Buttermints vs. Beer

The choice kinda makes itself, no?

In this month's Raleigh News and Observer column, I test the limits of my Sainted Southern Mother's (TM) sense of humor by writing about my wedding. (Yes, I am aware of the typo. It happens.)

The full transcript of my testimonial is here. It killed. And we did it before the Sopranos finale.

Don't stop believin'!



1/7/10 2:15 PM
BRIDE'S MOTHER FLUSHES COMMODE FROM GIFT REGISTRY

News & Observer, The (Raleigh, NC) - Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Author: Leigh Ann Frink, Correspondent

My Sainted Southern mother's e-mail response, after viewing the link to our Home Depot
gift registry, was swift, impassioned and emphatic:

"Remove the commode from your wish list. I will buy y'all a commode!!!"

Steve and I had no idea what we were doing when we registered for wedding gifts.
Neither of us had done it before, so we just went for it.

We were combining two households' worth of furniture, linens and crockery into one and
didn't need anything. So we figured, since people would be buying us stuff anyway, we'd
ask for things we could use for home-improvement projects to expand my small house to
double its occupancy from one person/one cat to two people/two cats.

It seemed logical to us to put a commode on our list; after all, we needed one and
figured it would make a great house-tour story someday. "This is our guest bathroom.
Aunt Martha gave us the toilet as a wedding gift."

We just wanted to get married and skip forward into "happily ever after" as quickly and
painlessly as possibly. What doe-eyed naifs, babes in the woods we both were at the
tender age of 36. We actually thought we could pull off a stress-free engagement and
wedding.

"Here's what we're thinking would be fun," I told my mama over the phone. "We could
get matching mechanics' coveralls, print 'Bride' and 'Groom' on the backs and get
married at Slim's. The bartender has a mail-order ministerial license."

It is possible, I found out on that call, to feel a withering gaze down a long-distance
phone line.

And so the negotiations began.

My mama would have been delighted for me to get married back home. My memories of
weddings in the Methodist church I grew up in always went this way: a reading from the
book of Ruth about the woman leaving her family to join her husband's, a piano-
accompanied rendition of "The Lord's Prayer" sung by a great aunt, and an exchange of
vows pledging obedience. The ceremonies were always followed by a reception involving
ginger ale punch, cake and butter mints in the fellowship hall.

These weddings were always heartfelt and lovely, not to mention over and done with in
an hour. But I didn't want to drag 40 people all the way down to Shallotte to witness my
being struck by lightning after all those years away from the inside of the sanctuary.
Another option on the table was the opulent, three-day extravaganza complete with
dinners, brunches and partying the night away. I have had some fabulous times at
weddings like that over the years, but when Steve and I briefly discussed throwing one,
we both felt instantly worn out.

After what seemed like years of debate, we reached a wonderful compromise, deciding
to get married here in Raleigh at Mordecai Chapel in a Unity ceremony Steve and I
worked with our minister to create.

It was dreamy. My dread-locked, 6-foot-1 in heels sister towered over my side as my
Best Woman. Across from me was my very favorite person, flanked by his mortified,
profusely sweating, 14-year-old son and Best Man. We agreed not to segregate our
attendants by gender, so our assorted people, men and women, stood by our sides,
looking stunning in the getups we made them wear. (Seriously, those dresses could be
worn again.)

We didn't want our friends and family to be bored during the ceremony, so we included
them. We brought our mothers into our rose ceremony and assigned friends to give
readings and "unsolicited" testimonials.

As for our own testimonials to each other, we were too nervous to read them and asked
the minister to give them for us. And so a distinguished, gray-bearded man who had
probably never heard of Journey spoke these beginning words for me:

"I was just a small-town girl, living in a lonely world. I took the midnight train from
Shallotte."

Later on, at the reception at Slim's (my half of the compromise), I asked my Sainted
Southern Mother if she had gotten the joke.

"No," she replied, "but everybody else was laughing, and that made me laugh. I've
laughed all day."

Then, she gave me a check, explaining that it should cover the commode we wanted.

Contact Leigh Ann Frink
at frinkink.com.

Caption: PHOTO:2
Edition: FINAL
Section: LIFE
Page: 1D
Column: OUR LIVES
Record Number: 0812160125
Copyright (c) 2008 The News and Observer

The smell of a fog machine would be nice right now

I am in a stinky, horrible little mood.

Friends are getting laid off right and left. Those of us who haven't yet gotten the axe are living in a constant state of fear that we'll be next. Print media is dying.

So I hate that I wasted all my angst being young. But the market for angst was better in the late 80s and early 90s when we could dress in black and be rivets.

To be sure, I personally had no pretty hate machine to rage against back then. I had a (low-paying) job in publishing, a supplemental part-time job as a cocktail waitress at a concert venue and had yet to experience tragedy. But at night, I was a darkwaver.

It started when I was a sophomore at the University College of London. I had only recently segued out of Duran Duran into the Cure. The Camden Ballroom changed my life. Like an aspiring drag queen dressing for the first time, my first pair of Doc Marten's and the music of Bauhaus, Neubauten and Ministry opened my eyes and made everything feel better.

Lacing up my boots, squeezing into corseted jackets and putting on my fright makeup after a day of working for or waiting on mean people was pure joy. Being in the club, amongst the beautiful weirdos, the smell of fog machines and clove cigarettes was bliss. Stomping around the dance floor, pushing and shoving and sweating within the chain-link enclosures, was ecstasy.

It's been so long, and I'm so old now, that I don't think about it much. But when I miss it, like right now when I wish I could just dress up and thrash, I miss it hard. Here's to Club Zero back home, the Fallout Shelter here in Raleigh, Bar Sinister in West Hollywood, the Batcave in NYC and my beloved Camden Palace. I had a great time.



Footnote: Four suburban teenagers, described in the N&O as "goths" (meaning they shopped at Hot Topic at Cary Town Center) brutally killed another kid. That adds to my icky hurt tonight.

If you've got it, flaunt it

Here's where I could call my Sainted Southern Mother (TM) out for making fun of Christmas cards with people's pictures on them. She was completely appalled when Rex and I borrowed a baby and sent this out to 40 people seven years ago:



But I got a card in the mail just now and recognized my mama's handwriting on the envelope. It was addressed to Leigh Ann Frink and Steve Plowman, and I teared up a little. My mother and I went round and round about me not changing my name when I got married.

I teared up a lot, though, when I opened the envelope and saw my parents' first ever Christmas card with their picture on it. Glad my mama decided it wasn't tacky anymore.



So really, how cute are my parents? Need more? Here they are, 43 years ago when they were dating, after my mama saw my daddy coming out of a Beatles movie and yelled, "Call me!"


My mama reads my blog (which is why my stories are all PG), so please leave comments telling her how purty she is. Please? It'll take away from the "I can't believe you would post those pictures!" fussing at I'm expecting.

