My First Experience With Curling

This blog was originally written and posted on Myspace on February 17, 2006

Around 4am this morning, Donny and I were watching a rebroadcast of the Olympic games.  I never really pay attention to the Olympics unless there’s some scandal beforehand.  Like when that trailer trash girl paid someone to maim the horseface chick.  Good stuff.

Oh, and then there was the summer the Olympics were here in Atlanta and I turned into a female gymnastics groupie…but that’s for another blog.

It was during this rebroadcast that I discovered the lamest of all Olympic sports.  Curling.  As far as I can tell, it goes like this:

I’m not sure how many are on a team total, but one guy pushes this heavy ass round stone with a handle on it down an icy lane.

While it travels towards the goal (a bulls eye set of circles)…

… two other teammates kind of mop the floor in front of it with these Swiffer brooms.

This is done to keep the stone moving and increase the ridicule factor.

The objective is to get your stone as close to the middle of the circle as possible, earning points for where you land and to knock your opponents’ stones out the way….I think.

Why is this sport lame?

Where is the fucking skill in this?  A really conscientious housewife could rack up the gold medals. And not to mention all the mexican housekeepers.

I was alarmed to find out that my husband knew way too much about this “sport”.  As the Swedish pusher pushed the stone down the ice he began to yell and chant.  It was in Swedish but I’m pretty sure he was yelling, “Mop it, mop it, mop that floor you bastards!  Go, go, go!”

At least that’s what I would have been yelling.

And then the commentators felt the need to pepper their analysis  with little known facts.

“Sven is also a Rubik’s cube world champion.  He can solve one in 25 seconds.”

Me: These guys get no pussy.

Donny: Shhh!!!

Sven and his buddies manage to knock out an opposing team’s stone and land theirs almost dead center.
Donny: See, they get three points for that.  Did you know the U.S. team is the only team that makes its members try out for this?

Me: We partake of this madness?

Donny: Yup.  The other countries handpick their teams so they usually have the same members from like the 70’s!

Obviously, he doesn’t want anymore pussy either.

A House Is A House Is A House

As I type this, I am dying.

I know what you’re thinking, “We’re all dying. Get over it, bitch.”

No. I am really dying. My throat is on fire, my body aches, I have chills, and to top it all off, my hair is a hot ass mess. (One day, I will figure out how to be sick and maintain a fabulous head of hair, but today ain’t that day.)

So, this whole dying thing wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the fact that…

1. I am a Mommy and Mommies can’t get sick. Why? Because no matter how awesome Daddy is (and I think we all know that my husband is pretty fucking awesome. He’s like, 1045x more awesome than your husband, and you know it) Daddy just can’t get shit done like Mommy. Never mind that my husband does all of the cooking and cleaning, because the moment I get sick, he like, stops. I don’t get it. I really don’t. It’s like, he gets sick by association. Sympathy sick. I don’t know. All I know is I woke up this morning, went downstairs for the first time since Friday evening and realized that my whole first floor was a hot fucking mess (not to be confused with hot ass mess which is the current state of my hair. Pay attention!)

2. I have shit to do!

So, we’re moving and moving sucks. No. It really, really does. Don’t believe me? Gee, I’d count all the ways moving sucks but I seriously don’t have the time, energy, or bandwidth to adequately relay the amount of suckage moving incorporates.

And our move particularly sucks donkey balls because we are downsizing. When we moved here, we were upsizing (yes, I made that word up. I can do that. It’s my blog.) Super-sizing, if you will. We went from two bedrooms, living room, 2.5 baths, kitchen, dining room to four bedrooms, bonus room, family room, kitchen, 3 full baths, formal living room, and formal dining room.

When you’re packing for a bigger house you don’t have to be so picky and decision-making-y.

“What’s that? A closet full of clothes you never wear? Take them all! Have you seen the master closet? It’s like a mini-bedroom. It’s like, bigger than that room under the stairs the Dursleys made Harry Potter sleep in! We’re gonna have so much room. We’re gonna be like the motherfucking Clampetts!”

When you’re downsizing? Not so much. We had big plans for rooms we never went into. I could go months without going into the formal living room. There are rooms that were never fully furnished. I mean, it’s kinda hard to afford furniture for the house when you’re busy trying to, oh, I don’t know, afford the fucking house! And not just the house itself, but the cost of heating the house.

