Sign my New Year's Slam book

In no particular order or preference, here are some of my memories of the year we just survived.

*Electrelane made the most beautiful song of the year.

* I went to Northampton, England, Steve's hometown to meet relatives. In the 10 days we were there, I never did adjust to the time difference and went home to the hotel every day at 4 p.m., when it was pitch black.

* Steve made his first music video, coinciding with my first stroll along the pebbly shores of Brighton, in the stinging cold mist as the sun set around 3 p.m.

* I had a lot of me time while Steve was out of the country, working at locations on five of the seven continents.

* I celebrated my first wedding anniversary with Mr. Sweetypants and forgot to purchase the single rose I was beholden to give him per our rose ceremony.

* I won an Addy.

* I fought the law and the law won.

* I followed the misguided antics of an online dater who blew my experiences with big losers in my online dating past out of the water, and I worked up the nerve to post Gawker comments.

* Steve and I ripped off the Jesus and Mary Chain in his home recording studio.

* I became a founding member of the Tuesday Night Board Meeting, which makes my week happy.

* I went to Vegas for the first time, then to Pahrump, Nevada, to meet more of Steve's family. Never did acclimatize to the outdoor temperature of 117 F, but I did go to my first brothel.

* Miss Eudora Thunderkiss barely survived anaphylactic shock after getting a distemper shot, but we found a great house-call vet so she never has to have one again.

* I had my dream vacation with my Megafun kids.

*I love this baby.

* I went to my 20-year high school reunion with Steve and April.

* My mama found an alligator in her backyard.

* I still get misty when I think about Freddy Mercury.

* Thaddy Mack/Kristel, Pookie/Tosh, and Roisin/Locke all got married. Buttercup got engaged.

* I got to see my beloved Wolfpack from floor seats then tape Coach Lowe for a work project.

* I got really mad and focused my energy on stopping really bad people.

* Walruses really like buckets.

* I got to sit and listen to Elvis Costello sing "Shipbuilding."

* I got a lot of flack for not having a baby.

* I came to peace with the corporate world.

* I coaxed my parents a few steps forward into the world of Internet commerce.

* I sent a guy to jail.

* I won two out of two games of bingo at the state fair and got a major prize.

* I started a silly blog called "That Girl From Shallotte."

Please leave comments and tell me about your year!

Look forward to reading your comments! Have a wonderful new year filled with silliness and laughter. I'll do my best to help provide it for you.

Love,
Leigh Ann

My sister lost her freakin' mind and moved to rural Vermont

Joshua got a crossbow for Christmas. Banyan got a hatchet and a slingshot. Jill went to the local blacksmith and he smelted them swords.

Weapons of destruction aside, I just used the words "local blacksmith" and "smelted."

Come home to civilization, Laura Ingalls.

Came thisclose to getting a Freddie Mercury tattoo

I remember crying my heart out when he died. Seriously almost got the tattoo, and even today when I hear "Too Much Love Will Kill You," I get misty and think about it. But I now know the pain and expense of having laser treatments to remove poorly considered tattoos.

Remember being a kid and having absolutely no idea what the band name referred to? We used to do the hustle to "Another One Bites the Dust" in sixth-grade P.E.

It's been years since I had a cassette player in my house or car, let alone a turntable, and I had "Killer Queen" on vinyl and "Greatest Hits" on cassette. So when I went totally digital with music and tried to replace my Queen on mp3, I was pissed off to find that the surviving members won't sell to iTunes. I resorted to getting all the songs from Limewire, which really makes me feel guilty so I only use it as a last resort.

Apparently, the latest version of iTunes segregates non-iTunes mp3s and won't shuffle them in a playlist or sync them to iPods.

I went to Barnes and Noble just now and put the gift certificate my boss gave me toward "Classic Queen" on CD. I uploaded it and am now rocking out to "Tie Your Mother Down."

Of all the gay men and rock stars I have loved in my lifetime, Freddie Mercury, 16 years after he left us too soon, still makes my little-girl heart flutter.

Christmas and New Year wishes from me to you

May your Christmas be smiley and your New Year full of fabulous outfits and awesome haircuts.

He fed me and I followed him home

In the first semester of my sophomore year in college, I fulfilled my life's dream of living in London. On the first day of my drama class at the University of London, the professor called the roll. One of the names she called was George Michael. It was 1988, and we all gasped. A boy known as Rex answered "here."

Rexy and I got to talking in the student union cafe a couple of weeks later. He was a member of my college's study abroad program, but we'd never interacted: The majority of us chose to live in flats in central London and partied together, but Rex chose to live with a family way out at the end of the Northern Line. He told me he loved to cook. I had been living on scrambled eggs and soup for a month, and I blurted out, "You should come over!"

The next afternoon, we took the tube back to Queensway and walked around Safeway buying ingredients for lasagna. That afternoon was the first of many times I perched on the front of a shopping cart he was pushing. We spent the night eating, drinking copious amounts of cheap Portuguese wine and laughing. Rex pretty much spent the rest of the semester on the couch of our midtown flat.

After one semester back at Elon, Rexy moved back to Virginia. He'd been kind of floating, changing his major repeatedly and not showing enough interest for his parents to foot the out-of-state tuition. My roommate Kathy and I were sad, but the three of us commuted between Elon and JMU to get together every three months or so.

Rexy at the time was struggling with coming out, and he wasn't fooling anyone with his wallet picture of a big girl who was supposed to be his long-distance girlfriend. In his frustration, he developed a really serious impulse shopping and charging habit. Don't get me wrong, I was on the receiving end of this addiction, and I got some freakin' awesome gifts, and some really strange ones -- including a five-foot-tall Swiss Colony sampler that Kathy and I never did finish -- but I grew increasingly worried about my Rexy.

So when I was about to graduate and had no plan other than to move to Raleigh where my favorite clubs were, I called Rexy (who'd come out by then and was disappointed at our anti-climactic reaction) and asked him if he wanted to come with me. He called me back an hour later and said, "Okay."

Rexy and I moved to a flop apartment not far from the State campus. We stayed there for just over four years. We were poor as paupers and both worked two jobs. Our treat to ourselves about every couple of months was to hit the Sunday Buffet at Golden Corral. We'd wear sweatpants and make a point to arrive during the last hour of breakfast, stuff ourselves, then drink coffee and smoke cigarettes until the lunch spread was served and then force even more food down our gullets. Then we'd go home and lie on the floor of our living room, moaning, sighing and snoring as "Beavis and Butthead" blared on the television.

We fought like cats and dogs, especially at the laundry mat before we were able to get our own washer and dryer. We'd go for days without speaking and then forget why. We both had really bad judgment with our approach to meeting men, and we got our hearts broken more times than I care to remember.

But we also developed a beautiful partnership and took care of each other through some really brutal things. Those stories don't belong here, they're just for Rex and me to block out/savor/learn from.

We split up to go and live with our respective boyfriends in 1995. I lasted four months with mine; Rex and Ray are still together.

Rexy was a bridesperson standing by my side in my wedding in 2006. He escorted my mama in and out, as he is one of her favorite children. Steve asked Rex to sign as an official witness on our legal, North Carolina wedding certificate, and as I watched them sitting there together, signing the most important document in our lives, I wept and made a mental note to myself to tell Rex nothing would make me happier than to sign his someday.*


(Steve and Rex both loved that I captioned this last photo on my personal Facebook album, "She's legally your problem now, Mr. Sweetypants.")

*2019 update: Rex and Ray just celebrated the fourth anniversary of their legal marriage and 24 years together. My heart is full.

Hungry Like the Wolf (pack)

In 1984, my Daddy took me to Greensboro (four hours away) on a school night to see Duran Duran. At that time, I was a Duran Duran-crazed 14-year-old girl who'd never had a boyfriend and believed Nick Rhodes would see her in the crowd and sweep her away to England. My Daddy sat in our seats holding all the Duran Duran merchandise I'd bought with my babysitting money while I ran down to get as close to them as I could. I screamed and cried through the entire show.

