Local doctor's clinic in Haiti beginning to see quake patients | InsideNova.com

Local doctor's clinic in Haiti beginning to see quake patients InsideNova.com

At this point you've no doubt been seeing the devastation in Haiti, and likely reached out to help. In case you haven't and want to, here's a group run by a man who used to work with Matt's dad. From what I hear, Medical Missionaries only has a 1% overhead, so most of the money will go directly to people in need.

Paula Puppet is BACK!

We've been swamped this week, both because of legitimate adult reasons and because American Idol auditions are on this week. Will this season bring us another Adam?

And the return of American Idol signals the return of Topher Payne's Paula puppet. The Paula puppet makes me believe that all is right with the world.

And, just in case you have been hiding under a rock all day, here's "Pants on the Ground."

". . .lookin' like a foo' with yo' pants on the ground."

Eye Might Puke.

Matt and I are big fans of the boneless skinless chicken breast. Because we found them on sale for $1.99/pound, our freezer is currently full of them. Like, full full. But that's not my story.

You see, last night, while we were whipping up an old favorite meal, Ana y Jose chicken (cajun chicken breasts with jalapeno cheese melted on top--fancy, I know). I took my nicely thawed chicken breasts and began to trim them up, and to pound them with what I call my meat hammer. I think the official name is a meat tenderizer, but I prefer meat hammer.



And I was pounding away at the chicken, holding my hand up to keep chicken bits or juice from flying all over everything when--I want to puke just thinking about it--a piece of raw chicken flew into my eye. Not my eyelid or near my eye. It flew directly onto my eyeball. As you might imagine, I freaked out and started rubbing my eye. Only, I had somehow gotten cajun spice on my hands, so my eye started to burn. I had to go to the bathroom to flush out my eye with water, and I pulled the eyelid away from my eye to see if I could see the RAW CHICKEN.

Raw chicken in my eye.

Well, I didn't see anything, so I decided that it must be okay.

I was wrong.

When I was getting ready for school this morning, I looked in the mirror and saw a really big sleepie. (What do you call the gunk that gathers in the corner of your eye? I call them sleepies. Others call them sheepshit. Is there a scientific term for overnight eye gunk?) Only, it wasn't a sleepie. It was the chicken.

So, party people, there you have it. Raw chicken in my eye overnight.

Excuse me while I vomit and schedule a doctor's appointment for my eyeball salmonella.

Meow!

Mitch hates cats. He hates them because they hate him, because he doesn't understand them, and because every time he interacts with one bad things happen (like scratches and hisses and knocked over furniture).

I like to torment Mitch. So, a few years back, I started to meow at him (and I'm a pretty damned good meower if I do say so myself). Initially, my meowing would elicit one of those so-cute-I-could-just-die-happy inquisitive looks from the pup, but he slowly caught on, realizing that I am his birth mother and not a cat.

But my meows continued, even though Mitch went pretty quickly from inquiry, to being annoyed, to completely ignoring me. So now when I meow, it is to entertain me and Matt. (For Matt it hearkens back to a time in our youth when, after imbibing excessively, I would pounce around the yard in the tall grass on my hands and knees, claiming to be a jungle cat.)
So, when I'm at home, I'll sporadically meow. Matt will laugh and Mitch will do his best to ignore me.
Now, though, I am feeling like my little joke has gone too far. This evening I was sitting at my "How To Teach Gifted Kids" class, preparing for a presentation with my group when--completely unprovoked--I let out a soft meow.

Is there some sort of twelve-step program for this?

Mash Up

F'ing Avatar.

Happy 75th!

Happy 75th birthday to a Mr. Elvis Presley!

You may or may not know that I'm a big Elvis fan. My favorite Elvis is Army Elvis, closely followed by '68 Comeback Special Elvis. I guess I just like a man in uniform, and if I can't have uniform, then a leather suit will do.



I hope Matt wears his leather jacket tonight when we go to Mexico!

Smarty Pants

Me: Why are baby animals so cute?
Matt: Evolution.

Why does he have to be so smart all the time?

Oh, and if you are reading this, it means that I have successfully managed to post from my phone. In other words, DANGER!

Cute Baby Animals

Last post was a downer. So, I now give you some cute pictures of baby animals that I stole from the Google.

BABY DINGOES!

It's Friday! What are your big plans for the weekend (besides, of course, Googling "baby animals" and smiling)?

Grandad in Trappe

Today my family lost its patriarch.

