One of my dumber moments

So last night I got home from work/running errands and just had on my Adidas sports bra and my Reebok exercise pants. Yes, I was mixing-and-matching my sports brands--a huge mistake apparently.

I was cooking some corn in the microwave and pulled it out/didn't realize how much water was left in it... and somehow dumped it completely down my stomach. (Don't ask how, I really really have no idea.)

O-M-G Pain of all Pains. It's like the kind of pain where your body completely goes numb and then you spend the next few hours feeling like your whole body is on fire.

Quite ironically, the nearest cold thing to slap on my stomach was the bag of frozen corn. when that needed to return to its rightful home on the freezer shelf, I slept on an ice pack.

Still this morning, it looks like someone took an extra wide paint brush and painted a sunburn on my stomach. It's one lovely brush stroke down the entire length of my tummy (from sports bra to pants line). I am now sitting at my desk with an ice pack under my shirt/waiting for it to go numb again (X-tra Hott. The Boys will come a-runnin'.)

Life Lesson: I would recommend wearing a shirt--perhaps two or three--even when doing something seemingly innocent like microwaving corn.

Friday on Monday

I hadn't eaten at Friday's for lunch in awhile, but since we had our department birthday lunch there today, I was up for an adventure.

Since there is such a big group of us, we order ahead and fax the menu over. I wrote down the Jack Daniels chicken with veggies and when noon rolled around, I was ready to dine.

It was pretty good, but my lunch bill was $18! EIGHTEEN DOLLARS FOR CHICKEN, ICED TEA and (included) GRATUITY!!

I wouldn't be so annoyed if I got two meals out of it, but it was two glorified grilled chicken strips with a teeny tiny side of Jack sauce.

Seriously, Friday's: You need to get a lunch menu immediately. Immediately.

Trimming the Tree: a photo essay
(by: me)

I have a huge palm tree in my backyard. It's Florida, it's pretty much the rule.

The problem with my lovely stereotypical tree is that it produces some sort of non-edible fruit. First, it grows these pokey, spiney branches (that look DOA), and then out pops some green acorn-grape hybrid things.






This is all well and good except that these acorn-grapes turn orange and fall on the ground. They pretty much instantly start molding and smell like a mixture of sweet and stink. Then, these little fruit fly things come out of the wood works and infest my yard. Sick.




Last year was my first year in this house, and I didn't realize the plight I would soon face. So, I got to pick up hundreds of smooshy-moldy-orange-fruit off the ground. Delish!






This year, I had a better plan: to chop down the branches before the fruit had a chance to stink up my life.



Here's me cutting the branch. Where's my non-existent boyfriend when I need him?? Hmph.

"I'm not sure if you lost your mind or something ... but we're kind of INDOOR people ... What are we doing out here?" --The Poodles





After getting stuck about a hundred times by prickley tree madness, I successfully filled a giant garbage can ... and now my tree looks BEEEE-autiful once again:


IT'S OVER!!

If Video Killed the Radio Star ... then I'm in trouble

I was fully prepared for another normal, uneventful day of work. Three hours worth of meetings in the morning with all going according to plan. It would a day not to be remembered.

But then... I got all brave and started going through email and answering the phone all willy nilly. That's when she called, asking if I would be the guest of the day on a syndicated radio program. She saw a press release I serviced on the upcoming readers awards I am coordinating for the magazine, and she wanted me to speak on the awards and summer book reads/trends in publishing.

Crap.

After a couple hours of freaking out before the fateful interview call, the interview came and went with minimal incident. If I’m really lucky, no one but no one I know listens to the Christian talk radio, and I won’t get any mocking emails in my inbox tomorrow morning.

One key problem is that a tape is being sent to me of the interview. This is a special brand of torture—listening to yourself sound like an idiot for millions (even hundreds!) to hear.

That's right. I'm a radio star. Watch out Leeza Gibbons and John Tesh … magazine publishing is so last week. It’s high time I hit the airwaves.

Wisteria Lane

I always thought Wisteria Lane was a huge dramatization, exaggerated for entertainment and shock value. Now I’m not so sure.

