Lady Summertime's Eleventh Hour: Philly for the Philly

Anything that Adam from Man v. Food recommends is on our (Adam's and mine...not Adam from Man v. Food. Adam from the right side of my bed.) radar. So when I say that we went to Philly for the Philly, I mean that we drove six hours, round trip to Philadelphia to eat at Jim's Steaks.We trust Adam...you know what? This is getting confusing. I'm now going to call Adam from Man v. Food, Sir Prediabetes and my husband, Adam, Sir Glenn Beck Rally.

Where was I? Oh, yes. Sir Glenn Beck Rally and I trust Sir Prediabetes implicitly. As in, if he said, "Food from the bottom of this dumpster smells like heaven and taste like angels," we'd dive right in. It's terrible, really. We don't even know him, beyond his awesome ability to pack food in his rapidly rounding gut. But obviously we'd follow him right into a heart attack.

And I use the term "we" because (for once in our lives) Sir Glenn Beck Rally and I have matching opinions in this regard. Though you'll never catch those coleslaw, fries, and tomato topped sandwiches crossing these lips. No sir. I have standards.

Like pizza.

And Taco Bell.

Sir Prediabetes told us (besties) that THE Philly Cheesesteaks could be found at Jim's Steaks in West Philly. We punched the address into the ole GPS and off we went!

In case you weren't aware, Philadelphia's crime rate is....up there with that of Chicago and NYC. And that fact is important to this story so hold it close to your heart.

As the miles ticked by, the houses grew closer and smaller. Bars began spotting the windows, garbage littered the gutters, and that bump we just went over? That was us crossing the railroad tracks. Speaking of, the subway rose up from under the ground to perch atop great columns above the road. We started seeing folks in lawn chairs camped out under it. Unsupervised children milled about and sleeping souls resting tired bones were spotted on curbsides.

All I'm saying is, we prayed for green lights.

But still we pressed on! And, helpmemotherofmary, I'm so glad we did.
When we pulled up, Sir Glenn Beck Rally was first, relieved that we had indeed put our lives in danger for a place that really existed and second, hellbent on schooling me in the proper procedure for securing cheesesteaks without bodily harm (He told me to run.).

Terribly shady neighborhood, it was. Unless you're my mother. Then it was just like Salt Lake City, only more smiley faces.

Turns out, we shouldn't have been afraid of death by stray bullet because this ditty made our arteries clog right on up, neat and tidy!After my heart was restarted with a few hundred defibs, I agreed with Sir Prediabetes that this was, in fact, the best Philly Cheesesteak I had ever had.

Don't tell him this but it's the only Philly Cheesesteak I've ever had.

OK, so maybe our drive wasn't JUST for the Philly; we shucked off the oxygen masks long enough to catch a thimble's worth of sites. The Liberty Bell was, in a word, disappointing. Did yous guys know that it didn't even ring on the day independence was declared??? Plus, it cracked soon after it was caste so that makes it a sissy. I realize I've just spoken un-American words. Shameful. And in the shadows of the Glenn Beck Rally. Not my husband, Sir Glenn Beck Rally. The actual Glenn Beck...whatever. It's too hard to explain.

And speaking of declaring independence, this is the place: Benjamin Franklin's grave. Hey, we paid 2 entire dollars to go in and see it so I had to include a picture. Here's the first post office in this country. It's the only post office without the American flag and a zip code. And don't try to send something to your family back in Utah from the FIRST EVER POST OFFICE because THEY DON'T HAVE ANY ENVELOPES. Just thought you'd like to know that the postal service, WHICH DELIVERS LETTERS IN ENVELOPES, doesn't have any. Bitter? No, not me. Never.

Sir Prediabetes also frequents Franklin Fountain so we, of course, had to make a stop. This old-fashion soda fountain did not disappoint. The interior was impeccably designed to mimic the candy kitchens and ice cream parlors of the 1920s. Old-fashion sodas, hard ice cream, all served in tall glasses with paper straws. One happy boy...post ice cream soda explosion. Read: coke and ice cream dripping off every surface, Emily seizing from panic attacks, Adam giggling nervously and swiping at the puddles with one doll-sized napkin. I had the Ladies' Choice. Fitting. And here's my darling flats that left me cursing the fashion gods. All told, a vunderbar trip (and not just because I felt inspired to get back on my diet).

"Take that, Lord Fall! Deep Creek Lake or no, I will prevail! Come on Lady Summertime, we've got more scheming to do. Plus, we need to buy a couple pairs of Spanx."

