so i emailed the democrat yesterday and they called me around 4pm. my name is in the paper today - i now wish i'd said something more exciting or controversial.

note how they say the driver isn't named because he's a juvenile. no mention of how they named him yesterday. or how they got it wrong. dorks.

TDO has it all wrong...

on the front page of the democrat online is this article about a high speed chase and teenager pulled from a flaming car. this is not exactly accurate. how do i know? i saw it happen.

i was loitering outside my home last night and heard a strange noise - maybe a car accelerating. i walked towards the noise, then heard tires squealing, a loud male scream, heard a loud crash, then saw a car plow into the concrete electrical pole in my neighbor's backyard. next - an explosion.

i ran inside, got my phone and dialed 911 - i did not realize that tallahassee drive dead-ended behind my street so i told them i thought it might be clare drive. my neighbors came outside and we saw a crumpled up patrol car (it hit the pole) next to a crumpled up black mustang with a bald young man inside. the engine of the patrol car was on fire, not the mustang. the fire was put out by us with fire extinguishers before the fire dept. even got there.

i watched them pull the boy from his car - he was bloody and limp. my neighbor got his camcorder. the officer in the article indeed tended to the driver, but did not pull him out of the car - ems did, securing him on a board, a bloody oxygen mask over his face.

very weird. why was i outside when it actually happened? maybe i'll write about it someday.

Drool on the Pillow

v (not to be confused with b, or the old television program about reptilian aliens, or the movie with bald natalie portman, or this) has joined our blog ring and chosen this week's topic: guilty pleasures.

the first thing that comes to my mind is, of course, miller's cheese fries. but i don't actually feel guilty after i eat them. just happy. sometimes a little sick. i suppose the same goes for any food indulgence. i perhaps get a pang of "i shouldn't have eaten that" but rarely is this a guilty feeling. unless i stole the food from someone else, but i don't steal food. just rocks and lamps. sometimes pepper grinders.

i do however feel somewhat guilty after a nap. oh, i know, that isn't the forbidden fruit you were hoping for, but i love naps like linus loves his blanket, like edmund loves his turkish delight, like mr. krabbs loves money. sometimes i think i could sleep all day. for this, i feel guilty.

there are so many things to be done, so many responsibilities pulling me every which way, when i give myself an hour or two to indulge in a nap, i rise disoriented, frustrated that i have wasted time, and my list begins to weigh on my chest. things are dirty. children have homework. i have homework. things should be sent off for publication. today, i needed to go to the library but i instead raced home to grab an hour on my couch before i had to resume responsibilities. where is the alison winter book i desperately need? at the library. do i feel rested? not really.

in my defense, i don't sleep well at night. but lots of people don't sleep well at night. do they sprawl out on their office floor at the college of engineering while on the clock? keep a red squishy pillow on their office desk? drool all over b's couch? i can remember naptime in kindergarten when i was forced to lie down for half an hour on a cot but i never could sleep. how foolish i was to not appreciate the golden opportunities of my youth.

that was exhausting. i think i'm going to go lie down.

MAKE IT STOP!

since the week's theme has not expired yet, i have something new to add.

currently, i am sitting at my desk trying to read for my class at 12:30. danielle is conferencing, mya is writing, katie is loitering. a car alarm outside (a repetitive honk) has been going off for about twenty minutes now. sometimes it stops, and we sigh in relief, then it starts back up again. WTF?

we did make up a dance to the noise. we call it "honking the horn."

sarah has noticed that the po-po are on the scene. we are looking out the window, watching them helplessly inspect the car. one has left a note on the windshield on a torn out piece of notebook paper. it has now taken three police officers to realize that it is indeed a car alarm.

the owner has now gotten in his gray sedan - an uncrippled frat boy with a buzz cut. the po-po may have determined that he is indeed not handicapped. the po-po are now conferencing at their suv while the non-handicapped driver waits in his now silent car. the shorts-wearing po-po is on the cell phone.

they gave him back his license and confiscated his handicapped parking pass. this is so much more exciting than the moonstone.

Ghost Riders

b's topic this week: things that piss me off.

this could be a series.

so who are the ghost riders and why do they frustrate me so? the ghost riders lurk in the halls of the williams building, particularly on the first and second floors. i have a feeling that they have returned in a ghostly afterlife after some kind of untimely death in an elevator shaft, or possibly after dying in a fire while trapped in an elevator. their mission: to piss me off.

i should first say that i am primed to be pissed off when i encounter the ghost riders and their shenanigans. typically, i am out of breath and in a hurry, having just walked 1-2 miles from my car with my 84 pound backpack on my shoulders. there are no lights above the ground floor elevator, so i have to lean my ear close, listening for movement, anticipating the arrival of the slothful transportation device. finally, when the doors open, i step inside and press "3" to get to my office where i will finally be able to dump my burdensome crap and pee.

the elevator takes off like a clunky old car, slowly climbing the shaft, and i say, "please don't ding, just keep going," but the ghost riders know this. they like to torment me. it is the only pleasure they have. the elevator stops on the first floor. the doors seem to take forever to open. no one is there. i frantically press the door close button, to no avail. i wait for the ghost rider to board and get his kicks. second floor. same thing.

so what seems like two hours later, the two ghost riders and i disembark on the third floor, and stumble into the bathroom where they forget to flush. yes, that's them too.

Everything's Yellow

if pollen were pixie dust, i could fly instead of having red eyes and a throbbing headache. my van could fly too.

why, flowers, trees, nature, in the peak of your beauty, do i suffer so?

Now I'm Depressed

i'm very sad today. but emma did finally get to dress up like molly brown and give her presentation.

so, who's up next? i'm ready for a new topic. and, do we have a new blogger/bloggers??

i knew it was only a matter of time. it was going to happen sooner or later. this week, it did - per sandra, the theme is SEX.

This Little Piggy

i understand why toes are called piggies. but why the market? why roast beef?

looney tunes characters were fond of this rhyme, like when sylvester the cat is hanging onto a clothesline by one foot, and tweety plays this little piggy until, "oops! ran out of piggies!" but the thing never changes. toes two and four always get screwed.

continuing in my celebration of feet, i would like to liberate toes (piggies) from their boredom and create a new mad libs version of "this little piggy" for all to enjoy.

this little piggy went to (place);
this little piggy (past tense verb) all night;
this little piggy drank (alcoholic beverage);
and this little piggy saw (excellent band) in concert;
and this little piggy went "(expletive, plural noun)" all the way to (exotic place)!


play along in a comment, if you like. your piggies will thank you.

Feet, Part 1

one way to celebrate this too often scoffed at body part.

Just Kick Me While I'm Down

when i put emma to bed, she feebly asked me to cross out today on her kitty calender. this is what i saw. she marked it as soon as she got the assignment.

will she get over it? she already has.

will i? never.