Between doing the flat bill every month, then cancelling the flat bill cause I swore we could do better than what they were charging, then falling a month behind, then having them tack on the difference for cancelling the flat bill, and a late fee and carry the two… agggh… so I called the electric company on Friday and I said, “How much do I have to pay you right now to be current?”
And she said….

Wait for it.

Wait for it.

Wait.

For.

It.

$806!

“Eight hundred and six dollars?!”

She started to give me a bill breakdown and I asked her if she could just please shut her filthy mouth. Then I went online and paid the $806 and tried not to vomit. I was comforted by the fact that in a few short weeks I’d be in a much smaller house that didn’t cost a kajillion dollars to heat/cool.

So, where was I? Oh yeah, so we’re trying to fit big house stuff into smaller house and it’s a pain in the ass. I have found that I am not only emotionally attached to the house, but I’m tethered to the stuff in the house and even moreso when I realize that the stuff isn’t going to make the five minute trip up the road to the new subdivision.

“But I love that futon!” I wailed after Donny explained we’d have to trash the futon we purchased back when we got our very first one bedroom apartment together. (See. When you upsize, EVERYTHING goes with you!)

“Nina. You don’t even use the futon.”

He was right, of course. It resides in our bonus room (the kid’s playroom), and I probably sit my ass on it once a week and that’s only when I go in there to extend the programs on the TiVo.

Other items not making the trip? A twin bed, a dresser, one of our dining tables, and my elliptical.

Wait. What?

Donny claims we won’t have room for it. I’m not a big fan of exercise equipment in the bedroom. I think it looks tacky and it inevitably ends up being a very expensive hamper. First, it was in the family room because that’s where the Wii is and I figured I could do Wii Fit, then the elliptical. Then we moved it to the formal living room because I thought it made the family room cluttered and we’d recently redecorated/painted. But there isn’t a TV in the formal living room and I can’t work out without a TV, right? So, I made my husband lug the monstrosity up to the bonus room, and I can’t quite remember what my excuse was for not using it up there.

Oh, yeah. I’m lazy.

And let’s not even talk about the nursery. Seriously. I cannot bring myself to pack it up. Longtime readers will remember the money and care, but more importantly money, that went into preparing that room for Jack. I mean, I gave up a pair of Louboutins for that nursery! Yes, I won a bet and hit my weight loss goal before getting pregnant and my reward was to be a $700 pair of shoes which I decided would be irresponsible (well, MORE irresponsible) considering the fact that we had a baby on the way and they can’t eat or sleep in designer shoes. No matter how fabulous they are.

And never mind the fact that Jack has not once, not one time, not even half a time, slept in that room. That’s not the point! The point is, it’s his room and I designed it and it’s special because he is special and I said so. So, dismantling the crib that he has not once, not one time, not even half a time, slept in has fallen to Donny because I am too emotional to do it.

And also, I’m lazy.

Isn’t the crib going to the new house, you ask? Well, yes. But again, you people are missing the point.

And it’s not like the new house isn’t about seven, no eight, kinds of awesome. Because it is. Beautiful hardwood floors on the entire first floor, new countertops, awesome his and her master bath sinks, and kickass toilets that normally cost approximately$456,987.33 but because the current owner works for Home Depot and waited for them to go on sale, he got them for like, $20. Right now you’re probably thinking, “Doesn’t Donny work for….” Don’t. Even. Say. It. (Donny thanks you.)

Anyway, it’s a downgrade in size, but an upgrade in so many regards, especially financial and I’m trying to be grateful. Actually, I am grateful. And excited.

It would just be great if I didn’t feel like death warmed over right now.

Happy Monday! How’s yours going?

Elephant Words

I was recently asked if I’d like to be a contributor to a website, Elephant Words. Each Sunday a writer will post a photo on the site. Then, every day one of the contributing writers posts a piece based on the photo.

I live for this kind of stuff. I’m always looking to be inspired and will jump at any opportunity to write on a regular basis.

I’d really appreciate it if you’d take a moment to check out the site.

You can view the writing schedule here. There’s also a link to this week’s photo – to the right of the schedule under Current Image. Just click the date (January 31st.)

