Sunday, May 31, 2009


My fellow Georgians,

Recently, an official in Georgia's water infrastructure department let a certain cat, as it were, out of the bag. Apparently, the "maverick" state of California is set to put in place a water conservation program known officially as something along the lines of "potable reuse." Needless to say, only a bureaucrat could come up with such a euphemism. Promoters of the concept have, however, taken a tip from Hollywood advertisers to come up with the vivid and unforgettable slogan, "Ass to Glass." Now it transpires that, with their typical cultural arrogance, Californians are getting ready to export their program--including their so-called "vivid" slogan--to every other state.

I'm sure you share my feeling that while we in the sovereign state of Georgia may see the value of a waste water reuse program in the face of drought, we will NEVER accept the cultural hegemony of another state no matter how big it is! Accordingly, we at GLOP--Georgian League for Organizing Poop--are launching a campaign to create a slogan of which Atlantans can be as proud as they were at the completion of the 17th St. bridge.

To encourage Georgians to submit their slogans for the campaign, we are going to get, as it were, the ball rolling with a few slogans of our own. We in no way claim to have exhausted the possibilities. Here are the sample candidates:

Poop to Soup
Fart to Tart
Smelly Sh*t to Banana Split
Bowel to Bowl
Sphincter to supper

And my personal favorite, with a certain je ne sais quois:

Crap to Crepe

Please spread the news of the campaign as widely as possible.


A Proud Georgian

(A very silly guest post, from a very silly friend of mine who is struggling with the whole notion of potable reuse.)

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Small Discovery

"C'mere!" she commanded.
I followed my brother's two and a half year old daughter Kimmy to the kitchen.

She pointed at the microwave.
"Push the button!" she insisted.
So I pushed it.

As you might expect, the microwave door popped open.

Kimmy's whole face lit up.

She flung her arms out to her sides and yelled,
"TA DA!!!!!"
Oh, the miracle of the modern kitchen appliance!

Monday, May 25, 2009


Peter sidled up beside me while I sat on the curb.

I was watching my children burn off the last of their jet fuel on the playground.

"Want to have dinner with me?" Peter asked.
I looked straight into his large, very blue eyes.

I noticed that his lips were as full as Angelina Jolie's.

Peter took another step towards me.

"I have macaroni and Arthur," he said with confidence.
A grin spread across my face.

How could I resist a proposition like this?

"It's bug shaped macaroni!" Peter said, leaning in close to my ear.
"I'd love to eat with you," I said smiling.
Peter, my daughter's three year old classmate, beamed.

Monday, May 18, 2009

Left Handed

The Rooster is left handed.

I didn't think anyone else in our family was left handed until my father recently told me that his mother was a lefty.

My best friend from high school, who is left handed, taught me to associate being left-handed with being artistic.

I'm not sure if that is a myth or if it is true.

My father's mother, my grandmother, wasn't someone that I'd describe as an artist, though she was gifted in the art of crochet.

Artistic or not, my left handed Rooster spends a lot of time thinking about colors.

"Do white and red make pink?" she asks?

"Does red and blue make purple?"
While The Mayor painstakingly labors over detailed renderings of the world around him, The Rooster draws in quick, bold strokes.

Great swaths of color combine with unlikely companions to form patterns and shapes that I wouldn't expect to appreciate, but I always do.

Maybe it's just because I am her mother that I admire her artwork.

I prefer to imagine that she sees the world through a different lens than the rest of us -- the three, very literal and linear people with whom she shares a house.

I wonder where her different lens will lead her. How will it shape her? What will she see and make of the world?

When we went to the beach a few weeks ago, The Mayor spent his time digging holes, burying his father in sand and building sandcastles surrounded by moats.

The Rooster wandered off on her own to gather seashells.

Eventually, she settled in near us to sort them by size and color.

Soon, our towels and mats were bordered by an unexpected flower garden.

Thursday, May 14, 2009

Return of Joyzilla

This morning, while my children were eating their breakfast at the dining room table and my husband was shaving, I was getting dressed.

