But I don't like wrinkles!

Bama hates the iron. Hates it. Not as much as he hates the vacuum, which he barks at even when it's not on, but it's a close second. As Daniel put it: "It's like he's Hitler and that iron is the damn Jews."

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot! The world forgetting, by the world forgot.

If you had a rough Valentine's Day, or you just want a good movie guide to read, head over the the Movies for the Dumped guide at Pajiba. I went with "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind." A perfect movie.

Even my food is liberal!

The sight of my refrigerator always makes me laugh. It's my collection of political gear I'm not allowed to display -- probably not even supposed to have, but oh well -- because of my job. I actually have gotten away with a "War is not the answer" bumper sticker on my car, but that's it. My bulletin board in my study is a graveyard -- Kerry/Edwards '04! Texas for Hillary! Stickers for representatives from my former Texas home. Good times. I need to find a profession where it's OK to drop the line "Cheney is the Antichrist" in a conversation.

25

Creating my entry for the latest Facebook trend -- a list of 25 random things about oneself -- was fun, and proved to be an exercise in introspection. Too much introspection, really, and most of the items I typed out in an e-mail draft in preparation for creating the Facebook note didn't make the final product.

A lighter item that ended up on the cutting room floor was my remembering toys I loved to play with -- Polly Pockets and my American Girl doll, Samantha, which I still have -- and what I loved to watch. I would rent episodes of Shelley Duvall's "Faerie Tale Theatre" by the armful, and there's no telling how many times I watched them all. But they were mesmerizing, and watching the series intro clip I found on YouTube brought everything back.

The point of the entry for the ultimate 25 list was to remark on how I held on to "childish" things much longer than my peers did. I rented some "Tale" episodes for a sleepover party in 5th grade, but no one wanted to watch them and were shocked that I even pushed 'play' and got a few minutes into an episode. Uncool. I gave a Polly Pocket to a friend, also in 5th grade, and I remember watching her unwrap the birthday gift surrounded by giggling girls. The look of incredulity on her face hurt a bit, and I think the giggling got worse. I loved what I loved, and I wasn't in a hurry to be grown up, and my parents loved that. I'm thankful that I wasn't forced to be anything but a kid, even all the way through high school. I got to play and daydream and go to church camp and enjoy innocence. I don't regret it.

Of course, I could start to examine the giant metaphor of me holding onto childhood things and innocence too long, or even still, and I might get depressed and realize I'm more of a late bloomer than I'd thought. But I've never wanted to rack up stereotypical experiences to make myself feel accepted, adding notches to a belt of so-called normalcy.

OK, that's enough introspection.

I discovered they've re-released the entire "Faerie Tale Theatre" series on DVD. I'm so buying it. You can come over and watch it sometime. I'll braid your hair or something!

An actual ad in our paper

Self-evident

It's not naivete. It's not "drinking the Kool-Aid" (please stop using that phrase). It's not false hope, or putting too much faith in one person. It's not unrealistic. It's not partisan. It's not about race. It's not about age.

It's choosing hope over fear. Try it.

P.S. Just felt like pointing out that I've been on this Obama Hope Sparkle Coach in the Sky for several years. I think the exact number of years -- 2 1/2 -- qualifies me for a flying unicorn named Butterscotch delivered by Obama himself.

P.S.S. I hope that last comment didn't negate everything that came before it.

P.S.S.S. I mainly created this post just to run this picture.

She's got a way about her

I can't decide if I should praise or bemoan Facebook's technological drive-by known as the Mini Feed.

"[Big red heart] ____ is listed as in a relationship."

Helpful. My heart stopped beating for half a second, which can't be good, but at least you were honest and to the point, Facebook. Brutally honest, yes, but I appreciate the honesty all the same.

I think.

Who needs to hear gossip through that old mill when a glance at a computer screen can keep you updated?

One problem: Sometimes, my Mini Feed doesn't update quickly. For about four days, every time I logged into you, Facebook, at work, I saw the same posts -- including the same relationship listing. I GOT IT. He's in a relationship. Thank you, Facebook. Now you're just being brutal.

Refine in '09

I created this blog about 4 1/2 years ago.

