Hell has no fire ...

... hot enough to punish this son of a bitch.

La. father accused of killing son owed $4K

9 mins ago

NEW ORLEANS – A father accused of killing his 2-year-old son in New Orleans over child support apparently owed his estranged wife $4,000.

The boy's mother, Daniella Powell, said Sunday she didn't notice anything out of the ordinary when Danny Platt picked up the boy Friday for a weekend visit.

But a few hours later, she says Platt called her and told her that Ja'Shawn Powell had been kidnapped. She says Platt then gave her conflicting stories about how the boy was abducted.

Police say the 22-year-old Platt made up a story about his son being kidnapped and later confessed to the killing. He told authorities where to find the boy's body Saturday.

The boy's mother said Platt learned last month that he owed back child support.

Happy 2009!

Doesn't it seem like yesterday that everyone was bracing for the Y2K "disaster" that never came?

And here we are -- another New Year in its infancy. I'm not one for resolutions, but you're reading one of them. I resolve to get out my feelings more this year. They're disjointed, with no connection whatsoever, but here they are.

By this time next year I'll be the mother of an official driver-license-holding teenager, on her way to spreading her wings for independence. I've devoted so much of my being to this child that I'm not sure I'm ready for the empty nest.

She's beautiful, brilliant and sensitive -- exactly what this world needs for its future. Can I let her go? I don't know. She needs to be let go, and I hope and pray I'm not so selfish I can't let that happen. I love her fiercely. She's my life's joy.

I'm recovering from some funky stomach malady, so the first nibble of the day wasn't black-eyed peas and greens. I hope the New Year's gods can forgive this indiscretion and bless me with luck. It would be nice to win the lottery, but you have to play to win. If I can't swoop up on Powerball winnings, I hope I can at least keep my head above water this year.

My little dog isn't getting any younger. He's had eye and back problems this year. I wish him an easy, healthy year as we grow older together.

It's my fervent prayer that the economy pull out of this dismal slump. Uppermost in my mind, of course, is the fate of newspapers. So many good people have devoted their lives to the truth with very few monetary rewards. Please, for their sake -- for my sake, even -- don't let newspapers die. We're not perfect, but we're out there trying our damnedest to give the public an unbiased look at the events coloring their world. The same cannot be said of so many bloggers and citizen journalists, many of whom color themselves as objective but reveal their bent. Kind of like Faux News with a keyboard.

(And yes, I do realize I'm using a blog as my podium. I, however, make no claim to be a journalist here. This is where I blow off steam -- it's subjective, and I have no plans to change that.)

I have high hopes for our new POTUS. Barack Obama is no messiah, but he gives me optimism. New ideas are needed. The status quo is not working. I now count down the days to the end of the error -- a man neither elected by the people nor for the people.

Reading about the possibility of Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner having a New Year's baby makes me smile. It's irrelevant to my daily life, but I think they're absolutely darling. So many times I've latched my hopes onto a Hollywood couple -- Brad and Jennifer, Reese and Ryan -- only to see it end in divorce. (I still haven't forgiven Brad for cheating with Angelina Whorlie.) I have faith in the Afflecks. They seem ... almost normal.

Why was Friends the last great sitcom? I love The Office, but there is still a void left by the six people who gathered in my living room every Thursday to make me laugh .. and cry. Though I've always loved Friends, I still mourn for the pre-Monica Chandler and the Joey who was dumb and lovable, not brain dead.

Of course, Jim Halpert does help ease the pain somewhat ... (Is he gorgeous or what?!?)

And speaking of guys who make you drool, I'd gladly be Rob Pattinson's cougar. Long or short hair, bald ... I don't care. Just in case anyone out there knows him and wants to pass the word ...

Happy New Year, everyone! Both of you.

AFK ... or, It's Always #$%@^% Hot in Tennessee

I realize I've been neglecting my blogging duties. I hate it, too. I actually enjoy sharing my thoughts and views with all two of my readers.

Life, however, has intervened. It's brought some surprises, some pleasant, some not so pleasant, and one that totally caught me offguard.

The not so pleasant first: That feeling I've had in my gut for months turns out to be physical. Pending the results of an ultrasound, there may soon be less of me as some surgeon gets the opportunity to wield his laser-surgery thingy and extract my gallbladder. With all the misery the damned thing has been causing me (if it is indeed that), I'd let him take it now. I sure as heck don't want it anymore.

The Girl is growing up way too fast for me. Now in high school, she's exploring her career options and, to my consternation, is exploring a profession very close to mine. I've guided her away from this field all her life, only to find her attracted to it. Sigh.

I helped chaperone her and 60-something teens to a band competition yesterday. It was hotter than seven hells in July. I wound up getting sick during their performance and sought solace in a shady area until sundown.

Personally, I have never thought a band festival was a place to take a date. Apparently, The Ex is not of a like mind, for he squired his latest to the one and same. It was my first look at her. And -- I'm cuter and look younger! Ha! I was even cuter with my sweaty hair, pulled back oh-so-unelegantly in a ponytail with strands falling unevenly around my face. And that's the end of this oh-so-mature and meow moment.

My good friends (and you know who you are) can read all about the offguard thing if you e-mail me. :)

I'll try to do better here. Promise!

The Evil Empire, indeed

Wal-Mart is Satan.

The mom in this situation is a helluva lot nicer than me. I would have kicked the security guard's balls up to his ears. Soprano would have been a few octaves too low for his voice after I finished.

Gotta love The Consumerist's tag on it, though I think "douche bag" is a bit too gentle.

I'm in love!

With my new grill.

I spent a good part of my holiday putting it together. And it works! Without explosions! Yay me!

So, naturally, we used it to prepare dinner on last night. It was just hot dogs (The Girl's choice), but they were spectacular!

