother threatened to burn her;
But she seized on the cat,
and said 'Granny, burn that!
You incongruous old woman of Smyrna!'
My granny used to threaten to spank me. Usually she did spank me. We didn’t have a cat handy.

There once was a man from Nantucket
Who kept all his gold in a bucket.
But his daughter, named Nan,
Ran away with a man
And as for the bucket, Nantucket.
My mother used to tell me a dirtier version of this one. We’ll leave it at that.

There was an old man from Peru,
who dreamed he was eating his shoe.
He awoke in the night
with a terrible fright
and found out that it was quite true.
This is one of my favorite limericks. My mom often recited it, and I used to hear it in school.

And now introducing my very own limerick.
There once was a nice girl named Toni
Who only ate Kraft macaroni
She refused to eat meat
Abhorred fruits and sweets
Her tombstone said, "Here lies Miss Bony."

Chronicles of Life … the non-benchwarmer

Allow me to formerly introduce someone to you. You’ve seen him before at a number of sporting events.
He is the teammate that pass was intended for on the football field; the outfielder who was supposed to catch that stray baseball; or the player who everyone thought had the basketball rebound.
Still don’t know who he is?
It’s none other than Jeff, the imaginary teammate everyone loves to bring into the game.
I got to witness Jeff first hand at several sporting events a few weeks ago: two basketball and one hockey game.
Yep, Jeff is multitalented and plays all sports.
But he has really been in the spotlight during March Madness.
In case you didn’t know, Jeff blows games. Big time!
Sure you might have a 10 point lead. But you can forget it once Jeff comes off the bench.
He does not catch passes, block goals or go in for the rebound. Jeff has even been known to drop a few batons in relay races.
Does no one pay attention to Jeff’s stats for each game? He has none.
Jeff officially is the world’s worst teammate. Yet he’s on every team.
I don’t know why teams keep recruiting Jeff. Maybe it’s because he has this good camaraderie with all the teammates.
I think Jeff keeps telling everyone he’s in it to win it. Team members want to trust each other, so they give Jeff chance after chance.
He must keep saying he’ll redeem himself next game, and in he goes.
Jeff is a habitual liar, apparently.
He may be cool and all after the game, but the point is to win. National championships are on the line here.
I don’t mind seeing Jeff play with the young’uns during rec department games. That is the age when it’s all about the joys of the game and learning the fundamentals of whatever sport.
But Jeff has to leave the team once high school starts.
Maybe Jeff can take on a different, less important team role. I think Jeff the imaginary team mascot has a nice ring to it.
I know people want to protect their teammates. But hear me out.
Jeff needs to go!
Side note: I don’t know who is worse; Jeff, the imaginary teammate, or a star player’s evil twin.
I have seen Jim Tebow stand in for Tim during games. And Rick Calathes has blown some for Nick.
Round them all up, evil twins and Jeff, and keep them on the bench.

Chronicles of Life... I speak fish

Fish play an important role in our society.
They’re entertainment, decoration, pets and food.
However, who among us really understands fish?
This is where my services come into play. I am a fish whisperer.
Don’t laugh! It’s a real profession (at least in my mind).
I have decided to abandon my dreams of solely writing for this higher calling.
Seriously, there are books and even a movie on horse whisperers and a television show about a dog one.
It is now time for fish to stand up, I mean swim up, and be accounted for. I am the voice of the fish!
Ralphie is my inspiration for taking on this daunting task.
One day, I was laying in my bed all jumpy and anxious about life.
I started watching him swim back and forth from left to right, up and down. Occasionally, he would stop to roll around in his rocks, but his routine didn’t change too much.
I eventually calmed down from just watching the little guy.
Oh how simplistic a fish’s life must be. Never a care or want in the world.
Or so we think.
Ralphie indeed has needs, wants and dreams.
He needs food and his water regularly changed. He wants bigger rocks over those small ones Pet Smart tried him with. And he dreams of being a shark.
How do I know? I’m a fish whisperer, duh!
I have extensively studied fish the last few years (meaning I have owned two betta fish and actually kept them alive longer than a day). I’m practically an authority figure.
Therefore, I am going to march myself up to the Georgia Aquarium (after I drive there first) and present the officials with my fish whisperer card. That’s how much faith I have in my talents.
The aquarium officials will not bust out laughing, unlike those of you who are reading this. Instead, they will immediately request my services to deal with some troubled beluga whales.
I’ll make the front page of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution for single-handedly soothing a sad manta ray.
Then I’ll start writing the “Chronicles of a Fish Whisperer” based on my numerous experiences.
Soon Animal Planet will come knocking, and my very own show, “Chronicles of a Fish Whisperer,” will air every week.
Finally, Hollywood will be ready for the movie, also called “Chronicles of a Fish Whisperer.”
The possibilities are endless...
But just in case all that doesn’t pan out, I’ll keep my day job and fish whisper to good ole Ralphie.
At least I know he listens.

