Time: 5/7/13 9:38 PM EST
Subject: bugs: a comedy (or “I am also a bedroom liability”)
1. in a dream last night, i had to grab something before it fell and then awoke abruptly when a nalgene full of water became poured on myself by my left hand. it’s fine — i threw the sheets in the dryer and a towel on the damp carpet.
2. however! upon removing the damp sheets, i discovered we have not one, not two, but THREE separate mattress pads on the bed. after they were dry this AM and i went to put everything back on the bed, i figured, eh, whatevs, i’ll just put all three back on.
3. however again! the third and oldest/worn-est of the three pads had some dead bug carcasses in it. probably too big for bed bugs, and no eggs, but i went ahead and threw it out. this might explain the weird maybe bug thing from a few months ago.
4. related only by virtue of classification in the same phyla, we have ants in the kitchen. i don’t know where they’re coming from, but fear not, i am on the hunt.
Time: 5/7/13 10:57 PM EST
Subject: RE: bugs: a comedy (or “I am also a bedroom liability”)
how many mattress pads are too many? No such thing, if they are protecting you from bugs! Sorry to hear about your adventures, but sounds like you have it under control.
Time: 5/7/13 10:59 PM EST
Subject: RE: RE: bugs: a comedy (or “I am also a bedroom liability.”)
i need for you to appreciate the fact that i used the word “phyla” correctly.
AND THEN THERE WAS RADIO SILENCE BECAUSE SHE WAS SO IMPRESSED. or is the worst mom ever. since the dawn of time. throughout human history. but i really think it’s the former.
Most of the problems I see in the world are caused by one thing – believing your own shit.
Think of the people you know of whose worlds have collapsed – Lindsay Lohan, Elvis Presley, Michael Jackson, Saddam Hussein, Richard Nixon are a few famous ones. I know of many others among my friends and acquaintances — they shall remain nameless, of course. They have, each and every one of them, believed their own shit.
Ordinary people who become elevated above the general throng — through celebrity, political success, acquisition of wealth, for example — find themselves surrounded by people whose primary objective is to reinforce their elevation.
“Ms. Lopez must have only white things in her dressing room.”
“The doctor cannot be disturbed.”
If they’re lucky, life gives them a mate or best friend early on who is not impressed by success. That mate or friend does not hesitate to call them out. If the successful one is smart enough to keep that friend close at hand and listen to them, they may avoid calamity.
“You still put your pants on one leg at a time.”
No matter how inflated the public praise becomes, you still see your plain old self in the mirror. Your public persona and your private one can stay synchronized, but they are NOT the same thing.
If they do merge, you’re going to start believing that you are larger than life, and that will be your downfall. Poor Lindsay Lohan doesn’t have a chance as long as Mama Dina is there, propping her up and telling her she’s not subject to the same rules as everyone else. Who else would go to court with “fuck you” painted on her fingernails?
Richard Nixon believed that he could do anything he wanted and penalties would not apply. Michael Jackson could indulge his fantasies with little boys and not worry about the impacts on the boys or his public image. Seldom have I seen such pain as I saw on Pat Nixon’s face when “Tricky Dick” gave his resignation speech. What impact will Michael’s children suffer when they find out about their dad?
An acquaintance of mine, head of his religious congregation, was disparaging of other faiths – his was inarguably superior. Publicly, he was a professional success, with a devoted wife and children and quite convinced of his superiority. Publicity surrounding his accidental death revealed his sexual deviance and destroyed the lives of his family. He believed himself insulated by his success and wealth against societal judgment. Problem was that his family had to pay the price.
Bottom line – don’t start believing your own hype. You may be the best criminal defense lawyer in your district or the valedictorian of your graduating class, or more. Enjoy your success; pat yourself on the back for your hard work. Just don’t start believing your own publicity. You’ll regret it. Or your family will.
 I generally disapprove of profanity (see my comments on my daughter’s blog) – it is a sign of laziness and limited vocabulary. However, this is an exception – I know no better or more succinct way of expressing this sentiment.
I think I may have spent too much time around Meredith and her hair.
This is my eighth grade school picture. Very very very sad, and I knew it at the time. The only thing missing is the cats eye glasses. Thank your lucky stars you were spared those.
If you crop my son Zack’s bar mitzvah photo and then crop this one to remove the hair, we look IDENTICAL. Even the unibrow.
This is one year later — high school freshman. Contact lenses, a good dermatologist and coming to terms with my hair. Lips swollen by allergic reaction to white lipstick. Suffering for fashion.
Sophomore year school photo. Best haircut EVER. Learned how to use tweezers and eye makeup. Gave up on the white lipstick look.
Senior prom. Serious HAIR. Peak of coiffure and couture.
Forty years later on the outside (about ten years on the inside). This too will happen to you.
Hi, Intern just coming to preface this… thing.
So Mer’s head sucked today, and she was all “I’m avoiding the world blog blog blog.” Very mopey. Her friend Kazz came over, though, and they did stuff. And she was chosen to write a guest post? I don’t know.
But then! The Book Of Jane is scheduled for Saturdays, so one of those also happened. Um. Yeah.
