Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Worth At Least 4,000 Words
I have always been a proponent of the economy of visual images over words. Here is an illustration of that: a series of pictures taken on our first day at the beach. (These photos are in the original chronological order.)

"What's that, Daddy?"


"I'm outta here!"


"What the ----!"


"I hate the beach. I HATE the beach!"

 
posted by Abigail Prescott at 3:54 PM ¤ Permalink ¤ 0 comments
Friday, June 23, 2006
Memphis vs. New Orleans
As my first official "post vacation" installment, I thought I might ruminate on the apparent differences between these two Old Man River-side cities.

We stayed in NOLA two years ago on our way down to Florida (pre-Katrina). I really enjoyed our time there, so I never thought I would -- two years later -- feel a little gypped about it.

But at least one aspect of Memphis leaves New Orleans in the dust!

We got into Memphis about 8 PM Thursday night and checked into our hotel downtown (Residence Inn Marriott, in case you care). The hotel was lovely but the service, ahhh, the SERVICE.

Granted, we were upgraded from our studio suite to a two bedroom/two bath suite (thanks, I think, to being a Marriott Rewards member) which was crazy-fabulous. I admit that this did buy my affections somewhat.

But even so, the hotel staff was winningly courteous, too. Even the valet that helped us unload -- and then cart around -- a truly ridiculous amount of luggage and baby gear was sweet as pie. The kitchen staff serving a really great breakfast buffet (free) was friendly and accommodating. The housekeeping staff was nice, too.

We had dinner at Rendezvous. The food was great and the service equally so. Our stay was brief but everyone we encountered was just so darn friendly! Honestly, I checked out feeling like the Queen of Memphis.

Now by contrast, I can't say that the people in New Orleans were rude. Not exactly.

Our stay there was also downtown, also in a Marriott (not a Residence Inn, though). But when we checked in, the valet parkers loaded our bags, gave us a claim check and just disappeared with a cartful of our stuff. Hmmmm. Scary.

But more to the point, everyone in NOLA barks. Directions, instructions, reproofs, compliments. Everything is barked, tossed over the shoulder like people are too busy to really talk to you. And these are the folks in the "service industry."

Again, nobody was really rude. But by contrast, the Mempheans we dealt with were . . . solicitous. Ready to help and all with a smile.

I understand that tourism is/was big business in the Big Easy, so maybe after a while, the attitude toward the hordes gets casual and jaded. Still, I have to say that Memphis has a leg up on getting my wallet back into town.
 
posted by Abigail Prescott at 9:06 PM ¤ Permalink ¤ 0 comments
Sunday, June 11, 2006
A Fiction Find
It is a rare repository of fiction that contains the early, unpublished works of a literary genius. Luckily, my personal library IS such an institution.

I hope you enjoy the following nugget of budding literary talent, circa 1988. Although I have done some minor editing for the sake of readability, the work is included in as pristine a state as possible.

Publisher's Note: I am NOT the author of this work. "Marla Jenkins" is the one-time pseudonym of a talented writing duo who shall remain anonymous unless and until I am granted disclosure rights from at least one of them.

Further Note: There is an extant sequel to this gem, to be published as soon as it is recovered from the archives.

-------------------------

My Teacher Was In Love With Me
By Marla Jenkins

Jason Simpson was so handsome with his long, flowing, black, ugly, putrid, greasy, stinky, zitty beard. Almost from the first day that I took his algebra class, I knew he was the only man for me. I was lonely that year, my first year at SHS (Stinker High School). I was a senior, but I was twenty-four because I had flunked first grade six times. Jason was 30, probably fresh out of college.

That first day, I didn’t look forward to taking algebra. I was never good at math anyway. I especially didn’t want to after I overheard Beth Jacoway telling everyone (except me) that the Algebra 3 teacher was a dweeb.

The bell rang and so I reluctantly picked up my books after dropping them for the fourth time that day and headed for the classroom. I found only a front seat left and plopped into it, some of the multiple folds of fat on my body sagging over the edge of the tiny chair.

I sighed, dreading the math that was to come next. But as Jason’s broad shoulders carried him in through that door, I knew Beth Jacoway was wrong.

He was hideous.

I looked him over from head to toe. About 6”4’, he had a head of long, dark, greasy hair, which looked like it had never been washed. Huge red zits speckled his face, accentuating each and every curve of his dopeish features. A long, rough beard, all matted and torn, covered his neck. Broad but wimpy shoulders topped a skinny chest from which weak, bony arms hung. His legs were long and gangly, but surprisingly, hairless. He had humongous, gigantic feet. He was wearing elevator shoes, but I could tell that his feet were about a size 27.

I moaned. He was gorgeous. I moaned again. No wedding ring! Once more, I moaned. This was almost too good to be true!

Everybody looks back at me like I am honkers or something. But it’s only normal; I am. Jason looks up and smiles. I smile back.

He calls roll and then opens his briefcase. Actually, it is a child’s suitcase with a picture of a little boy with a suitcase. Big, bright letters say, “GOING TO GRANDPA’S”.