Yesterday, I took my Daddy to an N.C. State game and, because of a sponsorship project I did for work, we got to sit at a table on the court, just feet from the basket. We felt like total rock stars sitting there. We could see and hear everything our Wolfpack and Coach Lowe were doing. We both grinned like idiots through the whole game (Steve, who was in the stands, can confirm it) and our hands hurt from clapping.

So I don't know how to compare a 14-year-old girl's complete passion for seeing a poncy British band to a 66-year-old man's excitement at seeing his alma mater team kick some ass from a floor seat. There's no gauge. But I was pretty stoked at both. And I got to share them both with my Daddy.

-----

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Don't judge me too harshly for being sarcastic. Note the "almost" below.


From: (my daddy)
Date: Dec 16, 2007 5:05 PM
Subject: Thanks
To: Leigh Ann Frink

L.A.

Thanks for a wonderful day together Saturday. It's been forty (40) plus years since I've attended a home Pack game. The time with you and the fabulous seats almost made the wait worthwhile. GO PACK!

Love you,

Daddy

Random ridiculous moment at work

So they're repairing the freight elevator at work and have temporarily assigned one of our express elevators as freight-only. This, compounded with the fact that masses of old ladies are going to holiday lunches at the dining club on the top floor, means that the elevators are moving excruciatingly slowly.

I was coming back to the office with my lunch yesterday and had to wait with a huge group of people for the elevator. I knew most of them would be going to floors above mine and that I'd be shoved into the back behind them all, only to have to say, "Excuse me," and elbow my way out. As I stewed on this reality, the crowd around me gathered.

Finally, an elevator arrived. The rest of the crowd and I politely stood away for it to unload. And unload it did.

A drum corps filed out, dressed in full high-school marching band regalia. A drum corps complete with a bass drum strapped to a big kid, a set of quads, and a bunch of kids with snares.

My reaction wasn't, "What the hell are they doing here?" It was, "How the hell did they all fit into this elevator?"

It was like a clown car, I tell you.

The things we do to get paid

I'm not a real employee, but I have to work next Saturday.

Not only do I have to work on Saturday, I have to meet up with my art director and drive all the way across town to the RBC Center, fight the crowds and find a parking place. Then we have to wait around for two hours during some sporting event involving "hoops." Not only do we have to be there, we have to sit in floor seats next to the bench. The company I permalance for doesn't pay for my insurance, yet they'll subject me to the danger of having a sweaty, 7-foot, 200-lb athlete land on me or hit me with a ball. I'm told it's difficult to follow the plays from so close, so I guess I'll take a magazine.

After all that, we have to drive across town to a recording studio and wait around to film a Mr. Sidney Lowe for a promo we came up with. One of our campaign colors is red, so we're going to ask him to wear a red sport jacket. Hope he doesn't mind.

Gah. At least we get to bill.

Walking past the Lincoln Theatre (To Michael)

I do that every day from my cheap parking spot at a church off the beaten path downtown. I always look at the band names on the marquee. 97 out 100 times, I don't know who they are.

The headliner last Wednesday was Hanzel und Gretyl. You prolly don't remember them, but I drug you to see them playing with Sister Machine Gun at that space at Mission Valley well over 10 years ago. Besides us, there were probably 30 other people in the place. Dunno if you can recall that night, but I freakin' loved both those industrial bands and felt really bad for them: Every step they took on that wooden stage resonated through the nearly empty space.

I was probably among 20 people in North Carolina who bought the H+G cd. I lent it to the one I don't care to hear about after we broke up, then bought my own copy back from Record Exchange. I played it tonight for old times' sake.

My God, it was horrible. I mean, the beats are okay, what you'd expect angry-with-no-reason-to-be, bedecked-in-black-clothes-and

-Dr.-Martens kids in the 90s to dance to, but I don't know how people like I was then expected to be taken seriously using that kind of drivel as our mantra.

To wit: "Dysfunction, in the face of chaos! Swallow my fingers, in the face of chaos!

Gah.

Juror number two

I sent a guy to jail today. A skinny, bespectacled 29-year-old father of four with no criminal record. I didn't want to.

The "victim" was twice his size and regularly beat the hell out of his wife, the defendant's sister-in-law. From here on out, I'm going to refer to the "victim" as the plaintiff, even though it was a criminal trial, not a civil one.

The plaintiff started it. He went to the subsidized apartment where his pregnant wife had fled to be with her mother. He hung out in the parking lot drinking with his friend, knowing his wife's family hated him for abusing her. He started what turned into a melee by threatening to kill her sister and the defendant. He tried to knock a baby out of a stroller before grabbing a child's tricycle and swinging it at the crowd with no regard to people's safety.

The defendant, granted, had been drinking, too. He went to his car and retrieved a butcher knife and came back to the fight trying to get the plaintiff to back off. All the witnesses were lying, had a ridiculous number of children, had criminal records and had refused to speak to the police. The only thing I know was true was the plaintiff got poked with a knife and was taken to the hospital by his wife and friend.

Once he got to WakeMed, the staff called the police. The plaintiff was treated for a superficial wound less serious than the one I gave myself a couple of months ago when the screen door hit me. The plaintiff was treated with Bactine (no stitches) and released in just over an hour. The RPD confiscated his clothes, and found in his pocket a dime bag, even though the plaintiff had testified to us that he didn't smoke pot. Testimony showed that once he was released from the hospital, he made his wife take him back to the scene to look for his weed because he thought it had fallen out of his pocket during the melee.

If only the jab hadn't been in the plaintiff's back, I could have voted for acquittal on the defendant's claim of self-defense. I hate that there wasn't a clause for "defense of others," because it seems clear to me that's what he was doing. At the very least, I was able to stand up in the jury room and say, "With intent to kill was not proven and I will not vote for it."

If only the hospital hadn't been required by law to call the police, I could believe ghetto and family justice could have served the plaintiff for all the abuse he inflicted on his poor, young wife. I know that's not right, either, but at least I would have been spared the burden of first-hand knowledge that this world exists, the burden of sending a young man to jail for trying to protect the members of this violent, irresponsible, criminal family he married into from even more violence.

I was heartsick when I left the courthouse. I can't feel bad about doing what I was tasked to do: impartially enforcing the law as it is written. But my heart was heavy with guilt about the things I should be doing for people who didn't get the blessings and opportunities I was born into. I SHOULD be a mentor. I SHOULD go back to school and become a social worker or a teacher at an inner-city school. But I won't do those things. My M.O. is to throw money at things that bother me, so I can say I'll write checks to Planned Parenthood and Interact before tax time.

Will that help? Probably not. And therein lies my shame.

How to charm a Southern, English-major cat lady

I was just listening as Steve spoke with a mobile veterinarian about coming around to look at Eudora's red eye.

Steve: Her name is Eudora, spelled E-u-d-o-r-a.

(pause)

Steve: Exactly as in Welty. That's who she was named for.

After Steve told him that, the vet replied, "Woo! I'm gonna like that cat."

And I'm gonna like this vet.

I've crossed the line and become one of the wacky relatives I blog about.

We had a wonderful Thanksgiving in Shallotte. Daddy made his famous fresh flounder with shellfish stuffing, Aunt Jo brought ham with her wonderful ham gravy and raisin glaze, and Steve made a beautiful apple tart.

After lunch, we put the phone on speaker and called Jill and the boys in Vermont. After we heard, "Hello?" my parents, Aunt Jo, Steve and I shouted "Happy Thanksgiving!" Then we heard a little boy voice ask, "Who is this?"

My mama talked over the rest of us and said, "It's Pops, Tweet, Aunt Jo, Aunt Lee Lee and Uncle Steve!"

After a moment of silence, a grownup-lady voice came on the phone. We all started talking over each other again, announcing Thanksgiving best wishes.

"I'm sorry?" came the reply.

