The Dating Game

Apparently I struck a nerve.  It appears that I am not the only person who is passionate about the height of the men I date.  I post one little thing about a guy being too short, and receive more comments that I ever expected: here (although these were the nice ones), on Facebook and personally.  It seems only flashing people at public swimming pools gets me more feedback but since I’ve already done that and already died a little, I don’t think I’ll venture down that road again. 

I suppose it is time to talk about what makes me tick on a more personal level, on a dating level.  I tell you about funny stuff that happens to me, and sometimes sad stuff.  I tell you about people I luff. But it’s possible that telling you those things still don’t let you “get” me.  Now I want you to “get” me.  We all may be sorry.       

To begin, I’m going to tell you that I’m no stranger to dating.  I’m no stranger to marriage.  I’ve done my fair share of the romantic relationship, sometimes to my detriment and sometimes to my joy.  Secondly, and at the risk of sounding like a floozy (which I am not), I will tell you that I have dated an assorted cast of men.  I’ve run the gamut from older to younger, stoner to business professional, intellectual to . . . not so intellectual.  There is an entirely new story to tell within those parameters, but I’m thinking more of “book” than “blog post”.  I will have a lot to say. 

For now, I want to set the record straight.  I have dated men shorter than me, for a significant amount of time even.  I have given it a shot, let my guard down and given in.  And I hated it.  Despite the fact that most of those men were very nice and charming and whatever, I felt awkward and uncomfortable.  While I am 39 now, surely an age where I’m mature and happy with who I am, I can still feel awkward and uncomfortable with the best of them with no help at all from a shorter boyfriend.   I choose not to deliberately do that to myself.

Shorter-than-me is not indicative of non-hotness.  I know this.  Look at Lenny Kravitz – Meow!  Michael J. Fox – adorable!  Mark Wahlberg – yummy! Dammit Todd  and Rickkster – I nod at you here.  I give these men their due.  I can look at these men on the big screen and drool with the best of them.  But cuteness only goes so far for enticing me to want to make out with you.  There are so many other qualities that you must possess before I take an interest, and so many things that can turn me right off of even the tallest man.  Shall I share my list with you?  Indeed, yes.   

Before I begin, I should inform you that I’m an equal opportunity discriminator.  I realize that there are millions of men who have millions of fabulous qualities that should counteract my stringent requirements.  I’m not saying that these men don’t deserve a second look.  I’m just telling you they won’t get one from me.  I have every right to do this seeing as how I have been discriminated against more than once for my height, my weight, my dislike of certain recreational activities, my age, etc.  You name it, I’ve been there.  Plus (and not to beat a dead horse here) I’m 39.  I have earned the right to be picky.  Lord knows I should have been picky MANY times in my life but chose not to for whatever reason.

So on to my list.  If you want to be my new bohunk, please read carefully.     

If you don’t love God more than you love me, do not apply.

If you smoke anything at all, do not apply. 

If your name is Gerald, do not apply.  Wait, I’m not done here.  If your name is any of the following:  Phil, Herbert, Chauncy, Dwight, Melvin, Barry, Chuck (or any variation of Charles), Kenneth, Ralph, Larry, Moe, Richard, George, or Howard and/or you have an inmate number after your name, do not apply. Dwayne was on the list originally but then Dwayne Johnson got those big old arms and those pretty teeth and I had to remove it from the no fly list.   

If you think watching NASCAR on television is a nice date, do not apply. 

If you still live with your mother because “It’s awesome”, do not apply.

If you have unaddressed dental issues, do not apply. 

Ah, a big one!  If your feet are smaller than mine, do not apply. 

If you think a comb over actually hides your bald spot, do not apply. 

If you are currently attached to someone else romantically, do not apply.

If you think video games are “amazing!”, do not apply. 

If you eat cloves of raw garlic daily in the name of good health, do not apply.

If you are an axe murderer, do not apply. 