It would be great if you guys could pop over and support my fiction there. I’ll still be posting here, of course. And not just me! Check out the other writers as well. Some of you who are my friends on Facebook may recognize two of them: George London and Simon Smithson.

I’ve decided not to read the other entries each week until after I’ve posted mine. I’d love to see some of you there interacting.

Thanks,

N.

Question of the Week: Why Can’t The Haitians Help Themselves?

So, I’ve been seeing the following message floating around Facebook statuses:

Shame on you America: the only country where we have homeless without shelter, children going to bed without eating, elderly going without needed meds, and mentally ill without treatment – yet we have a benefit for the people of Haiti on 12 TV stations. 99% of people won’t have the guts to copy and repost this.

So, my question of the week is, “What the fuck?”

At least that was my first reaction. Then, after sleeping on it, I wondered if a handful of people on Facebook feel this way, how many others do as well?

Personally, I think there’s a huge difference between a country that can (and has) help itself, but because of indifference, bureaucracy, and plain ole human nature, doesn’t always live up to its promise and potential and a country banding together to help an already impoverished country struck by a national disaster.

If you feel like more should be done at home, do it. You can’t blast the rest of the country for having compassion for a devastated country if you’re not writing elected officials to voice your concerns about health care reform or donating clothing and food to the homeless.

I understand the frustration behind the post. Our country has a ton of its own problems, but I think the comparison is way off base.

What do you think?

Question of the Week: 1/21/2010

Why is bacon so awesome?

Follow up questions because SOMEBODY (SOPHIE!) just informed me that this isn’t a real question.

How do you prepare your bacon?

What do you put bacon on?

Have you ever had bacon and chocolate?

Don’t You Hate It When…

… you’re driving through a parking lot, looking for an empty space, and you see someone walking to their car. So, you follow them and follow them and follow them. And then, suddenly, they turn into another aisle because they’re stupid and didn’t remember where they parked.

So now you have to haul ass over to the next aisle, and hope that no one else targets your confused walker. Don’t you hate that?

You make it to the next aisle and the person is getting into their car, and sure enough, there’s another person waiting for the spot with their blinker on.

NO! I saw him first! I followed that moron for MILES!

***

… Again, you’re driving through a parking lot, looking for a spot, when you spot one up ahead. You prepare to swing into the spot only to find it’s occupied by a tiny Mazda Miata. Don’t you hate that? Fuck you, Miata.

Who drives Miatas anyway?!

***

… You rip into a package of food only to realize that it had an easy resealable ziploc? And now you’ve ruined it with a big gapping hole?

***

… You’re driving along minding your business when suddenly you feel the sharp jab of a 10year-old’s knuckles in your spine?

“Punch car buggy no punchbacks, red!”

“Ow! Where?”

“Right there at the light.”

A few minutes later…

*POW*

“Punch car buggy no punchbacks, blue!”

“Where?!”

“You missed it. He turned the corner.”

“I think you’re making shit up.”

“I’m not. You just missed it.”

A few minutes later…

*POW*

“Punch car buggy no punchbacks, Geek Squad!”

“Damnit, Kali! That doesn’t count!”

“Yes it does. It’s a bug.”

***

… You’re on the bowl and discover there’s no toilet tissue… and you’re home alone?

OK. Hit me with some of your own “don’t you hate it when…”

Nina’s Book Club: February Selections

I’m going to be reading Almost Moon by Alice Sebold and I’d love it if you guys would join me. I figure announcing it now will give people time to obtain it and since I’m moving at the end of February, I won’t be writing about it till March 1st.

Also, Kali and I have decided on The Name of This Is Secret by Pseudonymous Bosch. You guys are welcome to read/discuss along with us.

Also, while I’m at it, I’ll go ahead and announce the books for March and April.

March - Holler at the Moon by Tinesha Davis

April – Hold Love Strong by Matthew Aaron Goodman

Tinesha is a friend of a friend, well, a friend really, who wrote an amazing book about three sisters who turns out very differently after their mother is murdered.

And my mother-in-law gave me a signed copy of Hold Love Strong for Christmas. The author is the son of one of her clients. I started reading it and had to stop because I knew most of you would dig it and I thought it would be more fun to read it together.