I’m not good at explaining things. Anyways.
The Battle of the Guest Posters!!! Yay.
In which Kazz loves the Blumoffs
Hello all you beautiful readers of the giant blogosphere! My name’s Kazz. (www.thewildkazzbeast.com) You may remember me from the insane post with photos of Meredith on lortab and my harrowing adventures with slappy the squirrel.
I’m here because Mer is lortabbed out agiain and Jane’s sewing machine is busy mocking her by altering how it’s threaded ALL BY ITSELF. No, I’m not kidding. or exaggerating. you thread it right and somehow, the thing makes it wrong. Don’t ask. I gave up trying to understand it and I can fix anything.
So I’m giving you today’s Book of Jane. And I really didn’t know what the hell to post about. usually i just post whatever comes to mind that amuses me that day… But today has NOT been very amusing. In fact… today has sucked horribly. Or… well.. it DID… until I went home.
Home is such a funny term, you know?
It’s one of those things that’s subjective… the kind that, you can live anywhere and say that home is there, but it may not actually FEEL like home. Then again, they say that home is where the heart is.. and many times.. I find that even if I’m were my heart is.. I’m still not at home. and those times, I’ll get quite homesick, and miserable.. and can tend to become weepy. (yeah.. I get weepy. and it is NOT pretty.. i leave massive snot trails on shoulders.) Home has to have just the right combination of comfortable people, smells, sounds, etc. and it has to have the right energy. you can have all of the sensory bits in place and STILL not have it just right.
So today, when everything went to hell in a handbasket, I left and went to Mer’s house, because I knew I’d feel better there (well.. and I know she has a super capacity washing machine, and my washer has been broken for the last two weeks. If i can do that much laundry in as little time as possible, i’m all for it.) So I showed up, and she was in her bed. apprently, her migraine had come back full force according to her text this morning. I brought her my Bobster motorcycle goggles. theyre soft and cushy and put pressure in JUST the right place on the temples. she was pleased to have them. I should have taken a photo because they make ANYONE look ridiculous. like the bug man from mars. Its fantastic.
I hadn’t cried about my crappy day all day because well.. one whiff of weakness and certain people will be all over you like a rapist on a nun.. just itching to bite your head off. So.. when Mer asked me what was wrong, I did what anyone would do. I burst into tears and put my head down on her arm. at which point the WHOLE SLEW OF DOGS rushed my face to lick me. At which point I moved to her boobs. My preferred spot anyhow, as anyone would know from my waxing story. So I got it out of my system. Went downstairs, got my first load of laundry in, and helped Jane in with ze groceries.
Mer came down, and we set to work making salmon croquettes. My daughter helped dry the dishes I was washing in the sink. Mer graced us with her fantastic snark, and amused us with her lortab-induced forgetfulness and occasional standing in the middle of the room, with bug eye motorcycle goggles going “now.. what was i doing?”
We chatted abotut he usual while cooking. Men, my kid, artsy shit, books, spices (I grabbed her butt when she was reaching for the garlic powder. I think everyone should have their butt grabbed once a day just to remind them they’re hot.) We shelled shrimp, switched my laundry over, and Mer had a nice laugh at me when I pulled the tangled mass of my bras and pantyhose out of the washer. She didn’t bother offering advice on it, she just took the mass of Victoria’s Secret push ups (there, I said it. I wear pushups. but they make my tits look F-A-N-T-A-S-T-I-C) from me to untangle. She tends to know when I’m on a day that I just wont have patience for those things. I pulled the hanging rack off the wall and fell over it three times before Mer asked what the hell I was doing and came in to see what the ruckus was. luckily, by the time she reached me I figured out how the damned thing worked, so I looked like everything was hunky dory. We ate in the family room around the coffee table. Autumn and I took the floor spots, which meant the dogs swung by to check out laps often for tidbits. Autumn was not a fan of the croquettes… but she did try them. After dinner, we hung out for a moment, and then I took Autumn to her best friends house to stay the night.
I came back to find Jane and Charlie hunched over the sewing machine trying to figure it out. Jane asked if I dealt with these things at all, and I informed her I haven’t really bothered touching one since I sewed three fingers together once when I was a kid with my toy sewing machine. Jane didn’t blame me. Mer was upstairs already, so I puttered about behind Jane trying to help her figure out what was wrong. In the process of trying to look at the other sewing machine to get an idea of what was supposed to happen, she managed to get it to thread itself incorrectly as well. They were conspiring against her this evening, I swear. Jane is amazing at giving advice about things. And she reminded me that I am a good mother. Period. And to stop trying to convince myself otherwise.
I took my things upstairs to set up in my little room for the night.. and started making my bed with the sheets that were there and it struck me.
This is what it’s like.