If you want me to birth children, do not apply.

If you are not old enough to rent a car, do not apply.  Honestly, it is shocking how many young men are willing to embrace the Cougar phenomenon.  Shocking.   

Yes, I realize how picky I sound at this point . . . tough.  It’s my list. 

Lastly, and we have covered this, if you are my height or shorter than me, do not apply. 

I think that is a tidy list.  Please understand that I reserve the right to add to it as I see fit.  I hope I have offended no one, but if I did what are you gonna do about it?  Not ask me out on a date?  Been there, done that, your loss. 




This Is How Woney And I Get Into Trouble

Good-bye savings.  I didn’t need you anyway.


Good-bye waistline.  You will be missed.


Good-bye sensibilities.  Hello, stranger.  You are so cute!


Good-bye filter.  That was an awesome make out session, stranger.  Of course you can have my number.  No, of course I don’t mind that you don’t have all of your teeth and are brave enough to show those gaps to the world!  Right on!  Be yourself! 


Good-bye camera.  Woney didn’t need those 45 pictures she took on this trip.  Her mind is like a steel trap.  She can remember every single event with no photographic evidence whatsoever.

Disclaimers and Items of Note: 

Using new sparkly eyeliner on your eyelids and accidentally getting some on your eyelashes can be distracting and quite mesmerizing, especially when driving.  Operate vehicle carefully. 

Giving Woney a video option on her phone while Jimmie gets a pedicure can be damaging to Jimmie’s reputation.  Also, there is no evidence to be found on youtube!  Do not search!  Computers will be infected with the most horrifying viruses if those searches are attempted! 

The dropping of the camera into a fountain (which looked as if it happened in slow motion, it was so horrifying) had nothing to do with any alcohol consumption. Still, DO NOT RECOMMEND operating camera after tasty beverage consumption.

Reputations were scarred a bit when tourists from all over the world witnessed the falling of the camera from Woney’s hands.  Muffled snickering ensued. 

No fishes were harmed in the retrieval of the camera or the batteries (which somehow never made it into the water) although a bug or two might have been squished. 

It pays to be kind to the nice boys in the Engineering Department at the Opryland Hotel as you not only get your personal water-logged equipment back from the depths of the fountain but also the sunglasses dropped by an unknown stranger probably months beforehand.  Score! 

No fabulously tall men with gorgeous big arms were molested over the course of the weekend (sadly). 

No dentally challenged men with exquisitely short stature were molested either (thankfully). 


Stuff That Made Me Happy (Or Not) This Week

I lost a pound this week.  In the immortal words of my friend, Booty:  Suck on that, Thursday!

Monday I made Dammit Todd shoot Coke out of his nose.  In front of other people. In public. 

Today is Javier’s birthday.  I made him a cake.  Perhaps I was feeling festive in honor of his birthday.  Or perhaps I was just sleepy because I stayed up too late last night watching the musical production of The Color Purple with Jane.  Either way, I packed my gym bag at 11:00 last night and in doing so, gave myself the nicest of all surprises.  I am always diligent in packing underclothes because I have a friend who often forgets her bra when packing her gym bag.  (I won’t name any names but her initials are Lynnette).  I would die if I forgot my bra and would most likely get fired if I showed up at work without it.  In my hyper-attention for underwear packing, I lost awareness when it came to shoe packing.  Imagine my surprise when I was at the gym this morning, got dressed in my professional attire and then found my shoes for the day.  My formal, only-wear-out-with-party-dresses shoes.  At least I’m sparkly.  Happy Birthday, Javier.  I didn’t intend to have Happy Feet on your birthday but since I do, you’re welcome.

Woney is flying in tomorrow to hang out with me for the weekend.  So happy! 

I was discussing death with my boss today.  I have no idea why. 

   I asked, “You’ll come to my funeral when I die, right?

   He responded, “Yes.  I will pour a six-pack of beer on your grave.”