Not sure what I would title it if I created it now, but I can't bring myself to take down the earnest Coldplay lyric as my banner. I still love Coldplay, so I haven't completely changed. My desire to write and blog has drastically tapered off, though, as no one can tell because no one likely reads this anymore for lack of updates.

Perhaps part of the Refine in '09 movement for me can be to delve back into writing, and by writing I mean typing out pithy comments and random thoughts on a blog, just like millions of others do.

But do they write in list format? Probably not!

So here goes.

• I think I'm supposed to not be content to wake up, walk my dog, go back to bed, wake up again and walk dog, shower, drink coffee, watch TV, get ready for work, go to work, work, come home on dinner break to walk dog, go back to work, work, come home, walk my dog, watch TV, get ready for bed, read, go to sleep -- but somehow, I am. My goal is to be more like my dad and follow his philosophy of learning to be content no matter what. I'm content to enjoy nature on my walks with Bama, daydreaming or debating who knows what in my head, making up stories about the various neighbors I see. I love making coffee with my favorite hazelnut-flavored creamer in the morning and curling up on my couch and watching my favorite shows waiting for me on my DVR. I love coming home and seeing Bama's giddy reaction when he realizes I came back for him and am going to let him go outside to pee. So much of life is ordinary, even mundane. I've experienced exciting things and met cool people, and my adventures are nowhere near done. But I refuse to fall into the solipsistic trap of bemoaning society and life in the suburbs and work in a cubicle. It's what you make of the ordinariness. A lot of life sucks. Deal with it. It doesn't have to be as hard as you make it.

• When I read "Gone With The Wind," I both sympathized and empathized with Scarlett, seeing myself in several of her qualities. That can't be good.

• I don't know how to handle being in the majority. For years, I grimaced every time I saw the president's face. Now, I smile. For years, my brain understood that it should not believe anything the president or anyone in his administration said. Now, my brain treats what the president says as gospel. For years, I delighted in ridiculing the president. Now, I'm upset if anyone dares to ridicule him. Where do I go from here? How do I live in a country with a leader I love? This is weird.

• I like how the suggested "Labels for this post" at the bottom of the screen are "e.g. scooters, vacation, fall." Scooters? Really?

• I think I'm getting closer to being able to say that I probably -- maybe -- never wanted to major in journalism in the first place. I just did. Now I'm at my second newspaper, and I have no idea how I got here, or where to go next.

• Blueberry is a great flavor. Special K breakfast bars in blueberry? The best ones! Blueberry bagels? I eat them. Blueberry vodka? Pour in some cranberry juice and you've got a par-tay.

That's all I've got.

Oh, Bama

moar funny pictures

Ask a better question

I'm helping out with TV reviews for Pajiba this fall, and the latest piece is on the mind-numbing "The Ex List." It's not horrible, but it's hard to come up with positives when you're writing at 2 a.m.

Give me your paws, Pooh

Over at Pajiba, I've written up a little something on "Pushing Daisies," one of my favorite TV shows. I had a bit of trouble writing this review, as I make clear in it, and I told my editor it was hard not to just write "It's good, you should watch it. Shut up."

But it is good, and you should watch it.

The end.

If you don't think 'retardist' is a word, you probably are one.

A recent online conversation between the brother and me about politics:

me: man, what the crap is mccain trying to pull?
Daniel: i know!
like, dude, it’s clear you’re trying to stall
me: and obama wants the debate to continue, and had asked mccain earlier today to issue a joint statement with him
Daniel: that’s because obama is a bad mammajamma who don’t take jive
me: it’s true
Daniel: it’s a totally transparent move. i think everyone knows why he’s really doing it
me: i’m sure it has nothing to do with his numbers slipping in the polls and people largely blaming republicans for the economy
Daniel: how dare you suggest such a thing
me: .... i put myself first
Daniel: man, i hope this selfishness clears itself up by nov. 4 so you can vote how you know you need to
she’s got 4 kids, sarah
that’s qualification enough
me: uh, hello, she has 5
are you saying the down syndrome baby doesn’t count?!
you sexist!
just because his name is trig doesn’t mean he’s not human
Daniel: that’s retardist, not sexist
it means he’s a field of mathematics
me: well, you’re obviously both retardist and sexist
Daniel: man, i am so retardist. that’s why i left texas
me: at least you can admit it
Daniel: word
me: i’m selfish, you’re retardist
Daniel: we could run for office with the GOP
me: hello, 2012!