So for what seemed like an excruciating amount of time, we all looked at each other, whispering maybe we'd dialed the wrong number. I can't speak for everyone else, but I was cringing at the thought that we had called the wrong house, and with our accents, we were coming across as a really bad stereotype New Englanders may have of Southerners.

Finally, my mama spoke on behalf of the embarrassed rest of us and said, "We may have the wrong number."

"Are you calling for Jill?," the voice asked.

Thank GOD! Apparently, Banyan had answered, become confused and handed the phone to the nearest adult, one of Jill's houseguests.

Jill found this hysterically funny. So I told her about the flounder, ham and collards we'd just eaten, and she got homesick.

Alzheimers: If you don't laugh, you'll cry

I posted a story about my Grandma, and my goodest buddy Michael mailed me an interesting counterpoint. Of course, as is my rambly nature, I blabbed on and on.

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

Was she kidding? If she was that was BRILLIANT!! If it was the Alzheimer’s talking then unfortunately it was equally as funny.

M.

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


HA! I've never thought about it that way. I think from now on I'll choose to think she was kidding.

It's such a cruel disease when you think about it. She suffered from it for 10 years before she died. But can a person who doesn't know what's going on suffer? Whoa, that's deep.

I remember my mom telling stories about things Grandma said and laughing and I questioned whether or not we should be laughing about them. My mom, in a great sweep of wisdom, told me that we could laugh or cry, and laughing is better.

To wit:

Grandma fell and broke her hip about five years into the sickness. She was being treated at New Hanover Hospital, and was struggling to get out of her bed. My mama was there and tried to restrain her. Grandma asked, "Who are you?" "I'm your daughter," my mama replied. Grandma yelled, "You're not my daughter, you hussie!"

I got to Wilmington the next day. I had no sooner walked into the room when Mama said, "Watch your Grandma," and fled for a break. Grandma asked who I was and I told her my name. She said, "Get my pocketbook, Leigh Ann. Let's go to a restaurant." I was only about 23 at the time and had to explain to her over and over again that her hip was broken and she couldn't get out of bed. "Get my pocketbook, Leigh Ann!" I hadn't wanted my Mama to come save me so badly since I was a little kid.

A couple of years after that, the family briefly placed her in a nursing facility. I went to visit her there. My grandpa had been dead for about 14 years at that point. Grandma didn't know who I was, but she kept asking, "Where's Lee?" I told her I didn't know. Finally, someone (can't remember who) came in and told her that her husband was dead. She started yelling that he wasn't dead and accused her children of burying him alive to take all his money.

Grandma's final three years were spent in a wheelchair in her home in rural Columbus County. Save a break to go to my sister's funeral, where she repeatedly asked, "Where's Amy?" she spent her days in silence. We went to visit her, but the sight of her sitting in silence under the old-school clock, which ticked out every excruciating second, was really hard to bear.

By the last Christmas, when I was 28, she couldn't even swallow water; it had to be mixed with a gelatinous substance so she wouldn't spit it up. She'd lost most of her hair, wore trifocal glasses that magnified her eyes into cartoonish, huge blue circles and had shrunk into a shell of the wonderfully huggable Grandma she used to be. We parked her wheelchair in the center of the living room as we opened presents and she just slumped there until, apropos of nothing, she raised her head, focused her newly clear gaze on me, and declared, "You're too selfish to have young'uns!"

By God, this woman who'd been written off to dementia was dead-on right.
Miss you, Grandma!

Sunday dinner with my grandma

Note to non-Southern friends of LA: In the South, we call the noontime meal "dinner." The evening meal is "supper."

My grandma invited us all over for Sunday dinner after the Alzheimer's had begun to set in, but while she was still coherent enough to engage in social activities and conversation.

The serving style in our family is to lay out the dishes on a counter and serve ourselves buffet-style before sitting at the table. One of the dishes Grandma "fixed" was a casserole. It looked really good, so we all ladled some onto our plates. At the table, someone asked her what it was.

"I'm not really sure," she replied.

Two beats later, she asked, "Has anyone seen Bubba? I can't find that cat anywhere."

GQ Joshua

My nephew Joshua is a fashion plate.

He and I sneaked out of a house full of stressed out/irritable family members when he was five and went to a surf shop over on the island. I bought him his first rash guard and board shorts with skulls. He proclaimed, "I'm hardcore like Aunt Lee Lee!"

A couple of years ago, I called Jill and the boys were fighting. Banyan wanted to wear one of Josh's hoodies and Josh was pulling it away from his brother, screaming, "It doesn't match his pants!"

Joshie's now nine. I talked to Jill earlier and she told me they'd been in a second-hand store a few days ago. Joshua picked out a tweed cap, argyle sweater and solid print wool scarf. He then rolled up his baggy jeans to show off his Chuck Taylors. Some random person said he looked European.

The next morning at the bus stop, this little seven-year-old girl who is totally in love with Josh was admiring his outfit. Joshua casually replied, "I look European."

My Name continually every day is blasphemed (Isaiah 52.5)

This blog was set up for me to tell my silly stories for my own amusement. From the outset, the business plan in my head was to never write about bad things, politics, religion or anything controversial. This is not my soapbox, it's where I unabashedly show my slip.

This entry will be my one exception, only because I feel very strongly about it. I am going to use the names of these people, which will make this entry searchable and open to negative comment attacks. Bring it on, Phelps family. You can't hurt me. I will always use my positive energy, much like the angels in "The Laramie Project," which you inspired and continue to picket, to use my voice for good and to do my best to protect the innocent and grieving from the acid you gleefully try to fling toward their wounds. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lhr96Imua8U)

You claim God hates fags and loves to see a dead soldier. Read your KJV again. "Thou shalt not take the lord God's name in vain." (Exodus 20.7) "Love thy neighbor." (Matthew 5.43) Matthew Shepard, Matthew Snyder and countless others more holy than you whisper back to those they left behind and you tormented the words, "I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me." (Galatians 2:20)

My friends have received the following two posts from me in the last three days.

From: Leigh Ann Frink
Date: Oct 26, 2007 7:28 PM
Subject: Help stop the hatred
To:

Friends of Leigh Ann:

I e-mailed some of you an article earlier today regarding a fallen Marine whose funeral was picketed by the followers of Fred Phelps (If you're unfamiliar and have a strong stomach, see http://www.godhatesfags.com/main/index.html). This young man died serving his country, yet his family and friends, while laying him to rest, were confronted by adults and children holding signs that read, "Thank God for Dead Soldiers," "God Hates Fags," "Semper Fag" ad nauseum.

I waited until I got home to visit Lance Cpl. Matthew Snyder's memorial page to make my donation to the legal fund they've established to bring a lawsuit against Phelps. Like I said earlier, I am not a fan of lawsuits and am saddened by how litigious American society has become, but I firmly believe that the best way to stop these hate-mongers is by attacking their pocketbooks. At least that will cut into their travel budget and spare future grieving families this pain. Matthew's father isn't looking to profit from any of this. All proceeds will be used to cover legal expenses and any extra funds will be used for veterans' scholarships.

Please take a moment to visit http://www.matthewsnyder.org/help.html

Even if you aren't able to make a donation, please use the "Locate your representatives" link and let yours know you support laws to ban protesting within certain distances from funerals. Feel free to use the following as a guideline or cut/paste it outright.

Dear Senator Dole-

I'm writing in support of our fallen soldiers and their families whose grieving has been sullied by the hate rhetoric of members of the Westboro Baptist Church. I strongly support laws to protect against grandstanding by the lunatic fringe at any funeral -- military or civilian -- under the guise of free speech.

Please help us protect heroes from all walks of life from this unnecessary anguish.