   Of course I said, “I don’t want beer.  I want pink sparkly champagne.”

   And of course he said, “ Okay, I’ll pour pink sparkly champagne on your grave.  I’ll strain it through my kidneys first.”


I’m A Loser, Baby!

You want to know how I’m a loser?  Oh, in so many ways!  And one of them better be good!

I have a new friend to introduce to you.  His name is Miguel.  He’s been around forever but I’ve never had the opportunity to write much about him.  Now I do. 

On Friday afternoon I received a phone call from Miguel.  We went through the pleasantries and then Miguel asked, “What do you have going on this weekend?”

“Not much.  How about you,” I replied. 

“Well, tomorrow I’m going to meet you on the Greenway at 10:00 to walk, have lunch with you in Green Hills (Chipotle!) and then we are going to walk around the mall.”

“Oh.  I had no idea.  I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.” 

We met at 10:00 and because it had been raining in Nashville for a couple of hours, our walk didn’t happen.  However, Miguel got crafty and persuasive and challenged me to a series of athletic contests instead of walking on the boring old treadmill.  Apparently, I have nothing to prove, no pride, no gumption, nothing because here, my friends, is where I fail. 

LOSER:  We played a game of H-O-R-S-E.  I had H-O-R-S-E and Miguel had H-O-R-S.  I was proud of that seeing as how I throw like a girl and have never played basketball in my life.  I was the manager of the boy’s basketball team in college but I pretty much only did that for two reasons:  Chris O’Bryan and to get paid.  I got over Chris O’Bryan before too long seeing as how he was taken but the getting paid part was quite handy for a couple of years.   Anyway, what I learned from that position was more how to get sweat out of uniforms and how to fill water bottles and not any basketball tricks.  Clearly.    

LOSER:  Miguel beat me by about a minute on the one-mile elliptical race we had.  I really should have won that one seeing as how I OWN that machine at least one day a week.  I do lunges.  I run.  I lift weights.  That machine should have been my bitch.  But it wasn’t. 

LOSER:  Miguel and I challenged each other to a push-up contest next.  He did the real ones and I did the Jimmie ones.  I could have kept going but he gave out after a few which I was pretty gloaty about.  WINNER!  Then we thought it would be interesting to see how many real ones I could do.  LOSER.  Not even one . . .  

LOSER:  Miguel opted for one more game of H-O-R-S-E.  Naturally I got H-O-R-S-E and he was just a H-O.  I think he was pretty proud of that, for more than one reason. 

LOSER:  At least I had better be.  Before that entire American Gladiator-type workout with Miguel, I ran almost five miles on the Greenway.  I’m still training for the ½ marathon (and just realized that almost none of you have nagged me even a little) so I needed to get that time in.  Besides, I knew that Miguel wouldn’t run with me, mostly because he said “Aw, hell naw!” when I asked him.  This was before the monsoon.  The weather was perfect for a run – very cloudy and overcast.  I mean, I still sweated like a hog but it was nice.  About halfway through my run, when I was past the point of turning around to go back, the bottom dropped out and I got soaked.   

I’ll call myself a LOSER on that whole running event, not because I got soaked but because all of that stuff had better show up (or not, depending on how you look at it) on the scale.  That is the kind of LOSER that counts. 

And finally . . . . Eh, I can’t tell on this one:  LOSER most likely.  After all of our calisthenics and lunch and shopping, I thought I would sit out the thunderstorms (monsoons) in the café where I go to write.  I found my favorite spot and got all settled in, but not before a seemingly nice, kind of runty man sitting near me gave me a big grin and said, “Hey.” 

I responded with “Hello.”  I told you, I don’t meet strangers.  Maybe I should.

“I’ve seen you in here.  I’m Chuck.  What’s your name?” 


“Jimmie, are you single?” This right here?  This is a lesson I should learn!  This is where I speak before I think!  This is where, when you are out with me in public, you give me a kick in the shin. 

