fat's not ugly when it's tan

I have a couple of words of conflicting advice for you honeys about summer fun,

1) wear sunscreen. you don't want to end up leathery when you're old

2) fat's not ugly when it's tan

See kiddos, life is about balance.

(remember my addage "1 margarita, 2 margaritahh, 3 marsgatittaz, floor." You can do too much of a good thing)
...And watch out for sand in those delicate places. Nothing ruins a good time like a bad rash.

farmers markets...

Today, I got in my hybrid and I drove to the farmer's market. I felt like I was saving the world and making it a better place with every mile I drove. When I got there I realized it wasn't exactly my scene. I stepped in dog poo. I forget earth-lovers are also typically dog lovers who feel the need to bring said dogs everywhere hence leaving doggy presents for farmers market shoppers.

I bought some delicious bread for $5, though I would have paid $10 to have the lady selling to me shut the hell up. These folks are proud. Then I got some zucchini for a salad I plan to make sometime in the future. I find it is best to have aspirations and I couldn't leave with just a loaf of bread.

I ran into a friend and met her sister who was with her. They suggested I try the local pop cycle stand. It is at this point I made a tragic mistake by not understanding my environment...I told them that I had been to Whole Foods the day before and a chicken breast was $7. YES, one breast was $7- because it was $12/lb. I explained how ludicrous this was to me when hippie sister chirped up- " Did you see FOOD INC. ... It will make you understand why the chicken is worth it." SO, I replied, "yes, I did and those chickens should have been nominated for an Oscar. We always overlook poultry talent." My line bombed. I had to recover so I said, " I should have known the chicken would cost that, I'm sure it was prepared by someone with an MBA." She smiled but I could tell she didn't enjoy me. White people often enjoy jokes about higher education.

Note to self: remember audience

a word about Elizabeth Taylor

It's been a while since I've posted. I always say, if you don't have anything good to say shut the hell up. But, recently, I find myself thinking about Elizabeth Taylor...

All my life I idolized Liz Taylor. I found her to be the most glamorous and beautiful woman ever, ever, and still. I fantasized about meeting her. I was genuinely sad to hear of her passing but I was shocked just last week to see her home.

To me Liz was IT. She was old hollywood elegance. I wanted to live like Liz. Hell she was sassy, respected, notorious, did I say glamorus? She was one hell of a humanitarian and she knew how to party. To me, Liz lived like Liz and no one else. Hell she had to get her hips replaced and I think we all know why.

Now recently, her home has been put on the market and all my ridiculous notions of how Ms. Taylor lived have been rocked. I always imagined Liz to live in some huge-gantic Bel Air spread. I pictured cream colored stucco and a vegas sized fountain. I had read her house had Israeli guards, which is/was true. But the house itself is a large sprawling ranch. Yes, Liz Taylor lived in a ranch home. Don't get me wrong... it looks lovely and down right homey. It's nothing like I had anticipated. I pictured formal and intimidating and fancy for Christ sake. Imagine all those diamonds in a rancher! The Maybach looks so out of place in front of that house.

But the truth is, it was a home. So, I'm impressed. Here you have a woman who could live anyway she wants and she lives comfortably. It really changed my outlook on life. All this time, I was aspiring to Dynasty when comfort was the way she lived. Goes to show you... you never know.

Now for a little bit I read on the interwebs... Some kid said he went to ET's house once:
"I had been an art student and visited museums and my university often had these amazing rare collections on loan from the "Rich Mr. Smith collection" or the " Rich- this or that foundation" always displaying a very impressive name of some rich family. But from time to time there were some marked anonymous. I guess the owners wanted to be private. Well once I went to visit Ms. Taylor's residence, actually to return a painting that was on loan and having no idea whose home I was entering... and I saw several paintings that were... anonymous's. So I was excited to meet her. Elizabeth had to sign the paperwork and I said it is so nice to meet you- "you're anonymous!"

the truth about Cicadas

Down here in the South, we're all getting used to our unwelcome house guests, the cicadas. My suster told me a lot of you childrun don't know what a cicada is, she said some of you might think it's the name of the local drag queen. But, in fact, it's just a bug. It's not a particularly pretty bug and I would say it's a kin to a locust. Maybe like your cousins you don't talk to except when you see them at Thanksgiving or Christmas... the ones you won't friend request on facebook because you don't really get to pick your relations.

