Homesick Blues

Tonight, we’re staying at my aunt and uncle’s house in Birmingham on our way to the beach. Their house is a regular stop off for many of us beach wayfarers. From my house, it’s the perfect halfway point for many of the Florida-Alabama panhandle vacation spots.

But I have a special fondness for this house and the people who live here.

When I decided to go to college eight hours away from my all my friends and family, I had no idea just how homesick I was going to be. No idea.

I was so homesick that I could have been an after school special. I cried every time I talked to someone who was from home–my phone bills were equal to my tuition fees. The worst part was that I had a three-year old sister and four-year old brother who missed me as much as I missed them. And they had my phone number.

I would come home from history 101 and hit play on my answering machine only to hear my four-year old brother crying, “When are you coming home, Amy? Why did you leave, Amy? I miss you, Amy.” And then I would cry until I had to leave for English class.

If you’ve never experienced severe homesick blues, it’s a bit like those anxiety dreams where you’re stuck in a building and can’t find a way out. There are surges of panic mixed with loneliness and bit of confusion thrown in for fun.

It was my freshman year, first semester and I was a mess. A MESS with a capital crazy. And my blessed aunt and uncle-who are giving me and my family a place to stay tonight-couldn’t have been more supportive or more loving or bigger lifesavers.

I’m the exact opposite of proud about what I’m going to admit. It’s one of those memories that still make me cringe. During my messiest of homesick times, I was prone to call people late, late at night. Just like any normal anxiety-agent, being homesick hits you the worst in the dead of night. Most of the time I would call my boyfriend or best-friend who were both in college back in Indiana.

But sometimes I would lose all rationality and ability to tell time.

I hit my lowest point when I called my aunt and uncle crying like baby without a bottle sometime around 2 a.m.

Can you imagine? An eighteen year old so upset that she calls her aunt and uncle to ask them to come get her at 2 a.m.? Oh…the shame.

Because they live in Birmingham, they were geographically closer than anyone else I knew, so they got the call.

And you know what they did? They answered the phone, talked me through my homesick-panic-attack. And then, even after my parents told them not to come get me, they still showed up the very next weekend to hang out with me. That’s the kind of aunts and uncles I have (I’m pluralizing this because I know that they are not the only aunt and uncle I have who would have done this for me; they just had the unfortunate circumstance of living the closest to me.)

The homesick-ness quickly passed after that first semester. But I’ve never been able to get past how badly I felt about being such a burden during that sorry, sorry semester. I know that they would never accuse me of being a burden, but I also know that the depth of my gratitude for what they did for me is without limits.

So tonight, I will sleep in the same house that gave me solace over fifteen years ago and I will relish the love and joy I feel toward my aunt and uncle and their family. I love them…and because she made a special request, I love Janna (their youngest). Period.

The Blessing of a Flat Tire

I busted my front right tire on my way to work this morning. I hit the curb so hard that it appeared I was trying to win an award for hitting curbs. My tire went flat immediately, like that very second.

Here was my thought process just before I ran into–slammed into–the curb:

Get to work, make final list of stuff to get at Target for vacation tomorrow, call Circuit City and see if they can install new car speakers today, don’t forget to wash Harley’s nightgown before packing her cloths, get oil changed, oooh, get a cof—BAM!

And there went my entire morning. The sweet universe helped me slow down by giving me a flat tire.  It wasn’t completely heartless, the same sweet universe provided a just as sweet young police officer who happened to be standing on the street just opposite of the curb I hit. Being that my tire went flat immediately, I had to pull over within inches of the curb I murdered. Fortunately, for my pride, the officer missed me hitting the curb, but saw me pull over with the flat tire. He was headed toward me before I ever opened my driver side door.

“Want me to help you put on a spare?”

I swear those were his first words. He had a friend with him and they changed the tire in less than fifteen minutes. And didn’t even get the least bit upset when the car rolled off the jack the first time because I had forgot to put on the parking break. They both jumped out of the way and then looked at me and asked, “ummm, can you put on the parking break for us?”

I hope the next time I get pulled over for speeding it’s this guy. Seriously, he was super nice.

Once they got the spare on, I went to the nearest tire & automotive shop in downtown New Albany. It’s my least favoriet place, but it was the closest and I’m always paranoid about driving on the spare.

Oh yeah, and this morning was the morning I chose to forget my cell phone.

So when I get to the tire place, they tell me that I need not just one tire, but a total of three to replace my two back tires and it would cost about $300.  I said sure and then asked if I could use their phone (they said I could use their fax line…gee thanks).