The Hartwell Chronicles … Take me to the water

“I held my breath when they dipped my head, then I came up shiny and new. …”
Actually, I came up sputtering and spitting out water.
No, I was not getting baptized in “the river.” I was getting dropped, repeatedly, into a dunking booth.
You know I love the kids. When I was asked to participate in the dunking booth at a community fun day, I thought, “Sure, it’s for a good cause.”
Mistake number one.
I volunteered to take the first shift. It was all worked out in my mind that the first few people wouldn’t be able to hit the target.
Mistake number two.
A crowd of young children, all at least under 10 years of age, came rushing with tickets in hand and balls prepared to throw.
“Surely, they can’t hit that good so young,” I thought.
Mistake number three.
Water was all I saw for a good solid hour. I was dunked no less than a 100 times.
Each participant got three balls for $1.
Sure some would miss on the first try and even the second. But just a sure as Jesus rose on the third day, I got dunked with the last ball.
Better yet, some children got me on all three tries. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh is all people saw.
To top it off, the water was so dark and murky. Our local fire department got it from one of the hydrants, but they didn’t let it flush out first and lose its dirty look.
Yes, I was dunked in a nice big pit of dark brown water. Is it too much to ask for clear?
I can’t swim, and seeing how to float back up was impossible. I hit my head on the seat a few times.
The children all gathered around and laugh diabolically as they dunked me each time. I failed to see the humor in it.
One boy spent at least $10 dunking me by himself. Soon the whole family was joining in.
Then a crowd of older men thought it would be fun to take a few turns.
I started to talk some smack about them – it’s no fun without a little egging on – but I stopped after that first dunk.
They all said it was so much fun at the dunking booth.
Fun for who? Not me!
“Dunk the newspaper lady,” they screamed.
All these dunkers or their parents better have a subscription to “The Hartwell Sun.”
I was cold, wet and tired by the time my shift was over. Water was dripping all over the place.
The only thing that looked decent was my hair (water does wonders for the natural).
At least they gave me a shout out during quarter bingo.
I am too through with the dunking booth. From now on I’m sticking to easy community service events like celebrity waiter/waitress night.
My infectious smile and sugary sweet personality will definitely get me the most tips of the night.
Maybe my dunkers will tip the newspaper lady with money instead of into water.

