The Hunger Games

Recently, the cast of "The Hunger Games" has been spotted at some quality Charlotte and Asheville businesses.

Even the stars know Cabo Fish Taco and The Southern Kitchen and Bar are among the best in the area. I'm betting Woody Harrelson fits right in in NoDa and Asheville.

Keep your clothes on. I got all I can take.

This right here is giving me a bad case of the sads.

It's my free Priority Access ticket I somehow won from Samsung Summer Krush Concert Series. Which I can not attend. No amount of finagling in the week or so that I was given to do the finagling was going to make it happen. 

I can't give them to other people to use. The tickets came with strict instructions they can only be used by a guest and myself. Though if I did share, I'd probably explode with jealousy right around 8 pm tonight. Smoldering pieces of me would be splattered on the walls and the rug. 

Probably best that I can't gift them. No one cleans around here butcept me. 

I've been defeated by time, space and babysitters with other plans. I'm not, unfortunately, a breathing  time machine.

This is why you should 'Save' before you 'Submit'

Sometime over the summer, I saw a tweet about casting for a food show in Savannah. I filled out the application which, if I’m remembering correctly, asked questions like “Why do you love the South?” and “Why do you love food?” and “Do you cook?”  I submitted the form and promptly forgot about it.

Last week, I got an email saying I got a Call Back, and that my presence is requested in Savannah for an In Real Life interview.

Savannah. Paula Deen lives here. Jude Law played a big old redneck here.

My first thought was, “WHEEEEEE! I’MON BE ON TEEVEEEEEE!” My second thought was, “Eff Bomb. I’ve got to drop thirty pounds in ten days. Can I do that?” Answer: No. I can, however, gain a few and start breaking out like a fourteen year old, because hormones? Yes, they are complete jerks. Commence the slathering of Tazorac on offending chin zits.

No one wants to watch a skinny chick talk about food, anyway, right? Just like no one believed Monica was a chef on "Friends".

“Eff Bomb Two. What exactly did I say to these people that makes them think I deserve a Call Back?” follows shortly thereafter. Because of course I didn’t save anything I wrote on the application. I just pushed ‘Submit’ and went back to scheming trips. 

Today I’m getting my hair cut and was planning to get my Goonie Goo Goo face waxed for my “WHEEEEEE! I’MON BE ON TEEVEEEEEE!” interview, but remember those zits and the Tazorac? Turns out waxing will peel your face off if you use the stuff within a week of waxing. So, I’ll be tweezing for the next few days. Please don’t interrupt. 

Gus, Gus. Can I ask you a question?

P.S. Special thanks to my friends Heather and Holly for their insight on food and television. It was invaluable. 

Foiling the foiler, and other stories of The ATL

Last weekend, John and I headed down to the ATL for a surprise 40th birthday party for our friend, Man. I so love surprising people. Especially when they are way hard to surprise like Man is. He looked a little scared when eight of his friends walked in to the bar singing "Happy Birthday", and Shelley B. was elated, because she foiled the foiler.

Mission accomplished.

Following said surprise, we drank at Whiskey Blue. Then we took a three block cab ride to MF Buckhead. It was MF good. We walked home to the W Buckhead instead of taking a cab. Because we are MF smart like that.

Whiskey Blue induced permagrin.

After lunch at The Vortex in Little Five Points the next day, we regrouped and hopped onto MARTA to head down to the Braves game. I was impressed, because the Buckhead station didn't smell like pee at all. I was disappointed not to see any rats, though. There were only empty Red Bull cans and Aquafina bottles down in the tracks. I prefer my public transit with a little less upwardly mobile and little more  live vermin. It makes the whole experience seem a little more authentic.

Entrance to The Vortex. Be careful. They bite.

Next blog post: How I got to be best friends with Fred Schneider. For realsies.

In which Pixar and Williams-Sonoma are on my bad list

I'm also always looking for ways to try and get FOO to try new foods. Since his sophisticated palate has only had eyes for pretzels for the past month, I felt that pancakes would be an improvement. I spied with my little eye some "Cars 2" pancake molds at Williams-Sonoma last week, and well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. I even bought some overpriced and not too tasty Chocolate Chip pancake mix to put in them, because I'm a sucker like that. 

Siren song packaging. It made me believe I could get my kid to eat. Sucker.

First up, Lightning McQueen. I may or may not have put way more batter in than the directions said.

Ka-Chow!

Lightning McQueen post-pancake apocalypse. This is why he didn't have much screen time in "Cars 2".

Finn McMissle. You'd think being a spy, he would be stealthy enough to tell me that I also put his mold in in upside-down. But, no. His fate was similar to Mr. McQueen's. That's what he gets for being all uppity with that accent and silly moustache. 