I had called my husband already using the police officer’s cell just to give him a heads up and let him know that I was without my mobile phone. From the fax line at the tire shop, I called my office only to find out that my husband had already called and let them know what was going on and left me a message on my voicemail.

My first thought was that his message was going to be a quick lecture about how he didn’t want to give me a hard time at the scene of the accident, but was going to make me get curb feelers. The curb feeler threat is a regular thing…this isn’t the first (or second) time I’ve flattened a tire by running into a curb.

Much to my surprise there was not one mention of curb feelers, but instead, a quick reminder that we had a warranty on that tire at a place other than where I was standing. I hung up the fax line, told the guy who was writing up my ticket and getting ready to ask me to hand over my keys, that I had to run up the street and meet my husband real quick. I sneaked out of there like a thief in the night (or a woman with a warranty at another tire shop) and headed up to Big O.

Not only did I have a warranty, but they didn’t try to force two new tires on me. So instead of $300 I spent $32 (I got my oil changed, one streaming conscious thought off my list). AND, the best part, I walked over to Target which was just two parking lots over from Big O. I got all of my vacation shopping wiped out during the forty-five minute wait (two streaming conscious thoughts off my list).

So not only did the universe help me slow down, it helped me knock out two big to-do items. There’s something about leaving for vacation that puts me in manic-mode. Whenever there’s a beach looming in my near future, I get all wound up like a high-maintenance soccer mom on speed. About five years ago, I had a major wreck the day we were supposed to leave for vacation. Not that my driving record is all that great anyway, but now there is a pattern with me doing whatever it takes unconsciously to slow down my conscious free-for-all.

So the flat tire was a good thing. By the time I was checking out at Target I felt like I had accomplished something and not just fucked up my car and the curb.

Of course, I am still pregnant…so when I left Target, I asked their customer service person if I could leave my bags with them and pick them up after I got my car from Big O. (Target was close, but I wasn’t about to lug four Target bags and a swimming noodle across two parking lots back to my car). After I paid my $32 at Big O and got my keys, I got in my car and headed off to work only to remember about ten minutes down 64E that I had left my Target goodies at Target.

What’s my husband watching tonight…

As I type this, my husband is watching a show on the Discovery channel about how they make brooms. Push brooms. Can you imagine anything less interesting?

Which ridiculous Discovery channel producer received a press release from the broom-making company and thought, “Yeah, that is a great idea, an entire 30 minute episode on how brooms are made.” Whoever wrote the press release hopefully got a big fat raise.

“Here’s what that bristling action looks like at full speed.” That’s a verbatim from the broom-making narrator.

The Perfect Interviewer

Tonight was great. Lauren Weisberger is charming, attractive. and about a size two; and she looks exactly like the picture she uses for her book jacket covers—which isn’t always the case with some authors.

Christine Fellingham conducted Lauren’s interview tonight at the downtown library. Christine has quite a resume herself: Vogue, O Magazine, and now the editor in chief (or EIC, if you’re in the biz) of Louisville’s Her Scene and the fashion editor for the Courier-Journal. It was a good fit.

I was thinking about who would be the perfect person to interview me after my first book becomes a  phenomenal success.

Maybe my therapist? She’d know too much though…and what a conversation that would be:

“So Amy, it’s obvious the character of the young girl is a version of you at age 18–but what about the father character? It appears to be a blend of your husband and your boss…”

So maybe not my therapist.

Oh! Diane Sawyer! We could have it in the Bombard theater at the Kentucky Center as part of the Kentucky Author Forum series and talk about how great Louisville is and how much I love her hair on the Diane’s Louisville poster in downtown. Although, I’d probably be a bit too much in awe to act right while in her presence.

Amy Sedaris would be fun…or funny. Of course, I’d just want to talk about her brother’s writing and then it would be all about him, her, and their family.

I guess half the fun of such an event is the excitement of finding out who’s going to interview you.

Kinda like the anticipation of getting to meet your baby before it’s born. Actually the baby anticipation is a bit more exciting for me right now. We found out today that we’re having a boy. It’s really been a great day all around.

Is My Baby Holding a Banana or Is It Just Happy to See Me?

Tomorrow is my (our?) big ultrasound. According to my doctor’s office I’m 20 weeks pregnant–I think I’m further along, but that’s just me thinking I know more than my doctor.

So I’ve decided that we’re going to find out the sex of the baby if it’s available to be found out. Screw the purist version—we’re taking advantage of technology. We were surprised the first time, this time I want to know. Boy or girl, boy or girl. Either way, I can’t wait.

