Hodgepodge of things to share…

First and foremost, there is a wonderful update by Peter Mayhew about Anissa – she is going home!  That totally made me cry big, fat tears of joy.  Please read the update and pass along the good news in any way you can – on your website, Twitter, Facebook, shouting from rooftops, etc.  We need to spread this – ANISSA IS GOING HOME!

The tweet announcing she’s left the hospital is here. RT that sucker!

Additionally, we need to do everything we can to  help them now, again.  The copays for her outpatient care are $100 a day.  Anything we can donate to The Mayhews right now will be of great help to them.  You can click here to access their Paypal donation page, or click the image below.

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Of much less importance, I have another two posts syndicated at Blogher: Falling Happens, But Jumping Takes Courage and The Not Good Enough Mother.  You may or may not have read them here, but if you have a chance, I’d love for you to check them out and leave me a comment over there.

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I’m also excited to share that I’ve started a new job as Nashville City Guide Editor at The Savvy Source. They are still looking for Editors for other City Guides (you’d provide regular info on preschool-age child-friendly activities in your town) for the following places: Berkeley, Charleston, Chicago, Cincinnati, Cleveland, Halifax, Honolulu, Houston, Indy, KC, Louisville, Memphis, Miami, Minnesota, Northern New Jersey, OKC, Pitt, St. Louis, Toronto, Vancouver. If you’re interested, Tweet @whithonea or email him

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I’m also contributing to Room 704 in its new, monthly format. (Officially, I’m Visual Editor/Cartoonist, but I’m submitting posts, as well.)  Check out the February issue!

Whew.  This really cramps my sitting-on-my-ass-doing-nothing style.

What have you been up to?

Dancing to the beat of my own piercing.

HappyCampers:
“When did you get your nose pierced? Did it hurt a lot?”

Tracy D:
“Does Braden ever try to pull your nose ring out? (Mine does)”

Amy:
“This may have come before me but I want to know the story of the nose piercing. Why? How bad did it hurt? How long do you plan to have it? Is it a problem when you’re sick and all boogery and blowing?”

When I moved to Texas because of a certain person in 2002, I was planning on finding a job working in mental health, or some such job that would allow me to use my psychology degree.  A teaching job at a University or Community College would have been really nice, but that was what we like to call a “fat effin chance.”  Which, by the way, really doesn’t make sense when you think about it.  Because it should be a “skinny chance,” as in slim, as in very little chance. Now I’m annoyed by that phrase.  Great.  Anyway.  There were no new “Soft Sciences” teaching positions being created (and don’t even get me started on how that term irritates the shit out of me) because even way back then, the economy was already heading shit-face first into the fan.

I actually had a job offer at a community college back in NC, but I had to turn it down when I didn’t finish my degree on schedule.  And that?  Sucked.  But it doesn’t pay to keep being upset about it now, so lets move on. (I’ll save it for a day when I’m feeling more bitter and looking for something to bitch about.)

For a couple of months I was just a total, mooching bum.  And I think John was really excited to, you know, have brought the cow home to his pasture without buying it.  So he didn’t really mind putting up with my unemployed ass.  I lived with him and he totally supported me, financially and otherwise.  And from July through October, I was just floating along from day to day, just kind of existing.  I looked into this and that, but nothing good was coming my way.  By October, this and that lookering was getting old.  I was starting to feel a little too much like, what is it they call it? Oh, yeah.

A TOTAL, ASSBAG LOSER.

So I sucked it up and filled out an application at a mall retail store with a referral from a good friend.

Part-Time, Temporary Holiday help, my friends.  That’s what you earn a BA and MA to do.

Riiiight.

By the new year, as I had impressed my boss enough with my immense intelligence and hardworking attitude (or maybe she was just really desperate), I was offered a regular position.

And because I so enjoyed the life of a “mall worker” (John referred to me as such ONCE and ONLY ONCE because he likes his testicles and prefers walking without a limp) I worked diligently and flashed my winning smile at everyone who would look my way.