-------

----Original Message-----
From: Leigh Ann Frink
Sent: Mon 10/29/2007 7:56 PM
To: Frink, Leigh Ann
Subject: The overwhelming power of one small voice

Friends of Leigh Ann-

I was screening my calls half an hour ago. I listened in real time to a man
with a hesitant, soft, Midwestern accent leaving me this message:

"I hope this is the Frink residence. My name is Al Snyder, the father of the
Marine who was killed. You made a donation to the legal fund and I was
calling to thank you. God bless you. Have a good night."

Through tears, I called my parents and played the message for them. Steve
came in from his workout minutes thereafter. "Honey, you have to hear this,"
I said. Then I hit delete instead of play. Stupid digital technology. Now
it's gone forever.

Steve said, "At least you heard it and he wanted you to know how grateful he
was."

So now I sit here relating it to you and tears are running down my face. I
will never forget the sound of Mr. Snyder's quiet voice. It represents a
voice silenced forever and drives home the point that we can work together
to legally silence the voice of hate.

If you haven't had a chance yet, please visit www.matthewsnyder.org or
www.matthewshepard.org.

____

A lengthy text video, which I find extremely poignant, can be viewed at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BZGKx2pTBQc&NR=1

Here's the scariest part for me. There are only 75 members in the Westboro Baptist Church. Most of them are members of the extended Phelps family. But they seem to have endless financial resources. That means closeted hate-mongerers who would never have the balls to spout this insanity in public themselves are supporting them. Shame them out of the closet by suing to see Westboro's financial records.

--------

UPDATE:

A Baltimore jury ruled the Westboro Baptist Church must pay Lance Cpl. Matthew Snyder's family:

$2.9 million compensatory damages

$6 million punitive damages for invasion of privacy

$2 million for causing emotional distress

Read the full story at http://apnews1.iwon.com//article/20071031/D8SKG1HG0.html

This is only the first step. Appeals will come next. Free speech rights will be challenged. The original compensatory amount exceeded the defendants' assets, so Mr. Snyder won't see even a fraction of it for a very long time.

"Snyder sobbed when he heard the verdict, while members of the church greeted the news with tightlipped smiles."

Whether he gets any money or not, Al Snyder (who called me just two nights ago) can never replace his son, Matthew, but he's used his anguish to prevent future families from going through the same thing. My hat is off to him for fighting this battle. And if he does get money and chooses to create a special room in his house to roll around in dollar bills, I begrudge him not a whit and wish him the very best for making this country a better place.

Thank you to everyone out there who supported the Snyder family and continues to support the Matthew Shepard foundation.

I just tried to see what the defendants were posting on their Web site, but the site was "unavailable or busy."

Now, I can go back to just writing silly observations about the ridiculous situations I get myself into. But I will wear my "Erase Hate" bracelet and continue to do anything I can to stop this nonsense and prevent pain.

Ranidaphobia: The more you know

Defined as "a persistent, abnormal, and unwarranted fear of frogs," each year this surprisingly common phobia causes countless people needless distress. Changethatmatters.com

I am terrified of frogs. No, really. Seeing even a picture of one makes me scream and flee. It's been this way my entire 38 years on this planet. I realize this fear is completely irrational and that the horrible creatures are harmless and possibly won't really attach themselves to my face and suck my eyeballs out, but just because it's never been documented as happening doesn't mean it won't.

My hometown, dear Shallotte, where my parents still live, is a coastal town down in temperate southeastern North Carolina. Frog central. And that's very unfortunate for me and the frogs that I encounter and shreik at when I'm there.

My earliest ranidaphobic memory is from when I was three. My bed was against the wall by a window. I woke up to see TWO hideous green tree frogs stuck to the window pane. On the inside. Four inches from my face. I was so afraid that I couldn't move or even call for my mama. Brrrrr...

Here's the thing: I'm not at all afraid of snakes -- even the ones that could kill me. And my VERY favorite living creatures are alligators. One would occasionally wash up on the beach at home and make the local paper. On our very boring school trips to Brook Green Gardens south of Myrtle Beach, I'd spend the entire time at the pond, looking at them instead of the statues. I remember trying my very third-grade hardest to lure one of the babies to take home with me.

My daddy took us out on the skiff in the Shallotte River once and an alligator that was as long as the boat emerged beside us and hung out for a minute, checking us out. My sisters hid on the floor under the mast, but my daddy and I stood up and watched it.

I just heart them. Even the taxidermied one named Phil that my friends brought me back from New Orleans as a joke. I don't think he's macabre at all. He's awesome and is a member of the family. The coolest member of the family because he's an alligator. And alligators ROCK.

I had this e-mail exchange with my mother today.

----

On 10/24/07, (my mom) wrote:

Hey everyone,

I was walking out to the swing in the back yard this morning and there was an alligator on the brick walk near the fountain. I scared it (thank God) and it turned swishing its tail from side to side and went under the bushes. It was about three feet long. Can you believe there is an alligator in our back yard.

No, I'm not drinking!!!

Ma
-----

From: (me)
To: (my mom)

I am sooooo jealous!!!!!! I want an alligator. Or some of whatever that is you've been drinking.

----

Typos 'R Me

I've been in the words on paper business for 16 years now. No matter how hard you try, how many layers of quality control you have, shit happens from time to time.

Let me just say I HATE proofreading, though I'm glad I could fall back on it for a really good gig. It's hard and tedious and no matter how many mistakes you fix, if one slips through, it's on you. I used to have a photocopied page from "The Handbook of Proofreading" posted in my cube that read: "Never read anything after it's been printed. If there's a mistake, it will be pointed out to you by people whose mistakes you correct every day."

My first job out of college was working for a sketchy vanity publishing company. People paid to have their biographies published in books for a huge fee. While I was there, I wrote about a Dr. So-and-so who was honored for his many accomplishments in public service. And I left out the "l" in public. Fortunately, Dr. So-and-so was from China and the book was only sold to the other 500 people included. And they probably only read their own profiles.

When I was working at the advertising agency, we had a German car account. We were rolling out a new sports car. In the teaser collateral, we used type effects down the sides of the pages. One was supposed to read "Possibilities," but we printed "Possiblities." I wasn't on that press check, thank g-d. The piece is now a collector's item on E-bay.

So today, an AE came around with a bill insert that went to a million customers in Florida. It included an article on how keeping their ducts up to date could save customers money on their bills. Clear as day, in the first paragraph, it read, "Have your ducks checked."

The poor AE was beat-down and terrified. I laughed and said, "I should be fired!" He was scared that his boss would fire him. My boss came around and asked how many people had seen it, when the error occurred, etc. I just said, "It doesn't matter who else was involved. I missed it and it all comes down to me. If you need somebody to go bow down and grovel, well, it's part of my job." She was cool and said, "A lot of people missed it." I replied, "I guess we didn't have our ducks in a row!"

This is the kind of situation that would have made me throw up and not be able to sleep five years ago. Shit happens. You go on to the next task.

Thank you, Lexapro!

Dirty writing

So you know how people finger-write "Wash Me!" on the back windshields of dirty cars? Today, I saw a dirty minivan. A child had scrawled "ABC (something)." Another person had rubbed through "(something)" and wrote "store." Following that, in a third distinct handwriting, was "today."

Look homeward, Angel...

... Even if you can never go home again.

I'm so glad I went to my 20-year high-school reunion. I can't blog about it because it was one of those "you had to be there, had to know the people involved" deals. That, and one of my few ethics is to not write catty things about living people under my real name.

So all I can do to sum it up is blog what I sent to the person who arranged it. Here goes:

Hey Michael-

Please forward this to everybody else who worked on planning the reunion.

I had a blast! It was so great seeing everybody again. Even my poor English husband -- who knew only one person there besides me and comes from a land that has no proms, yearbooks or reunions -- enjoyed himself. It's important that he learns more about my culture. :)

On the drive back today, he asked how I could have moved away because it's such a beautiful place and everyone's so nice. So now, for the first time in years, I'm sitting here in Raleigh feeling a little bit homesick -- but in a good way.

