So this is what happens when I try to exercise…

All right! So, it’s softball season again.  That’s right, church softball season, where Cole takes those from her church and then recruits those of us who used to be athletic and has us perform like monkeys…I’m just kidding.  That’s just what I am feeling like right now…

So Tuesday was the first game but tonight was the showdown   I just want to start this whole thing off by telling you that my general experience has been that if a girls’ team wears pink, then they suck…sorry if that offends anyone, but it’s true.  I want to state expressly that this rule excludes the women’s teams who wear pink uniforms to support breast cancer research…So tonight’s team had brown and pink jerseys.  Read that last sentence again.  However, our team’s bats didn’t wake up and also the other team was better than you would think given their jersey color…Anyway, I just want to state my conclusion before the rest of this gets printed, tomorrow, my workout regimen STEPS UP!  I played third tonight.  I made a couple decent defensive plays from there.  I tagged a girl, and I actually threw out a girl after she hit me a grounder (I am pretty sure that said girl had an artificial hip).  Anyway, the game was pretty close for most of it, the other team was better than most but also we didn’t hit like we should…But here’s the point of this story: In the 6th inning, I was the first one up to bat and we were down one.  I got a single.  BTW, I used to be faster than I am….Anyway, the next girl comes up and she hits between the shortstop and 3rd.  The shortstop made a good play to knock it down but she bobbled it and I realized I had a chance to make it to 2nd.  So my out of shape ass hustled on down there only to get scared the ball was gonna hit me and half duck and pretty much fall into the base (safely BTW) but then I noticed that the second basewoman missed ir and the ball was rolling on out to right field….Convinced that I could recover my dignity, I hopped up and headed for 3rd.  However, half way there, the girl threw the ball to third…I was sure I was out and proceeded to slide to a stop ( I don’t have cleats) and headed back to second…in hindsight I would take my chances about getting to third because (a) I would probably have gotten there and (b) even if I had gotten out, my teammate would have gotten to second.  But I chose door 2 and headed back…………unfortunately, I literally ate dirt about half way between 3rd and 2nd.  Oh yeah.  It hurt.  I no longer have skin from my sports bra line to my mid thigh.  Also (TMI and Over-share alert) I have a strawberry on my hoo- haw  and that is not a pleasant experience ever but especially in the shower…Anyway, I am off to Baltimore on Sunday…I would love any thoughts or whatever because I HATE being away from home for that long…As for the rest, I am off to ice my naughty bits.

The Bachelor: Coming I promise…Happy Thanksgiving

What up again kids?  I just wanted to update this blog, though maybe not totally in the full-on way you would like.  I promise that I am going to update with a The Bachelor recap.  I just wanted to wait until I could spice it up with the After the Final Rose details because last night was both a doozy and unexpected.  That being said, I just want to say ROCK F-IN CHALK because holy poop have our guys been amazing!  Here is to hoping that Mizzou (I hate them) doesn’t ruin it this weekend.

Also, Thanksgiving is my favorite day of the year (if you don’t include April Fool’s, of course) and I am thankful for a lot of people and the blessings of my life.  I don’t say that enough because I am constantly complaining (which is funnier for you probably) but it doesn’t mean I don’t recognize the people in my life who are amazing or the fact that I generally have it pretty good.  I will probably do an entire post on this over the weekend but I wanted it out there tonight.

So if you don’t check with me here between now and then: I am thankful for you and eat so much that you can’t even think about food again (then do like me and take home a plate of left-overs, because you’ll hate yourself later if you don’t).  And on Saturday nite? Fix yourself a big fat turkey sandwich (with a moist-maker) and cheer for the Jayhawks against Mizzou like you would cheer for Rocky against Ivan Drago because it really is like cheering for good vs. evil.

Happy Turkey Day, everyone!

Random Wednesday Post for you…

Because I have no ideas and the week is slow, I am posting the answers to this survey that I got…Enjoy. 