Now that you know in advance and you can plan on when to get the books and read at your leisure. I’m not gonna read them until the start of each month assigned so that the content is fresh. If you’re gonna participate, as you read, think of questions to submit for discussion.

Thanks and happy reading!!

Coming Up on Blog It Out, Bitch

I haven’t forgotten you. It’s just that a funny thing happens when you graduate: you kinda have to find a job. Also, a funny thing happens when you have kids: they kinda have to be fed.

Starting next week, I’m back on a regular blogging/writing schedule. What do you have to look forward to? Glad you asked.

Mommy Monday: You Can’t Make Me! – What are the consequences of forcing our kids to participate in activities FOR us?

Blog It Out, Baby: Breastfeeding at 48 Months (Yes, that’s 4!)

Nina’s Top Ten “Don’t You Hate It When…”

Weekly TV recaps of: 24 and Lost and POSSIBLY American Idol (only because Ellen has joined the show.)

Book Club: You can vote now between:

- Holler at the Moon by Tinesha Davis

- Almost Moon by Alice Sebold

- Hold Love Strong by Matthew Aaron Goodman

I eventually want to read/discuss all three, we’re just voting to see which one goes first.

“What about Fluke?!”

I know, I know. I read it, it was great. Not my favorite Christopher Moore book (A Dirty Job holds that title), but it was pretty funny. My favorite part was his explanation as to why his ex-wife was a lesbian – she, her female co-worker, and their boat were mistaken for a whale vagina by two dueling whales penises and subsequently drenched in whale jizz. I kid you not.

Fiction: How Jenna Found Out I Loved Her – a coming of age story with a twist.

And the return of Ask Me Anything plus, I’ll take blog requests.

Hope you’ll stick around. And tell your friends.

Nigger Sticker

Wanna know the funny thing? The funny thing is that I didn’t even want to go to Walmart. We haven’t shopped there for groceries in months – not since I found a local supermarket that not only sells the same stuff cheaper, but does so without attracting the kind of people that make me itch.

But I need to replace the power cord for my laptop and the supermarket doesn’t sell power cords. It was New Years Eve and we didn’t want to make two stops. It seems easier to get the power cord and groceries necessary for the weekend shut-in we have planned from one place.

So, there I am in line with this sense of foreboding. Like, I shouldn’t even be there. But, there I was watching as the cashier scanned snacks, beverages, and groceries to get us through the next five days because Donny was on vacation and we have no plans to leave the house before then. We usually did the self checkout, but Jack started getting fussy in the cart and Donny decided to carry him. He wouldn’t be able to help (pass while I scan and bag or vice versa) so it seemed faster to use a cashier.

The cashier was friendly; an older white lady who agreed with me that spending New Years Eve at home was the best. She tried scanning the $1.00 package of Twizzlers I’d pick up as a check-out impulse buy, but the barcode wouldn’t read. She asked if Kali minded grabbing another, but the big tall black man behind Kali reached for one instead. I thanked him and felt bad that we were holding up the line so when the second package wouldn’t scan either, I told the cashier to forget it.

“Probably God’s way of telling me I don’t need to be eating it…. or that maybe I should buy it at Blockbuster when we go to rent movies later.”

We all laugh – me, Donny, Kali, the white cashier and the big black guy. I’m taking my debit card back from the cashier when I realize that a man in the next checkout lane has been looking at me. He looks away with a smirk on his face, looking in Donny’s direction and then away. The cashier is still making small talk, but now my attention is really on this guy. He was heavy and wearing tight jeans and a trucker cap. He was with his equally-heavy wife and he wore a gun on his hip. He gave off a bad vibe.

As I’m sticking my card back in my wallet, I wonder if he’d been checking that out. A lot of people stare at it because I have a small replica of my father’s gold shield from the New York City Police Department. I’ve had people actually ask if I’m a cop when they see it because the engraving on the leather wallet, “Detective’s Daughter,” is too small for them to see.

We put our bags in the cart and headed for the car. As we approached it, I noticed creepy gun guy and his wife are loading their groceries in a big red pickup parked right next to us. When he sees us, he starts singing something. I can’t make out what he’s saying, but I just knew it wasn’t anything good. I stop at the back of the car with the cart and Kali is standing next to me. Donny heads to the passenger side backseat and waits for me to unlock the car so he can strap Jack in his carseat. I’m having a hard time finding the keys in my purse and I realize that this guy has me frazzled.

