press release 03/15/05

The following faux press release was absolutely inspired by the dogged efforts of a certain someone's now ex to show us all his true colors, before tucking his tail between his legs and running away. I was mistaken by the public library as one "Mary Ramsey," because we all know it is impossible to fathom just what my real name might be. Time has only made the press release more humorous. Enjoy!

From the office of her Loyal Governorship, Jami L. Smith, as released by her appointed Chief of Staff, Mary Ramsey.I am here this morning to address the issue of resignation of Vice President Rumph. As Mr. Rumph cannot be reached for questioning, I am the party to release the relevant information from the office of her governorship. We ask that you respect the privacy of Governor Smith, and to believe that she really was out sick yesterday.
Seriously. Not in the bed with her make-up still on. Sick, people, sick!
Due to circumstances beyond the eyes and control of this office, Vice President Rumph had begun to seek employment elsewhere. We were shocked, horrified, and greatly displeased at his behavior, and to say the least his place in the office of her governorship has been eliminated.The files and otherwise personal belongings of our governor still within his property will be retrieved before the end of the week, pending the help of First Lady Pamela.
The office of Vice Governor for the state of N. Carolina is now open. Applicants please see the secretary, or visit the state job website. Please know that for a candidate to be considered, he must meet the following criteria, in addition to being evaluated by yours truly, the Chief.
honest
loyal
trustworthy
not hung up on an ex-wife
not secretly contain shit for brains
able to communicate pressing issues when they arise, not after
practice good hygiene
appreciate the governor, rather than constantly compare the differences in your lives
willingness to grow as a couple
give a good backrub
have a knowledge of cooking (you take her for take-out, and I'll take you out)sensitivity
patience
a freakin sense of humor!
possess faith and good Christian standing
respect and honor the governor's beliefs, rather than hold them against her
be good lookin

Should you fail to meet one of these criterion, you must be able to compensate in the best possible way, although your faith is most important. We don't do sadists or multiple wives here. If you have an unusual growth on your face, or have yellow, pointy teeth, please seek employment elsewhere.
Thank you for your time. Please mind that you cease to take pictures through the windows, or your ass is grass, if you catch my drift.

fool, let him go

so, about that guy i told you about,
i had to let him go.
i wasn't eating, couldn't sleep:
it was love with a ghost.
another man who don't want me
after the way i hurt him;
it is someone else's chance.
who can say "i'm sorry" enough
to turn a head, bend an ear?
it does not matter when his choice is clear,
cause he doesn't write to
tell me sink or swim:
he doesn't know the fool i've been.
this time ate at my insides,
just like all the other times
my heart wasn't guarded
and i fell matter into mind
in love.

ginger root

i was hiding underground,
cowering in myself with the earthworms,
watching their progress, as i
constrained my own growth by
trying to stand still.
was i hoping someone
would take my picture,
make me something
by telling me who i was?
i lay static, stoid, apathetic
in spite of enough fire within
to singe myself in a breath.

you saw the bud,
my last grasping at life,
gripping the sunlight
just as steadfastly as
i was holding to the dirt:
you found me out,
tried to clean my
filthy, hating mind.
yet i, i took a bite
out of you and fled
the flightless flight of an ostrich,
into that familiar pain,
your nonverbal screams
bleeding into my own.

one day, a voice
whispered to my heart,
"come away from there,
and breath your laughter
again; be the child in love
with everything and
everyone, for the dirt
holds nothing but your
tears and gives nothing
in return."
and so i stood naked,
unfettered and alive:
the scales of ages
peeled from my skin.
my heart was vulnerable then,
and i let others cut me to pieces,
believing that i was made wrong.
the sting and stench of reproach
left me vehement and bitter.
i tasted anger and vinegar,
and marinated in this tepidness.

again love came, pried open the jar,
spilling sunlight which had been
all around me, into
the precipice of my situation.
saturated from a catharsis,
i was yet young and green,
and tasted of sweet fire
like the pickled ginger
companioned with wasabi,
that glorious fresh air.