Four First Names of Crushes I Had
1. Jeff (he had a mullet with a rat tail, and I thought he was the best looking thing in all of Tennessee.  The sad part? He probably was.)
2. Justin – lived up the street and had feathery bangs and a sweet jumpshot…
3. Samuel – better jumpshot than Justin and my first-ever boyfriend…I am pretty sure we got married on the playground.
4. Matt – had a bowl cut and a sweet smile.  Second boyfriend.
Four Pieces of Clothing I Wish I Still Owned
1. My Star Wars Underoos from when I was about four.  They were sweet!
2. My hooded Alabama Sweatshirt that zipped up the front.  I can’t find one I like better.
3. The very first pair of jeans I ever bought from American Eagle. Unfortunately, the ass completely wore out, so I guess those jeans circa the time I bought them.
4. The HyperColor t-shirt that I saved up my own allowance for in about 1988.  I loved that shirt.  Your friends put their hands on it and they showed up, etc.  I miss the ’80s.

Four Professions I Secretly Want to Try
1. Teacher
2. Professional Athlete
3. Rock Star (I am amazing at Guitar Hero!)
4. Casting Agent

Four Musicians I’d Most Want to Go On a Date With
1. John Mayer – HAWT now that he lost his weight especially
2. Dave Matthews
3. Ryan Adams
4. Damien Rice – I don’t know what he looks like, but he writes beautiful songs, and he would have that Irish accent…Yummy!

Four Foods I’d Rather Throw Than Eat
1. Asparagus
2. Watermelon
3. Sloppy Joes (because it would be such a “sloppy” mess)
4. Any kind of pie – at my family members because it would be fun and unexpected from me…
Four Things I Like to Sniff
1. New car
2. Money.
3. Clean Sheets
4. Matt Damon

So there ya go.  A little more about the wonder that is me…I promise I will try to update soon…Hopefully, with a new Office quoteability (I know I owe y’all like three of them).  Later.

The Writers’ Strike – Emma Brand’s Take

Welcome back to the blog.  After a long day at work, I look forward to sitting my butt on the couch, and watching some amazing television.  I know that I write a lot about reality shows, hell, I watch a ton of reality shows.  The truth is, though, I watch a lot of television period.  Probably too much, I will grant that premise.

But this week, instead of surfing the internet and downloading shows I love, or getting news about how much more fake the Hills really is.  Seriously, apparently Lauren and Heidi are secret friends? I have also spent a fair amount of time trying to understand why the writers that write my favorite shows have walked out…

Here is how it boils down:  Basically, the production companies and the networks give no residual payments (zero) for any  of the downloads or online streaming of the shows or movies.  What are residuals?  Well, they are payments based on percentage for every time that shows are re-run or bought on DVD.  The percentage given to writers are pretty low.  For instance, apparently every time you buy a DVD for $19.99, the writer gets a whoppin four cents.  You read that correctly.  I will grant you that this adds up, but let’s face it, it ain’t much.  However, the term “residual” and what rates are paid for what happens with the show or the movie script that the writers have penned themselves don’t apply to a lot of how we are all now receiving our television.  Now, the writers are paid for re-runs that show up on late night television and the small percentage of DVD sales.  That hasn’t always been the case.  Writers used to get absolutely nothing for anytime their show was put into syndication.  The best example I have seen was related to I Love Lucy.  That show has been on television for fifty straight years – it has entertained the viewing audience (some more than others) for that long.  The only thing those writers were paid was for their original script – and that’s it.

The change in how television is viewed is clear.  In the last 3-5 years, networks have been streaming full episodes of their shows for free online.  Also, services like Apple’s Itunes and Amazon’s Unbox, and most recently NBC’s Hulu have begun to sell those same episodes for download.  When you watch the episode for free online, there are often several 30 second commercial breaks.  Even though you watch for free, the network gets ad revenue from you watching (most likely based on the number of views).  When you pay $1.99 for an episode of Lost on iTunes, ABC turns a profit.  The writers, as of their current contract, receive NOTHING from any of that.  The networks are calling these electronic views “promotions.”  I think we all know that doesn’t pass “the smell test.”  It smells pretty bad, in fact.  So the writers’ contract is up, and the networks don’t want to give the writers squat.  And so now they strike.

Actors are joining them on the picket line even though they are members of the Screen Actors’ Guild, because their contract is up in June of next year, and they will also want similar residuals.  It will make a difference.  Think about a writer who writes a brilliant movie and sells a script to a studio.  They may write 10 more before a studio buys another one.  They may need those residuals from DVD sales or online downloads to bring in small checks to get them by until their next project is frutiful.  As of now, they would be getting four stinkin’ cents per DVD and not a dime off of the downloads.

