someone had a very destructive birthday

The evidence:



Let's take a closer look:

Bad dog!

christmas in june

I had a saved-up gift card from christmas so I decided to buy myself a present. These:


I really wanted this too:


But did not have the dollars. Here's hoping that a girl who likes green, lives on the Georgia coast, and is a size six buys one and then changes her mind. She then will donate it to the local thrifty thrift where I will happen upon it and make it mine. For $3.99!

happy birthday to the best dog on earth

Eight years old today.
My sweet old man.

wimbledon

I am about as uncoordinated as an ostrich on roller skates. And, if I were to ever get on roller skates again (which I will never do) I'm sure I'd resemble the head-n-sand bird as well. Which is a long way of saying that I cannot play tennis. AT ALL. I have tried and tried and sweaty sweated tried. Nope. No hand-eye coordination to be found here.

But oh my goodness tennis is a beautiful game. My Daddy taught me that. Some of my sweestest memories are of watching tennis with my dad. And, sometimes, with my grandpa, Papa Joe. Papa Joe loved Martina Navratilova. My daddy was Steffi Graf all the way. Oh, and one of the few times daddy ever raised his voice was when we (me + sisters) were making too much noise during one of the Borg/McEnroe matches.

We were totally not a tennis family. No country club, no tennis courts in our life. I never knew anyone in real life who played tennis. Except for my dad, who did so very very intermittently. He would let me use his racket in those tennis outbursts that I would get after watching Wimbledon all day. Me and my dad's giant racket bouncing worn out old tennis balls against the freezer door in the carport.

I was sure (in my 10 year old brain) that I would go to Wimbledon and eat strawberries and cream.That will never happen. But I'm watching Wimbledon this week and I hope my Daddy gets to watch it too.

bourbon floats!

This:



plus this:


equals yum. And fun.

PS: It has to be butter pecan! There must be some chemical reaction between bourbon and nuts.

the ipod does not lie

I just looked at my ipod and it appears that I do have some Nine Inch Nails songs. So I guess I lied in my previous post.

an outlaw love song? maybe...

There are bands that I've outgrown. And some that I haven't. Yet. Here's a list of my high school playlist updated. Well, it kind of boils over into early college.

First off and foremost let's just get the whole heavy metal hair band thing out of the way. Yeah, for whatever reason I used to listen to a lot of Motley Crue. And I wasn't even the target audience! I was a bookworm; a poetry reading sensitive little girl. Yet there it was. Currently, however --- NO.

Dinosaur Jr. --- Yes! J Mascis will always have a piece of my heart. Evidence -- I still have the completely scratched up cd of You're Living All Over Me that I snagged from the record-store dude in 1990 (Alexandria, Louisiana).

Social Distoration -- Yes! Ok, so their songs kind of all sound the same. But I'll still throw "Story of My Life" into the mix. Forever!

ALL -- Yes!
Descendants -- No!
So they're kinda the same band.... but not really. ALL still does it for me. D's seem very teenage boy-ish.

Pearl Jam -- No! Maybe they outgrew me... I just find them boring now. (maybe it's me)

Red Hot Chili Peppers -- Yes! Fight like a brave.... And I listened to Stadium Arcadium for days on end...

Cocteau Twins -- Yes, I will love them forever.

Sisters of Mercy -- Yes...laugh all you want; Andrew Eldrich = my dark prince (ha?)

Nine Inch Nails -- Hmmmm... NO!

This will have to Be Continued...

Oh, but Outlaw Lovesong is Social D!

Memories....

i've got a red japanese teapot

Thanks to my brilliant sister for making me download this:

plant lust

I've been searching high and low for this plant:



None of my local green houses have any. I completely fell in love with it when I saw it in my mom's garden. Plus, I kind of have an obsession with the purple-leaved plants. Not green! Purple! Anyway.

So I've been lacking my pretty little tradescantia. But now I'm seeing it everywhere. Everywhere except legal places to buy plants!!! Neighbor has it. Next-door-down-neighbor has it. Window-boxes downtown have it.

I'm thinking about a nice-to-meet-ya-neighbor-let's-swap-plants thing.

my imaginary musician-from-Texas boyfriend

straight out of a truman capote story

Today in my hallowed place of employment I encountered some characters (like I do every day... every single day). Now they were the kind that make you go "only in the south". In a good way, of course ( I am southern born and bred). Big slow grandmaw (maybe great aunt) with big giant vinyl black bag and ten year old grandson (great-nephew?).

Let's see, so... they (yes, both of them) are doing a little genealogy. Grandmaw doesn't move well; grandson does her bidding. We get into the United Daughters of the Confederacy, a little bit of the Daughters of the American Revolution. The grandboy/nephew has spectacles and high-waisted shorts. Grandmaw constantly complains about everything.

And then there is the weather interference. Thunderstorm. Grandboy has to get the umbrella; grandboy gets soaking wet; grandboy has to go to the hotel to get "proper" dry clothes. Finally grandboy ushers grandmaw out under a great black funeral umbrella.

In my hands this goes nowhere, but, seriously, Truman could have totally done something with it.

score at the junk store

Some nice red heels and a weird glass thing.
Four bucks.

my imaginary golf boyfriend

so maybe no more thomas hardy

I read my first Thomas Hardy words about ten years ago. Return of the Native. I fell in love (seriously, I changed all of my passwords to Eustacia1... they have since been changed...just in case) and swore to ration his words out so I would never be all Hardy'ed out. At that time in my life I thought that meant a novel a year (I guess I was counting on the poems to get me through old age...and middle age... well, there are a lot of poems). God, I loved Eustacia Vye so much.

So I kept reading...Jude, Tess, the Mayor, the Madding Crowd, and then Two on a Tower. Two on a Tower was the one that did it. Swithin. Lady Constantine. God, couldn't they just be happy? But of course that's not why you read Mr. Hardy. And I used to love it, knowing that bad ends were coming...because the words were so perfect. Maybe I'm just getting too something. I'm still holding out hope for the poems.