Then he introduces himself. “My name is Jason Simpson.” He smiles again. “But you can call me Jason.” Next he shuts the door and starts the class.

Jason didn’t know how to do algebra, as he told me later, so he just wrote a bunch of numbers, letters, and signs on the board and told everybody: “Due Wednesday.” However, I’m not sure he knows what “due” means or what day of the week Wednesday is. But I don’t blame him, I don’t either.

Later after class, I went up to him.

“I like your shirt,” I say, pointing to a white garment with a bold black and red Mickey Mouse emblazoned on it.

“Oh, yeah, thanks.” he says.

I ask him what college he went to.

“Herman’s Hillbilly School for the Furthering of Ignorance.” I’m told.

“Say, are you free Friday night?” he asks.

This is the moment I’ve been waiting for, I think. “Boyohboyohboyohboyohboy! ! !“ I manage.

“Well?” he queries.

“Oh! Oh Yes ! Oh! Oh Yes ! Oh! Oh Yes!” I go into hysterics.

“Great. Would you like to go fishing?”

“Yes!!!” I’m melting now.

“Then how does 4:30 sound?”

“Groovy!”

“Then 4:30 it is.” he tells me. “What’s you’re address?”

“921-A Scooby-Doo Plaza.” I hand him a card with my name, address, and phone number printed on it. We desperate girls go to great measures to ensure dates.

I rush home (my apartment), grab my welfare check and run to my car. I open the door and it falls off my car. I jump in and gun it all the way to the mall. On the way I get a ticket but I don’t care. I also hit another car, but a ‘61 Studebaker takes a lot of abuse.

When I get to the mall, I run into the store, pick the first formal dress I see, make sure it is the right size (it is, I’ve learned to shop in the PLUMP section). I hurriedly undress in the middle of the store and change into the dress.

I get some very weird looks and a saleslady says, “We have dressing rooms for your use.”

The dress is very pretty. Soft folds of lemon-colored taffeta drape over the shapeless mass of flesh and fat that I call my body. A pretty tulle bow highlights the scooped neckline. I tell the saleslady that I’ll take it and reluctantly change back into my rags in the dressing room.

It is two hundred dollars, which is my whole welfare check, which is all that I have to live on, which is important. But I do need a dress, I think, remembering that the only clothes I own are the ones on my back.

All week, I am impatient for the day of Jason and my date. I do all sorts of things to improve my appearance. I even take a bath.

When I woke up Thursday, I was very happy. I looked into the mirror and a huge, pus-filled zit was on the very tip of my nose.

At four-thirty, Jason picks me up. He is so perfect for me, I could cry.

We ride to Lake Dumpwater. Jason flips on the radio. He hums to the beat of a kicky song and taps his hand on the dashboard in rhythm to it. Then he closes his eyes and hums a few bars of the song. We are almost at the lake. Jason, his eyes closed, lands us in the lake with surprising accuracy. We get out, wet and push the car on shore to dry.

Jason pulls out a rag-tag pole and sticks it in the lake. We don’t catch anything. I fall in twice.

We’re done fishing, so Jason asks me if I’d like to go to a nearby bar he knows of. “Yes,” I say.

We ride to the “Paradise Bar” and he is trimming his beard in the mirror with a razor. The interior of his Gremlin, now dry, is plush with green & purple polka dots. His license tag says: “W I E R D 0”.

Now Jason is shaving his legs. He cuts himself and swears. I laugh and he punches me in the eye. Then he laughs.

We arrive and go inside. I order a quadruple-strawberry-whipped-cream-banana-blueberry-chiffon-double-lemon-triple-raspberry-quintiple-pineapple-octuple-orange-diet-cola-grape-gooseberry-virgin daiquiri. For the both of us.

We talk about school, friends, music, jobs, houses, our city. Halfway through the date, Jason hands me a wilted, drooping dandelion. It was so sweet. So I cry, bawl, blubber, pout, weep, sob, snivel, whimper, and otherwise burst into tears. Then Jason starts to cry.

Finally, stifling a sob, Jason pulls out a ring; you know, like the kind you get from gumball machines. He slips it on my left ring finger, then says, Will you marry me?”

I tell him coolly, “Will you excuse me for a minute?” He nods and I leave the room.

I give a bloodcurdling, terrifying, wrenching scream. Then I come back and tell him yes.

I sit back and enjoy my daiquiri, content that one day, Jason and I will be in a rest home, drooling all over each other.
 
posted by Abigail Prescott at 8:51 PM ¤ Permalink ¤ 0 comments
Friday, June 09, 2006
Online Art

I don't profess to be very knowledgeable about art but I DO like exploring it online. One of my favorite "web finds" was the Art Renewal Center.

http://www.artrenewal.com/

They have a huge number of works online from just about every artist I've ever heard of. Not only can you view very nice, full-color files of the major masterpieces, you can see many minor sketches and studies by the artists. (You can also copy the files from the site -- very unusual for an art website.)

This painting is by Giovanni Boldini of Consuelo Vanderbilt, the Duchess of Marlborough, and her son, Ivor. Consuelo has a fascinating history that I am currently researching for a possible writing project. I loved this painting of her and that lead me to look at, and be delighted by, some of Boldini's other works on ARC.