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When did "a couple" become five?

A coupla things before I show you some eye candy. First, the department I work for is hosting Happy Hour for the new graduate students tomorrow. Guess who had to pick up the "Happy" for the "Hour?" Yours Truly. Rows and rows of wine bottles plus a Mormon and her husband equals a disaster waiting to happen. I'm just praying that Costco wine isn't straight vinegar.

Second, I REALLY need a weekend. This week has been exhausting. Fun, but exhausting. Remember the new graduate students I mentioned? They were oriented this week and guess who did the planning? Again, Yours Truly. So. Very. Very. Sleepy.

Third thing: I love pizza. I just do. I'm a tad lactose intolerant not to mention a neurotic calorie counter so there's no logical explanation. Oh, but I do. [hangs head] After four pieces, my stomach is all, Where's the beef? In fact, four pieces is like an after school snack. I organized a pizza luncheon for the aforementioned students during the previously stated orientation ('ja follow that?). There was enough pizza left over to build three habitats for humanity. Thus, I've been having pizza for lunch for the last four days. I'll say that again: PIZZA FOR LUNCH FOR FOUR DAYS.

Shameful, no? But not quite as shameful as what's coming up next.

Living with Adam has turned me into a grouch. I yelled at two people within the last 24 hours. Me. The girl who barfs rainbows. Yelled. I'm not proud. I'm not ashamed. It is what it is. Well, I WASN'T proud until, Adam high-fived me and proclaimed me a winch. Then I felt really good about myself. What's happening to me???

And finally, I've been mulling something over in my head for weeks and I'm stumped. I'm prepared to offer a handsome reward (pizza, a high-five, and the title of "wench") to the person who can solve my conundrum. When a girl has a fit body but an unfortunate face, she's called a "Butterface." But what is the male counterpart of that phrase? I'm empty-handed. Any help? It would really help me sleep easier at night. As it is, I lay away for at least 10 minutes pondering. I'm practically an insomniac. Excepthisface? Nothisface? Butthisface? Your response is urgent.

And on that note, let me share with you a little fun I had several weekends ago. A friend of mine is working on this cool project where she takes forgotten clothing from her closet and reworks them into something new. It's a terrific idea; one that, despite my serious lack of sewing skills, I'm also working on. Anyway, she writes this little blog and asked me to do a shoot featuring her new wardrobe. I was all, "Lemmethinkaboutityes."

Here's a few of my personal favies (In case you care, the reappearing bikes where planned; a theme, if you will.): Fellow photo geeks, here's an interesting fact: these were all taken at high noon. And what do we know about high noon, gang??? Blown out highlights! Super dark shadows! Unflattering squinting! Dark eye circles! Avoid it like the plague! Getting creative with open shade, diffusers, and reflectors was a cool challenge, though, and I'm inspired to do more shoots during unlikely times. The end. You've seen this one but in seemed a shame not to include it. She just looks so, what's the word? Va-va-voom???

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Donny Osmond and the Confidence That Was

Yesterday, while waiting for the Metro, I had this thought: wearing short, airy skirts makes my toenails curl. Don't get me wrong; I love, love, love the way they look on other people and I even try it myself, but as I walk with one hand on my rumpus, pinning down the billowy fabric, I remember the root of my aversion.

It was my very first day of school at BYU in Provo. An excited, nervous, full-of-gusto-but-so-hopelessly-awkward freshman, I looked the part with my brand-new satchel bag, squeaky clean thermos, and class schedule print-out.

I wanted to be smoking that day because, for the first time in my adolescent life, I was surrounded by men! Not the fake kind who just wanted to sniff glue, make-out in the janitor's closet, and then go toss a football around. Real, honest-to-goodness men. Ones who weren't high during English class. Ones who knew that dating was more than playing Nintendo on Mom's couch. Ones who didn't carry one of the four last names found in my high school (disclaimer: I mean that as a joke; My sister is married to an Argyle....so I'm practically family.).

With that in mind, I chose this really cute, flouncy skirt and a button-up blouse. Back home, skirts/dresses had meant one thing: it was game day and you were captain of the volleyball team. So I remember putting on that skirt, grateful that I'd avoid the "Why are you all dressed up?" question, and thinking, I have arrived!

Donny Osmond's voice singing This Is The Moment filled my head as I took off for my first class, freckle-faced, knobby-kneed, but determined that "Destiny beckoned, I never reckoned, second best!" Oh, Donny.

