Soulja What?

I can’t remember the first time I heard Soulja Boy, but I do remember not liking it. The first time it really entered my consciousness was several months ago when it had just ended on the radio and the two people on the station’s morning show were discussing how the song had just been on an episode of Entourage and how “those folks on Entourage know what they’re doing ‘cause this song is gonna be big.” Unfortunately, as I don’t have HBO, I don’t see Entourage until it hits DVD. However, I disagreed with the morning personalities. I couldn’t see how this song by some random 17-year-old was going to be big. It was horrible. Too much saying the same thing over and over and nothing in it made any sense to me.

I was obviously wrong. For anyone who keeps up with pop culture, you know that Soulja Boy has done ridiculously well. In fact, you could have spent the last six months under a rock and know that. Except for my father. He wouldn’t know. Last night I was in the middle of a story and made a reference to Beyonce. Then I paused. “You know who Beyonce is right?” I asked. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Does she date Mick Jagger?”
Probably not. If she does, Jay-Z is probably going to be pretty pissed about it.

Anyway, I digress. Soulja Boy has done well. Everyone from frat boys at Virginia Tech (watch this youtube video if you haven’t yet) to 6 year old kindergarteners are cranking that soulja boy. It’s ridiculous.

The thing is though, it’s totally grown on me. I can’t understand why. I mean, the main thing I like about any hip hop music is the cleverness of the lyrics. There is nothing remotely clever in these lyrics. The thing I hate about hip hop is how dirty it can be. Not only are these lyrics dirty, but he does it in a sneaky way. A way that has kindergartners saying things they definitely shouldn’t be saying.

But there’s something about it. I used to change the channel when it came on. Not anymore. Now, sometimes, I even find myself, in my car, with my wrists twitching. Cranking that soulja boy. I hate him a little for that.

The beauty of living in Atlanta, the capital of the hip hop world, is that we get songs earlier than anyone else. So, if a song does well, we hear it for what seems like forever. I guess this means I’m going to be cranking that soulja boy for awhile. Maybe I should just go ahead and download that “Soulja Boy Tell Em” video and learn how it’s done. Or maybe not.

Just call me Crazy Dachshund Lady

Today I found this blog:

http://dailydachshund.blogspot.com

And well, I'm not sure if I've ever come across a website I've enjoyed so much. I mean, there are videos on dachshunds (like clips from a Miller Light commercial featuring speedy dachshunds), helpful news information on dachshunds (like a story about a dachshund chewing off a child's genitals), random historical information (like a dachshund being indirectly involved in the JFK assassination) and dachshund celebrity news (Brooke Astor's dachshunds, Boysie and Girlsie were just given new homes).

I highly recommend it. If for no other reason than to find out about Bandit, a dachshund who is competing for "The Biggest Loser" in the pet category in Tarrant County, Texas. Apparently, he's done quite well now that the residents in the nursing home where he lives have stopped sneaking him so much food and have even started a pool, betting on his end-of-contest weight.

It's the Most Wonderful Time

Over the Thanksgiving holiday I went home to North Carolina to be with my family. The day after Thanksgiving, as is often our tradition, we all piled into my dad’s pick up and headed for the mountains to track down the perfect Christmas tree. This year, for the second year in a row, Rosie, my dachshund and the love of my life, accompanied us.

It was actually my grandmother, my brother, my parents, Rosie and myself in the truck, so, as you might imagine, it was fairly cozy. My brother kept hitting Rosie because he didn’t like that she was licking the window. And I kept hitting him for hitting Rosie. At one point on the trip, my father was discussing my brother’s diet with him, suggesting that he should eat more fruit. I added my two cents, saying that in recent weeks I’d been eating a healthier diet and that Rosie had lost two pounds already. For some reason this seemed to push my brother over the edge (he’s not such a fan of Rosie) and he told me I needed to quit spending so much time with my dachshund and date someone. I think I hit him again.

Once we finally made it to the Christmas tree farm it was quite nice. Rosie sprinted through the pines as she and I went on a search for our tree and my parents and brother went looking for the family tree. I hadn’t been completely certain I’d even wanted a tree until we’d arrived at the farm. Last year, four days after I spent an entire evening decorating my house for Christmas, I went on an unexpected five-day trip to Martinique and never even had the chance to enjoy the décor. Not that I’d ever complain about a trip to the Caribbean, but the whole ordeal left me with a bad taste regarding festive decorating. Besides, it’s just Rosie and me now, so decorations seem a little frivolous. But, it occurred to me that, well, it’s just Rosie and me indefinitely. Why postpone my happiness?

So I carted my tree back to Atlanta and set it in a bucket of water on my porch last night, excited to decorate it tonight after work. It was a particularly tedious and long day at work, but all day, I was very excited about my plans for Target Christmas décor shopping, followed by evening of decorating with my dachshund. (I can only imagine what my brother’s response to that sentence would be.)