My love/hate relationship with babydoll shirts

I was so happy when babydoll shirts came back into style to replace the belly shirts that have ruled for the past few years. Babydolls show off the boobies then hang loose and freely. I love that they don't cling to my midsection or to my underbra fat.

They do come with an unintentional, unfortunate side effect. They're cut like maternity tops. I've talked to other girls and we can all tell stories about the very bad outcome: People ask you if you're pregnant when you're wearing one.

The very sweet elderly lady who works in my company's cafeteria not only asked if I was pregnant when I was wearing one, she actually touched my belly. "No ma'am," I responded, "It's just my shirt and my fat."

Today, I was outside smoking. People always talk to me outside, and I have a lot of "Hello, how are you?" conversations every day with people whose names I don't know but whose faces I recognize.

So this man, whose name I don't know but whose face I recognize came up to me today. He looked at my cigarette, then said, "So you're pregnant?"

I lost it. It's one thing for sweet old ladies to ask you, but this was too much. I totally went off: "NO! Gah! What's wrong with you? NEVER ASK A WOMAN IF SHE'S PREGNANT!!"

I made a very dramatic point of disposing properly of my cigarette and then stomped back into the building, with him still stammering. Went up to my floor and related the story to a couple of my friends. One said, "You should have said, yes, I'm pregnant, and I want my baby to be born with emphysema."

I replied, "Yes, and we're hoping for a very low birth weight so I don't have to push too hard."

Move over William Shatner. There's a new negotiator in town.

My parents decided to drive to Raleigh to fly to Chicago for a funeral. My Sainted Southern Mother, who is convinced the government has files on every single citizen and monitors us all (although under the Patriot Act, which she accepts without question, she might not be too far off), refuses to buy anything on the Internet because she's heard too many stolen ID stories from Bill O'Reilly. She'll actually find things online and ask ME to purchase them for her, then she sends me a check. I guess it's okay if my ID gets stolen...

So last night, she called me up to get help with booking airline tickets. I explained that she would have to use her own credit card to book it, check in and get her tickets at the airport. She said, "Okay, but I want you to do it." Sigh.

My Good Ol' Boy Daddy picked up the other line to talk as I logged on to Priceline and started searching flights. I had to cradle the phone with my right shoulder, which was deep in the throes of tetanus-shot pain.

I got the list of flights and started reading them aloud. For about 20 minutes, I read them the prices, schedules and details of flights I found. As they debated aloud about times and prices, I waited patiently.

We finally agreed on one, and I set up an account for my mother using her credit card. She balked on giving me the security code, as she believes that's the number one way information gets stolen. After I assured her that the site was secure and we couldn't complete the purchase without it, she finally relented.

In order to complete the account, she had to set up a password. Priceline doesn't just let you pick your own, it offers a series of reminder questions from which to choose, with the answer being your password.

Leigh Ann: Okay. Your password has to be at least six characters. (I then read the list of questions.)

My Sainted Southern Mother : Let's do favorite pet. AJ.

LA: That's not enough characters.

SSM: How about "Leigh Ann?"

LA: If it asks you your favorite pet's name, I don't think you'll remember to enter "Leigh Ann."

SSM: Ohhhh... Then put "(my daddy's name)."

LA: Same problem with that one. You need to use an actual pet.

SSM: Okay! JB.

LA: Again, not enough characters. How about your best friend's last name?

SSM: I don't really have a best friend. Use "(my daddy's name)."

LA: You need a last name to remember the answer. And that's not enough characters.

SSM: Then put "Frink."

LA: That's not enough characters.

SSM: It's not? F-R-I-N-K. Oh, it's not.

LA: Let's try using the location of your first date.

(My daddy) chimes in: (chuckling) It wasn't with your mama.

SSM: I don't remember our first date.

LA: THIS ISN'T HARD, Y'ALL! Okay, what's your favorite movie?

SSM: (Thinks a while) I really don't have one.

LA: YOU LOVE GONE WITH THE WIND!!

SSM: I like (movie title) better.

LA: Okay, fine! Write this down!!!

We booked the flight, then discussed airport parking for another 15 minutes. My shoulder was ACHING and I really wanted an adult beverage. So I got off the phone and had several. Then my Sainted Southern Mother called me back about booking a hotel in Chicago...

WWJD

A piece of my next-door neighbor's mail was in my box. It was a magazine in a plain wrapper labeled "periodicals."

My neighbor's a nice guy. He always helped me with the yard before Steve moved in and took over that duty. But he's a man of few words, and I don't know much about him.

So I was dying to open the wrapper and find out what he's into. But I remembered the Golden Rule. And I would be really pissed if someone stole my porn.

Another hurdle ahead in the futile race against mortality

I don't spend a whole lot of time worrying about getting older. I suppose it's because I'm so juvenile and I don't have children to be a role model for.

When I turned 35, I was kinda bummed. I realized that I could no longer check the 18-34 box on opinion polls and was no longer a part of that taste-making demographic. Since then, I've quit worrying about it -- though I now say things like "Kids these days and their horrible music and violent video games..."

Today I had to go to urgent care and get my first tetanus shot since 1974 because I sliced my heel wide open on the corner of a metal storm door. I'd never been to this practice before, so the nurse had to ask me all the background questions like what meds I take, what allergies I had and so forth. After she asked my date of birth, she asked, "Do you still get your period?" Shocked, I blurted out a little too loudly and urgently, "YES!"

By the time I got home, the encounter had become funny in my mind. I knew my Sainted Southern Mother would get a kick out of it, so I called her and relayed it almost exactly like I did above. After I said, "She asked me if I STILL get my period and I'm only 38!" my mama started laughing. Then my Good Ol' Boy daddy, who had quietly picked up another phone without my noticing, barked, "Let's hope you keep getting it."

As in, "I know you are married and are familiar with Steve in a biblical sense, but I know you don't want children."

To my girls reading this: Do you remember how embarrassing it was talking about your period with ANYONE when you first got it? Did your mom ever ask your dad, in front of you, to pick you up some tampons on his way home from work?

Yeah, it was about that mortifying.

My various brushes with the law

In this post, we will explore some of That Girl From Shallotte's brushes with the law. We'll skip over the parties I hosted/attended that were busted up (though Rex in leather-daddy garb speaking to the RPD during a White Trash party in Oakwood was priceless). The pullovers after 10 on the island when I was in high school were par for the course of keeping us local kids from harassing the tourists who pumped up our economy. I can't count the speeding tickets I was given by local PDs, highway patrolmen, sheriffs and even DMV enforcers in my 20s, but I do offer this advice for speeding ticketees: Go to court, speak with the ADA, plead guilty and get it reduced to nine miles over the limit so it doesn't go against your insurance.

****

My best friend in high school, Tonya, and I were supposed to be at a basketball game senior year. Instead, we went out in her Jeep to find some Shallotte action.

Shallotte was still a small town then, just a two-mile strip along Highway 17 between Wilmington and Myrtle Beach before the bypass was built.

We stopped at the Zip Mart in the middle of town to use a pay phone to call friends. A guy in a white truck pulled up beside us and was leering at us, but we didn't pay him much attention.

From the Zip Mart, we ventured a half-mile down Main Street to Burger King and went through the drive-thru. Guy in truck was behind us in line and we noticed him throw a beer can out. We pulled out of the drive-thru and into a parking space next to some friends of ours. They passed us a joint through the car windows. Tonya took a drag and passed it to me. I took a drag and passed it back to her. She took a drag and passed it back to the other car. (We later learned it was laced.) We didn't even notice that guy in the truck had parked on on the other side of the Jeep.

We left and went to the other end of Shallotte to use another pay phone and guy in the truck pulled up next to us. I screamed, "Go to the police station!" and Tonya screamed back, "Where is it?!" Keep in mind that Shallotte was a very small town.