Just outside a building known as the SWKT (read: Swikket), there is a large grate. At the time I didn't know this, but that large grate often blew out hot hair. Would that I had known that!

By the time I reached that fateful spot in front of the SWKT, Donny was practically screaming, "THIS IS THE MOMENT! FORGET ALL THE ODDS! THIS DAY, OR NEVER, I'LL SIT FOREVER WITH THE GODS!" I was feeling so good about myself; I wondered how any man could have resisted the confidence that I was surely radiating. I reckoned I'd get asked out any second.

No, I've never been boy-crazy. Why do you ask?

Two steps into my crossing of the grate, I felt a hot blast of air. Remember the flouncy skirt? Well, my friends, that blast sent the skirt heavenward while my confidence drained the opposite direction. There I stood, showing the world my business, with Donny reminding me that, When I look back I will recall, moment for moment, This was the moment, The greatest moment of them all.

I like to think I was very Marilyn Monroe about the entire thing. But I'm afraid I'm more of a Lucille Ball. So, I'm sure I struggled and tugged, flailed and reddened, heaved and hoed, dropped my books and class schedule, bent over to pick them up, dropped them again.....the word "mess" comes to mind.

Near tears, I pinched my skirt between my legs, hauled it to my first class, and swore to never again let Donny Osmond lure me into a false sense of security.

And you'd better believe, dear reader, that my toenails curled like ribbon as a discarded breeze from a passing Metro train threatened to repeat history. THAT would have been a Happy Friday.

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Lady Summertime's Eleventh Hour: Ain't no sunshine

Adam and I grew up a mere stone's toss from the "Caribbean of the Rockies" and I was missing my second-home town (remember, I'm a NC native) something fierce. I wanted a lake. I NEEDED a lake. So I Googled "Lakes near Washington, DC." Google threw back Deep Creek Lake in Garrett County, Maryland, a simple three hours from here. I read a few reviews, saw a few pictures, and deemed it a worthy use of my time.

I then searched, pondered, and prayed for the right time to approach Master Adam. Sunshine makes his skin rashy and his pupils turn red. I had planned on greasing him up before tossing him in the fryer but I just got so excited about the thought of Lewis and Clarking it across a lake!

I gushed, "...and we can take a picnic and drive through little towns on the way and rent a canoe and swim and, and, and then drive home! Fun is such a trite word to describe it, Ady! Sunny, warm, reeeelaaaxxxing! Think of it! You. Me. A lake. Summa-time!" I may or may not have struck a note on my air guitar at the conclusion of my appeal.

He was unmoved by my air guitar.

So I tossed in a wild card: "I'll swim in my nudies."

Shockingly, still nothing.

Then I brought out the big guns: "I'll buy you prime-rib."

And we were off!

I'm below meat. Dinged my armor a bit, but fortunately I'm too shallow to stay bummed for too long. Honestly, I probably would have swum in my nudies without being asked so whatever....

Turns out, I should have saved my bribes for a bad hair day because this mess is what we found at Deep Creek Lake.

Lord Fall & Adam: 1 point.

Lady Summertime & Emily: nudie...I mean, nothing.

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Song o' the moment

1993 called. They want you to go listen to "I'm the Only One" by Melissa Etheridge.

2001 called. They want me to stop using that phrase.

2010 called. They want 2001 to mind their own business and go do what 1993 said.

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Dear 25-year-old Adam,

Sorry I failed to publicly acknowledge your 26th birthday back on the 5th because, as everyone knows, it's not official until it's blogged. But look! We have twiner pictures!

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Lady Summertime's Eleventh Hour: Hit the bottle

Since we're going to be squeezing out Summer's last bit of goodness, we're going to need a little help with the glimmer. You know what the glimmer is, don't you? It's like Mother says: Southern ladies don't "sweat", they "glimmer." She also said Southern ladies don't say sucks, butt, pee, or shut up. It's a journey, y'all, it's a journey. Anywho, thanks to Trader Joe's French Berry Lemon[lime]ade, we won't be complete inbreeds. Now if I could just stop saying sucks, butt, pee, and shut up, I'd be one step closer to owning that cotton plantation in Savann-uh, bless my hea-uh-rt.

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Lady Summertime's Eleventh Hour

Look at this picture.Do you notice anything (besides the fact that the front of my dress is coming down)?