I digress... these ugly ass bugs are not that different than you and me. They live under ground for something like 13 years. Then the come up out of the ground and mate and then they die. Well honeys, I lived practically under ground for 21 years, came out, got screwed and now I'm just passing time. But these nasty things don't pay rent, leave their shells all over the place like your in - grate children leave they clothes out all the damn time and you haven't even paid off the Macy's card before they done gone and runned 'em.

Back to the bugs, they just damn nasty. They make a lot of noise at night, again, much like a teenager... but then after 4-6 weeks they are gone... for 13 more years. And we are left to pick up the mess, the dead bugs and the endo skeletons not to mention they produce droppings. It's just not hygentical. I know it's not a word but bugs don't have hygiene - have you ever seen a cicada in CVS? I don't think so.

So the best I can tell you is this, just shut the hell up and deal with it. Pass the time with a mint julip or a nice bubbly white wine cooler or something. It's just going to be Spring this year, but for cryin' out loud wear socks, because that crunch is just not a good sound.

a shout out for shout's sake

I wrote this letter to the owners of the real estate company who just handled my house buying and selling. I like this letter and I hope you do, too:

Dear Ms. & Ms. Real Estate Mavens,
You know how people always write a letter of complaint when they don't like something, or they get bad service? Well, I think it's just as important to write and let you know how wonderful and fantastic my experience was with your company, in particular working with agent Elaine. I met Elaine when she answered the door to show me my new-soon-to-be-home at Charlesgate and it was just like seeing an old friend. Old in this case refers to length of acquaintance rather than age. Elaine was so friendly, I felt like I knew her my whole life... and she didn't have to sell me much on the house, however she did have to deal with me on the purchase. And, deal she did. She even played hide and seek with my nephews during the inspection. Then, after selling me that house I decided to let Elaine list my other house on Copeland. Let me tell you, even prior to getting the listing that woman worked! She sent over potential buyers and builders to check out my house. My house was no million dollar listing but I felt like it. Elaine is just charming. Who else can tell you that your wallpaper is ugly and you laugh? She even gave me a punch list and it didn't make me want to punch her. She even brought over her own flowers and white bath towels, which we are sure closed the house. Seriously, when we were selling she was a rock star. The house was under contract in two days. Best yet, she got the buyer up on price even when I was yelling through the phone, "let's just take it, let's go with it, I'll sign the damn thing." And, thank God she did because I needed that money on the back end after inspections. Listen, I negotiate with people for a living, but Elaine had be wrapped around her finger the whole way; this as you may imagine is no easy feat. I know I'm just gushing about Elaine and she is kind of a shy person but, come on, she sold the house in two days and got me top dollar in this market- she deserves some sort of a shout out. So, I just wanted to make sure you ladies know how special she is and how much I adore her. More over, I want you all to know how much I appreciated the whole ease of this transaction. Tonight, as I sit back with a glass of wine (or three) I take a breath and realized just how fast and how amazingly well this whole process went. You have no idea the sense of relief I feel, and it's more than the merlot talking. I was prepared to wait out a tough market, maybe lose some money, or worst yet... rent my house out. Can you imagine me as your landlord? That couldn't end well. I can't thank Elaine enough. My family and friends can't thank her enough because they would have had a hard time if that place sat empty dealing with my emotions. I don't know if there's something special in way of recognition you can offer Elaine, maybe a corner office, a trip to the bahamas, nominate her for realtor of the year, or get her an assigned parking spot. Or maybe you can embarrass her by reading this inappropriate email at her sales meeting? It's really kind of a love letter, isn't it? My only regret is that I don't have another house to sell, but give me a little time.

Yours,
Brian Barry
the happy homeowner

easter is scary

As a child Easter always scared me. Granted, I always found solace in the candy. We'd go out to my great uncle's farm and hunt for eggs. There were tons of people there and lots of cousins whose names I never learned. I hated them. They were competition. There was one golden egg, a spay painted hosiery egg with a $20 bill in it and it was mine. I won it most years because my grandmother would take me right to it. I got it honest, what can I say? Get the damn money, you can buy your own candy... she always mentioned that between cigarettes.