It boils down to this: Disney’s doing fine.  Viacom is okay.  It’s the people that actually entertain us each week, with their imagination and humor and creativity that need a few extra dollars to insure they have time to write or act or produce these shows and movies instead of having to pay the bills by digging ditches or waiting tables.  They’re asking for a fair share.  And I think they deserve it.  So in the next month or so, when CBS has to air Ultimate Fighting Specials instead of the new CSI season, or ABC is showing you re-runs of Disney classics instead of the new season of Lost, I will probably cry a little, watch more of my Netflix queue than usual, or even (gasp!) read that growing pile of books on my shelf.  But I will support the writers…They deserve their fair share for their work and their gifts.

Here are some more links for your education…

•  The Los Angeles Times is keeping up with the latest news from the picket lines.

• Anyway, that’s all I got.  Long live these strikes.  This thing is affecting so many of the people like the crews and the production people and the actors too.  In a couple of weeks, more people will be laid off because they are “expendable.”

  In the next few weeks, a lot more shows will be going to re-runs instead of original episodes, and all of the late night talk shows as well as my favorites like The Daily Show and The Colbert Report have already gone dark.  I just hope the networks and production companies will come to the bargaining table and do the right thing…Until then, I am sad, but I get it.

Happy Birthday, To The Best Friend I Will Ever Have!

Father Knows Best

 I can still see my brother’s angry face as my father pulled us apart. I was around eight, which would have made Kent about six at the time. We had been fighting—again, and this time my father had had enough. We were both still panting from rage and from chasing each other all over the house. I don’t recall now why the fight started. It was probably Kent’s fault, but the specific reason for this altercation escapes me. My father sat us both on the couch and started in on his customary lecture about how mine and Kent’s fighting was ridiculous and how much it drove our parents crazy. But the speech ended differently this time. He said, “You two are going to be family for the rest of your lives. Y’all will always be there for each other and you may not like the idea right now, but the two of you will be best friends later on.” I remember looking over at my brother then, whose tongue was sticking out where his permanent teeth were coming in, and thinking how wrong my father was.

Kent was not someone that I could become friends with, I reasoned. How could you be best friends with someone who was constantly practicing Hulk Hogan’s wrestling moves on you? Sure, he was a good playmate. Before Kent was born, I remember asking my parents for a sibling so I would have someone to play with. When my parents brought Kent home from the hospital, I came out with my tennis ball and threw it at him. “Catch,” I said. Thank goodness I missed him. When Kent got a little older we did play a lot. We entertained friends and family constantly by performing scenes from the Andy Griffith Show. Kent and I would fight over who got to be Barney, even though it was also fun to play Otis, the town drunk sometimes. But the most fun was when there were no adults around. For Christmas one time, Kent got a new pair of roller skates and I got a bicycle and a jump rope. I still remember that Christmas morning. Kent and I wanted to play with all of our new toys at once, so I tied the jump rope to the back of my bicycle and pulled Kent along in his roller skates. We went to the top of our neighborhood’s steepest driveway, and down we went, me pedaling as fast as I could and Kent holding on for dear life. Around the curve we sped, and I decided it would be fun to make a right into our driveway and end our adventure in our yard. Being eight at the time, I was not well versed in the laws of centrifugal force, so it caught me by complete surprise when my screaming brother swung out wide on the turn and slammed straight into the mailbox. As he rolled into the ditch, I was certain he was dead, but while I was coming up with a good story to tell our parents, Kent groaned and rolled over. To keep him from telling Mom, I promised that I would take out the trash that week. Many of our escapades ended in a promise to do the other’s chores and a solemn pact not to tell either one of our parents.

We not only wore out our parents, but Kent and I were absolute terrors anywhere we went. After the church services on Sunday mornings, we would race out to the playground to be first on the swings. I can only imagine now how we must have looked: Kent in his short pants and knee socks and me in my patent leather shoes and ruffled underwear sprinting out of church to the playground to see how high we could get before we jumped out. We must have caused quite a stir in the little old ladies in charge of our spiritual development.Then there was the time that Mom and Dad dropped us off at our grandmother’s house while our parents went to Orlando for some convention. Kent and I loved our grandmother’s house because it was stocked with all the candy that you could eat, and she never made us take a nap. I don’t think someone could come up with a better formula for disaster: 2 children + 0 naps + plenty of sugar = 1 worn out grandmother.

