It pains me that we live in a world where nobody's heard of Spearmint.

It’s been one heck of a busy summer. How do I know this? Well, for one…it’s October now. In other words, it’s been a while since I’ve written anything, and I’m trying to rectify that. So, here a few summer highlights:

June: Drinking around the World Bachelor/Bachelorette Party at Epcot 

As we descended into Orlando, so did Tropical Storm Debby. And while it made for a less-than-pleasant walk around the “world,” it did keep the crowds down…which was a good thing (for the absent crowd’s sake more than ours). J and I stuck to beer and split a drink at many of the countries, but we were in the minority. And by the time we reached Canada, our last stop, all of the outdoor kiosks were closed because of the weather, leaving only Le Cellier, the most sought after reservation in Disney World. And needless to say, they weren’t willing to let a herd of drunken, be-ponchoed morons inside for a quick Molson. Which lead to my favorite quote of the weekend, courtesy of a less-than-sober, less-than-dry guy in our group who had long ago shed his poncho, and who was both bewildered and angry at our Disney-fied friends to the North:

“Canada? F@#%ing CANADA??!!??”

July: We close on our new house. 

On moving day, I took the dog over to the new place so that J could deal with the movers. When we later returned to the old place to tidy up, J had of course already seen the house empty, but I had not. Our conversation as he unlocked the door to our old house for the last time:

J: “Are you ready for the weirdness?”
M: “Are you hitting on me?”

We love our new place, but the neighborhood has only one way in and out. As J put it, “When the Zombie Apocalypse comes, we are totally screwed.”

August: I made a trip to Conyers, GA with the women in my dad’s side of the family to visit my grandma’s hometown. 

I shared a room with my mom, which I hadn’t done in a long time, and we generally had a blast. One night the rest of the group went to tour Stone Mountain, but we decided to stay at the motel and walk to the Outback for dinner. Mom got tipsy on one glass of white zinfandel, and then we walked next door to Cracker Barrel to buy candy and giggle at the baby Halloween costumes in the shop. It was a great night.

September: Relatively quiet. 

Had our first cookout in the new house, dug out Tilly’s Clemson jersey for football season.

On the horizon for October: A new nephew, and my piano makes its journey from NC to here (since we finally have room for it)! And finally, I will refrain from sharing yet another picture of my dog, and instead leave you with this (because I am easy to amuse, and it makes me giggle):
 

Manliness is not all swagger and mountain climbing.

Another year at Brevard’s White Squirrel Festival (I wrote about last year’s adventure here). Believe it or not, people actually come from out of town to attend this thing. The most commonly overheard question is, “Are they albino?” Not something you generally hear a lot. (The answer, as any local will tell you (with a sigh), is “No, they aren’t albino.”)

This year, I had my niece and nephew in tow. They seem to have taken a liking to me, which is nice (most of the time…except for when I need a moment’s peace (or to pee)). A big highlight of any trip to Brevard is O.P. Taylor’s (yes, a Andy Griffith/Mayberry reference) toy store. There was an electric racecar track set up, which my nephew of course ran over to. There was another kid already playing, and when my nephew turned to him first thing and said, “Hey!” I thought, oh good, he’s being friendly with his peers! Turns out, not so much. What followed “Hey!” was: “Can you give Mary a turn?” As if the kid should bow down to the greatness that is “Aunt Mary.” (Needless to say, he gave my nephew a weird look and continued racing.)

Brevard is a weird town. There are (I guess because of the outdoor recreation available) a bunch of crunchy granola types. So you walk around the festival, and there’s the smell of barbeque and funnel cake…but also patchouli. Yoga instructors were walking the streets, trying to sell books. One of them came up to me, of course wearing a long, billowy skirt and Birkenstocks. After I explained that I “wasn’t a yoga person,” she said something along the lines of, “OK, man, cool! Peace.”

At the same time, there are a TON of retirees from all over in Brevard. My mom and I were walking the street, looking for my brother, sister-in-law, niece, and nephew. Mom said, “I just keep waiting for someone to call out, ‘Grandma!’”  Yeah, if a kid yelled for Grandma in Brevard, most of the town’s female inhabitants would turn around expectedly.

The kids really enjoyed watching the boxcar racing (a car modeled after the Titanic was a bit hit), but my favorite moment of the festival? The Transylvania County Tea Party booth. Because, in the 90-degree weather, they had a guy dressed up in a wool Revolutionary War-era uniform.  A public show of dumb-assery…sounds about right to me.