I do. And I see it in a lot of our pictures. I don't notice it when Adam and I are in color, though. Only in black and white. See how all the black in the image is centralized around him while the white is clinging to me? I think this picture is symbolic of our personalities. No, I'm not saying Adam's soul is black...though it is. I'm saying that I am the sun and Adam, the moon.

I wake up in the morning, throw open the shades (If it weren't for my husband, they'd already be open.), and rejoice in the rich, warm sunshine flooding through my windows. My spirits lift, my steps become lighter, and I feel optimistic about nearly everything. Pants don't fit? No bother. It's sunny outside. Explosion from next door? It's cool. Look at the sunlight flooding the living room! Cut my finger off? Grab me my camera so I can capture the golden streaks of light over there. Oh, and get me a band-aid.

Adam, on the other hand, enjoys what he calls "The Quiet Dark." If I'm not home to throw a stink he will sit for endless hours with the shades closed, the curtains drawn, and the lights off. Some might call if frightening verging on psychotic (Who, me? Nah.) but he finds that the dark cools his feverish moods and puts his soul at peace.

Funny, isn't it? Someone's greatest pleasure is another's worst fear.

Though E & A fans are aware of these facts, for the point of this post, let's explore this. I like heat; Adam enjoys the cold. I wear white (and other bright colors). If Adam is ever seen in anything other than black, brown, or gray, please know that I was involved. I like fruity sweets; Adam prefers dark chocolate above all else. I love watching media that lightens my heart. Adam adores movies like The Hours, A Beautiful Mind, and The Pursuit of Happyness. I'm a beach girl; Adam needs mountains. I love me some mornings (within reason); midnight often finds Adam going strong. The list could go on and on but I think you get the point.

He is Hades to my Persephone.

We make it work though, don't you worry.

Anyway, it's been raining here recently and the temperatures have slowly been descending. While driving through the mountains this weekend (More on that to come), there was a tinge of yellow and a few trees had shed their leaves. I can feel the stirrings of Lady Summertime removing her crown to make way for her evil brother, Lord Fall. My heart thuds painfully at the thought and, when I expressed this to Adam, his eyes clouded over and he clasped his hands together like a wistful adolescent, exclaiming, "Do you really think so?? You think Fall's coming? I've missed hot chocolate and soup!"

After I cleaned up my own barf, I sucker punched him.

But Adam's statement spurred me into action. While I have thoroughly enjoyed this summer, I haven't THOROUGHLY ENJOYED THIS SUMMER so these next few weekends are booked with lakes, day trips, fruit stands, spontaneity, canoes, country roads, beaches, and anything else that I can think of to make the ending of my favorite season a little more bearable.

Leave your thermos and pumpkin bread at home and come with us because Lady Summertime hasn't hit menopause yet!

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Let it all hang out

- Let's see: I had baby acne, toddler acne, juvenile acne, teenage acne, and now adult beeping acne. When will the madness end? I just caught sight of my strawberry pie face in the mirror, threw myself mug down on the bed, and vowed never to leave that spot or stop wailing.

- After I threw myself down on the bed, Adam quietly appeared beside me with a water glass and some "vitamins." Because I'm docile and do just what I'm told, I downed four pills before I noticed the gleam in his eye. Turns out, he sneaked a St. John's Wort in there.

- Sneaked is a ridiculous word. In fact, I'm 95.3% sure it shouldn't even be a real word. But Adam says it is so I'm using it. Again, docile. In his last life, he was an English teacher so...

- Surprising, I gave up my spot on the bed and am beginning to feel better about adult acne and skin maladies in general. Maybe I should take St. John's Wort more often?

- Not surprisingly, downing four pills on an empty stomach has caused an angry ocean in my belly.

- Neil Haskell from So You Think You Can Dance Season 3. Enough said.

- That wasn't enough. He's a bit of a treat, no? Don't tell my husband.

- Dang it. He reads this blog. Everybody act cool.

- I have debated about assembling a list of good summer reads (now that summer is nearing it's end...and I'm face down on my bed again) but then I started worry about endorsing literature. Like if I recommend a book that swears, you'd all think I swear.

- Sometimes I do swear.

- The Metro was pelvis to pelvis today. A whole herd of people tried to get on an already overflowing train car and this commuting vigilante was all, "Y'ALL. STOP PUSHIN'. YOU AIN'T GETTIN' ON DIS CAR D'DAY."

- Not sure why I just shared that. Other than the fact that I've been saying that phrase in my head repeatedly since it happened. "D'DAY." Classic.