And when they weren’t looking I ripped and tore at my face, made demonic sounds, and banged my head against the wall in the back room. (If you have ever worked retail, you know that it will drive you to such behavior.)

Long story a little less long, within a couple of years time I moved through the ranks… Part-Time Temporary Seasonal Associate, Part-Time Regular Sales Associate, Second Assistant Manager, Assistant Manager, Store Manager.  (The word “ass” was in a lot of the positions I held.  Mere coincidence.)

During this entire time I had normal, long, brown hair.  Never, you know, purple like it had been years before, or anything like that.  And the thought of a facial piercing or visible tattoo?  A POX ON THAT!  I’d have lost my job.

For almost four years, my appearance was restricted to what my employers felt was acceptable.  And while it didn’t bother me all the time, it nagged just below the surface.  I’d always liked the idea of dying my hair funky colors or someday getting some type of facial piercing.  On top of that, right around the time I started working there, I suddenly developed a piercing allergy in my ears.  I’d been wearing cheap earrings in my ears since I’d had them pierced at age 11. One day when I was 26 my ear-holes started burning, bleeding, and crusted over.  I can’t put anything but real gold there now.  Frankly, I don’t make it a habit to purchase tiny, excessively expensive things.  It’s like BEGGING the universe to just swallow my money whole and then blow a big, juicy STINK BURP in my face. So no more earrings for me.

And I guess you could say the desire to wear a nose gem was intensified by my inability to wear my earrings any longer.

When I found out I was pregnant in February (which would mean leaving work at some point), and shorty after that learned that John was changing jobs and we were moving to another state? (Translation: I was losing my job.) I took it as my chance to FINALLY RELAX.

One of my friends/employees made my hair lovely for me.

First it was orange and red.  Eventually it looked like this, and I maintained it myself.

And then she did the proverbial Hand-Hold-Go-Along trip with me to The Nostril Stabber.

Because I wanted to have a huge, sharp, metal stick jabbed into my face.  I am nothing if not mentally STABLE. But at least I was a little scared of it, so I brought her with me.

Oh, did I mention I was pregnant?  Yeah, I’m not endorsing doing stupid things to your body when you’re pregnant.  (Lecture me about it, though, and I’m going to show you one of my favorite 2 fingers.)

I sat on the edge of a cold metal table; Tasha stood next to me, kind of smirking.  The Nose Stabber positioned himself in front of me, made a mark where I said I wanted the piercing, and then raised a huge sharp stabbing tool at my face.

[Totally sexy, right?  You want one right now.  I can sense it.  Yeah, baby.]

There was a pricking sensation and a bit of pressure.  I waited for the real pain, ready to hold my breath until it was over.

The Nose Stabber stared at me. I looked at him.  I looked at Tasha.

TNS told me it was done.  Huh?

That’s right.  There’s a quick pricking sensation, a bit of pressure, and then it’s over.  And you have a gem in your nose.  And your nose is super sexy and wonderful.

You take care of that bitch with EXTREME CAUTION for the next couple of years because if you don’t, it will hurt like hell.  You AVOID AT ALL COSTS ripping it out of your face with: your shirt, your sunglasses, or your own stupid, flailing hands.

Heh.

You clean it, bathe it with warm salt water, and whisper sweet nothings to it every night at bedtime.  In the morning, you awake and smile at it prettily in the mirror.

And if your husband hates it?  You say, “TOUGH SHIT, BUDDY, THIS IS THE ONE THING YOU MAY NOT HAVE DOMINION OVER.” (Okay, one OF the things.)  And he will get over it.

(And even when he says all wonderful and gushy things like how beautiful your face is without it, you just roll your eyes and tell him that’s great, then, the tiny little gem will not mar your INCREDIBLE BEAUTY AND CLASS.)

