Sunday, August 31, 2008
One of the best things about the Memphis Heritage festival - besides the fantastic show by my sweet man (more on that later) - was the performance by the Michigan City Soul Steppers.
I think the "fake fight" was my favorite part:
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Last night my man and I stepped out for a night on the town, he in his shark skin suit, me in my python heels. I'd had a hankering to get dolled up and go somewhere... different. I believe we've worn a groove into the ground between our house and Cooper Young. So when I saw that one of my very favorite nonprofits was throwing a swanky fundraiser downtown, I bit. It was held in a private residence downtown on Cotton Row, the invitation stressing buzzwords like "adaptive reuse" and showing tantalizing glimpses of a former cotton warehouse that was converted into a pretty snazzy home.
And it was snazzy.
There was a beautiful stairwell mixing old timbers with modern wire railing. A giant floating island demarcated the kitchen which then flowed into a space where young kids "jooked" to live drumming. We made our way outside and perched by the lap pool which overlooked the river, sipped our drinks and enjoyed the warm breeze that again made me almost nervous in that This-can't-be-August way. Amy LeVere (who, I have to say, really needs to be (musically) set up with my husband as I feel they are (musical) soulmates) played a set downstairs next to an actual 18 foot antique bar. It was all very interesting and different but truthfully we just couldn't wait to get out of there, because we just couldn't shake the feeling that we'd crashed someone's party. I have no problem strolling into a joint where I won't know anyone if the entertainment seems promising. The problem wasn't that we didn't know a soul there. The problem was that everyone else seemed to know each other.
As we were getting dressed for our night out, I was giddy with the promise of different. We were going some place unknown with an unknown crowd. We would maybe drink too much and move through an intriguing space full of interesting people and everything would seem a little brighter, a little more beautiful and mysterious, just how life always seemed in the Los Angeles of my 20s. I know, a tall, stupid order for a date night, but I was feeling hopeful.
I have to constantly remind myself that as much as I like to pretend otherwise, this is a small town. Small towns don't offer up literally hundreds of options for your nightly entertainment, especially when you are dealing with the arty fundraiser scene. Arty fundraiser types run in packs, just like they do in LA or any other city, but here there is just a much smaller circle, one we are not a part of and as we noticed the scores of folks with passes slung around their necks, we were starting to feel like the only suckers who had actually paid to get in the door.
After a couple of Amy songs, we ditched and grabbed some snacks at Molly Fontaine, listened to DeAnn Price sing, and felt mysterious for a few minutes.
Then it was time to go home and pay the babysitter.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
This day just keeps getting better.
My essay is up at Babble.com today.
Back in my 20s I LOVED Nerve, the literary smut site that featured naughty horoscopes, I Did It For Science (a.k.a. the best column idea ever) cool photography, and lots of highbrow writers writing not so highbrow things. I even was interviewed by them for their Sex Advice from a (fill in the blank profession) Former Bridesmaid. Well, Nerve grew up and had a baby called Babble.com. Coincidentally I had a baby, too, and some pets and found that our house may not be big enough for all of us.
I wrote about it here.
Next month will see the very last MidSouth Fair at the Fairgrounds, the 151st fair, I believe. We're losing it to Tunica or somewhere that is actually going to require me to get in the car and drive to it as opposed to just strolling over there and laughing at all the suckers forking over $10 to park in a stranger's yard. I'm sad to see it go, but I just got some news that's making it a little better. Fantastic, actually.
I've been invited to have a show of my fair photos - at. the. FAIR.
Taking pictures of county fairs is as much a ritual - and pleasure - for me as eating the deep fried oreos and betting on pig races (Go Squiliie Nelson!) So I can't begin to explain how much this means to me or honored I feel to be showing my work at the very last fair at the historic fairgrounds.
I think I need to go deep fry something and get the preparations underway.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Okay. Here's the thing. I understand that outside is your turf. We suit up, bathe in Deet and do our best to get from the house to the car without getting devoured, but let's be honest. It's your world. We're just sweet, hot bloody messes moving through it. But can you please give the kid a break? I mean, look at this face.
Look at her hand! Who gets bites on their hand? My kid, that's who! What you can't see are the bites on the other cheek, her thighs, her arms, the bottom of her feet. All the child wants to do is go "side" and when she does, she is Thanksgiving dinner. From the 20 feet from the door to the car, she averages about 2 bites. Do you lie in wait? Discuss battle strategy? We've discussed keeping her locked inside the house until October, and as we were doing so, you landed on her face and bit her. Twice. Did I mention this happened in our dining room?