Re-Post: Princess Brat

I originally wrote this last summer in a fit of grief. Decided to take it down, as it was still ouchy, and took some awesome comments down with it in the process.

But just now, Nitzer Ebb's "Join in the Chant" popped up in my iPod, and I thought of my friend Alan yelling, "Tired, tired, tired," at the DJ in 1995, dimply face turned skyward.

And I want to tell y'all about him. Again. For keeps.

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

One random day in the mid-90s, my lifelong best friend was explaining to her boyfriend Alan that I had been less than a demure, studious, soft-spoken child. I balked at her description and she said, "Face it, you were a brat." "I wasn't a brat!," I protested, "I was a princess."

The two of them and my then-boyfriend and I were all joined at the hip back in those heady, youthful, dive-bar dwelling days. It wasn't unusual or weird at all for Alan and me to talk on the phone or go out drinking while our other halves were working dinner shifts.

Alan, with his shaved head, Einstürzende Neubauten tattoos and year-round leather was the ultimate rivet, so I was a little surprised when he decided to form a Hole-esque band and asked me to front it. "But I can't sing," I told him. "Doesn't matter," he replied, "You have cool clothes and can spit beer on people." He'd already decided on a name: Princess Brat.

So Alan set about teaching me to play guitar. He had an old spare electric, which happened to be missing a string. He showed me some basic chords that didn't require the missing string. I spent a few nights strumming them, unamplified as I didn't have a speaker. Took me three days to recognize, to my horror, that I was playing "R-O-C-K in the USA."

That was the only song I ever learned how to play on the guitar. I got bored soon after and we went back our old routines. The two couples eventually broke up, but Alan and I remained friends and kept in touch for a while after he moved to Asheville eight years ago.

Al-Pal left this mortal coil this week. Rest in peace, old friend. I'm spitting out this Bud for you.

Amusements for children

I've been on the phone with my mother, picking her brain for ideas for my next column, in which I think I'll tell stories about how she used to take all the neighborhood children for big days out in Wilmington and Myrtle Beach, an hour from Shallotte north and south respectively.

We started talking about Magic Harbor in South Myrtle Beach, where we had great times in the 80s. It closed many years ago, so I did some Google research and found it on a site dedicated to defunct amusement parks. In the process, I think I've uncovered the source of many nightmares -- if not from the history of the park, at least from the photo used on the promotional literature.



Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Magic Harbor of my youth.

Are we compatible?

I have found, over the past six years, that people either love or hate this animation clip.


Watch More Videos Uploaded by www.bebo.com/YaManicKill

Did it leave you gasping for air, scratching your head or actively disgusted?

Reasons to be happy you're an old

I was talking to my friend since high school about her 12-year-old son, whose birth I was there for when I was still a club girl. Ok, that's only technically true: I went to the hospital around 9 p.m. on New Year's Eve 1996, dressed in my black fetish clothes before club time and hung out in her room for a while. Her husband, who shares my last name but is not related to me, held her hand and watched the monitor as her contractions intensified. The doctor came in to give her an epidural and I stepped out. The scream I heard from inside that room as that needle was applied scared me more than any horror movie I've ever seen, and I fled and went to the club to ring in the new year, returning at mid-day to introduce myself to the world's newest Frink.

Anyhoo, we were talking about how handsome the boy has become and the awkwardness he's going through during his adolescence. She said his voice is starting to break and that he's mortified.

"Yeah?," I said, "At least he doesn't have to get a period."

"Thank you!," my friend replied.

It's not that we didn't have sympathy for the boy, as adolescence is hard enough on everyone and we want to protect the little ones.

But come on, people. Getting a first period is worse than anything any boy could ever go through: including the boy I knew our freshman year in high school who was the drum major in the marching band and whose voice broke audibly on the football field during "Atten-hut!" That "hut" went right up the music scale, off the charts and into the stratosphere, resulting in the band falling out laughing. And the band was made up of huge geeks: I played last-chair flute.

That's nothing. There is nothing in the world that is worse than being an adolescent girl, feeling gawky, awkward and insecure about every aspect of her life, greeting good old painful Aunt Flo for the first time.

I was onstage in my leotards, ballet shoes and my first perm, dancing to "Ice Castles" in a recital when she came around for the first time. I also went on, as it was the 80s, to experience the horror of the white-pants-with-a-jacket-around-the-waist-at-school thing.

I'd like to say those incidents made me stronger; perhaps they did because only now, 20+ years later, I can laugh about them as a rite of passage. But good lord, I'm glad they're behind me and I never have to go through them (or bad skin, perms or mean redneck girls) again.

Friends of LA, tell me about your awkward coming-of-womanhood (or manhood) moments. Post anonymously if it gives you more boldness. :)

Egyptian lover baby

So Mr. Sweetypants is en route to Cairo. We've sung about this trip all week.

Steve, having grown up in the United Kingdom with two-tone, in a land where Madness were known for more than "Our House," has been singing "Night Boat to Cairo."



I, having Robert Smith to thank for getting me through my angst when I was a frustrated young weirdo, contributed to our medley by waiting for breaks in his verse to sing (loudly), "f-i-r-e-i-n-c-a-i-r-o are are are oh!"



We kid ourselves and think we are the cleverest songsters in the world with our daily arias. But it's silly and pointless to debate over those two songs, because, clearly, the greatest song ever written about Egypt was released when I was an underaged club girl. So I declare a truce as I take time out to curl and tease my perm and squeeze into my mini-skirt.

Steve and Lee Lee make a copyright infringement video

M-------, if you ever stumble on this post, please remember that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. And please remember that I was the girl dressed in black writing diary entries about how you were a poet and the voice of my people 20 years ago. I still heart you! In fact, I heart you so much that when you threw a temper-tantrum at an audience member and stormed off stage half an hour into the one show I ever got to attend, I didn't join the petition for a refund. I knew I had experienced the best of your legend. It was bitchy and awesome. So please don't sue me.

----

Mr. Sweetypants and I are quite comfortable being the two biggest dorks in the world. Here's our one and only hope for a VMA. It was shot in the stinging cold English rain at Brighton on a cell phone in 2006 and edited in the Sony Vega program Mr. Sweetypants figured out how to use in 15 minutes.

I decided to contribute to the gritty footage and nature of the song by being too tired and hungover to put on makeup. Method acting is the only acting. :)

Brighton Beach

I prefer cats, but I am an Atomic Dog person

I was dreading sweeping leaves from the back deck and walkway, but this song popped up in my iPod, and it put the spring in my sweep. Seriously, I was an old, awkward white lady version of Turbo in the broom scene from "Breakin'."

This song will always remind me of Jo-el Johnson's boombox on our GT class trip to Raleigh from Shallotte when I was in 8th grade. And it will always make me bounce.