Reasons why I'm turning into a Cat Lady -- except with a dog, not a cat. Not a huge fan of cats.

1. The picture at left should speak for itself.
2. I not only talk to Bama, but I narrate what I think he's thinking -- in a high-pitched, baby-talk voice.
3. If he's barking at a noise outside, I'll peer through the blinds and curse the neighbor's grandkids for making so much noise and his chihuahua for being innately annoying.
4. I've more than once fantasized about letting Bama attack said chihuahua.
5. If a cat is out in its yard while we're out walking, and the cat actually moves toward us to provoke Bama, I will lead Bama in a charge against the cat and laugh as it runs away. I have way too much fun doing this.
6. If Bama starts freaking out about things/people he sees outside, I'll get up and close the blinds to the front window so he can't see out. Like we're hiding from the world. But at least hiding is quiet.
7. I view every little dog in the complex as a threat -- especially those whose owners don't find it necessary to put them on a leash. The fantasizing about letting Bama loose on the little dogs come back into play. So does my desire to yell "It's called a leash!" at the owners.
8. When he had an upset stomach, I went and bought a rotisserie chicken, cut off its skin and chopped it up, then mixed it in with cooked rice to feed to him.

That's probably all I should write down.

Think about it.

Oh, The Places You'll Go!

During our drive from Florence to Oxford, Mississippi, in June, a coworker and I discussed our fascination with the dark and Gothic history of the South and how every beautiful place has some sort of haunting behind it.

I realize that I'm in the heart of Dixie," a phrase emblazoned in the middle of a read heart on all of Alabama's license plates, but it didn't hit me how close I am to Civil War-era destruction until I learned about the Forks of Cypress.

All that remains of the plantation are its columns, rumored to be made of grounded horse hair and molasses, after a fire destroyed the house in 1966, and the chimney from the old slave's quarters.

There's also a bridge on the property -- known as "Ghost Bridge" -- but it's behind locked fences and is regarded as a place where Satan worshipers and people with a death wish visit because they believe it's highly haunted. Legend has it that a slave family tried to escape the plantation but were caught on or by the bridge by owner James Jackson, who was reportedly cruel to his slaves and had them all hanged from the side of the bridge.

Also on the property is a slave cemetery, and its legend says that at it you can hear slaves singing old spirituals and other songs late at night.

Absolutely terrifying. It helps demonstrate why the best two words I can think of to describe the South are "humid" and "haunted."

I love it. Not the racism part; the history part.

My coworker, Christine, drove me to the Forks one drizzly evening on our dinner break, so I was able to get fairly close to the ruins and take a few pictures, such as the one above with the horses and this one. Christine has a terrifying tale of visiting the Forks with a friend in the middle of the night, breaking onto the property and crawling around the wooded edges of it near the slave quarter's chimney. She kept trying to take a picture of the chimney, but her camera wouldn't work -- only when pointed at the ruins. Pointed at the ground? Worked just fine. Pointed at the pile of bricks? Nothing.

As her heart began to race faster, she turned around and saw two horses standing exactly behind her. As her friend encouraged her to be calm, she lost it and began to sprint across the property and back to the car.

Nothing as dramatic happened on our brief visit, but my favorite photograph from the evening is a shot of the entrance to Ghost Bridge. Part of the image around the gate looks blurry and mysterious. The bar catching the light? Steam from the previous rain? Probably.

But it's more fun to pretend otherwise.

Qu'est-ce que c'est?

Recent song purchases from iTunes:

• "You Make My Dreams," Hall & Oates
• "Don't You (Forget About Me)," Simple Minds
• "Psycho Killer," Talking Heads

Hmmm, what's next? Perhaps Pat Benatar's "We Belong." Classic.

P.S. My list is cooler than his. So is the picture.