“Yep.”  Heaven, help me.  I have such a big mouth. 

“I think you are cute.  Would you like to go out sometime?” 

“Um, well, I don’t really know you plus I have a height thing.” I was completely floundering and this was the best I could come up with?

“I’m about 5’8”. I love tall women.  I love it when they wear heels and all that.” 

And here I have to explain that while you as a man may have no issue dating a taller woman, I as a woman do.  “Ooh, sorry, I’m completely flattered, really but I just cannot date someone shorter than me.  I really have a thing about it.” 

“Oh, okay.”   

I don’t think I destroyed him too badly because he got up to come shake my hand.  Then he looked down at my feet and said, “You have cute toes.”


“Well, are you sure you won’t go out with me?”

“You know, this is very nice, very sweet.  But I just can’t.  I’m sorry.” 

“Okay, well, you are really hot.  I’ll see you around.”

Okay, so see?  I’m not really sure how this one fits.  I am completely flattered and complimented and that is always nice.  However, I suspect he’s one of those guys who plays the numbers game. Ask 100 women out and compliment their toes (?) and surely one of them will say yes.  But because I’m trying out this self-confidence thing, I’m going to say WINNER.  Right?  Who’s with me on this one?


Fatherly Advice, From the Best Fathers I Know

The best advice I got from my Daddy-O:  Go to bed.  Your house will not burn down. 

I’d only been married for a few short months when I had to call my Daddy-O for some advice.  It was a middle of the night, freak-out panicked call, full of hysteria and rapid heart beats and excessive crying.  I’m certain I woke him out of a dead sleep but I didn’t care.  And as the best Daddy-O ever, neither did he.

Right after I got married, my husband and I bought a Spanish-style house that was built in the 1930s and as such, all of the vents and electric sockets were built into the floor.   We got a couple of cats to add to the family. Because my husband was a sucker for cats in general, we also provided foster care to some other cats who were in between owners.  Sometimes foster kitties have difficulty adjusting to new environments with other established kitties, and not surprisingly, we had one of those challenged foster kitties.  Once he came out of hiding from behind the shower curtain, he peed everywhere, a lot.    

A particularly memorable urination is the focus of this story.  Challenged Kitty was mad about something and stalked into our bedroom, poised right over one of the electric sockets on the floor and let a stream go.  In retaliation, the socket shot out a spark the size of a roman candle and zapped that kitty on the butt.  Oh, the howling!  Oh, the hysteria! Served him right.  But I was left with the smell of burned cat butt, scorched electric socket and panic.  My husband worked third shift and I was alone in a house I was certain would burn to the ground because of faulty electric wiring due to cat pee.  I called the husband, he came home and checked it out, reassured me, and went back to work.

The only problem?  I wanted my Daddy-O.  I wanted him to tell me it was fine.  No other man would do.  So I called him in the middle of the night in a panic to babble incoherently about omigodcatpeedbigsparkburnedi’mgonnalosemyhouse – waaaaaaiiiilllllllll! And Daddy-O was very calm.  He said, “Go to bed.  Your house will not burn down. I love you.”  With that, I was appeased and slept just fine.   

That’s what daddies do. They calm their daughters no matter how old they are.  And just because Daddy-O says it is so, Jimmie knows that everything will be okay.

Happy Father’s Day, Daddy-O.  I love you.


The best advice I got from Poppa:  It is your born Christian duty to lie to nosy people.

I don’t think that advice needs any explanation, do you?  

One of my favorite things about Poppa is the way he talks to us.  He calls us “love” and that endearment is usually followed by a gentle hand to the cheek.  It is one of the sweetest gestures in the world and I’m happy to report that he taught his sons the same endearment.  His boys, my brothers, treat their wives and children the same way that Poppa treats us – with so much love and respect.  I cannot imagine my life without that man.    

Happy Father’s Day, Poppa. I love you.   