Mater. Good old Mater. You won't fail me, will you?

Got the mold right side up. Did I ever tell you I have a Master's degree?

Don't pretend it doesn't look like Mater. It totally does. I have mad pancake making skillz. 

FOO, of course, refused to eat them, but I couldn't blame him much. The batter wasn't good. I guess I should have just shelled out the money for more plastic cars. Oh, and in case you are wondering, that PAM I used to grease the molds and the pan was organic. Did I mention I'm a sucker?

Cute and nice interior decorating

"Mommy. can I go color on my playroom?"

"Yes."

A few minutes go by.

"Mommy, come look at my playroom!"

"OH! Is that what you meant when you said color 'on' your playroom?"

"Yes. I like it. It looks cute and nice."

Clearly, I need to work on my understanding of prepositions, because FOO obviously mastered them when I wasn't looking.

NATURE BOY!

My first foray into paid restaurant reviews

Since my first time with Rick Steves when I was in college (reading his books, you pervs), I have been in love with travel guides. I will sit down with any travel guide and read it cover to cover. Restaurant reviews make dash for it when they hear I'm coming, because I gobble them up. Nommy nommy nommy. Ha. I'm hilarious with the puns. I know.

Here is my first review for Examiner.com. I'm hoping that this will be a stepping stone for me to eventually become a full-time travel/lifestyle writer. I'm certainly nervous, because I've only ever been paid to write website content, which is excellent, though not super entertaining. I'm also at a crossroads about what I want to do with myself, and would surely like to earn some extra dolla bills y'all in the process. If you don't mind hooking a sister up and clicking on the reviews and checking back for future TPO opinions, I would massively, hugely, ginormously appreciate it.

Brilliant

Guinness Makes You Strong

I've been to Ireland exactly once. When I was studying in England my Junior year of college, a long weekend trip to Dublin was a requirement. Being a student with limited funds, I set off the least expensive way I could determine, which was via train and ferry. Since everything is so close together in Europe, it wouldn't be a big deal. Just a few hours there and back. It took 14 hours. Each way. Looking back, I now realize I could have flown from North Carolina to Dublin and back in 14 hours, but if I had done that, I wouldn't have ridden a train through gloriously green Wales and taken a ferry across the Irish Channel. Hey, did you know the Irish Channel is notoriously choppy? Yeah, the people who puked the whole ride do.

Upon arrival, I noted there are palm trees all over Dublin. Who knew? Fourteen years later, I'm still baffled by this. Never thought of anywhere in Ireland as a tropical coastal town, but that Gulf Stream is a sneaky little character.

 I fulfilled the typical tourist requirement of visiting the Guinness Brewery. That place straight up accosted my olfactory nerves. Seriously, someone open a window. The mash is astanky. In my opinion, Guinness tastes like used coffee grounds, so it isn't all that surprising that the brewery has such an offensive odor. Following the riveting tour of wax figures demonstrating how Guinness has been produced through the years, everyone is given the option of a pint of Guinness or a Pepsi. You can guess what I chose.

You know how people always talk about how children in Europe drink alcohol at young ages, and no one thinks a thing about it? It seems to be true, as there was a field trip group of middle school aged children there at the same time I was. It appeared that the students had disabilities as they were using wheelchairs. They were also covertly drinking the free Guinness at the end of the tour, and it must have effected them quickly, because shortly after their consumption, I watched them have drunk driving accidents with each other and the displays in the gift shop. Hilarious and wrong.

Later, my friends and I came upon a pub from which Garth Brooks covers were emanating. So of course we went in, found a pint and a seat, and joined the natives in the belting out of the American country songs. They were loving some Garth, and I was reminded that most country music is based on the music that immigrated to the United States along with the Scotch-Irish people who first settled in Appalachia and the southeastern states. It also explains the love of fist fights that many of their redneck/hillbilly descendants have, because I recall witnessing tons of drunken bar brawls while in England, Scotland and Ireland. It's true. I did a TPO sociological study on it. Somehow at this Garth Brooks loving bar,  I ended up talking with a Guinness infused Spaniard who was in Dublin working on a fishing boat. I think. His accent got thicker and thicker as the evening went on, and he became more and more irritated with my nationality. Sneering "American. Beel Cleentone." over and over at me did not bode well for either of us, because at the time, I was a proud, unwavering Republican. As I tried to school him on the Democratic process and explain that not everyone voted for Beel Cleentone, and that his ire should not be directed at me personally, I got scared. He was drunk and angry with something much larger than me, and I ended up leaving as he went into a tirade in Spanish. So maybe he is descended from the drunk Spanish rednecks. Not sure what the term is for that, but this gringa wasn't going to stay and find out.

