what goes up...

...must come down. and down. and down.

Who: me
When: last night
What: falling down a flight of stairs, stopping only when I hit the wall at the bottom
Where: in the middle of a "Tour of Homes," in a million-dollar-plus house in Grant Park
How: a combination of hardwood steps, slippery shoes, bad luck and perhaps a bit of bad balance
I'm relatively unharmed — a few contusions on my lower back, knee, shin and somehow a skinned thumb (?). And although I'm not enjoying the aftermath (chiropractor, epsom salt baths, ice pack, etc.) I have to say it was pretty damn funny. A few friends and coworkers can testify that it made a horrifyingly loud sound (insert noise of 20+ witnesses gasping) and I rolled down the stairs, side-to-side, bouncing around, Sonic the Hedgehog style. But all in all, I'd say I'm lucky I didn't snap anything (bones OR banisters).



For 11 years, I've written poetry and for 11 years, I've been scared to let people read it. There may come a day when I'm ready to. Today is not that day. So instead, I'll share one I love by Mary Oliver, called Singapore.

A beloved English professor told me once (everyday) that in order to appreciate a poem, you must first read it ten times. Seems excessive, but I believe if it is a good poem, you can read it ten times and find something new in it each time. Without further ado, here is Miss Oliver.

In Singapore, in the airport,
a darkness was ripped from my eyes.
In the women's restroom, one compartment stood open.
A woman knelt there, washing something
in the white bowl.

Disgust argued in my stomach
and I felt, in my pocket, for my ticket.

A poem should always have birds in it.
Kingfishers, say, with their bold eyes and gaudy wings.
Rivers are pleasant, and of course trees.
A waterfall, or if that's not possible, a fountain
rising and falling.
A person wants to stand in a happy place, in a poem.

When the woman turned I could not answer her face.
Her beauty and her embarassment struggled together, and
neither could win.
She smiled and I smiled. What kind of nonsense it this?
Everybody needs a job.

Yes, a person wants to stand in a happy place, in a poem.
But first we must watch her as she states down at her labor,
which is dull enough.
She is washing the tops of the airport ashtrays, as big as
hubcaps, with a blue rag.
Her small hands turn the metal, scrubbing and rinsing.
She does not work slowly, nor quickly, but like a river.
Her dark hair is like the wing of a bird.

I don't doubt for a moment that she loves her life.
And I want her to rise up from the crust and the slop
and fly down to the river.
This probably won't happen.
But maybe it will.
If the world were only pain and logic, who would want it?

Of course, it isn't.
Neither do I mean anything miraculous, but only
the light that can shine out of a life. I mean
the way she unfolded and refolded the blue cloth,
the way her smile was only for my sake; I mean
the way this poem is filled with trees, and birds.


philosopher's graffiti

[Found on the side of a boarded up Jiffy Lube, up in the 30075]


the greatest commercials

My all-time favorite. These kids are awesome.

If there was some way to make this happen... it would be the best day ever.

Because I love colorful things, bouncy balls and this song.

I'm pretty sure this will make you cry.

Because I love football...

...and football photography...

...and especially SEC football...


two more reasons to love my job

Reason One
While half of America toils under florescent bulbs, this is the view from my cubicle. Blue sky, natural light, a birch tree... which just happens to be my favorite kind of tree. Not bad, eh? (Random helpful tip: 'eh' is a scrabble-approved word.)

Reason Two
December 16th is the office's second annual "Cookie Swap." This consists of each employee baking four dozen cookies, bringing them into work and spending an afternoon gorging. Then we all go home with a behemoth box of 30 different kinds of cookies... which none of us can bring ourselves to look at because, by that point, we are pissing out liquid sugar. But a big part of what makes it fun is reading the cookie name tags while we eat. Here is a sampling of what my coworkers have dubbed their creations:

Sherry - Fudgie Pudgies
Dawn - Orange Lovies
Jenn - Make-your-mouth-water, gone-to-heaven, smack-yo-mama, no-you-dihn't, you-wanna-piece-of-this, thin-n-sassy, bestest chocolate chip cookies EVAH!
Shaun - Chocolate Pnut Butter Yummy Lovey Baby Sweeties
Steve - Raspberry + Lemon Cookies for Eating
Molly - Oatmeal White-Chocolate Cranberry Chunk Cookies (the non cow patty version)
Ashley - "Seriously, I Am Amazing" Sugar Cookies
Katy - MMMMMMMM Banana Chip Cookies
Amanda - Meat Cookies
Blake - Oreogasms
Kyle - Nana's (Pain in the Ass to Make) Christmas Cookies


giving thanks

“We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.” -Thornton Wilder

Regretfully, I did not take a single photo of Thanksgiving. But it was spectacular. My dad borrowed a frialator and deep-fried the Turkey, whom my brother Trey nicknamed "Fred" or "George," I can't remember which... one of the Weasley brothers. My youngest brother Nick (a.k.a. "Biggie") got stuck cooking 3 of the 4 side dishes — but he is a chef in training, so I hardly think he minded the work. And my mom
served homemade stuffing. Yes, you read correctly — my mom, who doesn't particularly love the holidays and is a far cry from Betty Crocker — made stuffing. From scratch... God love her.

"A thankful heart hath a continual feast." -W.J. Cameron