- Adam says I sat up in the middle of the night last night and yelled, "No, no, no, no. She can't have those. I already gave Marlowe (my sister) the other pair of tights. Those ones are mine." Then, he says I looked around, shook my head, and SLAMMED it back down on the pillow.

- I don't remember doing that.

- But I do remember getting a call from my half-asleep husband (who has finished his internship and is enjoy a few days of interviewing, sleeping in, and general resting before fall semester) on my way to work this morning that went as follows: "Emy. If a terrorist strikes, just walk home. Don't fight the Metro crowd. I'll come find you."

- That's love right there. Almost makes me ashamed that I called Neil Haskell a treat. Almost.

- I should not post this. I should delete it and pretend this word vomit never happened. But this St. John's Wort has made me completely oblivious to consequences. And bedtimes. And acne. And censorship. I'm now clicking "Publish Post" and fiddledeedee! After all, tomorrow is another day.

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Photography By Adam

Some evenings, when the sun is beginning to set and the heat of the day has melted off into a temperate twilight, Adam and I will lounge about on our veraANda (have to say it all fancy like) and discuss the events of the day. Oft times, the light will have me scintillating so much so that I'll run in and grab my camera to capture Adam and some of that beautiful glow that surrounds him.

And that's where the fairytale ends because when he sees me and my big ole lens a'comin', I get this: Tiny bottom teeth barred as he growls at me. He's probably saying something like, "GrrrrrI'mgoingtoleaveyouforabrunetteeeeeeeifyoudon't GIT DAT GLASS outtamaface."

Then, sometimes, if he's really feeling evil, he'll grab the camera from me and start waving it around in my grill yelling, "Aperture, dang it! Bokeh and junk!"

But see, the difference in Adam and I is that I am the teacher's pet of photography models. If modeling were getting my first haircut, I'd be sitting completely straight with my eye on the lollypop prize. I'm the reverence child AND the best girl in primary when it comes to takin' my pitcher (pitcher).

Adam plugs his ears when I try to learn 'im in the ways of the camera. AND YET, he still manages to take better pictures than me.I only ever want Adam to take my picture.

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The Great Equalizer

I am loving my new job. LOVING, I tell you. And yes, I feel like it's my place to brag a little considering what I've been through this last year.

The fact that I'm happily employed really has nothing to do with anything.

I just wanted to throw it out on the table.

Well, I guess it has a little to do with this post. But only a little.

See, I was sitting at my desk at work when this professor slash doctor from my department walked in. I can't remember why he came in. I think it was to hand me something...something not pertinent to this story. But since some of you (me) won't be able to continue without useless details being included, let's just say he handed me a cream cheese danish. Because THAT would be a welcome treat at 9:00 in the morning.

I digress....

Back to the professor. He walks in. He's tall, has angular features, dark hair, big white smile, and, oh my high, he looks like Robert from So You Think You Can Dance (Give me a break; summertime television bites and SYTYCD is my ONLY vice.).

A cognitive, rational, logical human-being would have kept that thought locked deep inside. But when have I ever been called cognitive, rational, logical, or a human-being?

I word-vomited, "You look just like Robert from So You Think You Can Dance!"

Here's where you cringe. It's cool. I did too. Cringed like there was no tomorrow. Cringed like I had just told Michelle Duggar that I didn't like kids. CRINGED....like I had just mentioned reality TV to a man with a PhD.

The second those words escaped my lips, I had a dream while I was awake (Ever have those? Like when your husband is bent over the car trunk getting groceries you see yourself pushing him in, slamming the trunk, and driving Mach 5 towards the beach? Yeah...no. Me neither.) that I disappeared in a puff of fiery smoke and a skinny, tan, acne-free, naturally blonde Bird of Paradise flew out from where I was sitting and headed toward the beach (My, I do have the beach on the brain today, don't I? Could be because my sisters and mother are down there and I'm not. Annnddddd, now I'm sobbing.).

The only problem with dreaming while you're awake is that it's not true and once you snap back to reality, you're still standing there watching your husband unload groceries. Or worse, starring at the face of the DOCTOR you just verbally compared to Robert from So You Think You Can Dance.

And as I made a silent (Suddenly silence came naturally!) vow to never speak again, the Robertesque professor slash doctor goes, "Oh my gosh. He's so good-looking! What a compliment."

My jaw dropped. People with PhDs watch SYTYCD too? I toyed with the idea of exploring this new-found insight and dropping other names like The Girls Next Door, Rock of Love, and The Bachelor but you'll be happy to know that I did not.