one man's ceiling is another man's floor

You know, I am honest about my age. I'm not a college kid, or even a fresh-out-college kid. I am an adult. When I took this first floor apartment, it was with the knowledge that its pluses outweighed its minuses, and I honestly thought grad school was gonna work. One day, I believed, I'd get a townhouse/small house and stop paying rent. The neighborhood I live in is beautiful, on top of a hill, close enough to walk to campus (not that I need to anymore) or downtown. Downtown then can be walked in two blocks. Yeah, and my folks don't get why I don't wanna stick around.
In the Summer, fireflies dangle in the air and wild rabbits eat wild strawberries in the yard. Oh, the serenity of nature. Oh, my romantic sensibilities. Oh, yet I can't hear the nightingale singing to me, or the crickets purring on, because my upstairs neighbor's television, at least a 40 incher and visible from the street, is up so loud that I can tell you the plotline of the show. There is no need to set an alarm: child, please! At 6:30 in the blissful morning, the heavy footsteps begin the glide to prep for the working day. Sometimes I pass back out, but after her brief shower (I can hear all manner of water, including the going of pee) she stops right above my head to roll her hair. This is my conclusion, as the curling iron hits the floor at least once. I call her a "turd" outloud and pass out again, only to be reawoken when she has put on her heels. She's at least 65 years old, and she wears 3'' heels. No ma'am. And this is just her morning routine. When her toddler grandchildren are visiting, a veritable circus show, complete with promenading elephants, is unleashed.
I honestly don't know what to say. This is an experience for a college senior/recent graduate, in their first place, taking the bad because it's just their first time in the real world. Ramsey's got to move. Why? Because when the hot water pipes honk and cause the apartment to vibrate after 10PM and I find myself flicking off the ceiling or else growling to myself, it ain't proactive.

you're baby's comin to get ya

Have any of you readers had the pleasure of seeing the film It's A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World? In one scene, a very sunburnt character (Sylvester, his mother is portrayed by Ethel Mermann) in tiny red lifeguard shorts is blazing down the highway in the California desert. He is sobbing, because he is an emotional windbag, because his brother-in-law has just humiliated his mother in broad daylight. As he believes he is coming to her rescue, he is flooring his red sportscar, getting air at times, and shrieking, "Your baby's comin to get ya, Mama! Oh, you had me to save you!" I absolutely wet my pants laughing every time I see this.
The reason I have shared this scene with you is that I have fantastic news, after such an emotional mindjob. My car has saved me many times, including both head-on collisions where IDIOTS have failed to yield turning left in front of me ("I didn't see you!" That's b/c you're an idiot. Mind you, I am secretly Wonder Woman in my invisible plane, but I don't want to blow my cover to an idiot like you.) without airbags. And now, in about a week, my baby is comin home. Yes kids, I'm putting another heart into that old mom-mobile and driving that stationwagon into the ground! The purring engine, the speaking steering column on a hot day, and the lack of a cd player will be mine to experience once more. He may have to be renamed "Sparticus" for his spirit and pep. I have now personified two cars. Should you wish to tell me "you're weird" and dismiss me to the nice gentlemen in white wishing to wrap me in a straightjacket, that'd be a shame.

Foxy

High noon: Friday, 3 March, 2006. I am driving south on the interstate, on the way to a lunch date with my best friend in Charlotte. The radio is going full tilt, and my stomach is still quaking with some of the worst indigestion in my life. There is a smile on my face, because irregardless of how much pain I am in, this is my birthday weekend. Cue the groans and grindings of my engine, crying out. I turn off the radio to determine the meaning of what is about to happen. The entire stationwagon shutters, followed by a frightening BANG from under the hood, and in the rearview mirror a large cloud of smoke is seen firing out of the muffler. I sarcastically mutter "Ok, ok," as the steering column begins to lock halfway through my merge from the far left lane to the righthand shoulder. Instantaneously, the stationwagon, my beloved friend of the past five years, shuts itself off. Smoke spews from the engine. In my shock and bewilderment, two men in a compact car have pulled off the interstate with me. As they reverse in the grass to pull alongside of my steaming car, I am able to call my mother to tell her where I am and what happened. A large gentleman in the aforementioned vehicle says to me through the window, "We saw what happened. Do you want us to take a look [under the hood]?"