Because I am a complete and total dork, I danced naked into the bathroom singing a song entitled, "I'm doing a naked dance" with every intention of amusing my husband.

K, focused on the razor gliding over his face, paid absolutely no attention to me.

So I stepped it up.

I sang another one of my top 40 hits, this one entitled, "I'm shakin' my booty at you" while wagging my rear as if the prehensile tail was still there.

Though he may have smiled benevolently at me, K continued to shave.

Still motivated to have my naked Hannah Montana moment, I brought out the big guns and sang a number entitled, "I'm boppin' you with my booty."

This number got a reaction, though not the one I was anticipating.

Suddenly I heard a small voice say,

"What's going on in here?"
I turned to see my two small children standing in the bathroom doorway gazing in horror at Joyzilla, the terrifying naked woman.


Thursday, May 07, 2009

40 Year Old Prom

Over the weekend, my friend Aaron celebrated his 40th birthday.

For the occasion, his wife threw him a 1987 Prom.

She rented a hotel ballroom and decorated it with balloons, steamers and confetti.

She even built a decorated arch and hired a professional photographer.

The rest of us spent a lot of time looking for ruffled, taffeta ball gowns at the local thrift stores.

After visiting three different thrift stores I found only one formal dress that fit.

Though there was nothing about it that signified 1987 specifically, I was tired of shopping and decided I would have to focus my efforts on building big hair.

We went out for our pre-prom dinner with Merrily and Gepetto and turned quite a few heads.

[Because, I mean... look at them!]

When we arrived at the prom and parted the tinsel curtain hanging in the door, we stepped back in time.

Everything was just as it should be, just as it was.

There were women sporting pony tails tied high and to the side, teal ruffled monstrosities with dyed to match shoes and men with eyeliner and highlights.

Hairspray and frosted lipstick were in plentiful supply.

K and I got our prom picture taken and though no one was dancing yet, I pulled him onto the floor for the first slow dance.

Both of us went to the prom in high school, but we both went with friends for the sake of going.

Neither of us were in love with our dates – or even dating them for that matter.

Swaying on the dance floor with K, my arms high and around his neck in true high school fashion, I felt a kind of secret gladness to relive the prom with him.

My husband is my own personal, ultimate prom fantasy date.

There I was, at the prom, with him, the one.



Sticking to the spirit of 1987, the D.J. played songs that seemed to strictly adhere to the year.

At first, no one could really remember how we used to dance to that 80’s music, but gradually, the punk, alterna-teen moves of yesteryear returned.

K and I danced all night, skipping only a few songs.

We stayed out and awake far later than usual.

[It was prom after all.]

The next morning, when I heard The Rooster calling for me, I lifted my body up out of the bed, clutched my back and yelled.


K’s body was equally angry.

Therein lies the difference between 17 year old prom and 40 year old prom.

Oy vay... my achin' back.

Wednesday, May 06, 2009

Goodbye Old Paint

“I added a few things to your grocery list,” K said just before I left for the market.
“I need you to get two bags of kitty litter, the cheapest you can find.”

I looked at him, slightly puzzled.

We don’t have a cat.

“I need a proper place to pee in the backyard and I’m going to use the litter to set it up,” he said.
I stared at the calm, sincere face of my husband for a long ten seconds wondering about his sanity before his face betrayed him with a grin.
“I had you!” he laughed.
I brushed him off and headed for the door.
“Don’t forget the kitty litter!” he called after me.

Looking down, I realized kitty litter had actually been added to my list.

I looked at him quizzically.

“Paint,” he said still laughing, “I need it to get rid of old paint.”

Tuesday, May 05, 2009


“This toast is too buttery, Mama!” she scolded.
[Too buttery? Is there such a thing?]
“I’m very sorry, Roo.” I responded.
“Next time you should use just a little less butter!” she said, instructively.
“O.K. Roo.”

She eyed me in a suspicious way, considering our exchange and then jumped down out of her chair, walked over to mine and beckoned for me to lean towards her.

When I was close enough, she whispered in my ear.

“I still love you,” she said.