We did, however, proceed to have a lovely conversation about each contestant's strengths and weaknesses, favorite moments, and predictions for the future. The relief over not having my big mouth scoffed into the next century isn't the point of this post.

Here's the point: reality television, in all its mindless, appalling, despicable, captivating glory is the great equalizer. It transcends gender, race, creed, age, sexual orientation, religion, class, and even education.

And THAT is going on my wall. In vinyl lettering.

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Never start a post with "Bless his heart"

Bless his heart, but there are times when Adam is not thoughtful. Like that time he asked me if my favorite pair of jeans (that mysteriously stopped fitting and no, I did not eat five slices of Papa John's pizza so don't even go there) had turned into skinny jeans.

And then there are times when he makes Ghandi look like Marie Antoinette. Is that blasphemy? I never can tell. Probably because I lack tact.

My birthday (a day that will live in infamy because, with that fourth slice of Funfetti cake, I waved good-bye a year's allotment of calories and said hello to SparkPeople.com) was one of those thoughtful times.

The Saturday prior, as I was rushing around, readying myself for an upcoming photoshoot, I could hear Adam making rat noises in the office. I thought nothing of it because, see, rat noises are commonplace.

Especially around naptime.

When I'm trying to nap.

And he just HAS to take that time to dig through the closet in search of this one piece of Coke-stained paper on which he penned a freaking sonnet during his freshman year of college. YEAH, THAT'S WHEN RAT NOISES ROCK!

Whoa. Sorry. Nearly lost my cool there.

Anyway, I do remember Adam approaching my elbow ala four-year-old and asking me where my paper cutter was. I, of course, channeled "Daddy's Been Busy All Day Paying For Your Ballet Lessons So Run Along And Let Him Read His Paper" and told him to buzz off.

I felt quite miserable that I hadn't helped him locate my paper cutter when he produced this on my birthday:
He's wicked right. I am a complaint free girl. You'll never hear a negative word from this old gal. Head-to-head with Mother Theresa, I'd totally take State. Again, I blaspheme. Or do I?

I'll crack open this little Book of Wonders so you can see what a gracious gift this is.

It's like pulling teeth to get the boy to put on pants on a Saturday, much less frequent the mall with me. This coupon is like gold.

Does having someone do the dishes of a meal that they cooked make me a bad person? That bottle of Mango Mango waiting to be slathered on my dishwater-free nail beds doesn't think so.

One side of me is all, So sad that he has to GIVE me one hour of his time WITHOUT COMPLAINING as a birthday gift. But the other side of me is basking in all this upcoming attention. I think I'll save this one for some time, oh, right around December 1 (finals). No, I've never been called spiteful before. Why do you ask?

MORE ATTENTION! If I weren't too shallow to get bummed, I'd start thinking that I might be a bit of a narcissist (P.S. In searching for a word to describe "someone who wants attention", I turned to Adam and ask, "Adam, what's a word for someone who wants attention?" Not even a beat was skipped: "You.").

Don't try to understand that title. Adam and I have our own alternate language that we use to communicate. And no, it's not a bunch of four letter words.

This one basically rocks. Not because I like going to the movies (which I do) and rarely get to (which I don't) but because Adam has OCD and a movie theater is infested. I'm saving this one as hush money.

And the grand finale! YAY! He knows me so well! Only problem is I bring home all the bacon found in this house so....I kid, I kid.

Awesome birthday gift, Adam. Thanks a heap. Totally makes up for the time you asked me to the prom [as a chaperon]. And almost compensates for your post following my tonsillectomy when I was high on Oxycontin life.

I take it back. Nothing could counteract that post.

Except maybe more attention.

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I've been up to

A little of this.A little of that.Between a layer of this. More to come.

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This City Reeks: A Poem in Five Stanzas

Off the Metro. Half past eight.
Running fast, can't be late.
Breakfast is a bag of flakes.
Off the Metro. Half past eight.

Dodging slowpokes. Getting miffed.
Crowd-walking is my gift.
A breeze! My skirt begins to lift.
Dodging slowpokes. Getting miffed.

Let's discuss that fateful breeze;
the one that showed the world my knees.
The air is dicey, if you please.
Let's discuss that fateful breeze.

And on that air, a tinge of stink.
"That smells horrid," I did think.
But what??? My nostrils inward sink.
And on that air, a tinge of stink.

Warm vomit, I think it be.
The product of a late-night spree?
Morning sickness? Rancid brie?
Warm vomit, I think it be.

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