Aug 012010

Not gonna lie, didn’t think I was going to make it this time around. Not so much the exhaustion, but lack of inspiration. It was really rough there for a few hours in the beginning, where I felt like a panic attack was ready to shoot from cannon and envelope me in a bubble of harried hair-pulling and paper-bag breathing. Somewhere in the early evening, I hit my stride and it was pretty OK after that. I didn’t cry at all, except for when Alisha was talking about Steel Magnolias, which is on right now, and oh Shelby, why’d you go ahead and get yourself pregnant, child?

Thanks to you guys (fine, and Alisha), I stayed awake, blogged a bunch of crap, and raised $456 for the Oil Spill Relief Fund! That makes me happy! Does that make you happy? It should. We did this together. I would hold your hand in mine if you were here right now. And you. And you and you and you, too.

Now, I’m going to try and get some sleep. If past Blogathons have taught me anything, I probably won’t be sleeping for long. I’m hoping that when I wake up, Henry will finally decide he wants to celebrate my birthday.

Anyway, if you like what you saw here and hate oil spills, or hate what you saw here but still hate oil spills, donations are still being accepted. I think until August 6th or something? That’s something I should know. But I don’t.



or not!

Thanks you guys! <3

Aug 012010

Andrea’s picture request was for Henry to recreate what actually happened with her husband Paul, which was that a baby shoe literally fell from above him when they were at a casino. Such luck! That NEVER happens to me. :(

In other news, Alisha was flipping through the channels and landed on “Steel Magnolias,” while it was still in the opening credits!

You know, since we’re talking about luck.

Aug 012010

I don’t know what started it. Maybe it was my fault, mentioning that some dude at The Law Firm just returned to work after serving his third tour of Duty in Iraq. But it made Alisha start talking about war. All the wars. Even wars that may or may not be happening  on Uranus right now.

She was asking questions out loud, to no one really in particular, while “Bewitched” droned on in the background. Then she started answering her own questions.

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And then she second-guessed her answers. At one point, this brought her to the question of “How old is America? Didn’t we just have a bicentennial?

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Wait…how many years is in a bicentennial?”

I was sitting on the chaise.

“Are you looking this up?” she asked me.

“Huh, me? No. I’m texting.”

She sank back down on the couch, defeated.

And then, “I love Shirley MacLane. She’s such a great actress.”

I agreed and followed with, “Every time I think of her, I think of her biography that my grandma kept on the coffee table for like, ten years.”

Alisha glared at me. My participation in the conversation wasn’t as film-snobby as she’d have liked. But then she distracted herself by talking about “Steel Magnolias” and the scene in the graveyard, and then I started remembering that scene too and the next thing I knew, I was crying.

“Laughter through tears is like, the greatest thing,” Alisha said with a far-off, half-deranged glint to her eyes.

I sighed. “It really is.”


It was the only thing that got me through the exhausting, painful visitations at the funeral home after my pappap died. All the hand-shaking with strangers, all the pouting lips of distant relatives as they clasped my hands and tilted their head in that knowing fashion that read, “I know exactly how you feel.” My best friend Christy was there through it all with me, and we sat in two chairs tucked away in a corner, making fun of relatives I didn’t like, and asshole employees of my pappap’s drywall company who were chomping at the bit to take advantage of life at Expert Drywall without John Stonick.

We cringed as my cousin Zita flounced over to point out that she and I had chosen similar shoes to wear that night.

We cracked up as my step-dad’s friend Daryl arrived with his son Clayboy the Playboy, nee Clayton. “It’s the Claymation family,” I whispered, and we lost it some more.

I think that was the only time Christy and I ever really hugged, right there next to  my pappap’s open coffin. I wasn’t a very affectionate person back then. I guess I’m still not. Hugging is one of the many things I turn into an awkward display of misplaced hands and directionless chin-resting. She and I cried so hard standing there, reality sinking in that he was really gone. He was her family, too.

That night, we sat at the kitchen counter at my grandparent’s house, rummaging through the many fruit baskets sent out of sympathy from people we didn’t know.

“This is your boyfriend,” Christy said, turning over a small red disk of  cheese with a Dutch boy emblazoned onto the wax.

I grabbed a can of sardines. “This is your boyfriend,” I laughed, waving the cartoon depiction of a sardine in her face.

We sat there at the counter, laughing in that high-pitched way that sixteen-year-old girls are prone to, falling into each other as giggle fits overcame us.

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My grandma finally kicked us out.