Afterward, we lounged outside with King o' the Pekes. He developed an affinity for ice; it was hilarious giving it to him, then watching him treat it like -- well, a doggie treat.

We bought a few fireworks. (Unfortunately, they were out of my favorites -- sparklers.) We had a grand display in our little corner of the world -- the neighbors did their fireworks at the same time. One of them spared no expense, so we got to see some of the huge splashes of light from our front lawn.

It was one of the best Fourths I remember in a long time. Good food, good company, and the weather couldn't have been more cooperative. I hope your holiday was just as great.

On a side note: The Girl has a boyfriend. Hold me.

Incredible

Incredibly sickening, that is.

The Girl is on throes of the four-year life's journey known as high school. Naturally, friends want to know my impressions as the first-time mom of a high schooler.

The latest contenders are a couple of her father's friends, who have a son a year younger than The Girl. As the mother and I chatted, the father informed his wife that their son likely would not be going to high school next year.

Apparently, that was news to her, for she replied, "Really? Why?"

"My son," this baboon declared, "will not go to a high school where a f** is the principal."

(My apologies to baboons. It's the first metaphor that entered my mind that was family friendly.)

The mother, who normally is not my favorite person, became my hero with her next carefully chosen words:

"Uh-huh." Insert huge pregnant pause here. "Well, you'll be homeschooling him, then, because I'm not going to do it."

As much as I love my little corner of the world, I abhor these attitudes. Said principal is a caring man whose priority is the students. I don't know his sexual orientation, nor do I care.

The students in this district couldn't be in better hands. I'm proud and delighted my daughter will be in high school with an exemplary leader at the helm.

Unfortunately, The Baboon's attitude is rampant here. If the principal were African-American, I have no doubt he would have inserted the n-word in place of the f-word.

Disgusting. It truly is.

Did I mention that The Baboon has a highly regarded job? Yeah. Scary thought.

Asshole.

***
Dark ages attitudes aside, mornings like this one remind me why I love East Tennessee.

After a much-needed downpour yesterday, it is sunny and beautiful outside. The lush greens are showing off, and the mugginess has lifted.

It's a clear, beautiful day. Enjoy it.

Welcome to the club!

The newest members of the I'm Famous But My Baby Has a Normal Name Club are ...


Drumroll, please.


Kevin James and Julia Roberts!


James, whom I loved on "King of Queens" and am looking forward to seeing with My Adam in "I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry," named his wee Flag Day arrival Shea Joelle.

And Roberts' babe, born on My Sir Paul's 65th birthday, is known as Henry Daniel.

(Adam and Sir Paul, it may be noted, are both members of the club. Adam's daughter is Sadie Madison. Sir Paul is, of course, the father of designer Stella McCartney. His other children are Mary, James and Beatrice. He is also the adopted dad of Heather, Linda McCartney's daughter from a previous marriage.)

Congrats to the new parents! And welcome to the club!

To the grandmother of my progeny

Anyone who spends any amount of time with us knows within minutes that our feelings for one another are exactly warm. I tolerated you for years because of your son and granddaughter. But guess what? I don't have to do that anymore!

Your granddaughter is old enough now to choose where she wants to spend time, and your house isn't even in the top 50. Rest assured, I didn't say anything to turn her against you. No, my dear, that was all your doing.

I don't take her to visit you. That's your son's responsibility. I don't expect him to take her for visits to my father's house. He's aware of the arrangement. He even signed papers saying as much.

No matter what we do, we cannot change that I'm your granddaughter's mother, or vice versa. However, we don't have to be in one another's faces, and we don't have to be part of each other's lives outside your granddaughter. That's a caveat I am delighted to live with.

So when my phone rang today with a familiar number on caller ID, I couldn't place it at first. Your granddaughter didn't recognize it, either. So I answered.

I recognized your voice immediately. Apparently, you did the same, but you asked who you were speaking to anyway. I gave my name, and you hung up.

Let me add right here that I'm about as delighted to hear from you as I would be to learn that I have rickets. But I'm willing to be nice. If you had been civil and said something like, Oh, I'm sorry! I thought I called someone else! I would have understood. I would have taken the call with a wink and a nudge, and it would have been our little secret.

But you didn't. You hung up instantly. So I'm telling everybody.

I'm telling your hairdresser. I'm telling the ladies in your art league. I'm telling my neighbors. Hell, I'm telling the world right now on the World Wide Web. Guess what, planet? My offspring's grandmother is a rude doofus!

Oh, and before I forget, it's plastic, not plaskick; Wal-Mart, not Wal-Mark; Kmart, not Kmark.

Sunday musings

I like quiet Sundays like this one. They give me a chance to sit back and reflect.

My Girl is growing up way too fast. She issued me one of my toughest periods of motherhood yet last week. I long for her to be small again so I can cradle her in my arms and protect her from the world, yet I'm anxious to see the woman she'll become.

She's such a study in contrasts, that Girl of mine. She flirts with the "emoness" of her generation while setting her sights on Oxford. She's confident in her unique sense of style, yet longs to fit in. She's an interesting blend of her father and me who maintains individuality.

In the midst of giving me about 500 new grey hairs this week, she gave me one of the greatest gifts ever. She asked me to check out her "new and improved" MySpace. I admired her new name, choice of music and told her, to her chagrin, that I agree with her father about her background and that maybe she'd like to choose a new one.

And then I saw it -- in the "heroes" category, first on the list, is "my mom."

My eyes filled with tears. "Really?!?"

She showed me that smile -- the one that extends all the way to her eyes. "I can't believe you didn't know," she said. "You're so strong in the way you handle things."

She's my miracle -- my life's true joy.