Harry Potter has been over for a while now. No new books, no new movies. I refuse to accept it.
Just kidding. But I will miss the excitement of the book release parties and the midnight showings and the fellow HP nerds that made you feel like you belonged.
When the seventh book came out, I was in Jackson, Tennessee, visiting one of the bfs. There were games and snacks and a two-year-old dressed as Dobby and as there always were at these things, news cameras, which brings me to one of my Top Five favorite Sammi quotes ever. (You can see another one here.)
Sammi: I will eat every flavor Bertie Bott‘s if I can just get on TV.
One of the great things about being a journalist is getting to meet people. And they always like you.
The following was said to me once by a former county official at a past job when I showed up at an 8 a.m. meeting (but the paper’s offices didn’t open until 9): “We thought we’d scheduled this early enough so you wouldn’t come.”
When I got my first job out of college as a journalist and became editor in six weeks due to a mean trick by the woman who hired me, I learned a lot. I learned more about photography and page design, I learned that school board meetings are the most boring thing in the world — followed closely by watching golf on television — and I learned what not to look for in an employee. Like, one that doesn’t know how to or really even want to do her job. Except for that she wanted my job after I left.
Reporter I hired who was looking to take my place: “I think I’ll always be a mediocre journalist, but I could definitely be a kick-ass daycare provider.”
I have experienced three “SPRING BREAK (FILL IN THE YEAR) BITCHES!!!!” in my lifetime. Two of those I have been able to experience with one of my bestest friends in the world, Sammi.
I’d tell you about those trips but that’s classified information. What happens in Florida, stays in Florida, except for those alcohol flashbacks.
Case in point, Sammi, several months after one of those trips: “My mouth tastes like Spring Break.”
I cannot take credit for naming this blog. That would be The Roommate, who said something like, “You should call it ‘On Account Of’ or something like that since you say that a lot.” And the rest is history.
I also cannot take credit for this next gem, which is a beautiful, wonderful compliment (of which are few and far between when it comes to The Roommate and I, but we love each other, I promise. He’s my best friend.) and as I mentioned earlier, a possible future tagline for this here blog.
Anthony: Your writing reminds me of a touching Oprah story.
It’s a toss-up between that or “Like Oprah, only better.”
During a conversation updating us on the recent antics of an ex-boyfriend, one of my bffs came up with the best plan to deal with him. Killing two birds with one stone, if you will.
Sammi: “If you get paid to be on Jerry Springer and I could pay my student loans off, I’d go on there.”
I realize this post is coming immediately after a sweet little post about my Sunday school kiddos and the fun things they say.
Well, the older kiddos say some funny stuff too – as evidenced by Bourbon Boys Round 2 this past weekend.
Case in point: An inebriated Uncle Garr, giving us the best directions he can when we’re wondering how to get from one distillery to another.
Someone in the van: So which way do we need to go to get to Heaven Hill?
Uncle Garr, points at the sun: Well there’s the sun, motherfucker.
Yeah. You guys have no idea about how Saturday was. But I’ll be telling you. Very soon.
In the meantime, refresh your memory with Bourbon Boys Part Uno and relish in the fact that you were there, you remember, the first time the f-bomb was dropped at on-account-of.com.
This week in Sunday school it was kind of a mad house. Six kids. Five of them were boys. Two of them were age 3. All of them had their levels cranked to 11.
When I finally got them to sit down and listen to the story, it calmed down a bit. There was question asking and hand-raising and Jackson, age 6, asked his fellow miscreants to raise their hands if they were 6 years old as well.
Naturally, I raised my hand.
Jackson: Miss Laura, you’re not six!
Me: Yeah huh! I am.
Jackson: You’re not!
Me: Then how old am I?
Jackson: Sixteen!
Me: Oh, yeah. I forgot.
Will, also age 6, whom I babysat for last week and I’ve already played this game with: No you’re not, you’re 27!
My parents are not making it easy on themselves when it comes to keeping them out of the blog. Everything will be fine and dandy and uneventful and then we go out to dinner with them and I wish I had it on video.
Since I don’t, you’ll have to settle for a partial transcript of part of our evening the other night. Scene: Me, Rachel, Mom and Dad at dinner at a Chinese restaurant near their house. We are each talking about our day and about work and Rachel is a few minutes into a story about her job when Mom speaks up.
Mom, looking across the restaurant while Rachel is still talking: “Is that my dry cleaner?”
Dad, looking too: “Did you pick up my suit?”
Rachel, looking at me because she’s just realized I’m the only one really paying attention: “Anyway, Laura…”
