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

well then.

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.

Home.

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.

Sir:

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
Division.

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
Lagrange, Tenn.

“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.

FORGET…HELL!

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
year old).

—

So, um… that happened. Until next time.

I bought killer boots yesterday. I know, this isn’t news, as you all devote hours of your time to my tweets and check back religiously at night to see if I’ve posted yet. I apologize for the repetition.

But the boots, they’re hottt. Despite my impressive vocabulary, there’s really not a better word for them. I mean, “fun,” “attractive,” “sweeeeet,” “gorgeous,” “funky,” “spectacular” and “sick find, dude!” are pretty good, but they don’t really capture the badassery of the boots the way “hottt” does.

I mean, c’mon. The extra Ts totally evoke that Harley-riding-yet-sexy-perfume-smelling, short-skirt-wearing, perfect-tousled-hair-coiffed, lightly-tanned-skin-with-bright-white-teeth-having badass chick. Obviously.

Of course, the fact that they’re vintage and that I got them for an embarrassingly low number of cash monies make them all the better. We’re just ignoring the fact that the stretchy-calf parts having dying elastic and that they’re horrendously filthy on the inside. Those are minor details.

Moving right along.

My latest footwear acquisition, however, boasts even more than hotttness, cheapness and retro cred:

“These boots were made for crushing your enemies, seeing them driven before you and hearing the lamentations of their bad grammar. And not for walking.” – Dr. Sally (and Conan the Barbarian), September 21, 2010

It should surprise no one that Dr. Sally is, again, right.

Indeed, these boots were made for peering out over the sun-beaten savanna and hunting African game.

These here boots were made for going 2.7 seconds on a bull named Fu Man Chu.

These triumphant boots were made to scale the majestic peaks of the Himalayas, to stand tall and proud at the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro.

Said boots were made for altered states of consciousness with early ‘90s rockstars before and until their untimely deaths by overdose.

The boots in question were made for the wrangling of unexpected reptiles or defending one’s self against the canine undead.

In truth, these boots were made for the utmost glamour, painting the town red, as they did with veritable Hollywood royalty.

These boots were made for heroic acts, standing up, marching, in the face of adversity.

But in truth, in sum, in full: These boots were made for blogging.

all the props & kudos i can muster go to Peachy for her amazing late-night save with the photo editing. love you! go visit her, y’all!

Now, then. Let’s try this once more.

Today Yesterday, my loves, magic happened. The ULTA fairy arrived on wings dusted in the latest fall colors, full of shimmer, shine and fruity lip gloss.

We all know how I feel about lip gloss.

Despite my whiny, sick afternoon, I knew I wasn’t too seriously ill, as my desire to open the package immediately was stronger than the desire to curl back up into a feverish ball in bed.

Magically (read: by way of purchasing online & waiting for delivery), in that beautiful box were two fabulously new hair tools, both of which, oddly enough, look like scary sex toys.

And now, this is where my story BEGINS!

Though I was unable to host another twitter fashion show and was veritably forced to engage in battle in this latest skirmish in the from-time-immemorial war waged by, in and around my hair, I have prevailed, friendos. I have prevailed.

Asshole Camera, we all remember (because we read this post, riiiiight?), the sweet, young thing, HELD MY PHOTOS HOSTAGE LAST NIGHT, after I spent 2+ hours sacrificing for you (read: playing with new beauty tools), my dear, lovely readers.

Lest your memories go the way of mine, I will remind you: yesterday I was sick, it was a holiday, I burned my damn finger and fought with the camera. ALL. FOR. YOU.

What? It’s the new year. Gotta get my Jewish guilt in there, covering all bases.

Ok, so, anyway. We’ll just segue right here back to the original story about which I’ve now forgotten each detail and idea I had and pretend I did that smoothly.

The facts of this case:

1.   I have very long, very pretty hair. (In fact, about 6+ inches longer than this photo now.)

2.   This summer, I have come to fully embrace my girliness, in ways I never could’ve expected. Though receiving a treasure trove of lip gloss may have aided in said acceptance.

3.    My hairdryer has begun to smell like it wishes to burn down the entire house, or at least my luscious locks, at any given moment, killing us all in our sleep.

4.    I had a coupon.

And so, through the magical powers of online commerce, I have acquired two new tools:

The best part, of course, of the acquisition process is reading consumer product reviews and judging the stupidity of my fellow beautifiers harshly.

Shut up. You know you do it, too.

With each of the two titivating tools, the negative reviews all centered on the users’ inability to correctly operate the machinery. This, of course, provided wonderful fodder for pointing and laughing. Obviously you don’t like this product if you can’t even use it.

UNTIL IT HAPPENED TO ME.

Before I smashed the tool to pieces, it dawned on me that if you pressed this little button to release the attachment, you probably pressed it to put it back together. OH RIGHT.

Things went swimmingly from there, by which I mean I then finally began the process of doing my hair.

This process? Takes approximately 12 years each time I attempt it with ler hair, as it comes dangerously close to ler ass.

AND FINALLY (thank you for your patience) we reach the actual engagement of the tools, wherein I show you a few pictures, make a few snarky comments and we all go about our evening. Aaaaaaand GO:

After a good 45 minutes or so of brushing hair, with hot air — SO BRILLIANT — it is dry. Approximately the same time it takes to dry my hair with a hair dryer, but less arm strain. (Less arm strain? Wtf, it’s blowdrying hair.)

At this point, I stop phoning in this post and start paying attention once again. My favorite part of the evening comes now. The anticipation of the curls.

See, my hair’s heritage is Latvian/Lithuanian on the one side and Scots Irish on the other. Straight red brown hair, mixed with curly black brown. Overall, this simply means it’s stubborn, streaked with red when it feels like it, curly around my face and neck, and wavy or straight wherever it wants to be. And heavy. VERY FUCKING HEAVY.

My aunts, my father, my sister, they have beautiful curly hair. I have lived in the shadow of the curl for so long. And damn it, I’m tired of living in that shadow. I will stand on my own two feet with curly hair before you all!

Ahem.

I discovered around 24 or 25 that with enough product and that magical machine, the diffuser, I could have curly-ish hair.

Curly-ish is much closer to curly than wavy is. You’re welcome.

And then I discovered the curling iron.

Do not ask why I had not employed these tools in the past. I have no answers for you and the impertinence of the question may well bring you pain.

Anyway. Though the trusty iron brought me, indeed, even closer to ‘curly,’ the effort involved grew with the length of my hair. And fuck it, that shit’s long, k?

Which brings us back to this glorious day, the day of the new, conical, no-clip curling iron. Which, I must admit, was maybe one of the more difficult creatures I’ve ever used ever. Fucker is a pain in the ass. Which is why there are few photos of the process.

BUT. It is now time for the final evidence in this trial: the success of the curls.

Once more, with enthusiasm!

As you can all see, ladies & gentlemen of the jury, the verdict is clear: the hair is curly.

HOWEVER! I must caution you all! Take not this evidence and this decree as rule of law. Herein lies just one more determination:

I need a fucking haircut.