I still love that trip and the memories. Even though I still don't like Guinness, I love the Guinness advertisements that are pervasive in Dublin. Some of my favorites are shown throughout this post.

Happy St. Paddy's Day!

jen + chris

They are so sweet. And kind. And beautiful. And talented. And creative. And fashionable. If they weren't so genuinely sweet, I would completely hate them. But I can't. Because they are some of the best people I have ever met. Be jealous that they aren't your friends.

Thank you, Jen and Chris, for sweetly capturing the details of a few hours in the life of the O family, monkey faces and all. As I said, you are the only two people I know who can make a loading dock into art. 

Spring 2011 Photo Shoot

Try to understand that I'm trying to make a move just to stay in the game

This was posted originally on February 25, 2008. Though I haven't heard anything of my friend since December 2008, I'm still thinking of him, and hoping for the best-that he is hanging out on the beach somewhere in Cali, and charming everyone he meets with his wit and kindness.

Since Everybody's Changing, and I Don't Feel the Same

Three years ago today, I signed papers requesting an involuntary commitment to a mental health treatment facility for one of my dearest friends.  He had been acting in such an erratic manner for the three or so weeks prior, that none of his friends understood where he was coming from, or what was going on with him.  There were no parents to call:  his mom died from cancer when he was six, and his dad raised  him on his own after that, and from what I remember, they had a volatile relationship.  His dad was murdered in their home the fall of our freshman year in college by a neighbor looking for cash for drugs, and he knew that Mr. S kept cash in the house.  Ironically, Mr. S was an attorney and had defended the neighbor on drug charges as a favor to his parents a few years prior to that.  The neighbor murdered and robbed Mr. S, and stole his Lexus, and was caught shortly after that at a nearby park.  My friend was summoned from his university to come home to identify his dad's body, and from there he began the journey of fear, heartbreak, and mental illness.  His friends were his family, and no one knew exactly what to do.  Although we all had varying opinions on what should be done, we were united in that we were terrified that it would not end well. 

When did his illness begin?  Had it been there all along, and was he just too charming and loved for us to see it?  He was eighteen when his father died, and he had family friends with whom he cut ties when they attempted to enact their role as guardians.  They were insistent that he stop the imprudent spending of the  ridiculous amount of money he received from his dad's estate, and that he return to school to finish his degree.  He did end up going back to school-he would start each semester strong, and then would just stop going.  It wasn't that he wasn't smart enough to do the work-he is annoyingly intelligent-he justcouldn't finish.  As the years went by most of us ended up finishing our degrees and moving out into the work force.  Because of the money he had, he lived a life of haunted leisure, buying whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, picking up huge dinner bills and bar tabs for his friends and sometimes strangers.  He was innately charming, loving, humorous, and generous to a fault-no one could help but love him. 

For me, the first time I really noticed behavior that worried me more than usual was at JWO's and my wedding in October 2004.  37 of us went to Negril, Jamaica and spent days together celebrating and enjoying paradise.  He kept to himself most of the time, which was uncharacteristic of him-he usually seemed to hate being alone.  Following our return home, his behavior became more and more bizarre, and he stopped returning calls and initiating contact with his friends.  When people did see him, he could not follow conversations or differentiate reality from fantasy.  He had delusions of grandeur, and sometimes felt sure that he had mystical powers.   After days of deliberation, tears, agonizing and arguing, his best friend called me and said that he was afraid that our friend was going to leave, and our worst fears would come to fruition-that he would commit suicide or run away and we would never see him again.  A group of six of us got together that night and tried to find him since he had taken off on foot, and then we decided to go to the police station in order to sign the involuntary commitment papers.  In an even more bizarre turn of events, our friend walked into the station while I was signing the papers.  He had had another friend drop him off there because he thought his car had been stolen, and he had come to the police station to file a report.  I was not visible to him from where he was standing, but I could hear him talking to the police on duty a room away.  Surreal is not even the word for it.

As an aside, it was disturbing to me how easy it is have someone sign a request for involuntary commitment for anyone.  I basically had to put down his full name, birth date, and address, and then a listing of behaviors he had exhibited that indicated that he might be a danger to himself or others, and then my name, signature, and phone number.  That.  Is.  It.  I even asked the magistrate if he needed to see some ID, and was told no.  That should have been an indicator to me of how ineffective and supremely disorganized our mental health system is, and that our battle of meandering through the mire was just beginning, but that is a whole 'nother blog entry. 