Have a fantastic weekend-



George Clinton Atomic Dog Street via Noolmusic.com

Upside down boys

Today's Raleigh N&O column is about why I don't have children. I figure nobody can fuss at me about it like my Grandma Tommie did in the last thing she said to me, knowing it was me, before she died 11 years ago. I was just sitting there, minding my own business on Christmas day when she suddenly snapped out of her Alzheimer's dementia into total lucidity, looked directly at me, and yelled, "You're too selfish to have young'uns!"

Have a fantastic Tuesday. (Sorry about the line breaks, can't seem to fix them.)

Happy to be a world-class aunt

News & Observer, The (Raleigh, NC) - Tuesday, November 11, 2008

Author: Leigh Ann Frink, Correspondent

I consider myself a fairly private person, and I am not prone to personal confessions, but

I get asked sometimes why I don't have children.

It's an awkward conversation, but I'm going to just go ahead and put it out here in this

column to answer it once and for all.

It's not in my control; it's genetic.

Somehow, when my parents' DNA came together to create mine, the chromosome that

causes maternal instinct got left off the double helix.

All differently abled people have skills and propensities that make up for their

shortcomings. Think of the theoretical physicist who doesn't get the punch line of a

knock-knock joke or the copy editor who breaks out in hives when faced with the

simplest algebraic equation. I can't begin to imagine what it's like to be a parent, yet I am

the World's Second-Greatest Aunt (my aunt Jo is the first).

This superhuman ability came as a complete surprise to me. Now that I'm making

confessions, I have to say that when my sister, Jill, called to say she was expecting, I

went into mourning over the loss of my favorite party buddy to this "motherhood" thing I

couldn't comprehend, and I resented this imposition into my social life.

But when my sister laid baby Joshua in my arms, my heart nearly exploded. As I gazed

on his beautiful face, I promised him I would give him both my kidneys if he ever needed

them.

Jill and her family moved to Asheville when Josh was six months old; Banyan was born

a year later. I was burning up I-40 every couple of months to hang out, not with my

sister, but with my two little buddies. Aside from stinky-britches time, when I'd run

squealing from the room, I was all about playing with my littles.

We'd roll around the floor wrestling and making monster sounds. I'd toss them in the air

then pick them up by the ankles to let them be Upside-Down Boy. I'd tickle them and

make rude sounds blowing on their bellies as they shrieked with delight.

Without fail, I'd wear them out, and my sister would come in to announce it was their

bedtime. They'd start wailing and I'd raise my arms, announcing, "Thank you, I'm out of

here!" and retreat back to my hotel. Piece of cake, I thought, all I have to do is be the

cool one and they'll love me.

So when Joshua turned 4, I brought him to Raleigh for a weekend of "Lilo and Stitch,"

the dinosaur museum downtown and the teddy-bear-building store at the mall.

"Aunt Lee Lee?" he asked as we drove down I-40, "are you my mommy's sister?"

"Yes, buddy, I am. Just like Banyan is your brother."

He thought about that for a while before deducing, "You and Mommy have another

sister. She lives in heaven."

It was the first time I had heard him speak of my sister, who died before he was born.

As the tears started to stream down my face over the pure, unadulterated sweetness of

that moment, I felt the searing, almost painful heat of a love I didn't know I was capable

of feeling.

I just wanted to wrap that little boy in safety and comfort and make sure he never, ever

had to feel pain. I wanted to make sure he had ice cream for every meal and Disney movies playing on a nonstop loop all around him.

I wanted to give him a pet unicorn that could fly over rainbows. I wanted to mortgage my

house, max out my credit cards and buy every candy bar in the world so he could have

the golden ticket and live in the chocolate factory with the happy Oompa-Loompas. I

realized at that moment that I would give anything and everything to keep sadness from

coming anywhere near that precious little boy.

Joshua's 10 now and Banyan is 8. I can't lift them and play Upside-Down Boy anymore,

but they know they can count on Aunt Lee Lee for a fun time. And I know that I would

do anything in the world to protect them, make them feel happy, safe and loved, then

give them back to their mama when they're cranky and ready for bed.

: Final

Section: Life

Page: D1

Column: Our Lives

Record Number: ka5qoo89

Copyright 2008 by The News & Observer Pub. Co.

Point, Counterpoint with Mr. Sweetypants

I’ve been slack lately on this blog. Between the election and coming up with an original column for the paper guaranteed to offend nobody, I’ve just really been drained.

Today, I thought I’d try something different. I’ve invited the smartest, funniest person I know, whose razor-sharp wit keeps me on my toes every day to join me in a point/counterpoint interview post. Ladies and gentlemen, friends of Leigh Ann, please welcome my best friend, my legal co-conspirator Steve Plowman, Mr. Sweetypants for a gentle discussion.

Me: Welcome, my darling. Introduce yourself to the blogosphere. Tell us about yourself.

Steve: I am the result of a long series of unlikely unions. I know this because I’ve seen my Mother’s genealogy paperwork. In a census during the 17^th century I noted with some pride that nobody in my ancestors’ house was listed in the columns provided for “imbecile” and “idiot”. I have yet to elucidate a significant difference between the two terms. Among these heroic forebears, I list a train robber in India, the inventor of the bicycle brake and a bunch of general serial philanderers. I provide this information so as to give context to the unlikely union between the author and her consort. Together we sing badly constructed (and often rude) shanties from the shower, eat whatever I can be bothered to throw together and laugh in the face of yard-work. Really, we laugh at it.

Steve: Leigh Ann, describe your perfect day.

Me: That would include doing nothing at all: Laughing at you, whining occasionally when I need feeding, and being grateful that I don’t have to go out to the club at midnight or slog through match.com anymore.

Me: We joke about the fact that I spent $300 on match.com to meet you, but you only paid $19.95 to meet me. What gives?

Steve: Clearly I had crafted a masterpiece of self advertisement such that within two weeks of my cyber-declaration of availability I had attracted a likely candidate. Who described me to her friends as being “without hair.” Consider now the English major with years of communications experience, who spent a couple of years running around meeting Ned Flanders look-alikes and flatulent Cro-Magnons before chancing upon this silver tongued devil. Oh, the humanity.

Steve: We agreed years ago that we were allowed a movie boyfriend / girlfriend and a TV show boyfriend / girlfriend. Identify your current muses from silver screen and idiot box and tell us why.

Me: This hardly seems fair, as you keep changing yours. Your movie girlfriend bounces between Kiera Knightly and Uma Thurman and your TV girlfriend between Tina Fey and Amy Poehler. My movie boyfriend has been solidly Ewan McGregor through the years (we agree that the first half of “Trainspotting” is the best work of cinema ever), and yes, my TV boyfriend has switched from “Jim” on “The Office” to “OMG Don Draper” on “Mad Men.”

Me: We rock, obviously. How did this legal arrangement come into being? Knowing you, it must have been romantic, right?

