That's Crazee ...

I've moved!

noreply@blogger.com (Aimee) — Wed, 17 Aug 2011 15:08:00 +0000

I'm blogging again, but I have moved to http://essaywhat.tumblr.com/. Come see me at EssayWhat?

XO,
Aimee

Where am I?

noreply@blogger.com (Aimee) — Mon, 31 Jan 2011 13:23:00 +0000

I don't know what I'll do with this blog. Maybe I'll revisit regular blogging, maybe not. I'm taking a sketch writing class and keeping busy with the kids, so I don't have time to devote to this right now.

I'll see you on Facebook.

Cheers!

The Ballad of Pepper Klitch

noreply@blogger.com (Aimee) — Mon, 30 Aug 2010 22:03:00 +0000

I was just watching "Weird, True, and Freaky" with Strummer on Animal Planet. We heard the amazing story of Pepper Klitch.

Pepper Klitch took in a stray racoon to keep her pregnant collie company. Then the raccoon started eating all of Pepper Klitch's chocolate wafer bars. The raccoon, tipping the scales at 79 pounds, died not of an enlarged heart, but a broken one, said Pepper Klitch. All this got Pepper Klitch on the TV.

Well played, Pepper Klitch.

Kindergarten: Day One

noreply@blogger.com (Aimee) — Tue, 24 Aug 2010 01:08:00 +0000

It's the first day of kindergarten and you know what that means:

PHOTO SHOOT!

Seriously, Mommy?

You can take it, but I'm not lookin'. Me no like-a flashbulb.

Awwww.

We are up really early, friend. Yep.

My new and exciting little world.

The little guy loved it. He raced up to me when I picked him up from aftercare and showed me the family picture he drew. "And Mommy, when we ate lunch and then didn't take a nap, I wasn't even tired, Mommy!"

Good stuff, little buddy. Good stuff.

We're a Family Band

noreply@blogger.com (Aimee) — Sun, 22 Aug 2010 13:00:00 +0000

Chris has been out of town. When that happens, I'm the cook. That should never happen, but it does, and for the past four days I and my children have been eating watermelon rinds and cheese crackers. That's not true, but you don't want to know the truth.

Last night while I was cooking "dinner," Strummer and Sweet P formed a band. "We're called 'An Outburst In Many Words,'" Strummer said.

It totally made up for the fact that he refused to eat what I cooked.

Cooking with Fire

noreply@blogger.com (Aimee) — Thu, 19 Aug 2010 00:02:00 +0000

This post is supposed to be equipped with hand-drawn visuals, but our scanner is a jerk, so I hope you like words. I'll update this with the drawings as soon as I can get them onto this computer.

I come from a long line of Southern women and Italian men. Normally, this would indicate me as some kind of kitchen wizard. But I am not normal—I am all nonsense and glitter dust—so nothing could be further from the truth. The unabridged list of my gastroffenses is space prohibitive, but here are the more lesson-y ones:

--I improvised a peanut sauce recipe that glued my tongue to my cheek. (Not a joke.) I had to tear my face apart with abrasives to get that crap off. Unless you are Chinese, do not try to pretend that you can fucking wing it. There’s a reason why Chinese restaurants are so popular. Don’t try this at home, white girl.

--I burned boiled eggs. Black. It turns out that if, like me, you live free and easy while your eggs boil, you forget about your eggs and all the water evaporates and the eggs explode, shooting chicken soot all over your kitchen. That’s kind of a major bitch to clean, incase you didn’t know. Watch the pot.

--I made a cake that would not bake. Sha-zam! I am going to have a cake in 30 minutes! No. That cake sat in the oven for two hours and Would. Not. Bake. Devil’s food.

--I savagely burned toast. No excuse.

My point is that I do not cook. But, oh lucky day, I do not have to cook. My husband can cook the socks off of anything with his hands behind his back. If it wasn’t for him, I would be having dinner at Smoothie King every night.

It’s gotten to the point where I’m a bit of a, how you say, princess. I sit around and drink Chardonnay while my food is prepared, sprinkled with parsley, and then served to me, piping hot. And delicious. I do offer to help him, but did you just read my list? My talents are best rendered in other rooms of the house. Other rooms, where there’s wine and Facebook.

Supper’s ready. I’m out.

(Did I mention that I make BANGIN’ biscuits? White Lily flour, ya’ll!

Yeah, but other than biscuits, I can’t make anything people would eat. Or that I would eat.)