…and then, tomorrow night is Lauren Weisberger’s appearance/reading at the downtown Louisville library. Not that Lauren ranks anywhere near the new baby status; but I love going to author readings and appearances, especially authors I’ve enjoyed. Her debut novel, The Devil Wears Prada, was fun reading. And the movie was just as fun. Meryl Streep is one of those people I could watch all day long. I’m watching her/the movie right now on HBO on demand just to get in-the-mood…kinda like listening to Mother’s Milk before a Chili Peppers concert.

What an experience that must be…to take an idea or an experience in your life, translate it to paper, and then see it turned into a really well-done film with people like Meryl and Stanley Tucci acting out the words you wrote. Awwww…one day, one day I’ll be blogging about how surreal my day was on the set of the movie that’s being made from the book I wrote. One day.

But tomorrow will be a pretty great day too. I’ll spend my morning getting cold clear jelly rubbed on my belly to better transmit my newest ones image to the high-tech monitor; do a vacation-stuff-gathering trip at Target; and spend the evening listening to someone who will one day be one of my professional peers. That’s a great day.

My Ungrateful Teen Years

Tonight, I’m sitting on my daughter’s bed typing away while she plays with her barbies and watches X-Men. It’s the first one–she only likes the first and third one. When you ask her why she doesn’t like the “number two one” she says it’s because that mean girl stabs Wolverine. Even at four, Wolverine has stolen my daughter’s heart.

The room is painted bright pink with light pink polka dots. It’s the very same room that was my bedroom from ages seven to eighteen. Then it was painted yellow and had bookcases along one wall. When we moved into this house, I moved the bookcases from this room into my office. Who would have thought that more than fifteen years after my dad (my second dad) built the bookcases, I’d be using them again in my home office?

They fit in my office perfectly.

When I was fourteen, I had the fortunate of experience of vacationing a week longer than the rest of my family. Every summer my second dad’s family went to a beach house in Gulf Shores, Alabama–they still do. The summer I turned fourteen, the other side of my family, my first dad’s side, happpened to be vacationing at the same beach house the week before. I got to go with both families. My immediate family didn’t show up until the second week. (Have I confused you enough with all the family references yet?)

The week I was away, my second dad finished the hardwood floor that had been under carpet, painted the room yellow and moved in new bedroom furniture: a daybed, a wardrobe and a small nightstand table, all painted white. He had spent unknown hours building the bookcases. It was all a surprise for me so that when I came home from the beach, I’d have my very own renovated bedroom.

In true ungrateful fourteen-year old fashion, I hated it. I couldn’t believe my parents had completely changed my room without asking me. I didn’t like the configuration of the shelves, I didn’t want a daybed, and I never would have chosen yellow. Just typing this confession makes me feel awful and bratty and unworthy. But there I was at fifteen, completely devastated by the new bedroom that my parents had worked so hard to redo for me. Oh the embarrassment of being a teen.

Most of us have a laundry list, or at least a partial list, of things we wish our parents hadn’t done or had done differently. My reaction to my newly refinished bedroom is one circumstance that I wish I would have done differently with my parents. I wish I would have been able to see all the effort and thought they put in, all the hours my dad spent building my bookshelves and refinishing the wardrobe he found for me. I remember lying on my back in my daybed—exactly where I am sitting right now—and crying because I wanted my old room back.

Now it’s my daughter’s room. I always wonder what I’ll do as a parent that she will one day hold against me. Probably something about letting her watch X-Men movies at age four while I sat on her bed writing.

Out of Lafayette, Indiana

Sydney Pollack died today. If you don’t know the name, go to imdb.com right now and be fascinated by his extraordinary career. Besides playing Will’s father, he directed Tootsie, Out of Africa, and The Way We Were. Just typing that blows me away.

He’s from Lafayette, Indiana which I learned tonight when I looked up his director credits.

I’m not a huge fan of eulogizing famous people. My siblings and I are especially sensitive to bringing up any news that involves a recent celebrity death. Our mom has a strange habit of always being the first to call to say, “Did you hear who died?” It’s one of those things-my-mom-does so I don’t want to do it.

But Sydney deserves a few words. Good God O’ Film…he directed the scene with Meryl Streep, Robert Redford, and the tiger. Or was it a lion? It didn’t have a mane, so I figure it’s a tiger. Either way, it’s one of those scenes that you hold your breath while you watch.