The best advice I got from Coach:  I’m here for you too.  Please call me if you need me.   

I’m going to tell you that for the most part, I am a pretty level-headed person.  I’m calm in the face of panic and usually handle big catastrophes pretty well.  One exception would be when cats pee into electric sockets.   

Another exception is a bad break up.  I had one and it was horrible.  I wasn’t sure I was going to make it.  I called Martie daily to cry and to yell.  She was perfect; she knew exactly what to say every time.  The surprise was Coach, though.  I never really thought about his reaction but I guess I expected him to react like a lot of men do:  eye-rolling, big sighing, rolling hands to get you to hurry up to the end of the story.  Coach never did any of that.  Not once.  Instead, he waited a couple of weeks to let the emotions level off and then called me to say, “I know this is hard.  I’m sorry.  I’m here for you too.  Please call me if you need me.” 

It was so comforting, so nice.  I’m certain it made me cry but in that case, it was the good kind.  I know that Pooh and Tigger are in good hands.  They have a daddy that will not do the eye roll and the big sighing but will hug them and tell them he is there and that it will all be okay.   

Happy Father’s Day, Coach. I love you. 

Knowing that I will forget some, I want to say Happy Father’s Day to all of the other daddies I know:  Vaughan, Boo, Adam, Will T., Keith, Marris, Brad, Damon, Stefan, Will B., Stan, Zeb, Casey, Aaron, Brian.  I send big puffy hearts to you all and wish you complete control of the remote for the day. 

A Quickie

Last night Murphy thought it would be a great idea to try a new drinking fountain.  Despite getting fresh water every day, he’s usually partial to drinking from the toilet and has been known to swig a drink from my glass, the kitchen sink and my house plants, most of which he has eaten.    

I felt like a bath was a great idea last night, although I’m not sure why.  My attention span for baths is about eight minutes.  In that eight minutes, though, Murphy wandered in and out of the bathroom, eyed the water, inspected the tub, sat on the toilet and watched the water, and finally went in for a drink.  The water was so hot that when he took a swallow he levitated right off the tub and out of the bathroom, meowing the whole way, all kinds of pissed off.  The funniest part?  He came back a second time about a minute later and did the same thing all over again.   

Murphy is such an odd little creature.  I love him but I wonder about his little brain sometimes. 

☼ ☼ ☼

Yesterday, the following email exchange happened between a co-worker and my boss – I was copied on all of it: 

Nice Co-Worker:  Jimmie – Thank you so much for helping get my site visit pictures together yesterday so I could send out the site visit report.  I can’t believe you were able to finish up as quickly as you did; your work made it possible to get the entire report out by the end of the day.

Boss:  Holy moly . . . I may puke. 

Isn’t he the nicest guy ever?

☼ ☼ ☼

I updated the below post with the picture of our pretty co-worker.  His name is Javier.   You’re welcome!    


Y’all, I Thought I’d Never Get This One Posted!

Happy Birthday” serenade from our Chairman of the Board as Donald Duck


Happy Birthday” serenade from Martie as Edith Bunker 


Happy Birthday” serenade from the teenage Pizza Delivery Guy as the teenage Pizza Delivery Guy, just because I asked


You Say it’s Your Birthday” serenade from Coach as The Beatles




♥ ♥ ♥

(before birthday party and because pedicures tickle)


 (at birthday party, because we are all 12-year old boys)



(and again, 12-year old boys . . . )




 ♥ ♥ ♥



New co-worker who is just so dang pretty, especially because he cut in some Wolverine-esque sideburns just for me, for my birthday, because of Wolverine-fascination

(I will include the picture I took of him in an update if he allows me too, but he’s out of town and I never include that stuff without asking permission first.  UPDATE: Got it!)

(and there’s a small story about him below)


Happiest girl in the world

(probably because of hormone overload)


♥ ♥ ♥









(Ugh. But, Yum!) 