So I told Tonya to get back on Main Street and take a right. She was so panicked that she took that right so hard we went on two wheels and I saw the pavement coming at my face. We made it to the police station and pulled up with the guy in white truck right behind us. I had always had a hard time getting in and out of that Jeep, but I flew right into the station with no regard to Tonya's well being. I screamed to the lady at the desk, "SOMEBODY IS FOLLOWING US!!!"

The lady behind the desk looked at me blankly until five seconds later when Tonya ran in and screamed, "SOMEBODY IS FOLLOWING US!!!."

It's a bit hazy here, as we were both stoned to the bone as we used to say, but the lady behind the desk dispatched the one cop on patrol to go out and find a white male in a white truck. While she was doing this, Tonya and I were in the waiting area, which featured a glass case of confiscated drug paraphenalia. Tonya pressed her face against the glass and declared, "That's just like the bong Chip made last night!" I grabbed her by the shirt and got her back into the theatre-like seats bolted against the wall we were supposed to be sitting in.

After a while, a lady cop came from the back and asked us to accompany her to her office to question us. We passed by the two jail cells and both freaked out: "They're going to arrest us!" But she didn't. She took us to her office and we sat across from her. She asked us for our home phone numbers and Tonya screwed up her prefix a couple of times before I jumped in and blurted it out for her. Then we were asked to give a description of the guy in the truck and Tonya said, "He was wearing a plaid shirt..." and I interrupted her to say, "He was wearing a beige work shirt with a name badge embroidered on it. He had blond hair and looked like he was in his 30s." High Tonya started laughing, and high Leigh Ann muttered, "Shut up, Tonya, shut up, Tonya, shut up, Tonya," which didn't help.

So they took us back to the waiting area, with the chairs bolted against the wall. We were so stoned that I can't remember what got us laughing, but we were dying with tears running down our faces. The lady at the desk asked us if we were okay. I put my arms around Tonya and said, "We're very upset."

The lady behind the desk left. Tonya and I were alone in the waiting room. We'd just seen "Nightmare on Elm Street" a few weeks earlier. We became convinced Freddy Kruger was coming to get us and we freaked out. We sat there by ourselves for a long while white knuckled, one of us watching each door, braced for Freddy's inevitable entrance. Finally, the cop car pulled up in front. We both leaned forward and the theater seats came unscrewed from the wall, pitching us both onto the floor. Which made us start laughing again. So hard that we coudn't get up.

The Shallotte cops caught the guy and took us to I.D. him. He told the cops we'd been smoking pot, but he was drunk, so the cops didn't believe him. By the time they sent us home, we'd both missed curfew. Thankfully, our buzzes were wearing off. Neither of us got in trouble; we both told our parents, "Sorry we're late, but we were at the police station."

****

My senior year at Elon, I was tooling around in the worst car in the world. My parents told me I could study abroad or have a car, and I chose to spend a semester in London. When I came home and was living off campus in Burlington, the redneck capital of the world, they did buy me an old car to get around in. That car, a '77 orange GLC with a manual choke, no a/c, mismatched black plastic seats and a horn that went off on its own deserves its own entry. But that's a story for another time.

Believe it or not, I got a bunch of tickets in that car. Toward the end of my senior year, I was going back from campus to my apartment in Burlington when I saw blue lights behind me. I pulled over, rolled down the window and went for the glove box to get my registration.

The cop came to my window and asked if I had my license and registration. I replied, "Yes, sir." The cop said, "That's ma'am." So I knew I was not getting out of this ticket.

She then asked me who the car belonged to. I assured her I would never steal a '77 orange GLC with a manual choke, no a/c, mismatched black plastic seats and a horn that went off on its own. She informed me the plate did not match my car and that she would have to confiscate the tag. She was nice enough to let me drive the car to the apartment first.

When I called home in tears, my daddy realized he'd put the wrong plates on the beater cars he bought for Jill and me. And he laughed. I didn't.

*****

After graduation from Elon, Rex came down to help me move to Raleigh with him. It was late at night at our apartment complex in Burlington. Rexy was upstairs messing around on the computer. I was downstairs in the middle of packing up huge boxes. It was cool outside and we lived in a safe complex with a good number of Burlington cops, so I had the door open with the screen door latched.

I was taking a break and watching MTV (they played videos then) when I heard a scratching sound coming from the area of the screen door three feet away from me. I looked over to see a naked man with a tee shirt over his face jerking off.

I sprinted right over the boxes and up the stairs. Rexy was sitting there using the computer when I ran into the room screaming, "Call the police!!" I threw the baseball bat at him while I grabbed the phone and dialed 911.

Rexy went down the stairs to close and lock the door while I was on the phone with the police. While we were waiting for them to show, I thanked him for being so brave. Rexy said, "What's a naked guy going to do to me?"

The cop who showed up shortly after was the one I'd said, "Yes, sir" to just two weeks before.

******

After college, Rexy and I moved to Raleigh and lived in a cheap townhouse near N.C. State. In those early years, we both worked two jobs to make ends meet.

I came home one night after my second job and opened the door to our dark and empty apartment. I heard noises from upstairs and immediately ran across the street to use the pay phone to call the police.

I hung out in the parking lot until they arrived. After telling me to back away, the two of them, guns drawn COPS-style, flung open the door and shouted, "Police!" Remembering that our not-yet-potty trained kitten was locked up in the downstairs bathroom, I shrieked, "Don't shoot my cat!"

The two cops searched the apartment. After a couple of minutes, they came out. One said, "Ma'am, your upstairs toilet is hung."

------

Not too long after that, I dashed from my horrible, low-paying job to Wal-Mart to drop off a roll of film. As I got out of my car, I noticed that I was being cruised by a guy in an old Pontiac covered in crazy religious bumper stickers.

I didn't pay attention to the guy following me around the store. I didn't notice him following me to my car.

So I was out on Glenwood Avenue waiting for a left-turn signal when he pulled up next to me. In broad daylight, with lunchtime traffic backed up, he got out of his car, walked around it and came up to my passenger window. With no pants on.

I couldn't turn, and I had no power windows at the time. But I did have the wherewithall to slowly lift up my mace and point it toward him, forcing him to get back in his car.

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

About three years ago, my number one playmate, Greg, and I were chilling on my back deck in my safe little old neighborhood inside the beltline.

Greg was telling me an intricate story. As he talked, I saw a young man jump over the fence two yards over. Being panicked and basically polite, I didn't interrupt Greg. The guy kept running and jumped the fence to my next-door neighbor's yard. Only when I realized he was heading for our yard and wasn't going to stop did I say, "Go into the house, honey."

I must say, as he ran past us in my backyard, the guy did say, "Excuse me." As I was closing and locking the back door, I saw him stop as he encountered the snarling outside dog that lives next to me. He ran up the side of my yard and jumped the fence into the front, then continued down our road.

I called 911 and explained to the operator what had happened. I told her the guy was in his early 20s and was wearing a baggy white shirt and black shorts. She asked me if he was black or white. My diversity training in the politically correct corporate world kicked in, and I panicked because the operator was black. I was terrified to tell her the guy happened to be black!

Within minutes the police showed up. They said it wouldn't be hard finding the guy because when they tried to arrest him at Snoopy's, he threw down his driver's license along with the cocaine he was selling.

My mother forwarding NSFW links to me

(my mother) has forwarded you this link:

Couple Charged With Having Sex in Raleigh Cemetery
http://www.wral.com/news/news_briefs/story/1856124/

Message from sender:
Check out this story

---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Leigh Ann Frink
Date: Sep 25, 2007 7:43 PM
Subject: Fwd: WRAL.com - Couple Charged With Having Sex in Raleigh Cemetery
To: (my mother)

I've been sitting on a reply all day, wondering if I should tell you. But you did start this thread. ;D

When I opened my e-mail this morning and saw this headline, I was shocked that you sent it to me. I said to Steve, "My sainted mother just sent me a news story about a couple getting caught having sex in a graveyard here."

Without missing a beat, he said, "Maybe she was worried it was us."