So, after I purchased my necessary Christmas décor including a tree skirt I’d kind of splurged on, I came home to begin my work. I’d even had the forethought to purchase Rosie a new toy to play with while I decorated. I turned up the Christmas music, made a cup of apple cider, lit a candle that smells like cinnamon and started pulling out ornaments.

And this is where the tricky part of decorating with a dachshund comes in. Halfway through my process Rosie had completely ripped her new toy to shreds, leaving bits of cotton and rope all over my condo. She’d become bored with it and quickly took a liking to other Christmas paraphernalia. While I put the tree in its stand, Rosie chewed through a strand of lights. While I hung ornaments, Rosie ran off with her stocking. (I found it later, thoroughly chewed under my bed.) As soon as I poured water into the tree stand, Rosie drank every last drop of it as if she hadn’t had water for months. Of course, this incredible feat of hydration resulted in Rosie promptly peeing on the brand new expensive tree skirt. Once I was finally finished (and, by the way, it looks awesome), I headed to the gym for a bit. When I returned, I found Rosie gnawing on the bottom branch of the tree. Amazing, really. She’s only ten pounds; you wouldn’t think she could cause quite this much damage.

The thing is though, I really wouldn’t have had it any other way. Rosie is my own little crazy family here in Atlanta. While my tree may have a slightly chewed lower branch and be lacking much in the way of water, Rosie’s ridiculous antics around it have already made me laugh. And I’m glad I didn’t postpone that.

Tambourines and such

I used to stand in the hallway of my house and stare at photos of myself with friends and family. There were between fifteen and twenty of them. I had hung them in a hallway just outside my bedroom. It was an old house with plaster walls and the nails hung loosely in the plaster so that the frames all seemed precariously tilted—as if they might come crashing down at any moment.

I would find myself passing them—on the way from the shower to my room, as I walked to the den, or on my way back from the kitchen. And often I would stop. Sometimes for as long as an hour. And stare. I would look at them intently. I was trying so hard to see if when I looked at the photos, I could read what was going on behind my eyes. So many of the pictures had been taken when I was hurting and messy and heavy inside. I wanted to see if I could see that behind the crinkles of smile lines and the big daughter-of-a-dentist grin.

And so I would stare. I would turn my head to the side, slump on the floor and lean in close. It was a habit I didn’t even realize I’d had until I moved out of the house. At the time, I thought I did it because I was fascinated by the idea of being able to cover that kind of pain. Now I think I did it because I was hoping maybe someone would notice the intense hurt that still hid behind loud laughs and wide smiles.

I don’t look at photographs like that anymore. Now, I feel a joy that I know comes completely from a Savior who comforted me so consistently for so long that one day the smiles were real and behind the eyes was exactly what was in them: laughter.

In that same hall, across from my wall of photos, there was a closet. We used it for linens and a vacuum and our shared full-length mirror. The mirror was hung on the inside of the door and was my roommate’s. Scrawled across its top was a verse from Jeremiah 3: Again you will take up your tambourines and go out to dance with the joyful. For months, while I stared at those photos, leaning against the closet door, God’s promise of new hope and happiness was just on the other side.

My life’s not perfect now. I can’t say I don’t even occasionally pause over photographs. But my God has changed many things for me. And these days, I’d say I’m dancing with the joyful.

It's that Good

I get stuck on things. I guess I’ve always done this. If I like something, then I over do it way past the point of normalcy. Like, if I find a song I enjoy, then chances are, I play the song somewhere close to 4567889 times before I move on to another. People constantly tell me a song reminds them of me because they heard it so many times in my car or my house. Other people tell me to turn off that f’ing song I’ve been playing over and over again. The response varies.

But I really can’t stop being this way. I like spaghetti with meat sauce lean cuisines and I’d say I’ve eaten close to 150 of them in the last year. Maybe more. I enjoy orbitz gum and well, I’m chewing it right now. And will be tomorrow. And the day after that. You get the point. Some people would call this obsessive compulsive. It could go hand in hand with my love of vacuuming and my need for there to be no wrinkles in my bedspread. But I think I just know a good thing when I see it and I don’t see any point and moving on until I’ve enjoyed the heck out of it.

So, several weeks ago I discovered a new obsession. I was interviewing a potential intern for my office and had said that we should “grab coffee” together to talk. Mind you, I don’t really drink coffee. I just thought it sounded like the right thing to do. You know, it’s what people do. So, when we went down to the coffee shop, I ordered a latte. And whoa. It blew my mind. I cannot express how deliciously sweet this latte was. I wanted another immediately,but due to me still trying to be cool with the whole “grabbing a coffee” thing, I restrained myself.