Early in the week, Kent and I got into a fight over who got to rock in the rocking chair. He was there first, but I was the oldest. I proceeded to throw him out of the chair and began to rock as he tried to climb back in. Naturally, I rocked right over his foot. Cranky and full of sugar, he began to scream and cry. My grandmother rushed out to the porch exhausted by our relentless fighting and irritated that we had pulled her away from As the World Turns. She grabbed us both by the scruff of the neck and dragged us into house toward the phone. She began looking for the number to Dad’s hotel in Orlando. Scared into an alliance, Kent and I began to plead with her not to call. She didn’t. A week later, she told my parents that she loved us both but only wanted to see us one at a time from now on unless they could stay there to referee.

As Kent and I grew older, we moved to Alabama to be closer to my mother’s family. Out fighting tapered off and we began to hear the childhood tales of my mother and her five brothers and sisters. My grandfather had insisted that all of his children have a job, and what better way to make money in the summer than to mow the neighborhood yards? While all of the siblings worked in this makeshift company, my mom’s brothers were in charge of the lawnmower maintenance. Most of the siblings concur that Elaine was the butt of most of the pranks. Once, my uncles tricked her into holding onto the spark plugs while they tried to start the mower. It must have shocked her something awful, and she only did it once, but it made Kent’s and my shenanigans seem tame. Then there was the time that they had shrimp for dinner. Ward, being the youngest, who had never seen shrimp was convinced by his brothers and sisters that the tails were the best part. So while the six children split the shrimp five ways, Ward dined on shrimp tails that night.As I sat at the dinner table that night and listened to my aunts and uncles laugh about all of the events of their childhood, I began to see what my father had been talking about all those years before. The only five people in the world who understood and shared my mother’s extreme loathing for okra are her brothers and sisters. They provide a link to her past that no one else can comprehend. Remember the time that Daddy came home and y’all were trimming the hedges by holding the lawnmower over the tops of them? How about the time Greg and Elaine were playing Tarzan on the poison ivy vine? That was a mess! What about when Elaine was learning to drive and she ran right off the road and into the dump? I thought Daddy was going to kill her!  But through all of their fighting and pranks and petty disagreements, they were all the support they had when my grandfather was recently diagnosed with cancer. When Nana, my great-grandmother, died, they all sat in the front pew of their childhood church for her funeral. The six of them are infinitely linked.And so it is for my brother and myself.

As a Southerner now living in the Midwest, among people who do not understand my background, it is comforting to know that I can call my brother and he will tell me if I am starting to sound like a Yankee. Kent is the only one who can truly appreciate the humor in the way my dad runs or how embarrassing it is when my mother dances in the car. Kent is the only one who can laugh with me about the way Ms. Colette from daycare used to say “kinny-garden.” These are the memories that we share. Because of all that we know and understand about each other, it is often my brother that can offer me the best advice and vice versa. When Kent comes home with bad grades and my dad threatens to send him off to the military, I am the one to plead his case. When I go home for Christmas and run up my mother’s long distance bill, it is Kent who tells Mom to lighten up. We make a good team now. We still argue. We still disagree about a lot, but it is nice to have that understanding to fall back on. Sure, I was the one who convinced him that drinking vinegar was a good idea. He was the one who drove me crazy by repeating everything I said for days at a time. But he also shared my pain when our parents got divorced, and we will sit together at the funerals of our family members.

So as I look back on that day when my father had finally had enough, I am thankful that my dad convinced me not to kill my brother, and I am also glad that he turned out to be right.  Happy Birthday, little brother!

The Story that Keeps On Giving

I am a huge sports fan.  Basketball is my first love, but there is something about watching football on the weekend that just seems so right.  Anyway, this post will be about a great storyline that’s been going on in the NFL, but it will make you laugh even if you aren’t a football fan so bear with me.