And these bites! I don't know what freaky supersized bug juice you inject into her, but my sweet baby looks like she has the plague. Big, angry red welts that take on average of 6 weeks to fade away, the kind that seriously put my photoshop skills to the test and prompt my nephews to ask What IS that on her FACE?
So I know you're not going to stop, but just bite me instead, ok? Bite me.
Sometimes I have a problem walking the balance between paparazzo and parent. Yesterday was the Brooks Museum contest challenge to shoot Memphis for a chance to have your photo on their wall, so shoot I did. I took pictures at the Farmers Market (and couldn't help but giggle at the scads of other likeminded photographers who stalked the zinnia farmers and Irish mustachioed band dude for photo ops) I followed Caleb and Harlow around BoJos and finally got to take pics up against that awesome red wall. I stalked my child through the fountains at Peabody, click click clicking away. And while I checked my LCD screen for images and futzed with the ISO and scouted for shots, Caleb was the carrier of child, the soother of scraped knees and the deservedly pissed off husband. I know it didn't help that my head was about to explode from that extra glass of wine I really didn't need the night before, so I was whiny and head clutchy and generally unhelpful and annoying.So I am sorry.
But I am so going to have a photo on that gallery wall.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Are you happy? Do you see this? I am brushing my teeth to ENTERTAIN myself. No I do not want to do another lap around the house and look at the ladder for the 85th time. Or bang on the door and ask you explicitly if we can go outside and have you say no, it's too hot, honey. Your face will burst into flames if you make contact with the sun. Tiny ribcage, folks. Tiny heart. I can only take so much.
The hell, people. Do you leave those cords out specifically to trip me? And is that a makeup brush on the floor? Because that's where it belongs.
Oh. Ew. what is that what is that WHAT IS THAT?
Trying to remember where I found the toothbrush. Yeah. That's what I thought.
Y'all are gross.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
BY SARAH SCHMELLING
- - - -
Horatio thinks he saw a ghost.
Hamlet thinks it's annoying when your uncle marries your mother right after your dad dies.
The king thinks Hamlet's annoying.
Laertes thinks Ophelia can do better.
Hamlet's father is now a zombie.
- - - -
The king poked the queen.
The queen poked the king back.
Hamlet and the queen are no longer friends.
Marcellus is pretty sure something's rotten around here.
Hamlet became a fan of daggers.
- - - -
Polonius says Hamlet's crazy ... crazy in love!
Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and Hamlet are now friends.
Hamlet wonders if he should continue to exist. Or not.
Hamlet thinks Ophelia might be happier in a convent.
Ophelia removed "moody princes" from her interests.
Hamlet posted an event: A Play That's Totally Fictional and In No Way About My Family
The king commented on Hamlet's play: "What is wrong with you?"
Polonius thinks this curtain looks like a good thing to hide behind.
Polonius is no longer online.
- - - -
Hamlet added England to the Places I've Been application.
The queen is worried about Ophelia.
Ophelia loves flowers. Flowers flowers flowers flowers flowers. Oh, look, a river.
Ophelia joined the group Maidens Who Don't Float.
Laertes wonders what the hell happened while he was gone.
- - - -
The king sent Hamlet a goblet of wine.
The queen likes wine!
The king likes ... oh crap.
The queen, the king, Laertes, and Hamlet are now zombies.
Horatio says well that was tragic.
Fortinbras, Prince of Norway, says yes, tragic. We'll take it from here.
Denmark is now Norwegian.
Why do we have gyms? Why do we have workout classes when places like Senses exist? Saturday night my long awaited cheesy dream came true when - mere seconds away from ending girls night after The Cove - we rallied and danced and danced and danced at the Place That Looks Like An Airport Strip Club But Isn't. Hot sweaty people watching fun with my lady mama friends. Mamas cage dancing, no less. So fun that I had to take breaks and hydrate and give my poor out of shape thighs and calves a chance to process the shock. So fun that I kept dancing even though DJ Suck only got it right about 1 out of every 3 songs. You know what I wish? That Senses was open 24 hours. That it was a common, encouraged activity to just hop onto the dance floor during your lunch hour and just shake it. Forget noontime drivetime disco. Dance the noontime disco.
More pics here.