Someday the mountain might get 'em, but the law never will

I haven’t been feeling focused enough to write in the blog lately. There was a great-but-quick trip to VA Beach with friends, where we floated in the ocean and came up with some good (and some not-so-good) literature-themed bar names, including:

• Fahrenheit 45Rum
  
• Tess of the Daiquiris
  
• Dom Quixote
  
• Pinot-nocchio
  
• A Cocktail of Two Cities

Oh, I’ve forgotten so many good ones already. We did decide that our bar would have a late night pizza joint next door called “War and Pizza.” On the downside, the name makes absolutely no sense, but on the upside…it makes me giggle.

There was Vancouver, which is freaking gorgeous. So pretty that I even dared to rent a bike…twice. Jeremy and I have decided that if we have a ‘President Perry’ or a ‘President Bachman’ (I threw up in my mouth just typing that), we’re moving to British Columbia, where the hoboes pick up litter and they sell earflap hats shaped like mystical creatures—one day you could be a unicorn, the next day a yeti! It’s a magical place.

One strange moment that I must share from our trip: I have started watching Supernatural this summer, which shoots in Vancouver and features a ’68 Impala. I saw that car on the streets of Vancouver (the actual one—they were setting up a shoot), and Jeremy admitted that it was cool—but not as cool as seeing, say, the General Lee. I held myself back from making cracks about the South Carolina native wanting to see a car with a big Confederate flag on top (OK, OK…I didn’t), and the debate continued over drinks at an Irish pub. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the live entertainment starts playing…wait for it…"The Good ‘Ol Boys," which is…wait for it…the freaking Dukes of Hazzard theme song. The musician couldn’t have overheard us. And so I reluctantly gave Jeremy the ‘win,’ based on cosmic intervention. Which I feel is kind of cheating, but whatever.

And now, there is my new job. Which is awesome. And my new home office, from which I work…every single day. Yes, that’s right…I have a ten second commute. Tilly is not so happy that I spent all of today upstairs in the office, but she stuck close by:

That’s the foot of my office chair you’re seeing. She stuck REALLY close by. Although she did move around a bit:

Those Canadian doctors bandaged me up, put my shoulder back in its socket, and reset my jaw, and they didn't even bill me. Idiots!

So I am in Vancouver, BC with Jeremy, tagging along during his annual “Geek Conference” (computer graphics conference). Yesterday was a loooong day getting here, but after a good night’s sleep and a plate full of fruit (to combat the complete lack of fruits/vegetables and all the beer from yesterday), I set off to explore the area around the hotel.

No exaggeration, there is a coffee shop on practically every corner. It’s also ridiculously clean. I saw one homeless man going through a garbage can, but I also saw him pick up litter off the ground and throw it away. In DC, if a homeless person is going through a garbage can, it’s usually followed by some kind of disgusting bodily function (peeing, spitting, etc.), not random acts of community clean-up!

There are dogs everywhere. I actually saw one dog walking itself – not merely off leash, but with the leash folded up neatly in its own mouth. Most dogs are just off leash completely, however. You can tell they’re Canadian, because they are so freakishly well-behaved and nice.

In short, I’m really looking forward to the next week and a half here. In other news, this will be my last “unemployment adventure” for a while—I start work on August 18. It was the first (and only) job I applied for, and it’s an educational consulting firm with a “virtual office,” meaning—I’m working from the comfort of my own home! Which was the dream all along, really.

I got the news about the job exactly 6 months to the day that I left my old one. A lot happened in those six months, both good and bad, and I feel blessed to have had the time and opportunity to travel a little bit, to say goodbye to a few loved ones, and to (as cheesy as it sounds) find myself again. I’m feeling stronger and happier than I have in quite a while.

Cheesiness aside, my main focus right now is drinking good beer and doing some quality people watching. I’m sure there will be some highly-mockable folks in town, so stay tuned!

What's Your Contingency Plan for a Crap Storm of This Magnitude?

I had some more bad news last night--my Uncle passed away suddenly. For those keeping track, that's two grandmothers, one aunt-in-law and one uncle since November. So God...my family would like to stop losing people now, OK?

To distract myself, I headed to the genealogy section of the library (I know, I know...dork alert). I wasn't even looking up my own family, but trying to find more info about the photo album I purchased at an antique store back in April. And while I came up with a big goose egg on that front, I did find some late 19th-century examples of fine, fine journalism, which I feel compelled to share.

First off, you have to understand that obituaries and the like were insanely detailed back then. Waaaaaay TMI...generally followed by the deceased's or heir's home address. Also, an amazing amount of people died by getting hit by trains in 1890s St. Louis. Newspapers also had detailed accounts of freak accidents, whether the victim died or not. Here's a good one from December 3, 1895 about poor Mary Bird, who fell down an elevator shaft and was stuck for 10 hours:

During this period Miss Bird was able to watch the rats come out of the cracks in the wall at the bottom of the elevator shaft and creep toward her, where they played through her hair and dress. The rats began biting her in the face, body, arms, legs and other body parts, causing bleeding.