Steve: I remember it well, that heady, star-crossed evening. I was sitting on the back porch with you, smoking cigarettes, as was popular back then. It was two hours before a friend’s 40^th birthday party. We were discussing Christmas gifts and I said I had one to give you now. You immediately knew what I had in mind, and so alternated between “no, don’t give me anything!” to “what is it?” And so, as you cradled a beer in one hand and a Virginia Slim in the other, I shuffled over in my slippers (henceforth known as The Proposing Shoes”), bent down on one knee and asked, if there was any chance that… maybe you wouldn’t mind… I dissembled charmingly like Hugh Grant. Before that unpleasantness he was involved in, I mean. Anyway, I managed to ask you and you hissed “OK” as a reply. And that was it – I ruined our friend's birthday party and stunned you into hysterical silence (if such a thing exists). Oh yes - I know how to treat a lady.

Steve: What are 5 things you could not live without?

Me: DVR, my cats, Trader Joe’s shrimp gyoza, hope and my Mr. Sweetypants.

Somebody hold me while I weep

I guess it's over. My heart is broken, and the e-mail just added insult to injury. I feel lost.

It was such a beautiful thing, I felt a love I didn't know I was capable of feeling. I'm still grieving, probably will be fragile for a while. Please bear with me and keep me in your thoughts.

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

Hi Leigh,

We are sorry to hear that we have discontinued a favorite product of
yours.

At this time the Trader Joe's Shrimp Gyoza have been discontinued in all
our stores. We will forward your comments and request to bring this
product back to our Buying Department and that will be taken into future
consideration.

Much thanks,

Nicki K.
Customer Relations
Trader Joe's



-----Original Message-----
From:
Sent: Monday, October 27, 2008 5:29 PM
To: Web Customer Relations
Subject: Trader Joe's Product Information Form

Name: Leigh Ann Frink
Phone Number:
Your Trader Joe's: Cary
Email Address:
Product Name: Shrimp Gyoza Dumplings
Sku # :
Date Code:

Comments: Does the Cary store still stock them? They're my very
favorite things in the whole world and the reason I drive 25 minutes to
shop. They weren't there the last two times I went. Please let me know
if they've been discontinued... I can't imagine why they would be, they
rock!

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

UPDATE! Friends of Leigh Ann, especially those of you who don't leave comments because there are more of you, please click here, put "Thai Shrimp Gyoza" in the product box, and ask them to bring it back! Please? I think you're pretty/handsome. Really. You're awesome.

Because there's nothing else to do

I've got nothing. Really. Can't think of a thing.

So I give you my very favorite musical match-up of all time: William Shatner, Joe Jackson and North Carolina's own Ben Folds doing Pulp's ode to English classism, "Common People."

That was more awesome than Chuck Norris!

And other non sequiturs from my day at the state fair with Steve and Robby.

***

Robby: I want one of those Virgin Mary blankets 'cause I'm a big old virgin!

Me: And you're a big old Mary.

***

Random kid on ride (to Robby and me): Can you guys handle rides?

Me: Yeah. Can you?

(Kid screams "help" throughout ride)

Me to visibly shaken kid: I thought you said you could handle it.

***

Steve: It's like the best of capitalism; you can get anything you want to eat.

Robby: And you can get it on a stick!

***

Me: I never dreamed a camel would whisper in my ear.

***

Age-guesser to Steve: Hey man, it's alright. My wife's a lot younger than me, too.

(Steve is exactly one month older than me.)

***

Robby: That Elizabeth Dole booth is the loneliest booth at the fair.

***

Random man in line for a ride as I'm screaming "Wooooo!" like a redneck: Aren't you that lady who writes for the paper?

***

Me, after walking for six hours: I'm aware of my knees right now.

***

Steve, this morning: What are we going to do with a giant, inflatable bat and a Pikachu?

Caption contest vol. 2

Hey kids! You know what would be fun? Another caption contest!

Here's one to get things started:

"With time and funds running out, Senator McCain's scare tactics are becoming less subtle."

Wait, wait, I've got another one:

"Cindy tried switching his food to the anti-hairball formula, but John, like most old cats, rejected change."

UPDATE: Crap. D-Listed ran a caption contest with the same shot! Although "McCain tried to reach across party lines, but his shock collar went off" is good, ours are better. (Insert Vincent Price laugh a la Diff Girl's referenced song.)

Your Welcome

Ding, ding ding. Grammar police here. I'm going to have to write you a ticket for committing the most egregious, skin-crawlingly horrible error someone with above a second-grade education can make.

My God, that one irks me to no end. Seriously. "Your" is an adjective meaning of or relating to you or yourself or yourselves especially as possessor or possessors (source: Merriam Webster). "You're" is a contraction of the pronoun "you" and the verb "are." My welcome? Gah!

I never intended to be this pedantic, and it was certainly never my dream as a little girl to be a wordsmith and editrix. I wanted to be a horse jockey or a rock star. As far as I was concerned, I'd marry Nick Rhodes from Duran Duran and join him on tour a la Linda McCartney with Wings and be famous, rich and fabulous.

To be completely honest, I hung on to my delusion of grandeur through college, with never a thought of career in my head. I majored in English because it was easy for me and I never had to try very hard (big disclaimer: I failed 15 hours of math to get the one math credit required at my liberal arts college).

Reality, along with poverty, set in after I graduated and moved to Raleigh. I was fortunate to find a low-paying job I HATED editing vanity reference books. From there I moved to advertising then to corporate editing and freelancing for self-published authors.

Editing incorporates a lot of skills. The hardest is copy editing, where every little typo that slips by, no matter how many other things you fixed, is on your ass. It's not fun. That's why when my first column as an "Our Lives" columnist in the Raleigh News and Observer misspelled my name, captioned my print picture as "married to a English scientist" and the online interview as "Leigh Ann Frink describes why he wants to be a correspondent," I was glad it happened to me and not someone else who would have written a snotty letter to the editor.

Copy editing is the hardest, but working with authors is the most treacherous. It's downright painful sometimes having to approach an author and gently guide him or her toward what the client really wants from his or her work. It's a delicate task, but it's my job to guide the author to make the best work he or she can for the client/audience or veto the print. Sure, I've dealt with whiny prima donnas (especially in advertising) who would throw themselves on their swords over the deletion of a single word, but most often, as I've found, the writers want to create great product. Though I am the editor, not the writer, I do my best to develop strong relationships with my writers, because, really, it's my neck on the line if they don't deliver because I didn't give them good specs or feedback.

Is it too late to go back on that horse jockey position? Seven inches of height, 50 pounds and no knowledge of riding are an impediment, you say? Rats. At least I can be an editor.

You know that I'd do anything for you

I really, really worry about becoming a crazy old cat lady (staring at you, Miss May). I try not to write too much about them, and I don't collect cat figurines, or wear applique cat shirts, or dress Dave and Eudora in little outfits and walk them around the neighborhood in a baby stroller. Yet.

I grew up with cats. Lots and lots of outside cats. Just like my parents, who were both raised on working tobacco farms, did.