Grandad in Trappe was my Grandma Gail's dad, my mom's grandfather, my great-grandfather. He was kind and loving, proud of his family, generous, and had been hard of hearing for as long as I can remember. He was a veteran of WWII, a father to six, grandfather to about 75, great grandfather to about 1000, and a great great grandfather to even more.

He liked to tell goofy jokes. He carved wooden ducks. He painted. He lived his entire life on his family's farm in Trappe, Maryland. He would complain about my great grandmother's cooking to make the kids think the food was gross, just so that he could have more.

[five generations picture from my wedding]

Grandad in Trappe (in our family we identify grandparents by where they live) married my great grandmother Jean when she was 14, because she had lied to him and told him she was 18. They were married for over fifty years. Almost everyone in my family was at her bedside when she died. She'd had lung cancer and had been suffering, and Grandad had left the house to go to the store. She started to breathe heavily and it seemed that she didn't have long, but Grandad still wasn't there. Grandmom held on until he returned home, and gave her a kiss. And then she let go, and was gone. Theirs was a powerful display of love.

Several years after Grandmom's death, after he'd learned to cook and clean and do laundry on his own, Grandad reunited with a friend from childhood, Doris. He and Doris had both married and raised large families, but then lost their spouses. They reconnected, fell in love, and got married. It was the cutest wedding, until my crazy Aunt Donna gave him Viagra samples as a gift. Grandad laughed and laughed, making us all believe the pills wouldn't go to waste.

Grandad was 87 years old. He lived a full life and made others happier when he was around. He made it a point to talk to or see every member of his family before he died, and it's comforting to know that he's no longer in pain.

Ours is a large, loud, obnoxious family of shit-talkers. We gripe about each other and fight and gossip and aren't afraid to say when we don't like someone or something. But I don't think I've ever heard anyone speak badly about Grandad. He was just that sweet a man.

We will miss him.

Weather Tease

While compulsively checking weather.com today, I saw this.

Rain? Snow Showers? Low of 25? Ice? Snow? No school?

I know that I shouldn't get my hopes up, but the deed's been done. Hopes are up, slippers are on.

And, universe, I deserve some snow because I have resisted--for three full days now--the urge to scream out during class, "Oh my god, it's SNOWING!" and then watch as all my kiddies run to the window only to find disappointment. It was not easy to resist this urge.

I'm in full superstitious mode now, too. I'm going to make sure that everything is ready for school tomorrow. (In high school and college I learned that it would only snow if I'd done all of my homework, finished papers, and studied for any upcoming tests or quizzes.) I'm going to clean the house and iron clothes and bake cookies. I'll have nothing left to do tomorrow except rejoice!

I hope. I hope.

Brrrrrrrrrr!

A few weeks back, I was experiencing a bad case of weather envy. Every single person I know, it seemed, was posting pictures of pretty snow over sparkly Christmas lights, and I was sitting down here in stupid old hot humid Savannah wearing flip flops and a tshirt.

My memory of winter is basically this:

Beautiful, snowy Wilson Hall. Snow days and hot chocolate and hats and coats and scarves (the more garish, the better).

Oh, and my hair always looks so much better in the cold. That's probably because when it's cold I abandon my usual "beauty" routine of going to bed with my hair wet and then throwing it in a very messy ponytail. Instead, I blow dry it and--GASP!--brush it. When it's done I look like a real girl.

I seem to have forgotten about what a cold winter is really like. For the last week it's been in the thirties here during the day, and the twenties and teens at night. That's really f'ing cold! That's Maryland cold!

I forgot about dry itchy skin and having to start my car ten minutes before I leave for work. I forgot about the fact that cold weather makes me, well, cold. And cold isn't so comfortable.

When Shipley gave me my Snuggie last spring, I never thought it'd get this much use! Hell, the Snuggie is even all dirty on the bottom since I've been walking around the house and yard wearing it. (Matt is proud and the neighbors think I'm crazy.)

Tip: you can use a scarf to tie around your waist so that you can walk around wearing the Snuggie.

Now, I don't usually share with you my keen sense of fashion because I don't want to alienate people who may be less fashionable than I am. I know that I'm a regular Lauren Conrad when it comes to clothes, and not everyone can be a Lauren Conrad, so please don't feel intimidated when you view the following.

I give you. . .Snuggie fashion.

Here I was on my way to watch a soccer game.

Happy Hump Day! Keep warm!

More on Avatar

The more I think about Avatar, the more I hate it. And the Filmspotting boys agree. Thank you, Adam and Matty!