The inside of it is a little twirl, like a curved L.  That keeps it in with minimal nostril blockage.  But yes, boogers do sometimes get crusted onto it.  And no, it’s not really all that gross.  You get very used to blowing your nose and cleaning it while it’s in.  I’ve had trouble putting it back in on occasion, but all things in life that are worth it usually require a little extra effort, right?  I sort of believe that nothing worth it is ever easy all the time.

Braden has never snatched at it.  Since he was a little baby I told him what it was, and to be gentle and not pull it, and I let him touch it whenever he wanted.  He often touches it very delicately and says, “Nose tud!” (stud)

One day not long ago, he touched it carefully, and said “Dwum.”  Kids notice the most amazing things.  It does, literally, look like a tiny drum.

And this tiny drum has become as much a part of my face now, to me, as my eyelashes or my freckles.

It’s a little glimmer on the side of my nose that shines even on a day when I feel dull.

It winks in the light even if I’m not smiling.

It’s there every day, unchanging.  Always a source of happiness for me.

Sometimes, that kind of rhythm is better than any beat you can tap out.

I think I left my heart in Austin, TX.

Because every time something reminds me of the time when I lived there, my chest aches.

I miss you, Austin.

I miss the friends I made there. I miss the guy for whom all food is Mexican. I miss the redhead with the unruly toddler who asked me, “did you smell my toot?” I miss the die-hard bargain shopper who loves all things lemon and tea.  I miss the guy who showed me “too many colors!”  I miss the kitchen ninja who made my hair become strands of many hues. I miss that lovely blonde girl who autographed my boobie. I miss the unruly, late-night-TC-eating, prankster.  I miss she of the ripped skirt. I miss them all.

I miss hating, loving, and being challenged by my job. I miss my bosses, my employees, and my customers. (I also kind of don’t miss my bosses or my customers. There were moments, okay?) I miss late night floor changes that made me want to rip my face off, followed by late night drinking with co-workers, where I generally laughed what was left of my face off.  I miss being late to work, because it meant I had a schedule.  I miss being a part of the outside world.

I miss Pastor Jeff and his Hawaiian shirts. I miss how he looks kind of like Phil Jackson, but in a cuddly, teddy bear way. I miss being a greeter at church and holding the door for people. I miss the feeling of being in the place where I was baptised.

I miss our large dog in the backyard who used to chew pieces of our house off when he got bored. I miss the way he was over 100lbs, but The Mexican, at 5lbs, was in charge of him. Because he was a gentle giant.  I miss how when we first got them both as puppies, they drove me crazy until I thought I would rip all my hair from my head.  I miss the way they used to play together and bring me endless joy.

I miss giggling like a school girl, but then kind of throwing up in my mouth a little, as we passed by Hippie Hollow on our way to other spots along Lake Travis. I miss playing at the lake all day and then sipping a margarita on the deck of The Oasis. I miss feeling sun drunk and heady, sitting on that deck, set into the side of the cliff, as I stared into John’s eyes while the sun set over the water right below us. I miss the way they used to ring the bell right at the moment the sun slipped below the horizon, and how everyone in the whole place clapped.

I miss celebrating the sunset with strangers.

I miss living in the house we owned together… young, careless, stupid. I miss late-night partying and reckless behavior. I miss deciding to sleep until noon, just because it felt so cuddly in his embrace. I miss going out just for doughnuts at 2am if we felt like it. I miss taking my youth for granted. I miss being carefree.

I miss my garden. I miss being able to dig up whatever part of the yard I damn well pleased and plant anything my heart desired there. I miss the lime tree I planted just so that I’d never have a Corona in my hands that lacked a lime. I miss living where a lime tree would actually thrive.

I miss Taco Cabana. Whataburger. Kerbey Lane. CHUYS. (I would kill a man with my bare hands right now for that creamy jalapeno dip.)

I miss this guy quite a lot:

More Cory Morrow

I miss bare-foot weather 361 days of the year and more blue skies with puffy clouds than you can dream.

I miss the way you look, the way you feel, and who I was when I was with you, Austin.

I could go on, but what’s the point, really?

I miss you, Austin.

I wonder if you miss me.