The first week of the season in the NFL, Kevin Everett a “graduate” of Miami (does anyone ever really graduate that plays football there?) and a Buffalo Bill was severely injured while tackling someone.  He was taken off the field on a stretcher because he couldn’t move his arms or his legs and he was rushed to the hospital to receive emergency care, and eventually surgery.  Shortly after his surgery, a surgery that required the use of metal rods to secure Everett’s spine, the surgeon told the media that Everett’s prognosis for ever walking again was poor.  He said that it was a slim chance, if any, for Everett ever to regain feeling in his arms or legs.  (No, this isn’t the funny part, Steve!) 

Kevin Everett apparently wasn’t watching the press conference, though, because within a couple of days, reports coming out of the hospital indicated that Everett could feel his hands and arms and move his fingers.  With some additional testing, the same doctor came out to say that Everett would now most likely be able to walk again.  That would be cool enough, but apparently, doctors credit Everett’s miracle with an experimental procedure performed on Everett immediately after his injury that involved injecting a cooling agent around the spine.  Where was this procedure developed?  Everett’s alma mater, the University of Miami.  Who was one of the major donors to this research?  The owner of the Buffalo Bills.  I thought that was just a really cool way for life to come around.  If you really want to get in the spirit of this story, you should cue up your Lion King soundtrack to “Circle of Life” and just let Elton John make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside.  I will wait, but when you’re done, come back for the part of the story that will make you giggle.

Done?  Okay.  So Everett’s progress is being followed now by various news outlets.  He has been taken home to Houston to a rehab facility.  He has continued to make progress and medical folks think he’ll be walking soon.  So when ol’ Pat Murphy started reporting this story, I bet he didn’t think he’d be dealing with a live news snafu.  Thank you, youtube.  Sorry, Pat Murphy.  You will need sound for this clip (found via http://www.deadspin.com) :

Awk-ward!

This happened a while ago, but I was reminded of this story because I saw the lady on the elevator today, so here goes…

There is this woman who works on the third floor of my office building.  She is probably in her mid to late 40s.  She has at least one tattoo (on her wrist of all places), and she rides a motorcycle to work when it’s nice out.  She is also what you would consider a bigger lady and she derives an inordinate amount of pleasure from having people who park in the wrong parking space towed.

So about 1 year ago, I am riding down the elevator from my floor and she gets on.  As soon as she does, she starts rubbing her tattooed wrist and flexing it.  You know, the kind of stuff people do when they want you to ask if everything is okay, and how they hurt themselves, etc.  I should point out here that I am not someone who likes to talk on the elevator.  A hi how are you and talking about the weather is one thing, but I try not to get into discussions about children or politics or who they think is most likely to be voted out next on American Idol.  Mainly, because when I’m on the elevator I am either headed to work and dreading it, or heading home from work and just ready to leave.

Okay, so back to the scene.  The woman is rubbing her wrist and flexing it and generally giving the ask me about it body language.  So I turn to her, and say, “Did you hurt your wrist?”

To which she responds, “Yeah.  It is still hurt from where I dragged my husband out of the shower after he had a heart attack and died in there.”

Me: (Blinking, Blinking, Blinking) Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.

Right about then the elevator dinged at the first floor, but let me just say that was the most uncomfortable elevator ride of my life…And I lived at a dorm for two years.

What is the appropriate response in that situation?  I need to know, in case it comes up again…I am opening up the comments on this one.  Let me know what you think.

Murphy’s Law In Action

I am back with tales from the road…Yeah people!  So sit back and get ready, or, if you’re at work and don’t want your boss to see that you aren’t steadily entering meaningless statistics into your Excel spread sheet,  position your mouse over that minimize button and get ready for a story that I will now place in the “I can laugh about it now” file folder.

So, last week I went and hung out with Jake in San Diego.  Nice place, good people, tons of laughs, and an all-around perfect vacation.  I got to see a lot of the sites, including the World Famous San Diego Zoo.  A word of advice for those of you who want to see this landmark: Go in the morning, not at lunchtime.  We got there just in time to see all the animals napping.  I can spot and identify the ass of just about any of God’s creatures now.  Of course, Jake’s boy Chad has an expensive camera and a remarkable amount of patience for someone who has taken two idiots to the zoo, so pictures will be coming soon.  I am excited to see them, because like the true supermodels we are, Jake and I took some sweet ass pictures.

So the trip itself was perfect until I got to my layover in Phoenix.  I learned that my flight would be “slightly delayed” putting me back into Birmingham at about 12:30 a.m. which is a great, secure feeling for a skinny girl in flip flops who parked her car about 5 miles from the terminal.  So I was nervous about getting to my car without having to pull out some ninja moves. 