His companion, a methodical man with a heavy NC triad dialect [and strong resemblance to Golden Globe winner Chris Cooper] attempts to pry open the hood, and within a few minutes all three of us are looking into the heat of my now exasperated engine. Oil is slowly dripping onto the asphalt. As there is little for the gentlemen to do, they tell me what exit ramp we're all standing on, help me push the car into the grass, make sure I have someone to call for help, and are on their way. Thank goodness I was not far from town, and that I have kept my AAA membership going. 1.5 hours later, a towtruck arrives. Being a lone woman on the side of the interstate in the middle of a not-very-warm day, you can't exactly go for a walk to pass the time. The cellphone kept me company, ringing every five minutes: AAA tried to send me a locksmith, Hazel called to make plans for that evening, and my parents juggled me between meetings and making real estate offers.

A silent man, whom I shall refer to as "Bif," drove up in his towtruck, with a mouthful of pizza, and soon we were off to the dealership. It's always comforting when the man driving you to absolution has no idea where he's going. My uncle had told me that there was a Toyota dealership closeby on South Main, and that is where Bif took us. In my earnest to get out of the steaming stationwagon and move on with the day, I had done three things: left the car unlocked, left my bright orange purse on the seat in plain view, and stowed away my apartment keys. When a person is in shock, as in "OMG, the timing of this could not be worse," a person doesn't think about these things, and nor do they hear Bif offering a piece of pizza on the drive to the service station.

Folks at car dealerships are so friendly. Artificially so, when a lone female in a skirt wearing the look of shock enters the mechanic's office. A babyfaced man (we'll call him "T.M.") tried to work his chipper "Hey, how are you doin ta'day?" angle on me, and stopped mid-sentence at my abrupt approach. "Oh, did I scare you? You don't look like you're havin a good day!" A brief conversation ensued, and I was told to wait in chairs whilst a bear of a man assessed my engine. When Ramsey is upset, she does not sit in chairs. I think a brain tumor, from the amount of time I spend on cellphones when in peril, is in my future. Car salesmen, brushing past me with the aforementioned ersatz manners, did not deter me from finding a ride out of that place. An unidentified man sitting in chairs was not reading the paper he held up in front of his nose: no, no. He was totally eavesdropping on my calls made in the kid's play area. T.M. came at me with a clipboard and a ridiculous look on his face, telling me he had bad news. Before he could finish telling me that my engine had suffered much like my GI tract, that is, been without the necessary lubrication to alieviate the exertion of powering through the day, said bearlike mechanic came in from the garage and looked me like, "oh yeah, that's your car that's toast." As anyone with an older vehicle knows, the mechanics will either try to give you a list of expensive repairs needed and/or suggest you buy a new car. Totalled twice, my 1990 Toyota Camry V6 stationwagon was the one thing I clung to through the real world I entered after college graduation. And now, he was dead. The oil pump had ceased to give the engine oil, drying it out and throwing it into the seizure I had just experienced on the interstate. There had been no indication, and there was plenty of oil in the tank.

15 minutes later, my uncle picked me up. I had been pacing in the dealership parking lot, and having turned away one car salesman and T.M. trying to get me to look at cars, my uncle drove me to his house. My luggage for the birthday weekend trip, filled with warmer weather things for Charleston, was now in his trunk. On the ride, we discussed our mutual admiration for black comedians, and he insisted that I borrow his hot rod and go see my girl in Charlotte. This exchange is how Foxy, pictured at the top of this blog, came into my life.

For an environmentalist to be driving an '86 Trans Am American beast of a muscle car is not only ironic, it's an f-in riot! The looks that people give me, the number of cars loaded with men sadling up to me on the interstate to get a better look, make me howl with laughter. I shoot them glances back, as if to say "Oh, yeah!" and "Girl don't match the car, do it?" My friend was without breath, she was so hysterical, when I parked next to her upon my arrival in Charlotte. What happened over the weekend will be discussed in the blog to come.