After searching for a bit, I said, “I bet they’re in my jeans.” I reached down to pat the front of my pants and sure enough, I felt the keys in my pocket. I never put the keys in my pocket so I laugh and Donny just kinda shakes his head. I hit the button to open the door just as creepy guy’s wife returns from taking their empty cart to the corral a few feet away. He has started his truck and revved the engine loudly. Kali jumps and then giggles.

“That scared me.”

“I think that was the point,” I said. I instinctively move her closer to me and our car as the pickup backs out of the parking spot. I also begin to move our cart out of the way so I can lift the trunk door without hitting it. Jack, and Donny’s top half, are in the car.

As the truck passes me, the creepy guy kinda leans out the window and says, “That’s a nice nigger sticker you got there.”

You know how a million things seem to happen at once, and when you relay them later to others, it seems impossible that they all occurred within a fraction of a second?

My first feeling was that I was not surprised. I have never been called a nigger to my face. And though, to be fair, he wasn’t calling me a nigger, I think we all know that if he considered Obama (whose mother is white) a nigger, he damn sure considered my ass a full-fledged nigger. But despite having gone 35 years without having a white person call me a nigger, in person, to my face, I was not surprised for my first thought was, “Of course it would be this guy to say something like that.”

Then, in the next fraction of a second, I glanced at the bumper sticker on the back of my car. I knew what he was referring to, of course, immediately. The only other sticker on the back of my car is the parking sticker for my college’s campus. And, to my knowledge, my school has never been called, “The Nigger College.” He was talking about the Obama ‘08 bumper sticker.

Then, as I looked back at his car, which was now pulling off, I made eye contact with him in the driver’s side mirror. And he was smirking. And then I got pissed.  And despite the fact that I was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to hear me, I wanted to yell, “Fuck you, you big fat redneck.” I also wanted to creatively tell him (you know, in a way that Kali wouldn’t understand) that I was sure he couldn’t see his tiny dick under all that belly fat, but words failed me.

I didn’t say anything. I just met his smirk with a squinty-eyed “are you really that ignorant” look of my own and then turned to Kali. She had that kind of dazed smile of disbelief on her face. You know, that inappropriate laugh or smile you get in a bad situation that you didn’t see coming.

“Get in the car.”

Donny pulls his head from the back seat, Jack is now strapped in, and I ask, “Did you hear what he just said to me?”

“No. What? Who?”

I repeat it and point towards the red pickup which is now stopped a stop sign, but too far away to see the license plate or even throw up a middle finger.

“Are you serious?”

“Very.”

My hands shake as I start to put the bags in the trunk.

“I wish I would have heard him”

Kali is turned around watching us. She knows what has just happened and I find myself praying this doesn’t shape her. That this doesn’t stick with her. That this won’t be some story she tells her friends in college ten years from now.

“One time, this white man called president Obama a nigger right in front of me.”

Every black person I know that has been called a nigger, can tell you every detail of that moment, that day. I did not want this incident to be a moment for Kali. And because he potentially made it one, I suddenly wished creepy guy and his wife would run head-on into a moving bus. A bus carrying barrels of gasoline. And sharks.

As I drove home, I knew that I shouldn’t let it spoil the evening we had planned – eating, drinking, and playing lots of Halo 3. I knew that was what he wanted. He wanted to hurt me and make me angry and I was angry with myself because he did. We pulled into our subdivision and I thought, we live in a nice home, but it doesn’t matter, he thinks I’m a nigger.

Donny went back out to rent the movies and pick up pizza. I sat there holding Jack, who was now sleeping, and thought, “How could someone say something like that in front of my children?” I know that the world is full of people who don’t give a fuck about children. There are people that kidnap, rape, and murder children. I know this. But for some reason, it really bothered me that this man couldn’t keep his hate and ignorance to himself in the presence of my children.

But why should he? To him, my kids are niggers.