Bean Soda

noreply@blogger.com (Aimee) — Sun, 15 Aug 2010 16:33:00 +0000

When I was little, I loved to draw. I wasn't great at it, but I spent most of my time doing it. The love for it stuck with me even once I entered college. I spent more time doodling shocked expressions on stick people on my flash cards than I did on the actual lessons the cards were meant to help me comprehend. I used colored pencils to draw bubbly potions spilling off lab tables, the cracked pieces of test tubes clinging to the green and purple goo.

It was more fun than actually learning skills that would land me a real job.

I have decided to harness this repressed anti-talent and channel it into a comic: Bean Soda. That's the name of a zine I used to write. I haven't decided whether I will use this blog to house Bean Soda, or if I'll go with my dormant domain name, www.beansoda.com. Prepare to be underwhelmed as Bean and her family come to life on a computer screen near you.

Twhat?!

noreply@blogger.com (Aimee) — Thu, 12 Aug 2010 19:16:00 +0000

I was Googling the other day, and this happened.

Thanks, Google, for guessing that I might want to name my next child Twitter. I've named my kids a lot of things, but who asks the Internet what to name their child? What kind of answer did this person expect to get?

OMG. WHY didn't I think of that? Brilliant. (But it doesn't take much to summon morons on Yahoo Answers, so ...)

Good point, Scotties, that's a sensible alternative. We need more Scotties on the Internet ... and my fake rich-lady name happens to be Trixie Pompadour.

Twit seems like the right nickname for Twitter's mom, but not for Twitter, herself. And you don't qualify to make fun of people who want to name their children after websites, Persephone. Queen of the underworld is on Yahoo Answers. (I totally had to Google that. THANKS, Google!)

A second attempt at my original Google search. (If you have to Google what day it is, you have bigger problems than whether or not it's Thursday.)

Somebody make me stop it. I have forgotten why I was Googling in the first place.

What a Giant Rip-Off

noreply@blogger.com (Aimee) — Wed, 11 Aug 2010 15:07:00 +0000

It would be one thing if it wasn’t a supermarket. If it was some kind of country-ass general store on a mountainside that sold chaw and a few other “odds and ends,” I would just shrug and buy a Mt. Dew and be on my way. But it’s not.

I’m talking to you, baby aisle in the Giant that’s in the smack middle of Chevy Chase, Maryland, where I know there are plenty of babies, because I’ve seen them. Could you maybe ... get some stuff? I feel like I’m shopping in somebody’s diaper bag that doesn’t have any stuff in it.

A few fist-sized cans of “fussiness and gas” Enfamil is some 7-Eleven shit.

Seriously, people, there is something wrong with a store that only has problem-baby formula and 12-packs of diapers. (I'm not one of those French people who goes to the market square every day for fresh meat, bread, wine, or friggin' baby supplies. I stockpile it, like one of those Americans.) And no 12-packs of beer, because this is Maryland and not Virginia, which, after living here for six years, still makes me grind my teeth in a rage, but I digress.

And a few weeks ago when that twister wiped out all the power, I was in this Giant shopping in the dark, (they let me in) when the power cut back on and everyone dropped their purple baskets and started yelling. And clapping. And jumping. The kind of yelling and clapping and jumping reserved for Publisher’s Clearing House Grand Prize Winners, and apparently, electricity. The kind of rejoicing that never ceases to embarrass me. But I keep going to this stupid Giant because it is close to my work and since, ironically, I have a baby to feed, I don’t have time to go shopping at a better one in the evenings.

When I complained to the checkout lady that they don’t have much of a supply of formula, she stared into space while the bagging lady said, “You lookin’ for the liquid kind?”

Who in their right mind would buy that expensive liquid formula? People in Chevy Chase, Maryland, you buncha suckers?

“No,” I said, “I’m just looking for a bigger-sized can of the regular powdered Enfamil.”

“How much does your baby eat? How long do the cans last?”

Dear God, get me out of this store.

“Those little cans last less than a week.” Why am I telling this woman about my life?

Then she was all, “Yeah, my sister had to do that with her little infant.”

What? Feed her? It was at this point that I wanted to declare that I do breastfeed too, but I supplement. But I'm not gonna go around talking about my tits with a bag lady. Not this kind of bag lady, anyway. Maybe with one of those street bag ladies, who knows what it means to hoard food. The kind of bag lady who knows that only an idiot would shell out their hard-earned coins for that liquid stuff. The kind of bag lady who would beat this bag lady to a pulp if she was in my shoes. The kind of bag lady who appreciates my awesome shoes.