Nancy Drew and the Case of the Mysterious DVD

So I came home from work and looked at the pile of mail Steve had brought in. On the bottom was an unlabeled DVD. I assumed it was something Steve had brought home from work, so I asked him what was on it. He said he didn't know, it was in the mailbox.

Now, my Lexapro is working wonders for my anxiety, but I immediately freaked out (granted, it was a very muted freakout compared to the past) and my paranoia kicked in. Was this a tape of something one of us did in the past and would bribery be involved? Was it a virus-infested download from an enemy? Do I have enemies? Was it a new form of hate propaganda like the fake newspapers I keep reading about in the N&O? When the phone rings, will the person on the other end say, "seven days"?

I was going to throw it out, but Steve insisted on watching it. It was footage shot by my friend Anthony from the audience (is that the right term?) at our wedding. We only have video shot from the balcony that focuses in on those of us on stage (is that the right term?). And of course I was so nervous while the ceremony was going on I couldn't recall who was there. Thanks to this video, I now know who all was there and how prettied-up everyone got for us. Unbelievable.

And my little nephews... they're sooo cute in their tuxedos carrying my train. Melts the old heart, it does.

I did, however, run screaming from the room at the first glance of Kyle and me killing the Killers at the karaoke after party. In my hazy memory of the evening, we sounded like rock stars who should be immediately signed to a major label. I suppose everyone who sings karaoke feels that way. And that's exactly why you should never watch video of yourself singing karaoke at 1 in the morning.

I heart old-people tv

I LOVE me some Discovery Health Channel. I've been addicted to it for at least a year and it's just about all I watch anymore. "Medical Incredibles" is my favorite show. Steve can't stand to watch it. He calls it the "Deformed Baby Show." I defend it by pointing out that they're helping the deformed babies.

At least 50 percent of the advertising is for pharmaceuticals, another 10 percent is for supplemental life insurance. That, more than anything, means it's an old-people network.

I just can't stop tuning in. Maybe I should try, though.

Last night, I dreamed I was recovering from a face lift. I couldn't move or talk much because my face was swollen and the incisions and stitches hurt like hell.

Today at work, I was wheeling an office chair to a co-worker's cube to talk about a project and said, "Look at me, I'm a Brookhaven patient!" Nobody knew I was talking about the morbidly obese clinic.

But Dr. G, the primordial dwarfs and Archie, the 100-pound baby need me. And I need them.

This is not funny (4/10/07)

But it is.

I just went into the bathroom, lifted the toilet lid and paused for a minute to check out my newly cut and colored hair in the mirror. In that split second, Miss Eudora Thunderkiss, as is her routine in hanging out with me while I primp, jumped onto what she assumed was the toilet lid and fell right into the bowl. I had to fish her out because she was too panicked.

She's very embarrassed. Dave's helping her dry off.

God points

I talk to my parents every Sunday. I was talking to my daddy just now and he asked me, tongue firmly placed in cheek, if I'd been to church this morning. I told him no, but I did go to a funeral at a church on Friday, so that should count for something.

He replied, "You know, I went to a funeral at a church just last week."

We agreed that we're probably in good shape.

My mom got back on the line and I told her that I'd remembered how to recite the Apostle's Creed without looking at the words. The praising of Jesus ensued.

I didn't have the heart to tell either of them that hearing "thy rod and thy staff comfort me" made my inner 14-year-old boy snicker.

Steve's in Australia and the cats are out of control

---------- Forwarded message ----------

From: Leigh Ann Frink
Sent: Sunday, September 16, 2007 10:35 AM
To: Steven Plowman
Subject: Re: Panadeine

I had to put your tool box in front of the door to the staircase, as Dave has started jiggering it open again. Dunno if it's the heat or humidity, but the door itself has swollen and I can't latch it.

Soon, we can cook ham. Dunno why I just thought of that. But won't it be nice?

Love you!
xola

From: Steven Plowman
Date: Sep 16, 2007 10:40 AM
Subject: RE: Panadeine
To: Leigh Ann Frink

I read "soon we can cook HIM". Aghast, I wondered if this was not a little harsh for jiggling a door. But fair, I suppose. Like you, mistress ;-)

---

Worst-case corporate workplace scenarios

>> -----Original Message-----
> From: Buffington, Melissa
> Sent: Friday, September 07, 2007 2:31 PM
> To: Frink, Leigh Ann
> Subject: Worry
>
> I just pottied and I thought wouldn't it be awful if I had a brain aneurism
> and passed out and people (probably you) had to find me in the bathroom like Elvis.
>
> Just another worry wart Friday.

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

>From: "Frink, Leigh Ann"
Date: Fri, 7 Sep 2007 14:39:11 -0400
To: "Buffington, Melissa"
Conversation: Worry
Subject: RE: Worry

If I'd found you slumped on the toilet, I would probably have fainted, hit my head and been knocked unconscious. Then someone would have found the two of us, you on the toilet and me on the floor, and would have assumed we had formed a suicide pact out of despair. The rumors of our attempted self-annihilations would immediately start to spread. An HR investigation would take place, then a cross-functional task force of managers would meet weekly for several months to brainstorm ways to prevent suicide attempts by employees on company property. Their suggestions would be incorporated into a communication to employees by someone in employee communications. That document would then be hacked to pieces by mid-level managers, HR, Legal and senior management before being mass distributed as an infobulletin that most people would delete without reading. And morale wouldn't improve.
>

Parents just don't understand

My mom sent us a check to buy our own birthday gifts from our Amazon wish lists, as she refuses to enter her credit card info on the Web.

I wrote back to thank her, but told her I didn't think I'd be able to cash it because it was written to Leigh Ann Frink-Plowman, and I don't know anybody by that name.

---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: my mother
Date: Jun 27, 2007 5:54 PM
Subject: Re: Thank you!
To: Leigh Ann Frink

When endorsing check FORGE Plowman on it!!!!!!!!!!!! Poor ole Steve. I would tell your daddy to go to Hell if he didn't accept my name, if that were the case.

Be good to poor ole Steve. I am truly proud to call him my son-in-law and love him as my own son! Give him a hug for me.

Ma

Melodramatic old diary entries, Vol. 1

Welcome to the inaugural edition of That Girl From Shallotte's "Melodramatic Old Diary Entries," wherein we shall explore some of That Girl's deepest, most profound thoughts when she was younger that make her cringe now.

Enjoy!

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

1/18/02

Just watched "Say Anything" for the 100th time. I love that movie.

I miss Lloyd Dobler so much. I know he exists, I just can't find him.

I can't believe I'm in my 30s. I don't feel that old. I'm an aging adolescent, it's true.

Last night, the kids and I left the bar and had a slumber party at Greg's house. 30-somethings aren't supposed to put on pajamas and stay up all night drinking and playing games. I get so much joy from it, though.

I guess you take love from wherever you can get it.

I can't help missing Lloyd Dobler, though. I wish I had someone I could say anything to. I want a dare-to-be-great situation.

Even though wherever it is I'm going is a result of my own work and experience, I want somebody to hold my hand when the plane takes off.

----

I've been called much worse

--------- Forwarded message ----------
From: my mother
Date: Sep 1, 2007 5:40 PM
Subject: Re: some stories I've written
To: Leigh Ann Frink <

Hey,

You are indeed a brilliant writer.

I still wish you would remove that picture. It makes you look like a Fayetteville Hay Street lady of the evening!!!!!!

I love you,

Ma

Genius is in the eye of the beholder

***Names have been changed to protect me from the living.***

My Sainted Southern Mother grew up on a tobacco farm in Columbus County. She was the youngest, and prettiest, of six children who survived infancy in a very Southern Baptist family. Besides my Uncle Lewis, who married a fellow Monkey Junction barfly when he was in his 40s, she was the only one who got married. She was the only one who had children, so though my sisters and I had four uncles and an aunt, we had no first cousins on that side.

When I was born, my parents named my mama's Irish twin (my Uncle Rick) and her one sister (my Aunt Jane) as my godparents.