We landed in Birmingham after a 3 hour flight that seemed like it took 7.  I was sitting by the window, wishing I was already in my bed, or that I didn’t have to go to work in the morning, or just anything that would make me less tired.  The lady in the aisle seat in my row was about 78 years old and 5′3″ tall.  She apparently also has amazing persuasive abilities because she had managed to smuggle a carry-on bag whose size made it so it could have doubled as her coffin.  So after we land, this poor old woman (who looked like a Velma) was tugging on that bag so hard, and of course it was stuck in the overhead compartment.  So Velma is pretty much parallel with the floor at this point struggling with her bag, and I decided that if any of us want to get off that metal contraption any time soon, I would need to help.  So I said, “Ma’am, hold on a second, and I’ll help you.” 

It was at this point that I struggled to put my backpack down (without smashing all of the honey-roasted peanuts that I had collected throughout the day) and get over to Velma who was now red-faced and saying words that no old woman should ever say.  And I said again, “Hold on, I am coming.”

As I get over to where she was and I stick my head out from under the overhead compartment, Velma springs her bag loose and the 600-pound Samsonite with wheels came hurtling at my head.  My life flashed before my eyes.  There were all of my precious memories: all of my charity work, my Nobel-prize winning system for growing wheat where there is little water, and that time that I had to tell George Clooney that I couldn’t because Brad Pitt was coming by later.  Okay, so someone else’s life flashed before my eyes.  But as I came back to the present, I was struck so hard in the face that my eyes were watering like no other.  Oh holy smoking Rosie!  That big, huge bag hit me square in the cheek, and it did NOT feel good.  It felt like a bowling ball had just hit me in the face!

So I am now standing in a Southwest airplane, my eyes are watering, and I am jealous of the flashbacks I just had.  And then little old Velma breaks her silence.  I know that she is going to apologize, to ask if I am okay and possibly pull out some sort of wrapped hard candy out of her instrument of destruction to make up for her clocking me in the head.  Velma says, “I got it.”  And then looked at me like I had just spray painted on one of her hand-stitched cat pillows.  If ever there has been an acceptable time to hit a woman who actually witnessed the invention of fire, that would have been the time, but I held back, got my stuff together and got off the plane.

When I got to baggage claim, I found out that they had lost my luggage.  A very nice woman named Jackie helped me, but while I think we could have had a very special friendship under other circumstances, it was clear that we were both tired.  So she graciously takes my ID and my claim check and tries to find out where my bag has gone off to.  In the interim, the system crashes about 3 times and I was sure that my prized collection of ripped up jeans and ironic t-shirts along with my grey New Balance shoes were gone forever.  But ol’ Jackie just kept working and after a half hour I was on my way to my car in the dark parking garage with a FedEx tracking number, and a tired smile from my new friend. 

I have never been so happy to see my old beater in my life, by the time I got all the way out to it.  But as I put my key into the lock, I noticed that my power lock didn’t kick in.  Yep, my car was absolutely dead.  And it’s after 1 in the morning, and everything here in the Birmingham International Airport is being shut down.  So I started hauling my ass back toward the terminal.  First, I thought I could get one of the rental car guys to help me jump my car but the counters were all closed.  There were no cabs at the curb, and by that time even the cops had abandoned their cars there.  I jogged into the airport at a sprint just as poor Jackie had helped her final person with lost luggage.  She was NOT happy to see me and that is when I realized that Jackie and I would not be pen pals. 

I told Jackie my situation and she was able to find the one airport security person left in the airport who has one of those cool flashing yellow lights.  His name was Silas and he met me at my car, looking all smug with his “you left your lights on, idiot!” look.  He got my car running and told me “just let that baby ride!”  So me and the clunker headed on back to T-town, with no music because my anti-theft device had kicked in, but on our way just the same.  As I pulled into the driveway, I have never been so happy to see my carport light up and my dogs barking at me.  Knowing that work was a scant 5 hours away, I managed to get myself into my bed pretty quickly, and thus ended the vacation that was perfect- all the way up until the last 6 hours.  And since I also had such a good time, I was still in a good mood today at work.  Eat that, Mr. Murphy and your law.