Anyway ...

“You can leave a comment on a card at the desk over there,” she said, pointing toward the front of the store.

I’m sure those comment cards aren’t big enough to house my complaints, and there are probably only a couple of them on the shelf, but I wouldn't know.

Like a belle out of hell

noreply@blogger.com (Aimee) — Wed, 04 Aug 2010 18:52:00 +0000

Remember this one? I hope not. I'm rerunning my own sh*t because I haven't had time to draft anything new.

It’s one of those dresses with three tiers of ruffles. The neon green, pink, and blue triangles dance across the white cotton and set off nicely the silver clips on my black velvet shoes. The car window is down so my hair will dry. It’s ten minutes till 11. I'm not sure I'll make it.

The flashing red and blue lights and siren nearly jolt me off the road. Oh, hell. I pull over by a red clay ditch, as much out of the way as I can be.

“On your way to church, are ya?” the officer asks.

No, I just like to fly around town wearing a black straw hat. It’s Easter Sunday, this is The South, and I’m late. Wrap this shit up.

“Yes,” I say, my voice cracking. Look at yourself, I think. Pathetic. I have the perfect view in his giant Raybans. I look away.

My first ticket. 65 in a 25. That’s reckless driving. Oh, what kind of specialized sin is this? Jesus is about to rise before the West Salem Baptist Church choir in what might be the most spectacular reenactment in the history of Christianity, and I’m going to miss it. I’ll never get past this…TO BE CONTINUED

Rehoboth Beach 2010

noreply@blogger.com (Aimee) — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 01:28:00 +0000

Culture Craft

noreply@blogger.com (Aimee) — Mon, 05 Jul 2010 14:58:00 +0000

Let's make Cup People!

Say hello to this craft project, which turned into a cultural lesson tie-in, which flew from its axis upon Mommy's second cup of coffee.

Meet hot-rodding Zerubavel, the hasidic cup man and his shiksa cup, Clementine. (Denim is the new black, says Clementine.)

Quick, Clementine! Let's fatten these ducks! Here they come!

Clementine, you pig. Spit out that fish this minute.

Mommy, I don't understand your crafts.

Oy, Zerubavel.

Whatever.

You've Come A Long Way, Baby

noreply@blogger.com (Aimee) — Mon, 14 Jun 2010 13:20:00 +0000

Kids in Motion

noreply@blogger.com (Aimee) — Mon, 31 May 2010 14:30:00 +0000

Lately

noreply@blogger.com (Aimee) — Sun, 23 May 2010 00:44:00 +0000

An unspeakably tragic event occurred this week to a family friend. This, on the heels of a senseless loss in our school community. Three parents are enduring the unimaginable. My heart is heavy as I lift them up and hope for their souls to be comforted.

I, in several ways, am in transition. With this project and that in the air, I feel blessed to be present despite the sometimes overwhelming oppression and self-doubt that threaten to hold me back. I must move forward and remain cognizant of how fortunate I am and that I matter to plenty of people. I'm reminded to always remember that, even if I reach a point where I don't matter to myself. I'll still matter and so will you.

Strummerism

noreply@blogger.com (Aimee) — Sat, 15 May 2010 00:57:00 +0000

On the way home from daycare.

Me: So what happened at school today?

Strummer: I don't want to speak. I want some water.

About three minutes pass.

Strummer: Christian throwed up.

Me: What? When? He was on the playground when I picked you up, so he must not have been too sick. Did he eat too much or something?

Strummer: He ate a leaf. Like an animal; like something a bird would do.

Vote for Chris

noreply@blogger.com (Aimee) — Thu, 13 May 2010 01:38:00 +0000

Click this link and vote three times for Chris's band so they can have a chance to play at the 9:30 club.

Best Buddies

noreply@blogger.com (Aimee) — Sun, 25 Apr 2010 13:24:00 +0000

The local parade through the years.

Girls Gone Wildberry

noreply@blogger.com (Aimee) — Wed, 21 Apr 2010 17:35:00 +0000

Look at her.

I wonder if she knew that while she was filming Girls Gone Wild Daytona Beach Edition, she was also being cast as a rainforest berry journalist--you know, once the world got tired of hearing it from Oprah.