Uncle Rick is a genius. After graduating early from Acme-Delco high school, he went on to get his bachelor's and master's degrees in engineering in just under five years from N.C. State (go Pack!) on full scholarships. He'd never been on an airplane, but before he graduated he was flown all around the country to interview with companies and agencies like NASA that wanted to recruit him. He accepted a position with the Department of Defense and moved to D.C. to begin his career designing weapons for the Pentagon during the height of the Cold War.

I remember Uncle Rick coming home a couple of times a year. He didn't play with me like a little kid, he talked to me like a person with a brain. He didn't ask me about school, he asked me what I thought. When I was in 7th grade and tricked the school system into thinking I was a high performer, he was the one who paid for me to go to science camp at ECU to study computer programming and electron microscopy. He even encouraged me (me!) to become an engineer.

Uncle Rick had a girlfriend in D.C. he used to bring home on visits. I don't remember her name or anything about her other than she looked like a 70s-80s femiladyist type with longish, unstyled dark hair and round glasses. She must have been really intelligent, otherwise, my uncle wouldn't have been dating her.

When she dumped him sometime when I was in high school, it was too much for him. He'd had an extremely stressful, top-secret job his entire adult life and kept the fact that his vision was fading a secret. He snapped. Lost it, as it were. Nobody heard from him for several years. The family heard rumors that he'd moved back to Columbus County, but we're the sort of people who don't ask questions; if you choose to lay low, have at it.

One day out of the blue, in 1994 a couple of months after my sister Amy died, Uncle Rick showed up unannounced at my parents' house to give condolences. Though he and my mama grew up side by side, he only seemed interested in talking to my daddy. He told Daddy he was living in a trailer without electricity or running water on some family land, but before he got too comfortable and into the story, he heard my sister Jill's rap music from the back bedroom. He announced that he could not handle noise and abruptly left. Nobody heard from him again for four years.

In 1998, after suffering for a decade with Alzheimer's, my grandma Tommie died. My sister Jill was eight months pregnant and living in Kentucky, so I went down to the funeral solo. I was relieved that my grandma's suffering was over, but I was seriously curious to see if Uncle Rick would come out of the woods and show up. He was a titillating mystery to me.

My daddy, mama, Aunt Jane, Uncle Buck and I (Uncles Lewis and Irvin died before then) filed solemnly into the little Baptist church in Delco and sat in the front row at the funeral. Halfway through the fire-and-brimstone service for sister Tommie, I heard some shuffling behind me. Then I began to smell a body odor fouler than when my army boyfriend used to come back from field training, with not-so-subtle touches of head oil and dirt. I couldn't turn around in the middle of paying respects.

I could, however, turn around as we stood up to file out behind the coffin. There he was, my Uncle Rick, unkempt red hair, wrinkled, ill-fitting clothes, wild eyes and all. My misanthropic Uncle Buck, who never moved out of his parents' house, actually extended a hand to Uncle Rick, but after not having spoken in years, these two middle-aged brothers got into a Stooges-like hand-slapping fight right there in the front of the church.

Because my Uncle Buck, the executor, was too cheap to hire a limo to follow the hearse to the gravesite, a bunch of family piled into my parents' Cadillac. I was sitting in the back between my mama and Aunt Jane when Uncle Rick wedged into the front seat with my daddy and second cousin Martha. He stunk up the car immediately. He never turned around to acknowledge his two sisters or his niece/goddaughter, but he told my daddy he was sorry for being late: He had to decide between finishing an algorithm he was kicking around and taking a shower.

At the graveside service, I held back and observed him while the preacher performed the obligatory "ashes to ashes, dust to dust" bit. Once it was over, to everyone's horror, Uncle Rick asked to have a look, as he hadn't seen his mama in years and missed the viewing the night before. Seeing the funeral service people pry open the casket was too much for me, so I went back to the car.

Nobody said anything on the way back to the church for the reception. Once there, Uncle Rick stayed in the corner of the fellowship hall talking to a distant cousin as the rest of us got our fried chicken and deviled eggs. I kept my eye on him. In my heart and mind, I gathered my wits to speak to him. He was my godfather, had such an uplifting role in my younger years, had accomplished so much in his lifetime and I wanted to know him. I threw away my Coronet plate and made my way back to that corner, only to see him out the window, walking away toward the woods through the recently harvested tobacco field.

Two years after our encounter with him, Uncle Rick showed up at my parents' house, towing a trailer loaded with more than 100 potted lilies. Apparently, that's what he'd been doing all those years: growing and cultivating lilies. He unloaded them and left them in their pots, and my daddy wasn't terribly pleased to be left with the job of planting them, but he wasn't about to let them die, as they were stunning.

I went home to visit a couple of months later. My mama took me on the standard yard tour of her flowers (she's the two-time president of the garden club). She showed me an absolutely breathtaking blue lily with fuschia highlights, then pulled out the plastic deleanator piece listing the genus, species, scientific name and name. It read (Latin) (Latin) (Latin) Leigh Ann.

And it told me everything I needed to know.

Steve's secret to living with me

Tonight, Steve said, "If I listened to everything you said, I'd never get anything done."

I'm not gonna put that into context. It's brilliant on its own.

Are you wearing a bra???!!!! (7/11/07)

That's what I screamed when I came home and saw Steve from the back, with his undies on and a strap across his chest.

He said, "No, but it's a good thing you didn't come in five minutes earlier."

It was the strap-on heart-rate monitor his stepsister gave him, as he was preparing to go to the gym.

Admitted to my sister I bought an old-lady swimsuit (7/1/07)

I bought a swimsuit. It's not like I lay out or anything. But we're leaving for Vegas tomorrow and staying at the MGM Grand, which has a water park. And our house at Emerald Isle this year has a pool.

Jill I bought a one-piece with a skirt. Granted, the kids are buying tankinis with skirt bottoms. But I bought a one-piece with a skirt. It hides the fat and two of the tattoos. Worst part? I bought it at JC Penney!

All I wanna do is swim, dammit! Well, float on my back and occasionally dog-paddle.

I've got a brand-new pair of rollerskates (6/6/07)

And I have totally forgotten how to use them. Steve got me a pair of four-wheelers with a toe stop and I couldn't even stand up on them just now. But I will. Oh, yes, I will remember how to speed skate, shuffle skate and even shoot the duck before this summer is over.

And I will wear a tube top and a satin jacket. And I will blare Donna Summer from my speakers.

Then I will skate around Five Points, losing weight before my 20-year high school reunion. And I will look HOT when I see ?, who I always loved and who never asked me to couple-skate at the rink in Shallotte when we were growing up.

Oh yes. Yes I will skate.

How not to build morale (5/16/07)

Yesterday was happy fun day at work for the contract creatives like me. We had the office all to ourselves while everybody else (including our colleagues from off site and out of state) attended an offsite department meeting. I have been to one of these before and it was excruciating... I have been very happy to use my contractor status as a get-out-of-meetings card ever since.

Today, I got the report back from my full-time friends.

The meeting was at the N.C. Museum of Art. The employees had to sit through an all-day meeting in a no-food-or-drinks auditorium with two five-minute bathroom breaks and a 20-minute break for lunch. Speakers from management and senior management gave long, dry talks about the industry complete with awful PowerPoint presentations that make professional communicators cringe. Out of a group of 50, the three usual kissups insisted on asking questions, dragging out the presentations and irritating the suffering majority.

For entertainment, management brought in what was described to me as the world's worst improv team to stage a murder mystery. I'm told the "actors" came to the forefront and created some "chaos" that resulted in one actor on the floor with a knife in his back. The "survivors," attempting to represent members of management, tried to solicit unimpressed audience members to guess which member of management was the culprit.

Speaking unwittingly on behalf of everybody there, an admin named Pat said, "Maybe he killed himself to get away from the rest of you."

Pat, of course, is my new idol.