hey, your son is on line toot...

For those fearful of flatulence, turn away from this blog now.

Ok...anyone still there? Good.

So, today I'm in my office, which is really an open workspace with three other designers, sometimes a fourth. Today, I was sitting at my desk, doing my own thing, when I realize I need to retrieve a file from the drawers under my desk. I lean over, rustle through my papers to find the needed paper, when I did it.

Pfffft.

That's right. I let one go, right there in my office-slash-workspace.

Luckily, there were only two other designers up there with me, and it was not of neck-choking, gagging-for-air variety. It was strictly air. However, i was then thrust into the situation of having to exercise some damage control.

I'm not very proud of what happened next.

I immediately began making happy little farting noises with my mouth. "Pffft, pffft, pfft..." and so it went. That way, I figured if someone said something like "Was that you? Did you fart?" or "Did you hear that?" I could respond with, "Huh? What? Oh, I was making fart noises with my mouth earlier, maybe that was what you heard. Ha, ha, ha, that's me, I'm just so quirky. Pffft, pfft, pfft..."

God, I need help.

what's the deal, pickle?

Sometimes things happen to me that just make me want to cry. Like, sit in the middle of wherever I am and bawl. Call me overdramatic, I don't care. (Actually, I do, and if you said that to my face, I'd probably collapse in a heap at your feet and commence the over-emoting.)

Anyway. I remember once hearing my mother say, "You know, Autumn and I just think everything bad happens to us. Everything bad really does happen to Summer."

Honestly. If there is a hole to fall in, a banana peel to trip over, or a bucket to step in, I will surely be the one to provided unintended comic relief.

The other day, I went to the grocery store after work. It was pouring down rain, but I brave those falling drops to purchase some pantry essentials. While shopping, a jar of pickles caught my eye. I haven't had pickles in so long! I thought. I picked up a jar and went about my way.

When I got home, it was still raining, and I had several bags. I pulled out my trusty umbrella and walked over the passenger side to retrieve my wares. As I turned one way, I noticed a box of pasta fall out. I hastily picked it up and turned to get my other bags. Then I heard the sound of glass splintering. What the hell was that? I thought. I turned around, wondering what would make such a noise.

It was my brand-new jar of pickles, lying naked on the grass, surrounding by the glass that once held them safely.

This was one of those moments where I wanted to cry. I felt so bad leaving them there, all alone on the sidewalk.

I think a dog came by and ate them one day. At least somebody benefitted from my misfortune.



I returned to the a scene a day later, prepared to mourn.

how much is a memory worth?

We've all been there before. You bump into someone at the supermarket, or around town, and when they offer up a warm hello, you feel a twinge of guilt because you can't remember how you know them. Or worse, you can't remember their name.

Or sometimes, when you're looking for something, like your keys or your glasses, and you look and look, only to find them in your purse, or perched on your head. You laugh to yourself, and think, "I must be losing my mind."

Now think about this: You're surrounded by people you don't know, but who all seem to know you. It's impossible to find things you need, and even harder to remember where you're supposed to put them. Time is a limitless concept; days and nights and weeks and months all fade into each other. You're in a strange place that you recognize vaguely, but you don't know where you are. You just want to go home.

My grandmother has Alzheimer's, and this is what life is like for her every day. Times ten.

Let me back up a little. My grandparents have always lived right across the street from me. My dad's two sisters live beside us, all three families on the same street across from my Maw Maw and Paw Paw, as we all called them. About ten years ago, my grandfather suffered a massive heart attack. It was so sudden, so unexpected. Just out of school for the day, I was across the street, alone, waiting for my parents to come home from work when I saw all the flashing lights and heard the fire trucks. He died instantly. We were all worried about my grandmother, and my dad would go out to stay with her at night. I spent Christmas Eve there that year. But everything seemed to be okay, as good as it could've been.

About two years ago, my parents started noticing little things about my grandmother. She would lose her glasses, or insist she'd lost them, and they'd be on the dresser. She'd lost a lot of weight, and she seemed to have trouble remembering little things. At first, we just chalked it up to being old. But it got worse. My dad would find pills on the floor. Upon opening a cabinet, my mother noticed an empty fish stick box next an unopened box of crackers. One afternoon, all the spoons disappeared—we soon realized that she'd thrown them all away. She was losing so much weight because she was forgetting to eat. When she almost started a fire on the gas stove in the kitchen, my dad decided that someone would have to stay with her more often.

Then some things were disappearing from around the house.

One day, I noticed some pictures were missing. They were of my sister. One by one, they came down, off the shelves, and off the wall. Then my pictures were gone. It finally came to the point where the only pictures that remained were very old, not including the three family pictures about the couch from when we'd had church directory pictures taken.

With the pictures went the memories.

I called my grandmother's house one day to speak to my dad. I asked for him, and when she said he was gone, I asked her to tell him to please call Summer. "Which one are you again?" she asked. It only got worse after her pacemaker was put in and she came home from the hospital.

She's convinced that my dad has brought her to some house, that he found her somewhere and brought her there. All the mirrors have either been removed or taped over so that she doesn't feel like "that woman" is watching her. She thinks my Aunt Phyllis is some girl who my dad has paid to sit with her—she doesn't even recognize her own daughter. The last time I visited her, we'd talk about people and she'd have to ask me who was living and who wasn't.

I live in Birmingham now, so I don't get to see my family as much as I like. I rely on my daily reports from my mother and father to see how she's doing. And it never gets better. I can see the toll it takes on my family, esp my dad. To me, it's sad, because she's my old grandmother. But that's my dad's mom. She used to take care of him, now he has to take care of her. I hope and pray that my parents never have to ask me who I am. Or who they are, as my grandmother is slowly starting to forget herself.