It’s been four days and I’ve thought about it every day since, several times a day. This was unlike hearing the little boys we play Halo against toss around nigger. That doesn’t even make me angry. Those are young punks who think the worst two things in the world are to be black or gay. And if you really piss them off, you’re a “nigger fag.” They call people nigger and fag as easily as you and I might call people that annoy us “idiot” or “asshole.” They call everyone who plays better than them nigger. This was different. This was pointed and personal.

As much as I love my husband and even some of you that are white and reading this, I’d be lying if I said this incident hasn’t made me feel some type of way. I find myself wondering now if every white person I’ll encounter in this area thinks I’m a nigger. It has made me not want to be around white people. I’m applying to jobs, and I wonder what will they think if they’re white. Will they not hire me because they think I’m a nigger? We’re thinking of moving to a smaller place. Do I have to worry that people won’t want us living near them because they think I’m a nigger, my kids are niggers, and my husband is a nigger lover?

I think I’m gonna take my friend’s Mary’s advice and pray on it.

Why I’m Sure I’ll Be Published

I just finished James Patterson’s latest, I, Alex Cross, and I have to say: if someone published that steaming pile of crap, I will one day be published as well.

I’m a get-it-all-out-and-make-it-pretty-later kind of writer. I believe in getting the story out first because it’s the most important thing. Tell the story, and then worry about telling the story better; fix your sentences, choose better words, edit, edit, edit.

As I read I, Alex Cross, I felt like I was reading the get-it-all-out-version that had been accidentally published. What’s with these simple sentences and chapters where absolutely nothing happens, I wondered.

And it wasn’t just the writing. The plot was awful!

The Alex Cross books follow an African-American FBI agent/hostage negotiator/D.C. cop on his attempts to solve some of the country’s most dangerous cases. He lives with his three kids and grandmother. Movies were made based on two of the Cross books – Kiss the Girls and Along Came a Spider. Both starred Morgan Freeman as Cross.

I’ve read all of the books and was very excited when I read the teaser for the latest: A beloved member of the Cross family is murdered.

What?!

I couldn’t believe it. Cross had been the target of serial killers before. Could it be that the latest monster would kill his grandmother or one of his children? Um, no. SPOILER ALERT: the murdered Cross is an adult niece we’ve never even heard of before this book. And if she has been mentioned before, I didn’t remember her so, who the hell cares?I mean, it wasn’t even the niece kidnapped in Kiss the Girls.

Are you serious, Patterson?

But I kept reading. Why? Because I have committment issues and I was curious to see who the serial killer, Zeus, turned out to be. There were hints that the killer had ties to The White House and the book also featured a sex house where the country’s most powerful people went to live out all of their kinkiest desires.

In theory, the story should have been awesome. Instead, it was senseless, boring, and at times, redundant. And don’t even get me started on the ending! SPOILER ALERT: Three pages after we find out who Zeus is, he is shot in the head without having to answer for his crimes or disclose a motive.

Also, how many times will Patterson tease us with his ailing grandmother coming thisclose to dying only to have her miraculously recover at the end? I mean, I’m not saying she’s old, but rumor has it that when Jesus returns, he owes her twenty bucks.

The book did end on a high note: Cross’ archnemesis, Kyle Craig, is back.

Do you read Patterson’s books? What do you make of his writing style and short-short chapters?

***

It’s usually not like me to trash authors. I admire anyone that can get off their ass (or sit on it really) and write a book. I admire anyone that can find the time because I know how hard it is.

This is why I’m super excited to submit an application to attend The Hambidge Center – an artist retreat in the Georgia mountains. One of my journalism professors suggested it to me. She has gone twice and written several chapters of her now published books there.

You have to apply to attend on scholarship for a stay that can last from two to eight weeks. You’ll spend your time there in your own cottage with all the tools and time you need to create. No internet, no TV, no outside distractions like kids, bills, and video games.

HEAVEN!

Check out the studios here.

Cool, huh? Also, creepy, right? It’s like a Stephen King novel waiting to happen, but I still want to go. Donny and I talked about it last night and I’m gonna apply to attend late next year so that he can take a week’s vacation to be home with the kids while I’m gone. I’m going to ask my journalism teacher for a letter of reference, but I still need to ask one other person. Then there’s the task of coming up with writing samples to submit.

Eek! I’m excited and inspired!

How are you?

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