You don't get to touch me, ever!

My friends and I recently took another friend—a new foster parent—out for dinner. I went to pick her up, and so was briefly introduced to the kids. The 5-year old was chatty from the beginning; the 2- year old was a little more apprehensive. She was strapped into a high chair and had nowhere to hide from “the stranger,” so after a few frantic seconds, she ingeniously decided to hide her head inside her own shirt.

Later at the restaurant, I relayed this story to the rest of the group. Now, I have known all of these people for about 20 years…to say they’re familiar with me and my idiosyncrasies would be an understatement. Two of them had similar responses to the “hiding in her own shirt” story: “Well, you understand that feeling!”

Now, to be clear, I was not insulted by these statements in any way…I’ve always been the quiet one, and these friends have years and years of evidence to that fact. But while I’ll never be a social butterfly, it struck me that I don’t really equate myself with the “scared of people” persona anymore. Is it age? Wisdom? (Oh, who am I kidding…most likely, it’s the medication).

Anyway, fast forward a couple of weeks. I’m out with friends at a bar. Jeremy’s a few seats down from me, so it’s not clear that I’m with anybody. A man comes over and starts talking to my friend and me. He has an accent (although I’m not convinced that it was real), so I ask where he’s from. He answers with a (possibly made-up) country I’d not heard of…and at this point, I’m out of polite chitchat. I’m even several beers in at this point, and yet I got nothing. And it’s not like I need to chat this guy up—my husband is three seats away, for God’s sake! So what do I do?

I run away to the bathroom.

I mean, what is up with that? The guy came up to me; I had no reason to try and impress him; and yet I freaked out and ran for the ladies room. In my defense, I had no other choice—I was wearing a V-neck.

There’s really nowhere to hide in a V-neck.

Nobody knows anything about anybody.

So I’ll ignore my 3.5 month absence from this blog, and just jump right into things: J and I recently returned from a trip to Miami. I had never been there before, which is kind of strange since my Dad’s family goes back three generations there. Of course it’s completely different from when my Dad lived there, but here are my first impressions:

1. We were staying in Miami Beach, which reminded me of Vegas in a way. Lots of people with lots of money and ridiculous cars. However, it lacked the self-awareness of Vegas (Vegas seems to understand that it’s tacky and ridiculous…which is part of its charm, if you ask me). So, it was beautiful, with lots of great restaurants and nice hotels, but overall it was…pretty douchy.
2. Miami wouldn’t know a good beer if it bit it on the ass. I understand that no one wants to drink a dark beer when it’s 90 degrees outside, but can’t you do better than Landshark??
3. It was quite cold (for Miami) the first couple of days we were there…but I still think that winter hats and gloves are overkill when it’s 55 degrees outside.
4. I am a pasty, pasty woman. No wonder the Scots-Irish migrated to the WNC mountains instead of Southern Florida.

Naturally, this being my first trip to my Dad’s “homeland,” and me being a huge history geek, I took the opportunity to drag J through historic cemeteries, looking for my great-great grandparents’ graves. (There was also apparently a football game going on in town…but we’re not going to talk about that).

I know from my G-G-Grandparents’ death certificates which cemeteries they were buried in. First off was the Miami City Cemetery, to search for the graves of the Singletons. Unfortunately, the cemetery is actually run by the City, meaning there was no office on site…so, J took one side, I took the other, and we walked it row by row. What did we find?

Nada. Zip. Zilch.

There were so many older gravestones still standing—but for some reason, not the ones I was looking for. I mean, J and I could have missed them. Or maybe my ancestors were just really cheap and picked the economy model. On the bright side, I managed not to step on a fire ant hill, which was my biggest worry.

On to Woodlawn cemetery, where we were greeted by the lovely sight of a modern office. I inquired about my Great-Great-Grandfather Goodwin, and was presented with a map and a section number where he was buried. Again, J and I split up the area and walked the rows. Again, nothing. J returned to the office, asking for more details. He ended up with a plot-by-plot map, complete with plot numbers. We located plot #42…which was a blank space. So here I am, standing on the now-unmarked graves of my great-great-grandparents, looking annoyed (no disrespect intended, Great-Great-Grandma and Grandpa).

Still, I’m keeping everything in perspective: our cemetery wanderings, while probably not the highlight of the trip, were still way, way better than that football game.