Besides that, Easter made me nervous. We'd go to the church for sunrise service. My first memories were getting to the church while it is dark out waiting for the zombie Jesus to arise. I know that's not exactly how it is, but that is how I remember feeling. I even hated dying eggs, (1) what a mess and (2) eggs break, who needs that added stress.

Today my favorite part of the holiday is the Reese's peanut butter chocolate covered eggs. Actually, the best part of the holiday is when they go on sale. I'm stress eating a bag right now... much love.

on moving... ( an essay)

For those of you that don't know, but do care, I recently moved. It has consumed nearly every moment of every day of my life for the last month. You would think that a single person, living alone, wouldn't have all that much to move. When I tell you that I only moved one half mile away, just a few streets away you might poo-poo my move. But, let me tell you sister friends, it has been a feat of misery and patience. The actual process was quick and almost painless, almost too quick. In two days I had an offer. In another week I had an inspection report and a demand for concessions on the offer. I was sure, and I think I still am, that it was the right thing to do.

Why did I move, you may ask? I have no earthly idea. I think the only reason is because I felt like it. My old home was perfectly lovely and it was me. I had redone almost everything in the damn thing but I wanted a change. Have you ever had on your favorite outfit and thought, I really wish I had on something else? People say, " you look good in that," so you wear it everywhere you go because it makes you look thin, or it distracts from your double chin, or it has a forgiving waistline... that was my house. That little cottage became a part of me and my identity.

My identity needed to change. I wanted a more grown up house, and I got one. It was so exciting, well it was exciting until my furniture showed up and I realized I had to get all new stuff. To continue an already beaten to death analogy, that same good looking outfit- I out grew it. But, I tried to wear it with bigger pants and it didn't work. They don't make Spanx for your new house- they make TJ MAXX. So, I digress.

The thing I didn't account for was the move. I moved out and left the house staged. This is so that the house looks like someone lives there. Only not a normal someone, someone who is extremely neat and clean with very little belongings and perfect accessories. Well, mine was half assed but the damn thing sold in two days. So, I was beside my self happy. Still, I continued a few days to live in the new house with very little furniture. For a month I've been using empty boxes and side tables with lamps. I look like a refugee who fled his homeland with only lamps and flat screen televisions strapped to his raft. It was sad.

The first move wasn't bad, it's the second move. This time I have to pack all the things that weren't important enough to move the first time. Some of you might call this trash. It's the stuff in the closet you don't wear, or the things in the attic you don't really need or remember. But, to me, these things are memories. It feels really good to purge. I think that means to get rid of old clothes, but it may mean when you lie to a judge on the stand. Either way, it feels really good. But as I emptied the house, it felt sad. I felt so strange, like a part of me was going away.

A house is a structure, a building but it is part of you. Everything I see in the attic makes me wonder why I kept it and then I think of the memories. I fear getting rid of the item is like throwing away those old memories. An old desk chair reminds me of school and more innocent times. I have an old wreath my grandmother made and a lamp that was a hand-me-down that reminds me of my parent's first house. I am sentimental, but I don't want to end up on Goddamn Hoarders.

So, I toss most of the stuff, and save a few things to clutter up the new house. I've been going over almost every night and getting a few things. I have real A.D.D. about the move. I go from one room to the next taking one or two things, never finishing the task. I realized today, after having done this for a month that it is because I'm not ready, just yet, to let go of the house. It still feels like home, and I am worried I'll forget the memories. It's corny to say but it is true like that country song. There's something about your first house, it's just always your first house.

Your home is where your babies were raised. Hell, it's where your babies are made. Everywhere I look I remember something or someone in that house. I resent that someone else will be painting over my memories and if they decide to tear it down I might actually fall apart. Today, I was in the house for probably the next-to-last time and it all seemed different. The furniture's all gone, my hot tub and patio furniture are gone so the yard looks bare, it all seems different now. Then I looked at the walls where the pictures had hung, nail holes and scratches now proudly show how careless I hang art. It was then that I realized this isn't my house anymore, it's scratched walls and faded floors. And, I thought... that bitch better take care of my old house and she better not ask me to fill all these damn nail holes, it looks like somebody had shooting practice with a nail gun all up in here.