Yes, all of those cakes were made for me.  Don’t forget I had pineapple cupcakes too. 

Yes, I went to the gym yesterday morning.  At 5:00.  Yes, I did Body Pump which included something called Frogs which made me want to DIE.  Yes, I did Spin after that for 45 minutes.  Yes, we did climbs and sprints which made me want to DIE.  Yes, my butt hurts.  Also, yes, I ran three miles today (on the treadmill, which I hate).  And yes, thank you, I do feel amazing. And also, yes thanks, I know that my clothes are almost too tight because all of that birthday cake and wine and celebration.  

Thank you for noticing.   It was worth every bit of it. 

Yes, I did take all of that cake to work.  I know one of them looks a bit off but it fell over on the drive to work.  It still tasted great.  I sent out an email letting co-workers know that I had three kinds of cake on my desk and to please come help themselves. 

It sounded like a herd of water buffalo had invaded the office what with all of the thundering down the hall.  I’m willing to bet I really was everyone’s favorite yesterday.  Except for this guy . . . the pretty co-worker sent this in reply to my email:   Soooo dirty. You know that I am out of town. Now I just have to sit here and wonder how tasty your cakes are and I picture each delicious slice disappearing like the count down to Armageddon, I am now left with the feeling of hopelessness. Thank you, I’ll remember that.  I have a feeling that like Quan, he belongs to us.  We should take him to the Mongolian BBQ place to find out for sure.

Cake = gone. 

Which means:

Clothes = still fit (but barely).



Aging: A Timeline

Birth:  I was a girl.  My parents were thrilled.  Because they were big fans of horse stuff, my birth announcement read:  “It’s a Filly!” and all of my vitals were listed in horse speak. 

Age 20 months:  Martie was born and the entire scale of my world changed.  I loved that baby like you could not believe.  I was now Big Sister.  She was now Little Sister.  And the friendship began. 

Age 5:  Madre began explaining to Martie and me about the birds and the bees.  She did this with diagrams.  We were grossed out.

Age 8:  Madre had explained about the birds and the bees so much that it was old news.  Still grossed out.

Age 10:  Madre got remarried and I got two brothers.  Ew.

Age 13:  The Squirt was born and the entire scale of my world changed, again.  I loved that baby like you could not believe.

Age 15:  I got my first car, a 1969 Karmann Ghia convertible.  It had no radio, a top that had been slashed, a dashboard that was crumbling, and the original paint job which had faded from red to an odd pink color.  I loved that car.

Age 16:  My first kiss.  I was pounced upon by a boy that I had a crush on FOREVER.  And it was . . . . kind of gross.  I remember thinking to myself, “I waited all that time for this?”  As teenagers, Phranke and I dissected the entire event to pieces and I still think it was kind of gross. 

Age 16, also:  I failed my driving test.  The driving part.  Ridiculing ensued.

Age 17:  I passed my driving test.  With flying colors.

Age 17, also:  Martie and I had our most memorable fight, ever.  We were arguing in front of our friends when I thought it would be a grand idea to spit my gum in her face.  In retaliation, she grabbed my purse, stuck it under the tire of her VW Bug and ran over it a couple of times, thus solidifying our best friend status.  We have no idea what we were fighting about. 

Age 18:  I headed off to college. 

Age 19:  I went to Europe.  I fell in love with Michelangelo’s David. 

Age 20:  My 20th birthday happened in Chamonix.  I cried because I was no longer a teenager.  I also made out with an Italian guy named Luigi.  It was not gross.    

Age 21:  I graduated from college.  I said good-bye to some of the best friends I have ever known.  We promised to stay in touch.  We have.

Age 22:  I got a tattoo.

Age 22 and a half:  I regretted that tattoo.

Age 23:  I moved to Alabama.  Why?! Why!

Age 24:  I became a Christian. (Maybe that was why . . . .)

Age 27:  I got married.