I can't imagine how sad and lonely she must be, and how hard it is for any of us to even begin to understand what she's going through. There are so many moments in my life that I want so badly to forget, but I hope the day never comes when I can't remember anything, even those things that I don't want to.

thanks a lot, jerk.

So, here's the sitch. I go home every day for lunch. I don't have the money to go out to eat all the time, and I am too lazy to just pack a lunch. Yesterday, I do like I always do and head to the apartment. As I'm getting in my car to go, I notice the backseat is looking bright. I turned my head and see that the back passenger side window is busted.

WTF. Seriously.

The glass was still intact, but it was completely spiderwebbed. I saw a man weedeating when I first arrived, but I just don't believe a rock would do this kind of damage. At least, not one that a weedeater would pick up.

Then I saw something else that made me a tad suspicious: a croquet mallet not but a few feet from my car.

What the hell?!? I don't live in the ghetto! I have never had this happen to me! Gah!


This is the damage. The hole wasn't there originally, but as I drove down the bumpy streets of Birmingham, chunks of it began to fall.


And this is the reason I suspect foul play. I took the weapon in question and placed it in my car. Somebody's next game of croquet is going to be very difficult. Take that, vandal.

as soon as, as soon as, as soon as...

I hate when I feel like things are out of control. When some aspect of my life that I can't get a handle on, it makes me want to control anything else around.

I clean.

I'm not the neatest person, but sometimes I get on these binges where nothing is ever straight enough or neat enough. I'm having company tonight, so I have a reason to have cleaned, but there are also some aspects of my life that I feel I can't get in order. So then I start cleaning and organizing. And if I feel like I can't do it (ie, my room looks awful), I give up and spend as little time in that room as possible.

Ugh.

Or I organize. I start making lists and detailing every little thing wrong with my life, like a "fix-it" to-do list. Of course, I never really have the satisfaction of crossing anything off the list.

Right now I'm having some issues with money (then again, who isn't ALWAYS struggling with money?), so I made a little Excel spreadsheet of what bills need to be paid and when, how much, etc.

I make post-its reminding me to do stuff. I make so many reminders to the point where I feel like I've already done whatever it is that needed to be done. I visualize myself succeeding at whatever it is that I'm having trouble with to the point where I think I've already fixed it.

But I haven't.

Kinda like I picture myself going running or walking or working out to the point where I honestly think I've already done it. I even feel tired.

I always tell myself, "So much is going on right now. As soon as everything settles down, as soon as I pay this off, as soon as, as soon as..." But it never comes.

I'm such a control freak. But an unmotivated control freak.

what's in a name?

I love it when people use my name when they are talking to me. I think it shows a certain amount of respect, if you will, to refer to someone directly and not just treat your interaction like a routine chore. I usually try to use someone's name at least once in a conversation. If it's my superior, I usually greet them with their name.

This whole thought came back up this morning when I first arrived at work. I was in the ladies' room, trying to avoid Stall Talkers, and I was on my way out when I heard, "Summer?" I walked back in to see who it was. It was a woman i work with here, with whom I have never really talked. She was just letting me know her response to an email I'd sent out to several employees regarding a project we're working on in Product Development. I thanked her for letting me know (using her name), and went about my way.

This is what struck me: I've never even spoken to her, and I think that e-mail was the first contact we had. However, she knew who I was and cared enough to use my name rather than be like "Hey!" There are some other people here at the company that say "Good morning Summer!" when I see them in the hall, and it usually makes my day.

I will say this, though. I worked in a restaurant for over five years, and I had to wear a nametag. While I always gave my name to customers at my tables (in addition to the tag), and I would so much rather someone call out my name rather than snap at me or say "hey you!" it kinda creeped me out to have people call me by name when I had no clue who they were. Not so much my tables, but just random people in the restaurant. Yeesh.

quit stalling

There is something so sacred about certain places. Churches. Cemeteries. Libraries. Small bookstores.

Bathrooms.

Once I enter that swinging door that separates me from the rest of the world, it is purely me-time. I want my bathroom time to be about one thing, and one thing only. Ok. Sometimes two things. But that's beside the point.

One thing that I absolutely cannot stand is bathroom meetings. They are always so awkward, unless it's your very best friend in the world. I know what we are both about to do or have just done, and I don't really want to talk about it. If I hear the door swing open and I think I won't have enough time to make a hasty getaway, I sit. And I'm not even kidding. I've had battles with people that probably don't even know it, and a few who do know it, because they are on my level.

I've also encountered a new breed now that I've been working in an office for the past several months: The Stall Talker.

I remember one of my first Stall Talkers at The Magazine. It was another intern, and we met at the front bathroom door. She followed me in. I made small talk and then proceeded to enter my stall.

But she wasn't finished.

"So what are you guys doing this weekend?" she asked, as I was in mid-stream.

Honestly? Can't this wait?

"Um, not sure," I replied. You also have to think about the fact that there are other people in there, too. For Pete's sake, there were about 10 stalls total.

"Well, we're having a party if you're interested" —pause, flush— "just give me a call."

I was mortified.

My new company is no different. I was in the stall of the mere three bathroom facility, when the woman next to me began spouting off.

"Oh, great. I hate it when people use the last of the TP. Don't you? I just hate it. Luckily there's an unopened roll. Now I have to replace it. At least I didn't get caught without, you know? Oh, what cute shoes!"

I had no choice but to respond as best I could. Which in this case, was a shaky "Mmm-hmm."

Let's keep the commode conversations to a minimum, people.