One of the things I missed the most in college, of course, was having a cat. So after graduation, even though Rex and I moved into an apartment in Raleigh with a "no pet" clause, even though Rex was not a cat person, I brought home a kitten. I couldn't help myself: She was a tiny gray tabby in a cage at McCrory's at Crabtree Mall, all by herself. She cost $9.99.

I lied to Rex. Told him I'd rescued her from the parking lot of our complex. As always, he gave in and let me keep her. We named her Lovecat Margaret, after one of my very favorite Cure songs ever and Rex's favorite English prime minister.

My God, Lovecat was the least social cat ever. She was, quite honestly mean as hell. Her favorite toys were a disposable razor, a used battery and a pack of matches. Rex and I had friends over for a dinner party and they stared on in horror as I talked with my hands, as usual, but with a four-pound cat attached by all four sets of claws and all her teeth to my hand. She refused to be litter trained, so after much disappointment on my part, we sent her back to Shallotte to live at my parents' house as an outside cat.

Before my parents had a chance to get her fixed, she got knocked up by a very brave tomcat and had a litter of four kittens. A neighbor's dog got loose and murdered her as she tried to protect her babies.

My littlest sister Amy cried as my parents gave those kittens away 15 years ago, but she insisted they keep one, a gray male she named Blue. He was an outside cat, but, like his mother, he was tough as nails.

Blue stared down many a dog, got in a lot of fights with other male cats and gained a lot of scars, but he always loved his people and greeted everyone with a purring ring-around-the-leg. He was the king of the property.

Over the past few years, Old Blue came more and more to resemble the cat from Stephen King's "Pet Sematary." Each time I went home and saw him, he'd lost more teeth, become more deaf and his voice sounded more and more like a death rattle. His body had become a bag of bones and he moved along creakily. But he hung in there.

Last week, Blue started losing control of his bodily functions and had long since stopped cleaning himself. My mama was sitting in her swinging chair in the back yard and saw a fresh hole my daddy had dug. "Is that for Blue?," she asked him, knowing that she would be the one to take him to the vet's office for the last time.

The next day, she set the cat carrier on the ground under the carport and Blue walked right in. She had lined it with one of her best towels -- a blue one. My mama held him, wrapped in that blue towel, in the vet's office, stroking his head as the drugs set in. It was only when a vet tech named Jill came in the room that she started to cry. "Blue was Amy's cat," my mama said, "he was the last living thing we had left of hers."

After Blue drew his last breath and left his suffering behind forever, my mama declined cremation and brought him back home. My daddy buried him out on the back of the lot near the dozens of cats, hamsters, guinea pigs and parakeets we had growing up in our very own pet cemetery. But Blue's spot is special: My daddy piled a huge mound of dirt on top of it, broke an earthenware flowerpot and placed the pieces over it to keep it safe. My parents are going over to the beach this afternoon to gather seashells to place around it.

Into the sea, you and me.


The Cure - The Lovecats
Uploaded by UniversalMusicUK. - See the latest featured music videos.

Let me get some action from the back section

The little food mart in the strip mall nearest my house makes its money off beer, phone cards and lottery tickets. I just popped out for a beer run, walked into the store and saw the two things I can always count on seeing in there: the two Lebanese brothers who own it watching television and speaking their native language, and a chain-smoking, 60-ish lady playing video poker.

As I walked past the counter, I saw a flash of something at eye level mere feet in front of me. I stopped in my tracks as I realized that it was a shoe. On the freshly polished floor, between the door and the beer cooler, a pasty, middle-aged guy was spinning on his upper back and shoulders in full body rock. He jumped to his feet and announced in a thick Jersey accent, "Now that's old school," before walking past me, through the parking lot and down Bernard Street.

The shopkeepers and video poker player had apparently ignored him and kept doing what they always do. I stood there blinking for a second, then made my purchase and came home.

Today, we celebrate

Yes, things are bad and scary in the world and our country: We're all one step closer to living in boxes and wearing barrels with suspenders, a vapid beauty queen could be a heartbeat away from the presidency, and, if the DVD I just got in the mail (unsolicited) is to be believed, radical Islamists are going to come kill us all in a matter of minutes.

But today, we put our fears aside and live for the moment, for today is the sweetest of days. Miss Eudora Thunderkiss, Goddess of Sweet Cosmic Bliss, celebrated turning three today! By celebrated, I mean sat there looking nonplussed as her mommy and daddy sang "Happy Birthday" all day long.

So, fans of Eudora or mammals in general, take a look at this video of her first jump from the couch when she was eight weeks old and remember that there is nothing sweeter in this world than a baby with a milk-fed belly.

And just for today, at the very least, feel safe and secure and know that everything will be right in the world. Seriously. Somehow, it will. I'm gonna look at this purring, smoosh-faced cat on my lap and keep telling myself that.

If they could just stay little...

My nephew, Joshua, was four years old and strapped in his car seat in the back of my old, beater car. We were coming back to Raleigh from Asheville for a weekend of "Lilo and Stitch," the dinosaur museum, Exploris and the "build-a-bear" store at the mall.

"Aunt Lee Lee?" he asked as we drove down I-40.

"Yes, buddy?" I responded.

"Are you my mommy's sister?"

"Yes, buddy, I am. Just like Banyan is your brother."

He thought about that for a while. Then he said:

"My mommy has another sister. Uncle Amy. She lives in heaven."

As the tears started to stream down my face over the pure, unadulterated sweetness of that moment, I just wanted to wrap that little boy in safety and comfort and make sure he never, ever had to feel pain. I wanted to make sure he had ice cream for every meal and had the Disney Channel playing on a nonstop loop all around him. I wanted him to have a pet unicorn that could fly and take him across a rainbow after school. I wanted him to have the golden ticket and live in the chocolate factory with the happy Oompa-Loompas. I wanted him to be Bastian Balthazar Bux, gliding across the clouds as Limahl crooned "Never Ending Story" in the background.

Six years later, I still feel that way about both my nephews. Joshua's 10 and Banyan's 8, but I want them to stay little 'til their Carters wear out. And I want them to... just. be. happy.

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

If that made you cry, leave me a comment, 'cause I'm a little teary, too. :)

From the mailbag

--------- Forwarded message ----------
From: E
Date: Tue, Oct 7, 2008 at 6:29 AM
Subject: Oct 7th column
To: "frinkink@gmail.com" <frinkink@gmail.com>


Mrs. Frink,
I read your column today. The question I have is what makes a woman want to keep her maiden name in marriage?
I am a man who has been married for over 15 years. I don't wear my wedding band because metal reacts with my skin and produces a rash.

Evan
Raleigh, NC

Sent from my iPhone

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

Dear Evan-

I kinda covered that in the column. Good luck with your rash.

xola

My mama and Axl

When I was growing up, I used to watch Friday Night Videos eight inches from the television and at very low volume, so as not to wake up my Sainted Southern Mother. We didn't have MTV then, and the new wave music I adored irritated my James Brown and Elvis-loving mother to no end. Much like my 17-year-old stepson's Scandinavian "love metal" makes me want to vomit from my eyeballs and drive ice picks into my eardrums. But I digress...