Age 29:  I bawled my eyes out because I was “old”.  In the midst of my bawling, I hit the Dillard’s counter wailing about my “wrinkles” and “decrepit skin”.  They saw me coming a mile away and took me for every cent I had.  A few hundred dollars later I owned a large chunk of their skincare collection which did nothing to erase my “wrinkles” and “decrepit skin”. 

Age 30:  Pooh was born.  I loved that baby like you could not believe. 

Age 33:  I got divorced.  

Age 34:  Tigger was born.  I loved that baby like you could not believe.

Age 34, also:  I moved to Nashville. 

Age 37:  I had my only hangover ever.  It was Not Pretty. 

Age 37, also:  I broke my first bone.  It was my pinkie toe and it made me curse copious amounts. 

Age 38:  I fretted a lot because my eyes were “old”.   Martie gave me some eye cream and an explanation that it smelled like “rotten asshole.”  I felt certain that something that smelled like “rotten asshole” would definitely work because everyone knows that beauty treatments are not always pleasant.  I used it faithfully and every time the hot air from my hair dryer would hit my face, the heated smell of “rotten asshole” almost made me varmint. My eyes still look exactly the same. 

Age 39:  Gosh, I don’t know yet.  I plan on spending lots of years here, at 39.  So far, one day into it, it’s been amazing. 

I have received a ton of phone calls and emails and text messages from assorted friends and family members.  I got pineapple cupcakes.  And some cards.  And a really sweet magnet that says:  Better Buy Me Another Drink.  You’re Still Ugly.   

Phranke sent me this message:  Happy Birthday.  Welcome to 39.  It’s a very good year.

And Quan sent me this message:  HAPPY BIRTHDAY JIMMIE!  I got you something but let’s be honest….it will never make it to you.  I’m about to tear into it now.   (PS – it did have a malt ball on top but I already ate it.)

Finally, tonight Billie and I are watching this:


Birthdays are wonderful.  I love them.  Thank you to all of the best friends I’ve met along the way (I’m talking to you Ohio, Kentucky, Tennessee and Alabama!).  I luff you all.  And thank you to all of the best family I’ve been lucky enough to get.  I luff you all, too.  Special thanks to Madre for enduring several hours of labor and yelling and swearing and cursing to get me here.  I know I’m your favorite. You don’t have to tell Martie.  ♥

Oh, while I’m at it, being all older and wiser and stuff, I should “Impart Wisdom” to you again.  When using power tools, I’ve learned it’s best to wear closed-toed shoes.  This is what happens when you drop an electric hand sander that is currently in the “on” position on your naked toe.  Ow.  Time for a pedicure! 



Homelessness is everywhere.  I know this.  It is hard to see, and it is hard to ignore, especially in downtown Nashville when you are faced with someone on every street corner, every single day.  I see these people at every intersection on my drive home, selling the homeless paper and asking for money and food.  A lot of these men and women have physical disabilities.  A lot of them don’t and pretend they do.  Sometimes, though, these people are easy to ignore and that is the part that really gets to me. 

Last week Kindle and I took a brain refresher walk around the block.  No reason really, other than to get up and give ourselves a bit of a break.  As we walked down Broadway we saw a pathetic-looking man sitting on a stoop, his hands folded in the pleading gesture, asking people for water. 

“I just want a bottle of water.  It’s all I want.  I don’t want alcohol.  I just want a bottle of water.  Please.”  

A lot of people walked past and ignored him.  Again, very easy to do.  Homeless men do not always tug at your heart strings.  This man had the looks of a man who really would prefer the alcohol and had chosen it for a good chunk of his life.  He was likely smelly and was considerably dirty.  Most probably there was some sort of mental illness or addiction that contributed to his homelessness – the slur in his voice certainly sounded that way.  But for whatever reason, this guy struck a chord with us and there was no reason in the world to be unkind.