Chronicles of Life... For whom the bell tolls

Mark your calendars for June 30, 2012 and June 30, 2018.
I am getting married on one or both of those days.
That’s right, the “wedding bug” has bit me.
I went to a friend’s wedding Father’s Day Weekend and was “caught up in the rapture of love,” a la Anita Baker.
It was absolutely beautiful.
The wedding party gracefully came down the aisle, the bride looked like a dream and the ceremony was wonderfully done (and I’m not just saying this because my daddy officiated).
Then we ate, we laughed, we danced at the reception.
And there was cake. Cake, glorious cake. Oh for the love of cake!
I want a wedding!
Bells, wedding ones that is, have been ringing in my head since last Saturday.
I started working out the details of my special day on the ride back to Hartwell Sunday night.
I have a color scheme, ceremony, location and most of the bridal party planned. The only thing missing is one small detail: the groom.
OK, maybe that’s a major part of it. But can’t I just find one in the Penny Saver?
If Juno can find adoptive parents for her unborn baby, I should be able to find a husband.
I’m not asking for much. He just needs to fit my 50 qualifications which include being taller than 5’9, clean and straight teeth, good credit, gainfully employed, intelligence, a relationship not religion with God, you know all the normal stuff.
A few references, background check, drug and mental test wouldn’t hurt.
This is a full time job, after all. I can’t just let any and everybody apply for the position of husband.
All he has to do is show up for the wedding after he gets the job.
This should be fairly simple, right?
Wrong.
I’m just kidding about all the above (err at least most of it).
But someone else might not be.
A lot of people really do catch the “wedding bug” and rush into a faulty relationship and even quicker out a bad marriage. They get caught in the romanticism of marriage and are ready to jump the broom quicker than lighting.
But after the honey moon is when the troubles come.
People don’t realize a relationship takes a lot of work and even more if its a marriage. This isn’t some fly by night operation.
I’m not going to lie. I was caught up in the glitz and glamor of the wedding for a moment.
I almost was ready to start on my five year plan.
“Got to get married while I’m still young,” I thought.
Then I went back to reality.
I didn’t get a boyfriend until 22. I’m definitely not about to rush marriage.
If I’m married by 30, great. If it takes until 40 even better.
Right now my twenties are all about me. There are so many things I want to accomplish before marriage. Why rush it?
I think I’ll get the wedding bug out my system by planning a few parties on those dates.
So ask not for whom the bell tolls. I guarantee it won’t be me for at least another 10 years.
Then again. ...

The Hartwell Chronicles… It's TP'ing Time

The first wrap around was hard. My roll broke off, and I didn’t know what I was doing.
But then it became easier, and easier and easier. Finally, I had completed the porch’s railing.
Soon, flashes of white were headed for the sky and landing in tree limbs.
I was alive, I was free, I was finally doing it.
Doing what, you ask?
At long last, I have engaged in the age old tradition of TP’ing.
Yes, in my nearly 24 years of existence, I had never before thrown a beautiful toilet paper roll into the air and watched it land in the trees.
I’ve done my share of decorating dorm and bedroom doors or party locations, but it just doesn’t compare to TP’ing.
TP’ing is a popular tradition in the U.S. And no wonder.
You get a rush from doing it. Sneaking in the night, aided only by the light of the moon as you complete your task is exhilarating.
Alas and alack, it seemed like another rite of passage from my youth would disappear with the sands of times.
I can’t swim. I don’t know how to ride a bike. Skating is a definite no-no.
At least I learned how to hula hoop and can semi-bowl.
Opportunity finally presented its self for me to join the ranks of TP’ers
The crew – Sarah Lee, H.J.L. and San Antonia – whose true identities shall remain nameless to protect the not so innocent, carefully picked our target.
He is someone we’ve all come into contact with several times.
One lives near him. One works with him. And the other has interacted with him on the football field.
Marky Mark was, well, the mark.
Tomorrow is his birthday. And what better way to commemorate such a momentous occasion then with a few decorations here or there? A few TP decorations at that.
So we crept into the night, dressed in mostly black and went to work. Toilet paper would soon be everywhere.
The first rule of TP’ing is to work while the cost is clear.
We thought we were in the clear. Marky Mark’s car had been M.I.A. for several days.
He wouldn’t know who or what hit him.
Rule number two: blend in with your surroundings. The black attire would help camouflage us amid the darkness.
Number tres: Don’t get caught!
Funny I should mention that.
There were several cars that drove past us. We hid for safe measures among the trees.
The first one was a false alarm. Too bad the next one wasn’t.
The jig was up.
Marky Mark’s little red car started pulling up, and we took off running.
Very carefully we calculated our next move. We would wait and resume.
Err actually we just turned ourselves in. After all, he took the rest of the toilet paper rolls.
I think Marky Mark was pleasantly surprised and even touched. Not every sports editor is lucky enough to get his house TP’ed.
He may have caught us this time, but soon, and very soon, the crew shall return.
TP'ing time will strike again!