While I was in college, my hometown got MTV, and my younger sisters got to go through high school with it, though they had to wait for the parents to relinquish control of the television and go to sleep before they could rock out to music videos. Just like I did. Yes, videos... MTV used to play them.

I came home for a visit the year after I graduated from college and, as I was used to heading out to the club at midnight, stayed up later than my parents. So, after they went to bed, I started watching MTV.

It was a treat for me, as my roommate and I were barely scraping by and couldn't afford cable. I sat on the floor, eight inches from the television with the sound turned down just as I'd done seven years before, trying not to wake my mother.

The "November Rain" video that I'd heard so much about came on, and I perked up with excitement. Two minutes into it, my mother, in her nightgown and unable to sleep from the noise, walked in. I was diving for the volume button when my sainted Southern mother saw what I was watching and said, "It's so sad when she dies at the end."

My mother, my Sainted Southern Mother, spoiled the end of the video for me. But we sat together watching it, and as we did, I wondered what other hair bands my mama was into and what other secrets she might be hiding.

Tuesday is nearly over

I have a friend at work (we worked together at the agency before we jumped ship and went corporate) who is the queen of malapropisms and mixed metaphors. She has been making me laugh for years and throws it right back at me when I say something wrong, which also cracks me up.

This morning, she was hanging out in my cube telling me about her trip to Target last night with her six-year-old son. She bought his Halloween costume and was amazed at how much little kids' outfits cost now.

"So what's his costume?" I asked.

"Bubba Fett," she replied. After a very long pause, she asked, "What are you laughing at?"

"(Her name)!," I finally managed to choke out between gasps, "It's Boba Fett! Unless, of course, you buy the outfit and slap a trucker hat and maybe a sticker of Calvin peeing on a racecar number on it somewhere." And I could barely catch my breath and stop laughing.

"You're gonna write about that, aren't you?" she asked. "Yes!," I responded, still unable to sit up straight. "But I promise not to use your name."

I laughed all day. Then I went to my Tuesday night Board Meeting after work. The weather here is glorious and cool (finally!), so we sat on the back patio at our downtown bar. I love that space, as it's blocked between buildings, so if you don't look up too high, it's like being in a real city.

The usual suspects and I started talking about concerts we'd seen in our youth. I told the story about seeing Prince on his suprise greatest hits show in 1997 from the front row. I was with my two best friends, a boy and a girl. Boy best friend reached his hand up and Prince slapped it, then girl grabbed boy's hand and put it on her double-D boob. Though they were total buddies and nothing more, I'm pretty sure boy friend forgot all about Prince for a second or two.

"I was really into fish when I met Prince," one of the usual suspects replied. (I am really tempted to stop telling this story and land on that sentence, as it's brilliantly random and absurd.) Then he went on to explain that he was really into fish and aquariums in high school, so he got a job in a pet store in a mall in Asheville, N.C. It's my friend's story to tell and I was frankly too dumbstruck to take in all the details, but apparently, during the Purple Rain Tour, as they were making their way from Charlotte to Atlanta, Apolonia (yes!) decided she wanted a dog.

So they stopped in Asheville to get a dog and went to the pet store where my friend worked. Prince's security detail notified the mall and blocked off the entrances for an hour, unbeknownst to my friend. My then-teenaged friend, in his Pets Plus golf shirt, found himself in the presence of Prince and Apolonia.

"What did he look like?," I squealed! "I wasn't paying much attention to him," he replied, "I was 15 and all I could do was keep from fainting over Apolonia. She was so hot!"

"Oh, come on, tell me what Prince looked like!"

"He looked like a guy in love with a girl," my friend said. They bought two puppies and left.

And I swooned. I'm still swooning to "If I Was Your Girlfriend..."

Feeling blue?

Are you sad, irritable, tired or restless? Feeling unsure about the market or worried about the election and the future of 'merica? Are you just having a case of the Mondays?

Fear not, gentle reader, Dr. Leigh Ann feels your pain and has the solution. Melt those icky feelings away by watching this video, heretofore known as The Cutest Thing You Will Ever See In Your Entire Life. *

Have a happy, happy week.
-----------------------

* We here at TGFS apologize for our current inability to embed video, as our IT staff is en route to a job in Mexico and won't be back until Friday.

Cheap filler

I am so overwhelmingly consumed with Facebook (big-ups to my friends, especially the ones whose real names and faces I know after being your blogspot fan for so long), that I'm having a hard time coming up with anything new to say. I've got a newspaper deadline looming, and I usually just cut stories from this blog, but I can't, and don't even care to, think about it.

So here are some of my greatest hits, packaged into a single post. Been touring these stories on various mediums for a while now, but the lead singer is original, lawn seats are cheap, and you won't have to plan your bathroom/concession stand breaks around, "Here's one from our new album!"

Thank you and good night. (Wait for it, the encore's coming...)

Every generation has an eccentric. I'm waiting for the torch to be passed to me.

Chicks in race cars are hot.

The corporate world can suck out your soul if you aren't careful.

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

Off to blow kisses on Facebook. Srsly Diff Girl and Manager Mom, I don't know when you sleep!

Leigh Ann Frink is currently eating crow...

I joined Facebook 49 hours ago after swearing up, down and sideways that sort of nonsense was for kids.

I really did hold out as long as I could. Friends I respect kept talking about it and how much fun it was, but I was firm in my stance: "I have no interest in such frivolity." I had, after all, joined Myspace two years ago on the recommendation of my then-14-year-old stepson and found it to be way too much work.

But then Mr. Sweetypants joined Facebook and gleefully announced several times a day for the past couple of weeks that old school friends from Northampton (Engerlund) had found him. He was having a blast reconnecting with them.

So I joined, mostly to promote the column. Within 24 hours, I'd reconnected with 17 old friends and gotten freelance offers. And I found myself rushing home from work the next day, blowing past my husband and logging on. For the first time in my tenure at the place that pays me, I am greatful that the Web nanny blocks certain sites, as I could easily spend my entire day on Facebook at this point.

I know this obsession, like all my past hobbies and obsessions (night clubs, painting, knitting, yoga, online dating) will pass. But for now, Facebook is hitting my instant gratification button like smack. Why spend an evening blogging when you can spend 15 seconds typing, "(your name) is wondering what to have for dinner," and get 10 immediate e-mails?

Yes, youngsters, I realize I am very late to this party and everybody is Twittering now, but that is so insipid. I will never....

Palin Rocks!!!

I don't understand what all the fuss is about. I love Palin! Have since I was 12 years old and would stay up late, when the show would come on PBS at 11, fiddling with the rabbit ears on the black and white TV in my bedroom to pick up the UHS channel.

I mean seriously, what's not to love about Palin?

Palin understands religion:

Chaplain: Let us praise God.

[The congregation rises.]