We walked into the ice cream store, bought him two bottles of water and then walked them back to him.  We held them out and he looked up, took them, and bowed his head.  I’m not sure if it was relief or thankfulness or if he was just overwhelmed.  After a moment he looked up at us and said in the most thankful gut-wrenching voice, “Thank you.  It was all I wanted.” 

I don’t need to tell you that I cried.  Crying does no good, though.  And honestly, buying water every time I’m asked for it doesn’t either, although it is a nice thing to do and can help for a short time.  This isn’t the first time I’ve had my heart broken by homelessness. And more than once I’ve offered food only to have it angrily rejected.  It makes it hard to want to be nice.  Sometimes something will hit me with the most poignant clarity, though, and I realize that the problem is much bigger than hunger or thirst or needing a place to sleep. 

I’ve volunteered at homeless shelters before.  I listened to the men and women talk about their lives and how they ended up in the shelter.  I served food.  I connected, if only for an evening or two.  I don’t think my calling is to work with the homeless, but it doesn’t mean that I can’t help out when the need arises or the opportunity presents itself.

This really isn’t a plea for help.  This is only a commentary on the things that I see and a bloodletting, if you will, of some emotions that the homeless man evoked in me last week.  I’m looking for additional philanthropies and when I settle on them, I’ll let you know about it.  In the meantime, I’ll buy a meal when the chord is struck and give water to a man who is thirsty.  And I will most likely cry with the heartbreak of it, every single time. 


Oh No! Now With No Photos (Thank Goodness).

Remember that post where I talked about how I’m a huge fan of the YMCA?  I’m not so sure they are a fan of me anymore.

Sorry, boys, but I’m going to talk about girl stuff.  Good thing we aren’t face to face or one of us would be embarrassed by the end of this conversation.   

When I was in college, I played on an intramural flag football team.  We called ourselves the ButtCheeks, and as freshman, we whipped the asses of the best team out there, the senior team.  We won the championship. I can’t say I contributed much to the team or learned a lot about football but it was fun and I got the t-shirt so I was thrilled. 

I may not have helped the team out much but what I did do was learn about sports bras and the specific kinds to get.  I’ve talked about this before, but in case you forgot, you should know that I am breastacularly blessed.  I have no rear end, never have; it’s as flat as a pancake despite all of my effort and time on the elliptical machine and doing four million lunges every single Monday.  (Upon reflection, I find it hilarious that I was on a team called the ButtCheeks. Hahahahaha.) But there is no doubt that I am top heavy.  I learned the hard way that not just any bra will work for those of us who are top heavy.  I learned this because right in the middle of a freshman year flag football game, my sports bra snapped clean in two.  I had to run across campus squishing my chest in so that I could get another bra and finish out the game.  Humiliating at best and a lesson learned for future flag football games.   

Clearly that is a lesson I should apply to swim suits as well.  Today I met a friend, Billie, at the YMCA pool.  I have not seen her in a while and despite my trip to the beach and the vats of fake tan (which I can never seem to apply in the correct non-streaky manner) housed in my bathroom cabinets, I’m pasty white. Practically clear.  We grabbed some lunch and headed over to the pool to get some sun and to gossip.  We were settling in and I bent down to put my stuff down when SNAP!  I was at the Y (!), in front of CHILDREN (!), when my top snapped clean in two, the plastic piece holding the back shut literally flying a couple feet away.  Oh God. 

So now I have some things to say.   

You are welcome, teenage boys at the Y.  You are welcome, dirty old men with shorts that are far too short to ever be worn in public.  My apologies to all the mothers who now have to explain to their young children what breasts are.  My apologies to the lifeguards who swallowed whistles and choked.  My apologies also to the little old church ladies who had mini-heart attacks.  And finally, to you women who were there with the perfect round behinds showcased perfectly in your tiny little bikinis which offer no support up top because you don’t need it – BOO-YAH!  To you I make no apologies at all. I hope you all enjoyed the show. 




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