Corgi Rocket

A few tidbits about my new Pembroke Welsh Corgi, Bama:

1. He's crazy.
2. He can jump over my couch from behind it. He just vaults it, living up to his nickname "Corgi Rocket."
3. He tears stuffed chew toys apart within about an hour of getting them. Fur and fuzz is everywhere.
4. He tried to pick a fight with a bulldog. The bulldog's owner wasn't pleased.
5. He's scared of the iron and ironing board.
6. He's fascinated by the shower, often barking at it/me when I get in it and standing guard beside it until I'm finished. In case the towels revolt?
7. He very quickly figured out how to jump on my bed, and he does so early in the morning when he needs to go outside. This morning, for instance, the second time he jumped on my bed was around 7 a.m. We had just gone to bed at about 2 a.m.
8. With one look, he can make me feel incredibly guilty about putting him in his crate.
9. He understands mirrors and will watch me in my bathroom by looking at my reflection, not at me.
10. He's crazy.

I have a furry toddler that sheds. I love him.

Down With Papa Bear

Hooray for music that speaks against Fox News.

You've Got to Be Carefully Taught

I visited a new church Sunday, and before I had made it 10 feet through the door, two old ladies stopped to greet me. One was named Katherine and said she liked that I'm named Sarah -- "We have old-fashioned names" -- and was even more pleased when I told her that her name was my middle name. The other lady took my arm and started guiding me around the foyer and into the sanctuary, introducing me to teachers and people my age as her "new friend from Texas." After the service, she found my arm again, parading me around to at least half the congregation.

It was then that she caught me by surprise when she introduced me to her family: "We've got a mixed family. Our family is mixed." She said it happily and matter-of-factly, and it took me a few seconds to understand that she meant her white granddaughter had married a black man. She wasn't ashamed, and hopefully didn't think I would be, but I can only assume that the culture she was raised in is so ingrained in her, she's used to having to explain to strangers in the South why a white woman in her family would marry a black man. I don't want to imagine what would have been said to her if she'd said her "mixed family" statement in a more liberal environment.

I just smiled and said the baby was precious, and by then she'd already gone on to fine others for me to meet. It wasn't until today, as I was digesting my obsession with the Broadway revival of "South Pacific" that I realized how far we haven't come as a nation, or as people.

"South Pacific" is a musical I underestimated as a kid growing up watching the film version at my grandma's, wondering why the old French guy was considered so dashing. Once I read about the revival this spring in the New York Times, I was hooked, checking Amazon.com every week to see if a cast recording had been released, reading everything I could about the new production, proclaiming my love for the lead, Paulo Szot, etc. And of course, on Sunday, I watched the Tony's while at work, singing along with various songs with coworkers who, thankfully, love musicals as much as me.

Much has been said about this brilliant revival, most notably how its themes of war and racism resonate today, but it didn't hit me until Sunday, when I spoked with the old lady at church and later watched an interview with the respective daughters of Rogers and Hammerstein. They predicted their fathers would be both proud and disappointed their musical was so relevant; proud that they could tell so keenly of the human condition through a form often thought of as frivolous, and disappointed that 60 years later, America still has a long road to go toward achieving anything close to racial equality.

Sure, Obama is the nominee, but there are also rumors that his wife, Michelle, referred to whites as a collective "whitey." Sure, a local white woman married someone of a different race, but her grandmother felt the need to point the fact out to me as soon as I met them. The "South Pacific" revival brings back some of author James Michener's (the musical was based on his novel, "Tales of the South Pacific") more colorful and truthful dialogue. When Nellie refers to the mother of Emile's children as "colored," the modern audience (especially in New York City) winces. But not everyone these days is so modern, especially here.

When Szot accepted his Tony Award for best leading actor in a musical, he described his character Emile as someone worthy of admiration because he "opposes war and fights for love." Emile also doesn't see the skin tones everyone else sees. Maybe that's why Emile's so loved; he's almost too good to be true.

He's real in art, though, and thank God for the artists who give us heroes to live up to.

Zac Efron is cute, and I don't care how illegal it is for me to say that.

Movies I'm not ashamed to admit I plan on seeing this summer and fall, even though I (maybe) should be:

"Sex and the City: The Movie" (already saw it; cried a few times; ate a whole bag of popcorn; ... crap)
"Get Smart"
"The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2"
"High School Musical 3: Senior Year"

That's really all I can come up with so far, but I'm pretty sure those last two are more than enough to make this list complete. I was going to put "WALL-E" and "Mamma Mia!" up there, too, but who are we kidding -- those will be awesome.