Spring Break! See, Mom? I wasn't nailing the entire FSU football team, I was exposing my berries.

Who's the bigger whore now, female Fox News anchors?

Those rips in my shirt were totally there when I bought it...

Strummer

noreply@blogger.com (Aimee) — Tue, 13 Apr 2010 01:51:00 +0000

Give Discrimination the Finger

noreply@blogger.com (Aimee) — Fri, 09 Apr 2010 18:14:00 +0000

This is just a draft that I'm continuously revising. A month from now I'll cringe at its sloppiness, I'm sure, but right now I figure I'll just throw it out at you anyway.

During my internship at a small-town newspaper, I was sent out to interview an elderly black man—we’ll call him Russell—who was learning to read with the help of a local literacy program. It was one of the more interesting assignments I’d been given, so I was happy to tackle it. I sat across from Russell on his couch beside the sixty-something white woman who was teaching him to read. Russell had lived in the community his whole life, and was a well-known rental property owner of many buildings. With spittle flying from his mouth, he told me about the discrimination he’d faced in the sixties, the battles over property purchases and taxes. I don’t recall the details, but the white men he wanted to buy the buildings from tried to price him out and the other white men at the bank demanded ridiculously high interest rates. Despite this, he managed to not only make payments, but even paid the loans off early. As Russell was telling me this story, I noticed that, like a worm inching its way toward a pile of mud, the woman sitting next to me was scratching her finger across the couch toward my thigh.

I’m not into you, lady, is all I could think. Should I move to another chair? Sit on the floor? What is her deal? She kept wiggling her finger toward me, then retracting it. This went on for a few minutes, until finally, she reached my leg and began scratching it. I flinched and glared at her, dropping my pen and notebook. Russell stopped talking in mid-sentence.

“Be careful,” she whispered, winking at me. Keep your wiggly spotted hands away from me, pervert, I thought, scooting to the other end of the couch.

Had her method been less distracting, I may have understood what she was getting at, but as it stood, I was afraid of where she might scratch me next.

“A lot of people will be reading this,” she whispered.

Russell finished his story and I walked several blocks back to the newspaper branch headquarters to write. If I was assigned that story today, I would focus on Russell’s courage and tenacity, the racial implications; how his refusal to give up on his dream of being a property owner had paid off for him. That was the real story. But at the time, I didn’t have it in me. I kept thinking about what the woman had said, and how my editor had told me when I started working there that "people in this town like feel-good stories." The paper was always filled with stories about Boy Scout rallies and church choir programs. I can’t talk about racism, I thought. And even though Russell told me all about the discrimination he endured, I got the feeling that he wouldn’t have wanted me to write about it either. All those white men probably still lived in town too, and would be reading the paper, passing him in the aisles at Wal-Mart, in Golden Corral. So, I focused the story on his learning to read. He was pleased when it ran, and thanked me, telling me his friends had seen his picture in the paper and discussed it in church the following Sunday. He said he was headed to the print shop to have the story laminated. I was proud that he would soon be able to read it himself.

But I wish I could go back and do it again. I regret that he has the wrong story sealed in clear plastic and that the only person who learned a real lesson from it is me.

Cookin' Cheap

noreply@blogger.com (Aimee) — Wed, 31 Mar 2010 01:44:00 +0000

The best cookin' show ever, as this New York Times op ed states. When I was a kid, we watched Cookin' Cheap all the time and it is truly awesome. I remember being about eight years old and seeing Larry and Laban in the parking lot of Towers Mall in Roanoke once and thinking how amazing it was to be so close to celebrities! Check out a three-video episode on You Tube here. Go here to order the DVD and to read more about the show. You will love The Kitchen Witch and The Cook Sisters. What a gem!

Scary Elephant

noreply@blogger.com (Aimee) — Tue, 30 Mar 2010 02:44:00 +0000

Someone over in the product development department is a bit hostile, no?

Free Falling

noreply@blogger.com (Aimee) — Sun, 28 Mar 2010 13:31:00 +0000

Animal Planet

noreply@blogger.com (Aimee) — Sat, 27 Mar 2010 19:42:00 +0000

Strummer loves watching Wild Recon on Animal Planet. Here he is collecting biological samples from his rubber lizard.

He spots the lizard.

He moves in.

Caught! He collects venom from the lizard for cutting-edge researchers, so they may study it, because its properties could hold the key to saving lives. Yeah, baby.