On Friday, I left work early because I had a killer headache and wasn’t sure if I was getting a cold or just had allergies. At any rate, I figured I wasn’t too busy and might as well try to sleep it off. I got home about 1:00, ate lunch and practically passed out on the couch after taking cold medicine and pain killers. About 5:00, I woke up feeling a little better, took a shower and left for my friend’s birthday dinner.

I started pulling down my street, but there was police tape blocking it off. Figuring there must have been some super-sized wreck on my fairly narrow suburbia street, I backed out onto the cross street and took the long way out of my neighborhood to hit I-4. However, when I returned after 11 p.m., the tape was still there. So were more cops than I knew our small suburb employed, all the news trucks and a huge Crime Scene Investigation RV.

A little frazzled, I got in to catch the end of the 11:00 news—the weather and the sports. Not helpful. Becoming more panicked, wondering WHAT was going on only a few houses down from me, I checked all our local news and couldn’t find a thing. Finally Google produced a small story with a huge punch.

Double homicide. One block down.

My neighbor apparently killed his wife, then chased his 11-year-old son across the street with a machete. As the son hollered for help to neighbors outside, the dad murdered him on the lawn across the street (two days before Father’s Day). A neighbor tried to save the little boy, but it was too late.

Thankfully, they caught the man. I supposed they had to block off both sides of the street for DNA evidence that stretched across the neighborhood.

I’ve never met this disabled Army veteran, who according to news reports has tried to commit suicide before. But now, 24-hours later, our middle-class sleepy little neighborhood where you often see people walking after dark, hanging out in their garages or kids playing in their yards, is still surrounded by cops, the family’s house is still encompassed by police tape and news crews continue to lurk. I even had a cop come ring my doorbell (that’s not disconcerting) to let those in the neighborhood know there would be a grief counseling session tomorrow.

How do you wrap your mind around that? Every time I go out now, get away from the tragedy for a moment, I am welcomed back to my house by cops waving me through and WFTV vans lurking around for a story.

I suppose I should feel safer than ever before with so much police surveillance … but I don’t. I don’t want to go outside. This whole scenario sounds like a bad Lifetime movie, not my block.

I don’t like seeing my street’s name on the top story on all three news stations two nights in a row. I don’t like helicopter shots of my house on the news. My heart completely breaks for this fifth-graders classmates and neighborhood friends. How do you begin to explain that to your kid? That the last thing this child knew on this earth was that his dad killed his mom and then came after him.

I can only pray for those kids and neighborhood families, that they’ll find God. I don’t know why this would happen. I know it wasn’t a surprise to Him. I know that God didn’t cause this to happen, but it’s part of living in a fallen world. But it still hurts and it still doesn’t make sense.

I can only think of the story of Lazarus … Jesus wept. He’s crying with us. In the midst of pain and chaos that makes no sense, sometimes that’s the only comforting thing someone can offer.

"To be a good writer, you have to be an avid reader."

I've heard that about a million times from people throughout my life--professors, fellow journalists, managers etc...

The problem: I hate to read.

I blame school. Being somewhat of an overachiever, school stressed me out. Reading equaled studying and retaining in my mind--and I studied a lot in college. My comprehension style was to totally get it or totally not. It was A's or F's and I preferred A's.

Since graduating, I've tried to ease myself back into reading, mostly with some light chick lit here and there. Really quality inspiration, you know. Oh yeah, plus I read/edit the entire magazine I work for about five times each issue. After staring at piles of proofs and my computer screen all day, I really really don't feel like reading to better myself once I get home.

Then I stumbled upon an interview in another magazine. It drew me in. The writer weaved interview and real-life scenarios to communicate the artist's story brilliantly. It reminded me of why I got into writing. I LOVE telling people's stories. Listening to their passions, their hurts and triumphs and communicating that clearly for others to be inspire by or learn from.

I've also picked up some delightfully well-researched books and even found some friends that speak from the heart through their blogs... and yeah, I have really been motivated to try and become a better writer by making myself become a better reader. haha All that advice was bound to sink in someday.

The magazine I work for is great, but in my position I don't get to write my own stuff very much. I have to get back to it...

So here I am, launching a grown-up blog, sending my thoughts out into the void, because I NEED to write.

So good night, sweet void. I'll write to you again soon.