Avatar: pretty but dumb--super dumb--like many people I've met.

Like I've Said. . .

. . .dogs are better than babies. For your Tuesday enjoyment, here is a great story, courtesy of Andrew Sullivan and The Vancouver Sun to provide further proof.

Back to School. . .

. . .Back to school, to prove to Dad that I'm not a fool. I got my lunch packed up, my boots tied tight, I hope I don't get in a fight. Ohhhh, back to school. Back to school. Back to school. Well, here goes nothing.

Tomorrow I return to my beloved workplace. For some reason, I'm not that upset about it, which may just mean that it hasn't fully hit me. Or that I'm insane. Really, though, I'm fine with it. I just had 17 days off of school! And I got paid! So, I don't really fell like I'm in a position to be complaining. This tune may change come 6:30 a.m., but right now I'm good. The sooner I go back to school, the sooner we get to go to Ft. Lauderdale (annual time with Matt's parents, the Godfather, my Soulmate, and the Hard Rock Casino). Then comes birthday, spring break, warm weather, and SUMMER. See, returning to school isn't so bad after all.

A smart Mandy would be in bed right now. But we all know that I'm not a smart Mandy. At least, not anymore. I think my intellect peaked when I was 21 years old. Tonight I came across some of my old college papers and couldn't believe how smart I used to be! Big words, fancy sentences, insight, the works! What happened? Well, I blame Matt. Junior year of college--the peak--was pre-Matt. Actually, that doesn't make sense because Matt is about 200 times smarter than me, in spite of being colorblind and essentially retarded when it comes to spatial relationships.

Maybe I should have a New Year's resolution: to become as smart as the Mandy of 2002. I owe it to myself, and to my students.

Wait--does that mean that I have to stop watching The Hills and The City? If so, deal's off.

Hello, 2010.

Deepest apologies for the lack of posts lately. I've been spending my days perusing the inventory of each Gap in town, working to pay for the shopping, hosting our friends Brian and Maureen who are here for some good times, and basically moving from the couch to my bed back to the couch. It's been pretty great. So here's some random stuff for your reading pleasure:

• Wow, how mean of me to leave up the post about my stinky feet for you to click on over and over. Sorry about that. Next time I abandon the blog for a week I'll leave up a picture of a cute puppy or something.


• I want a puppy. I know that I don't, and I know I shouldn't tempt fate because I already havea the greatest pup on the planet, but I just love them. It's a bad decision, though, and I know that. Deep breaths, no puppy. More deep breaths.


• Maureen and Brian are huge fans of Family Feud. Brian's comments during the show are nothing short of philosophical, and the commercials that air during the show demonstrate that we are NOT the targeted demographic, and won't be for another 45 years. A few more days of sitting around eating pounds of Mexican food and wearing my Snuggie, though, and I just might need that special stick tool to help me put on my shoes. Seriously. That's a real thing. But what I really want is the mechanical chair to get me up the stairs. Or maybe the rubber band to put around my stomach to get me to lose weight.


• And while we're on it, I'm not making any New Year's resolutions. I never do them. That's actually a lie. I've followed through on my resolutions 3 times: 1.) When I was in third grade and vowed that by the end of the year I would beat Super Mario Brothers 2. Check. 2.) When I was in 10th grade and was determined to teach myself to raise one eyebrow. Check. 3.) When I was a senior in college and, with my friend Becky, decided that we would "let ourselves go." Like in a fat and sloppy kind of way. Check. (Maybe that wasn't the smartest resolution to make?)


• Maybe I should do the reverse psychology resolution? Like, I'll resolve to gain 50 pounds. Then, if I don't follow through, great. If I do, I'll be overweight enough to get that stomach band that's advertised during Family Feud?


• And, finally, last night I got a call from my brother Jordan, who said that he'd gotten a call from our father asking if he was okay. Apparently, someone called my Grandma Carol and Grandpa B, and told them that their grandson (Jordan's the only grandson) had rented a car to get to a wedding in Toronto, and had somehow landed himself in prison and therefore needed money for bail. (I believe this is a somewhat-common scam.) My grandparents didn't think too much of it, fortunately. Jordan, though, told me, "Man, I must've been really drunk because I don't remember that AT ALL. . .I just hope I don't have some Canadian warrant out for my arrest. I mean, I'd be just, like, sitting at a bar having a beer, and all of a sudden some Mounties would come in and arrest me."

Happy New Year!