Chaplain: O Lord…

Congregation: O Lord…

Chaplain: … ooh, You are so big…

Congregation: … ooh, You are so big…

Chaplain: … so absolutely huge.

Congregation: … so absolutely huge.

Chaplain: Gosh, we're all really impressed down here, I can tell You.

Congregation: Gosh, we're all really impressed down here, I can tell You.

Chaplain: Forgive us, O Lord, for this, our dreadful toadying, and…

Congregation: … and barefaced flattery.

Chaplain: But You're so strong and, well, just so… super.

Congregation: Fantastic!

Chaplain: Amen.

Congregation: Amen.

Palin understands democracy:

Dennis: [interrupting] Listen, strange women lyin' in ponds distributin' swords is no basis for a system of government. Supreme executive power derives from a mandate from the masses, not from some farcical aquatic ceremony.

Palin is totally down with women's health and reproductive issues:

Hospital Administrator: And what are you doing this morning?
Obstetrician: It's a birth.
Hospital Administrator: Ah. And what sort of thing is that?
Dr. Spenser: Well, that's where we take a new baby out of a lady's tummy.
Hospital Administrator: Wonderful what we can do nowdays.

Palin knows the party:

Wanda: I'm sorry about my brother, Ken. I know he's insensitive. He's had a hard life. Dad used to beat him up.
Ken: Good.

I could go on and on about how much I love Michael Palin. I've had a crush on him for 27 years. He's Oxford-educated, funny, self-deprecating and I could watch him for hours.



What's that you say? We were talking about the other famous Palin?

Oh good lord, scratch all that then.

UPDATE: It's been a week since I wrote that, and today I stumbled on Michael Palin for President. Click here for a better list of reasons than I came up with! Palin '08!!!

Gotta keep on rockin'

I saw the Jukebox Hero Baby clip today. Several times. Laughing out loud and disturbing my cube mates over and over, I'm sure.

If you haven't seen it, watch it now. I'll wait.


Jukebox Hero Baby - Click here for the most popular videos


I was at work when I saw it, and of course the song got stuck in my head. No lie: I was walking down the hall in the conservative, corporate place that pays me on my way to the ladies' when I totally positioned my hands into an air guitar and hit the lick that comes after "he heard one guitar."

Fortunately, nobody saw my inner permed, 80s girl bust out.

(Gotta give a shout out to my buddy Diff Girl; she's the queen of 80s music references.)

And I was all mellow...

Decided to switch gears from self-deprecating to nostalgic with this month's Raleigh News and Observer column.

Here's to Schlitz, Sundrop, motor oil and salt water.

I promise not to let my personal tragedy interfere with my ability to do good hair

I attended a writers' workshop at Duke a year ago under the instruction of an immensely talented local writer named Bridget Lacey. During the class, she related a story of a phone call she made to her mother when she was a young, struggling writer.

She told her mother that she had no money and had to choose between paying the heating bill and getting her hair done. Her mother replied, "If you keep your hair done, you can find some heat."

How could I not relate to that? My Sainted Southern Mother grew up in the days when women had their hair set a couple of times a week, rarely washed it for fear of losing the style, and slept in rollers wrapped with toilet paper. Of all the graces she instilled in me, the importance of hair care stands out: I would skip meals for a week to save up to get my roots done if I had no other choice.

So I present to you pictures from a lifetime in hair. Snarky and compassionate comments are welcomed.

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

I pioneered the faux-hawk.


Ages 1-4, the "boy cut." My mother was young, but she was smart: My haircut was easy for her to manage and allowed her plenty of time to work on hers.


Ages 5-12, the "long and parted 70s girl," complete with home-cut bangs.



Age 13 saw the passing of the torch from a small-town mother to daughter; I got my first perm.


Age 15, I went with my aunt to a stylist at Wrightsville Beach and got my first pink highlights. I came home swelling with the rebellion of an adolescent girl, waiting for my mother's reaction. She said, "Well, you're the one who has to walk around this town looking like that." I was undaunted for a couple of days, until the most outrageous rocker girl at our school -- a senior -- asked me to introduce her at the assembly when she was running for student body president. I strode out confidently and started speaking before the mocking laughter of the 600 gathered small-town, mid-80s kids drowned out my thoughts. I didn't cry, though I did go home and beg my mother to take me to the beauty parlor.

In order to cut out my color, we segued into Ultimate Girl Mullet, then I went on my first trip to New York with my aunt.

After that, I grew my hair out and got a perm.


And that perm got bigger...


And bigger...


Until I went away to the University of London for the first semester of my sophomore year at college. I was extremely stingy with my weekly food stipend -- my only income as I hadn't done a good job working the summer before to save up -- but I walked into a salon by our underground stop in Queensway and asked the woman who could take me to just trim my hair and dye it burgundy.

She, thankfully, ignored me outright. She cut 7 inches of grown-out perm off, then bleached my hair to a pale ash. When she spun me around to the mirror to show me, I was at once horrified that she'd made me look just like her and delighted that she did. And I didn't mind my two future weeks of soup and ale for dinner. Oh, no, we never skipped our nights at the pub. Food, however, was an afterthought.




We came back to the states, back to being underage again, and finished college. I moved to Raleigh, got a really crappy job in publishing and started wearing my hair long and blonde, as I, for whatever reason (my family certainly didn't put it on me), thought it was time to find a husband. So I wore it this way for years:


And the years flew by. Suddenly, I was 30, living alone and working in a national advertising agency that had no dress code. So I started making the most of my favorite accessory. And life became good.

I give you:

The drama club kids pose with the principal and his wife.


I am a sunflower:


Why settle for one hair color when you could have three?


I don't have kids, so I didn't understand why small children shouted "Lava Girl!" at me around the time I first met and fell for Mr. Sweetypants.


Six months later, we got engaged.


Another six months later, we were married. I chose "deadly nightshade" for my hair and for my girls' dresses.



And now, two years later, my darling Mr. Sweetypants still puts up with me on a daily basis.


Bless his heart.

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

Anna at Studio 180 is the artist; I am the canvas.

I can't read

I've blogged before about my inability to read for pleasure after all these years as paid-for copy editor.

So my friend Laura, when I asked for advice for a salacious, easy read for this year's beach week, recommended "The Other Boleyn Sister." "I can't read modern fiction, much less boring, historical fiction," I replied. "Trust me," she said, "It's dirty and a page-turner."

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

Steve left the fabulous beach house, with its pool, hot tub, putting green, pool table, ice machine, elevator and four refrigerators on Monday evening to finish up our business getting his green card with the Department of Homeland Security.



I played with our friends that night, then retired to our room and the jacuzzi tub to start reading my book. And I stayed up way later than I normally would because I couldn't put it down. Oh, those lusty Tudors.

The next morning, I joined the kids for breakfast, then left them to their own ways: Some were playing Wii bowling, some played Scrabble and some retreated for their rooms for naps. I put my bathing suit on, wrapped my midsection with a beach towel and settled into a chair under the umbrella by the pool to continue reading.