It’s calm. It’s hilarious. It can be a little bit boring…. and all of the machines in the house can conspire against you. It can be a little maddening because of the pantyhose that the washing machine thinks are delicious, or the Man of the house who cant seem to figure out how to zip the ziplocky part of the tortilla bag. It’s a chaos of dogs, and cats with ticks the size of corn pops that have to be removed, and sewing machines running amock and pittbulls and parolees on TV, and friends coming over crying about their day or talking about the crazy baptist wedding where no one could drink, dance, or have fun, but the brides father could rip the bride and groom a new one in his “toast”…
But its a place where the sounds and smells are familiar, where the people support you, even if they disagree with you, even if you tend to get a little too loud for their migraine. It’s a place where you can breathe, for once. It’s where you find unconditional love. And lump dog meat. at the foot of the bed.
The Book of Jane: Dubious Family History
I’m cheating a little bit this time. I will recount a piece of my family history, as told in two documents:
one a military report and the other an excerpt from an obscure book.
My father, Charles T. McNamee, Jr., was proud of his Southern heritage and of his family. As head of our
immediate clan, he did his best to pass on that pride. It took a slightly different form in my brother and
me – we certainly weren’t defenders of the Southern cause in the retelling of stories from the “War of
Northern Aggression”, as the American Civil War was sometimes known in our neighborhood. But I did
enjoy the stories. Here is the story of one of my forebears, one John T. McNamee, as reported by Col.
Frank A. Kendrick, Second West Tennessee Infantry, African Descent, on September 27, 1863.
I have the honor herewith to transmit the annexed report of a scouting party which was sent out by me
on the night of the 27th ultimo.
One sergeant and 10 men of the detachment of Sixth Tennessee Cavalry Volunteers, stationed here, left
the lines at about 7 p.m., with instructions to patrol the roads toward Somerville to the distance f 6 or
7 miles, and discovered nothing until they arrived at Locke’s Mill, about 4 miles out, where they met 2
boys, aged about twelve and fifteen, respectively, who were acting as guides or advance of a party of 7
guerrillas, who were about one-quarter mile behind. The sergeant immediately formed his men across
the road a little under the crest of the hill and awaited their approach. The position of our men was such
that they (guerrillas) advanced within about 60 yards, when the sergeant called halt and immediately
gave the command to fire, and 7 of the number discharged their pieces at the approaching party, who
immediately wheeled about and fled toward Somerville, our men not pursuing, but advanced to where
they were when our men fired, and found one man mortally wounded, the ball taking effect in the right
side under the lower ribs and passed through his body, coming out at the left of the spine.
At daylight on Monday morning Lieutenant Smith (acting adjutant), with 20 cavalry, went out there,
and found that a citizen living near had taken the wounded man to his house, where he died during the
night, and from papers and his memorandum, which Lieutenant Smith brought in, he was second Liet.
John T. McNamee, Thirteenth Tennessee Regiment (rebel), and had been to Somerville visiting some
friends, and was returning with 6 recruits on their way south. McNamee’s family resides at Lagrange,
and from his papers and memorandum he has traveled through the country quite recently. He was
paroled at Nashville, Tenn. In January last.
From what I can learn of the position of our men, and with the knowledge of the number who were
coming, they should have captured the entire party, but they did not bring the 2 boys in with them, but
left the wounded man lying in the road and returned directly to the camp.
I have the honor to be, sir, very respectfully, your obedient servant,
Frank A. Kendrick
Colonel Second West Tenn. Infantry, A.D., Comdg. Lt. D. T. Bowler, A.A.A.G., First Brigade, Second
Now for another version of the story. This comes from A. J. Vaughn’s book Personal Record of the
Thirteenth Infantry. I don’t have a publication date, but it is obviously a period of time later. The book
lists John T. McNamee as a member of Company G (Gain’s Invincibles). This Company was raised at
“Lt. McNamee had been wounded and captured following the Battle of Murfreesboro (Stones River).
Following his release he had been detailed by Col. Vaughn to go behind enemy lines in Fayette County
to bring out recruits. He leading a group of such recruits south on the Somerville-Moscow Road; their
destination was North Mississippi which lay below the Memphis and Charleston Railroad. The “MC”
formed the lien between Confederate and Union held territory.
Compatriot Harry McNamee Ozier, kinsman of Lt. McNamee, has recently visited the sight (sic) of
Locke’s Mill. He relates that the Mill sight can still be seen; the hill referred to above is plainly evident;
and the old roadbed can still be observed meandering north toward Somerville and South into North
Fork River bottom.
Several observations may be readily ascertained. One, the fact that the Southerners were referred
to as guerrillas infers that they were not in uniform nor were they wearing any other identifying
paraphernalia. The point being that these men must have looked just like a group of local citizens on
there (sic) way to the mill. If so, then this is another instance of cold-blooded murder which may lay
at the door of the Yankee occupation. Two, the Yankee sergeant called halt and fire at the same time,
murder! Three, they checked his body close enough to determine the extent of his wounds, but left him
in the road to die, Murder. Even Col. Kendrick admonishes his troops for there (sic) conduct, leaving one
to believe that he considered it murder.
I’ve never had a lot of sympathy for the Southern “cause”, but I understood what it felt like to be on the
losing side. Some of my earliest fights arose from taunts of “Yankee” (I was born in New York City during
my father’s brief assignment at his company’s home office – we returned to Memphis before I was a
So, um… that happened. Until next time.