If you're an art fan (or aspire to be one), you might enjoy the site, too.
 
posted by Abigail Prescott at 9:14 AM ¤ Permalink ¤ 0 comments
Monday, June 05, 2006
Safety Advisory
Several months ago, Lori Fulbright from the local news spoke at the Junior League General Meeting about personal safety. She's the lady who usually interviews local crime victims and has "compiled" their stories into lots of really good safety tips.

One of the things she said that stuck with me is that the place to really be on your guard is the grocery store parking lot in the afternoon. Since most people there are busy, distracted and in a hurry, they make easy targets for criminals. Sounds bogus, right?

Well, Griffin and I went to the grocery store today to grab a few necessities and arrived just in time to witness a purse-snatching. Here's how it went down:


I pulled into my parking spot right next to an elderly lady who was packing bags in her car, getting ready to leave. I hopped out of my car and went to the back seat to get Griffin.

As I was backing out of the car with Griffin in my arms, I saw that I was blocking the way of a young man pushing the elderly lady's cart toward the cart corral. I noticed that the cart still had a purse in it but my first thought was: "Oh, that nice Walmart employee is helping her load her car."

Yes, I AM that naive. (It should be noted at this point that the lady and the young man were not of the same race. However, in AbbyLand racial utopia is a realized fact.) Anyway...

I excused myself and moved out of the young man's way. As I was heading for the store entrance, I heard: "You come back here!" I turned around and, sure enough, the young man was sprinting across the parking lot with the lady's purse tucked under his arm.

The victim hopped in her car and gunned it out of the parking lot after the crook, scaring Griffin half to death. (She didn't catch him and came back a few minutes later.)

I called 911 on my cell phone [Sidebar: I wasn't sure if this would work on a cell phone, but cool-o, it did!] and gave the police a description of the young man, the direction he was headed, my information, etc.

The police asked me if I could wait for an officer and give a statement. It took almost an hour but I did the "good citizen" bit and gave them what I think was a very good description of the "perp" -- I was surprised how much I managed to see in that one glance. (Thanks to another Lori Fulbright tip about learning to really LOOK at people around you so you could describe them in an emergency.)

Anyway, chalk one up for Lori Fulbright. She has posted her safety tips online:

http://www.kotv.com/special/safety-tips/

These include tips you have probably never heard of before, so I consider them recommended reading!

 
posted by Abigail Prescott at 3:07 PM ¤ Permalink ¤ 1 comments
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Where do they dredge up these people?
I'm sure you all have heard about this "pastor" who leads the Kansas "church" that is always picketing with the "God Hates Fags" signs.

http://www.tulsaworld.com/NewsStory.asp?ID=060604_Ne_A7_Onema4256

As if the story isn't enough to give people nightmares, the photos are beyond disturbing.

I'm trying to figure out how people can, according to them, study the Bible and still get it completely wrong. Creepy.
 
posted by Abigail Prescott at 11:09 PM ¤ Permalink ¤ 1 comments
Thursday, June 01, 2006
A Message for a Special Someone
To the bilious incompetent who spit out his gum in the parking lot of the Donaldson Station Post Office:

You MORON. How brainless, how obtuse, how lazy does one have to be to disregard the most basic tenet of human culture — "throw your gum in the trash"? I'm sorry but we're trying to have a society here.

Yes, I "found" your gum. I was lucky enough to step in your enormous wad of masticated chicle and get it all over my favorite leather sandals.

To the good fortune of all — particularly my young son — I managed to confine my immediate utterances to: "Stupid idiot. STUPID IDIOT!" Yes, that is YOU.

The afternoon sun had managed to bake your refuse into a superhuman substance totally impervious to Kleenex, cardboard and every other material with which I tried to wipe it off.

Thanks to your consideration, I was privileged to interrupt my errands and drive all the way home again to change shoes, the entire car fouled by the noisome pestilence of asphalt-baked spearmint. Delightful.

In case you think this is an isolated incident, let me remind you that we have met before.

YOU are the person who fails to flush or wipe the seat in public bathrooms. The person who tests cosmetics at the store and then puts them back on the shelf for other people to buy.

You take up two parking spaces everywhere you go. You cough and sneeze in public without covering up. You never signal, you never look before you merge.

You never think about anyone but yourself.

Lucky for you, I don't believe in Karma. If I actually thought it existed, I would console myself with the knowledge that, next time around, you would be duking it out for seniority with the lowest forms of microscopic life.

Instead 0f Karma, I believe in a benevolent, forgiving God who welcomes even the most heinous of repentant sinners into His glory.

But in the meantime, until you 'fess up, I am satisfied that God (who is also JUST) will be using your own selfish, ignorant, uncivilized, morally-bankrupt, ego-driven actions to make your life in sin a sheer misery.

So here's to you, buddy! May the joy you've given us all return to you ten fold.

P.S. The next time you run out of toilet paper in a public bathroom, all I have to say is: GOTCHA.
 
posted by Abigail Prescott at 1:40 PM ¤ Permalink ¤ 1 comments