Mr. Sweetypants drove up in Judy Jetta not long afterward. He pulled around Dee Are's parked, year-old Prius and jumped out of the car, beaming at me and saying "Hello, baby!" He went to get his stuff out of the back seat without realizing Judy was rolling backward.

Imagine the following in sloooooow motion: I yelled, "parrrrrrrrkkkinnnng brrrrraaake," then leapt from my chaise longue and ran toward the gate, shedding my towel as I ran. I looked over at Mr. Sweetypants as he jumped behind Judy, trying to stop her on her way down the driveway.

That stupid gate was magnetic, with no clasp for opening, and I kept screaming "parking brake" as I fumbled to open it. Just as I figured it out, I heard the thud behind me. I rushed out the gate, the thought of discovering my husband squished between two cars making my heart nearly explode.

Mr. Sweetypants was safe and sound. Judy and the Prius, unfortunately, had experienced a violent kiss. Judy was only scraped, but the Prius's bumper was completely caved in.

As Mr. Sweetypants stood in the driveway calling Geico, I had to go knock on the napping Dee Are's door. "There's been an accident," I told her. And she was totally cool. She even offered to settle the cost between friends so our premium wouldn't increase, but we'd already reported it. And, bless her, for all our apologies, she kept assuring us, "Nobody got hurt, it was an accident."

It was only after we'd spoken to the insurance agents and been granted our friend's forgiveness that we were able to celebrate Mr. Sweetypants' wonderful news:

His green card was approved!

Then he smiled at me

And my August ennui went away. Pah-rumpa-bum-bum.

Today was just another random Tuesday in icky August. One of my two best girls at the place that pays me was out, so my other best girl, Laura, and I had our lunch in a conference room as per standard operating procedure without her. I went outside to smoke my dessert and noticed a gaggle of RPD officers hanging out in front of our building (including the Segway cops, whose job I have never understood as I've only ever seen them answering questions about the Segways). The street was being blocked off.

Then I heard someone say, "Obama's coming."

"Excuse me," I said to the two Segway cops closest to me, "but is Barack Obama coming here?" "I didn't say that," one responded. "You said it, not us," the other smirked. "So it would be totally cool for me to just hang out here on the street looking around?," I asked. "Sure," cop one answered with a smile (we're terribly polite here in the South), "You can stand here looking at this lovely planter as long as you want."

It was then that I saw the dark sedans bearing men in black being escorted through the barricade. I raced back to the 14th floor and yelled, "Obama's coming here!," and dragged Laura back outside with me. The two of us stood in the sun for half an hour as the police force increased and the bomb-sniffing dog inspected the parked cars. "I want to pet the puppy," I said. "That puppy is not meant for petting," Laura replied.

We hung around in the gathering crowd for close to an hour, standing behind the nearly naked hot dog hottie, who, strangely, was wearing capri pants today. We were hot and getting tired and the sodas on the hot dog cart were looking really good, but we couldn't bring ourselves to purchase anything from her.

The "Jesus Saves" tee-shirt guy realized the crowd in front of the Sheraton was bigger than his usual audience in front of the courthouse, so he came to our block to scream. I saw another street preacher I know from standing outside making his way toward us. I warned Laura, "He's going to ask us if we've accepted Jesus Christ as our personal Lord and Savior. Just say 'yes' and he'll keep going." He did, we said "yes" and he initially walked away, then came back and mumbled something, but we just ignored him.

"I can't take the heat anymore," Laura said. "I'm going to stay here for one more minute," I told her. As soon as she left, our friend Matt came out and joined me. Then the police put up tape and told the crowd to stand behind it. Matt and I got a spot right in the front. We stood there patiently making small talk for 20 minutes or so, then I heard my name being called from behind me. It was my darling Laura passing me a bottle of water.

The word-of-mouth-relying, downtown crowd had swelled to a couple hundred people with camera phones at the ready. I had been outside in direct sunlight for more than an hour at this point, a good 40 minutes more than I spend in direct sunlight per quarter. Suddenly, people standing with us on Fayetteville Street started running toward the door to the BB&T building, which connects to the Sheraton and shares a lobby on Salisbury Street, where the main entrance to the hotel sits.

Matt and I were reticent to give up our awesome spot next to the police tape, so Laura went to scope out the scene. When she leaned out the door and waved us in that direction, we took off running. Laura and I totally lost Matt in our haste to get downstairs to the main lobby, where people were already starting to scream as Obama entered the building.

He was a total rock star in his sunglasses and tailored suit. He's unbelievably handsome in real life -- and so tall. Thank goodness he's tall. I'm 5'6 and saw something like this behind the crowd as he whizzed through:



Laura is 5'7 and saw this:



Our friend Capricia is only 5'2, but she was on the staircase, stood on her tippy-toes and raised the camera all the way up over her head and snapped blindly, capturing this:


It happened really fast and we went back to work feeling giddy. My work day was slow anyway, so I just stared out my window at the Sheraton, just in case his room was on my side and he decided to look contemplatively out of his window as he talked to Michelle about his day so far. After two hours, I looked down and saw that all the government cars and SUVs had parked on our side of the still-blocked-off Fayetteville Street, so I yelled at Laura and our friend Holly to meet me in the conference room where we'd have a better view.

The three of us, Laura and I complaining that we probably didn't smell very good after being in the sun for so long, watched out the window in the conference room as the Raleigh cops and Secret Service put up yellow tape and cleared the way again. "I'm going back down!," I announced, running for the elevator, which took its time coming.

I went back down and, after standing in the sweet spot in front of our building directly across the street from the doors to the hotel, was told to move to end of the street (which, fortunately, is only about 40 feet from the back entrance to the Sheraton). I stood there for about 20 minutes before the Secret Service agents hustled him out into one of the two identical SUVs parked in the front.

He had changed into workout clothes (we later learned he'd gone to Peak Fitness before his speech at the fairgrounds). The SUV pulled forward a little and paused before turning. I was standing pretty much by myself and began screaming and jumping up and down, waving my arms over my head like he was a member of Duran Duran and it was 1984.

Dunno what it is about me that people notice. Must be my beaming smile. Or my big boobs. But Barack Obama looked right at me, smiled and waved. He could very well have been telling the Secret Service agents to keep an eye on the hysterical, pink-haired girl for all I know, but we definitely looked right at each other for at least a brief moment in time on a random Tuesday in icky August, and it made my heart soar.

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

Laura and I were leaving the building on our way to our standing Tuesday board meeting at a nearby bar and she was telling me how she told Holly that the street preacher told us, "Your mama won't get you into heaven," and Holly replied, "Leigh Ann's mama is sure trying."

"Laura!," I shrieked, "He said 'Obama won't get you into heaven!'"

And we laughed and laughed. Today was a good day.

UPDATE: Laura and I were just a few feet away from appearing on my beloved Gawker!