To make an epic story a little shorter, our friend went to the hospital for a bit, was released, and bounced around for several months after that.  The money began running shorter, and we saw less and less of him.  When we did see him, he was subdued-I think he was afraid to do or say anything, because he truly did not understand why we were so worried, or what about his behavior had pushed the decision for us to have him committed.   In his eyes, we had betrayed him, and though I think that he desperately wanted to be with his friends, he was terrified that we would have him committed again.  How horrible must it have been for him to see at least 20 of his friends stand up at his hospital hearing and ask the judge not to release him?  So,  he kept his distance, and quietly got sicker and sicker.  It has been over two years since any of us have seen him, and the last anyone heard, he was somewhere in California drifting around.  He is completely out of money, and he is sick.  We miss him. 

There are a myriad of emotions I have about the situation.  There are times when I think it is tragic, and there are times when I miss him terribly.  There are times I get so angry with him and anyone else involved for allowing him to go over the edge that I want to cry.  I feel guilty that I didn't realize what was happening before it got so bad-I have Master's Degree in a psychological field-where were my observation skills, training, and instinct? It is so clear now-I can track his psychotic episode timelines in my head.    When the group of friends is all together, I always feel that someone is missing, and then I remember that it is him.  In all honesty, if he were to come back, I think I would be scared of him.  Who knows what is going through his head at this point?  Would he even remember us or what happened? 

Overall, though, I and others miss him, and wish it were different.  Please forgive me, friend, for not doing a better job.  We did the best we could-I am beyond sorry that it wasn't good enough. 

Happy Birthday tomorrow
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zx4Hjq6KwO0

My Grandma and Your Grandma, Sittin' by the Fire

So, it finally happened. I found out that a person who was once close to me and I actually referred to as my grandmother died. Two and a half weeks ago. And the funeral has already come and gone. I knew it would happen eventually, and I am simultaneously shaken and relieved by it. It has been about five years since I’ve spoken to Bea, who was actually my dad’s stepmother, but she’d been in the grandmother role for me since the early 1990s. Prior to that, we had been closeish. I was holding on to the last vestiges of family at that point that I could, and they were some of the few people in my family of origin with whom I still had any contact. It is a Bermuda Triangle of Estrangement. I don’t talk to my parents. My parents don’t talk to each other, and my parents don’t talk to their own parents.

Honestly, my grandparents got on my nerves. They pitted their grandchildren and children against each other by obviously favoring the boys over the girls while completely denying they were doing it, and by announcing they had written various family members out of their wills when any of us acted erroneously. The final straw for me was Christmas of 2005, when Granddaddy gave his annual gift of $50 in cash to my uncle to give to me. It made no sense to do that, because my uncle lives across town from me, and I rarely saw him even then, but it was typical Granddaddy logic. Oh, and I think Granddaddy paid for my male cousin’s senior year of college that year. But no favoritism.  None. When I didn’t come to collect the $50 in enough time, I received a voice mail from my deaf granddaddy screaming that he had taken the money back from my uncle, and had spent it on suits for another cousin’s one and three-year-old sons. Because they apparently had upcoming job interviews and needed to look professional.

As an aside, it wasn’t about the money for me. I didn’t need the stupid 50 bucks. I usually spent more than 50 bucks on the nice bottle of booze I bought them every Christmas. It was the principle of the thing.

A few days later, I called Granddady’s house and spoke to Bea. Since deaf denial was rampant over there and Granddaddy couldn’t hear me on the phone, and he refused to utilize any of the phone services for people who are Hard of Hearing, I had to talk with Bea when I called their house. When I spoke to her, I mentioned that I felt like I was being mistreated when I got the message about my Christmas money being spent on my cousin’s kids. She got agitated and gave me the classic “sucks for you” apology that isn’t really an apology: “I’m sorry you feel that way.” And she hung up on me. I never called back. I had also been calling to tell them that I was pregnant with FOO, but I didn’t get the chance to tell her before she disconnected.

I have heard from family friends over the years that my grandparents were confused as to why I never called or came over any more. I really think it never occurred to them that you can’t continuously treat people like shit and expect them to keep coming back. But in their hearts, they must have known, or been unhappy with me, because my phone never rang from their number again.  Or they were that old and toeing the edge of senility that they didn’t remember it. I don’t really know that it matters. Acting like that is not okay.

Here’s the really messed up part. Since my dad and Granddaddy haven’t spoken in about seven years, my ridiculously passive-aggressive Granddaddy sent a complete stranger to my dad’s workplace to tell him that Bea died, and that Bea’s son is moving up to Charlotte from the Atlanta area to take care of Granddaddy, who needs assistance with activities of daily living. Twist the knife. Pour in the salt, you big freaking baby.

Yeah.  So I’m actually not sad about it. Or not sad about the loss of Bea, because I had already lost her years ago. It did prompt me to search the online obituaries of the names of other aging relatives, but no dice, erm, matches.