And Tootsie.

There’s really nothing I could say here that would give this movie justice. But I’m saying something anyway. Let’s take a brief moment to remember the lines:

“I have a name; it’s Dorothy. It’s not Tootsie or Toots or Sweetie or Honey or Doll…No, just Dorothy. Alan’s always Alan, Tom’s always Tom and John’s always John. I have a name too. It’s Dorothy, capital D-O-R-O-T-H-Y.”

So thank you, Mr. Pollack for such great scenes. In this phenomenal universe of swirling energies and rising spirits, how lucky we are that so many of our spirits got to be entertained, moved, and inspired by your blessed energy.

Next Week, This Blog Will Be Full of Thoughtful Posts

But for tonight, it is purely about keeping my once-a-day for a year goal.  I’m so tired (and I know I say this all the time), but I’m so tired I can’t think clearly.  My head feels heavy like a watermelon, and my stomach feels like I’ve got one lodged in it.  Here’s to me playing the pregnancy card and taking just one more night to write a post in 100 words or less.   Seriously, I’m just as disappointed as you are, I was all excited about HBO’s movie Recount that premiers tonight, but there’s no way in prenatalville that I’m staying awake for the entire flick.

Merry Memorial Day

Today I spent the day with family friends, cooking out and hanging out with our kiddos.  Tomorrow I’m doing more of the same.  Hello holiday weekend of grilled food and sitting the sun.

Here’s wishing everyone a long-weekend of doing whatever they want.

I want to stay up and finish the movie I started with my husband, but it’s getting difficult for me to keep my eyes open even while I type.

Live Right Now Next Week

One week.  One week from tomorrow my husband, myself, and my daughter will hit the road south for the beach.  Awww sweet Gulf of Mexico waves lapping at my feet, white sand between my toys, the sun beating down on me, prematurely aging my face and bustline.

I was meant to be near the beach more often than I am currently experiencing.  One of the top three reasons that I want to write for a living is because I can do it from anywhere and when I start getting paid for this stuff, I’m going to be doing it from a deck that looks out on the Gulf.

Living in the present moment, the here in now, is one of those practices I try to achieve at least once a day.  “Live right now,” is a regular meditation for me.   But it’s so hard when the right now is seven days away from the right beach.

During the past few years, I’ve gotten to the beach at least twice during the summer…one trip just the three of us, the other with my extended family.  This year, we’re cutting back on our vacation spending because of other obligations (I want ALL of my basement carpeted) and taking just one trip down Interstate 65.

This vacation is with a whole new clan.  Not really new new; it’s my aunt and uncle and their two daughters and families.  We’ve vacationed with them before early in our marriage and it was spectacular—a one of a kind kind of vacation.  I’m looking forward to our upcoming week together just as much as I enjoyed our last excursion with them.

This week will be spent selecting books to take, downloading random songs from iTunes that I all of a sudden have to have for vacation, writing list upon list upon list in preparation. It’s really all just nonsense busy work that keeps me occupied until our day of departure.  The very opposite of, “Live Right Now.”

In Praise of Bad Bad Boys

During an email exchange that started with the post about my Eminem dream, one of my favorite topics came up—the attraction young girls have to bad boys.

I know many, many females who fell victim to this phenomenon (Yes, I’m throwing down the victim card because at 15, 16, 17 I didn’t quite grasp the concept of fully owning my choices). Oh how we suffered through our young love years.

Just once I wanted my bad boy boyfriend to call me when he said he was going to, or show up at my locker to walk me to class, or take me out without a car full of his guy friends along for the ride in the backseat of his station wagon.

I’m not about to do a full dissertation on the reasons why teenage girls always fall for Jordan Catalano. In fact, I’m going to do just the opposite and honor my top ten favorite bad boys:

1. River Phoenix (Favorite movie: Night in the Life of Jimmy Reardon…awww sweet River, how we miss you)
2. James Dean (even though he was bisexual, he was the original bad boy loner)
3. Eminem (have to list him, he started this conversation)
4. Jordan Catalano (even at age 34, I would watch the kissing in the boiler room episode over and over)
5. Dylan McKay
6. Danny Zuko (the singing and dancing bad boy)
7. Charlie Sheen in that two-second spot at the end of Ferris Bueller when Jennifer Grey is in the police station.
8. Robert Downey Jr.
9. Jack Nicholson
10. Johnny Cash…sweet sweet Johnny Cash

I know I’ve left out some of the best, so please feel free to send me your favorite bad boys and I’ll add them.