However, the next day, I eagerly made the trip back down to the coffee shop for another latte. Imagine my surprise when the woman who works there told me that she didn’t know how to make lattes and her sister (who does know how) had already left for the day. I felt dejected.

That was a Friday. So I waited all weekend until the following Monday, and again, I returned to the shop, ready for my latte. This time I was told that her sister only works certain hours on Fridays and Mondays and I was too late. I almost cried.

However, that Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, I happily purchased and enjoyed my lattes. I was gone Friday and had to live without the latte. Then Monday came and again, I was back at the coffee shop. (See, I told you, I get a little obsessive.) I knew that Mondays were tricky days as far as hours of lattes, so I purposefully went early.

Now, by this point, everyone in my office had begun to notice my frequent trips. Also, I’m not one to keep quiet about food so I’d been really talking up the lattes and making sure my pain was known by everyone when they weren’t there. In fact, one of my co-workers had even told me that she thought I might be intimidating the small Asian sisters who run the coffee shop. She insinuated that they were probably a little afraid of the hulking, tall blond woman who came in daily, demanding her lattes.

When I got there, I decided my coworker might be right. The girl looked very nervous. And a little panicky. She explained that her sister had already left for the day and then she gave me a free large coffee. I felt a little bad. I also felt a little embarrassed to return to the office with my free coffee and my knowledge that I had managed to intimidate the coffee shop owners. But I figure by this point, I’ve given them enough business to make up for the free coffee. And this morning I was back again for my latte.

I suppose I’ll keep going back for at least another few weeks. Or until I realize that lattes are exactly health foods. Or maybe until someone points out to me that I’m supposed to be working at “work,” not stalking creamy coffee drinks and their makers.

Udders?

Rosie has noticably large breasts. There. I said it. I am officially a very weird person for acknowledging the size of my dog's breasts, but they are impossible to ignore. Mostly because people point them out all of the time. And it is so awkward.

Today, some friends from work stopped by my condo with me at lunch time to let Rosie out. Staring at Rosie, their first question was "Why does it look like she has udders?"

Tonight my small group from church came over. Rosie was playing on the rug with her bone and as I was fixing coffee in the kitchen, I hear them discussing the size of her breasts. "Is that normal?" "Do all dogs have nipples that large?"

Now, with friends, I play this off with the old "Oh, you know, runs in the family." But lately, people have been stopping me in the park to ask if she is pregnant or just had puppies. What am I supposed to say then? No, I'm sorry, ma'am and small child. My dog just has a really nice rack.

I mean, it is seriously awkward. For me, and I'd imagine for Rosie too. Although, she seems pretty oblivious and even like a little bit of an exhibitionist to be honest. I've thought about asking her vet about it. But I really don't even know where to start. I mean, my thoughts here are that maybe dogs are just like people. Some are more well endowed than others. Rosie's just been blessed with a hot, dachshund body. And asking the vet if it's possible that my dog is just genetically blessed seems like a conversation destined to turn my face bright red.

So, for now, I'll have to keep playing off the questions. And consider getting Rosie a bra. Or eight.

A Friday

So yesterday I got to go visit the Ron Clark Academy and it was awesome. If you've never heard of Ron Clark, I'd suggest a quick google search. The man is amazing. And I don't mean that in the obligatory you-have-to-say-he's-amazing-cause-he-helps-little-kids way. Because I am close friends with people who help little kids. And, truth be told, they're pretty amazing too. But, he's amazing because he's actually different from anyone I've ever seen. He brings an energy to any situation (and especially to a classroom) that I've really never seen anything else like.

After I went to the school I was very excited about it. So I called my parents to share. That conversation went something like this:

Me: So today we got to do something really inspiring at work. We went to the Ron Clark Academy.
My Dad: You went to the Alarm Clock Academy?
Me: Yeah, we went to the Alarm Clock Academy. It's the place that trains the people who make alarm clocks. I was totally inspired.

Eventually we got back on track after that, but then somehow things got confusing again.

Me: Yeah, they made a movie about him and Matthew Perry played him.
My Dad: Oh, so of course you watched that since he's one of your Friends.
Me: Well, yeah, obviously. So anyway, the school is south of Atlanta, but the children are brought in from all of the city. Most of them are minorities and they're all different levels as far as abilities.
My Mom: Is Ron Clark black?
Me: Yeah, he is. They had Matthew Perry play a black man. Which was a little confusing at times, and probably kind of insulting to some people, but it worked out fine.
My Mom: Really?
Me: No.

So, after some confusion, I was able to express how impressed I had been with this school. I think it is the stuff like this-getting to see something like this school-that makes me love my job. There are days when I think I'm going to go crazy if I have to write one more article about socialites and ludicrously expensive clothing, but then I get the opportunity to be inspired on a random Friday afternoon. And that's pretty cool.