Gross, right? But wait, it gets better! On December 5, 1895, the newspaper noted that Miss Bird was "slowly recovering," and also that:

She was greatly surprised to learn of the report that had been given out that rats had gnawed her flesh as she lay at the bottom of the elevator shaft all night, and both she and her parents vigorously deny that such is the case...she greatly deplores the report that she will be disfigured.

And, from the same day, another errata--not as gross, but highly amusing:

Dr. B Metcalfe wrote the newspaper to say that he was not dead as we had reported yesterday. The Democrat erroneously reported that he was pennyless [sic] and had to sell cough drops on the streets of Chicago to survive...He was never sued for malpractice, he is still alive and he is no where near 80 years of age!

My favorite part of that one is the "selling cough drops on the street to survive" bit. I mean, where in the heck did that information come from? And as for poor, non-disfigured Miss Bird--did they ask a nine year-old boy for his account of what might have happened down in that elevator shaft? How else would such a rumor get started?

Not that any of this journalistic mess compares to what's going on in Britain, but still--I have to think that December 5, 1895 was a helluva day at The St. Louis Democrat's offices.

Five minutes. Ten if they got dranks.

Today we got rejected by the Salvation Army. Being a total nerd, I expected the organization to be much like the “Save-A-Soul” mission in Guys and Dolls. However, the surly man who showed up at my door to collect used furniture was sadly not in uniform, and there was nary a bass drum in sight.

Apparently our dresser, which has survived 40 years, 10+ moves, and two different, highly impatient females slamming its drawers, is “not resalable” due to some insignificant cracks in its back cover. Of course, this in no way affects the functionality of said dresser; but perhaps people shopping at the Salvation Army have higher standards than, say, my husband and I? Anyway, while Jeremy and I ponder just how in the hell to get this gigantic piece of antiquity down the stairs and out of our house, I would like to proffer some alternative uses for a piece of 100+ pound, six-foot wide, solid oak furniture:

Ferret high-rise. Everybody knows a wacko with a ferret. Some cash-poor ferret wackos could pool their money together and watch their beloved pets/rodents enjoy communal living. We’re talking nine drawers of urban high jinx here, people!

Barricade during a gunfight. Believe me, if Bonnie and Clyde had had this sucker stashed along that fateful rural road, they’d have had another 50 years of robbing banks in front of them.

Anti-theft system. Don’t trust your deadbolt? Gather twelve of your closest friends together to push the dresser in front of your door! Ain’t nothin’ getting in now! (Note: also, nothing will be getting out. Be sure to have a fire extinguisher at the ready).

Horse coffin. Cut out the middle of this baby and you’ve got a mighty fine place for Mr. Ed to spend eternity.

See? The possibilities are endless! The real tragedy here is the Salvation Army’s lack of imagination (not to mention their lack of marching band. Really, really disappointing. Hey, we ALL know you have bells, at the very least!)

For My Mammaw

I was a little “wine weepy” back in November when I wrote about my Grandma passing—so I’ll try to keep this short and sweet. I could write for days and not cover it all, anyway.

My Mammaw was 96, and I wouldn’t have been at all shocked to see her surpass 100.

She made the best macaroni and cheese in the world.

When I was little and we’d stay with Mammaw and Pappaw for a week during the summer, dessert was always a small Corningware dish of popcorn (the old-fashioned kind, of course) or PET ice milk.

One time when I was 11 or 12 and in the throes of adolescent sarcasm, I mouthed off to my mother in my Mammaw’s presence. Big mistake. My Mom was making me do the dishes (no dishwasher at Mammaw’s and Pappaw’s…to this day), and Mom said she was letting me do the dishes “out of the goodness of her heart.” I responded with, “There IS no goodness in your heart!” And my Mammaw stood up, wagged her finger at me, and said, “Don’t you talk to her like that, she’s your Mama!” And that was all it took for me to burst into tears, run out the door and hide behind the doghouse (which, looking back, it would have been more apropos if I’d hid IN it) and cry for a half hour or so. But of course she was absolutely right. And I know she would have stuck up for me in the same way if the occasion arose.

She was sassy as hell. She once refused to go to her doctor because she was “in no mood for his cuteness.” And imagine a 96-year old referring to someone as a “butthole.”

Is it any wonder I was crazy about her?

And come off that dumb hillbilly act!

I’m down south this weekend, visiting my parents and helping my Dad (who is currently walking with a cane) prepare for the church’s “Charity Chicken,” which is part of the town’s Memorial Day Weekend “White Squirrel Festival.” (Does it get any more small town than that, I ask?)

I spent this afternoon lugging industrial-sized foodstuffs, raising tents, and crawling in the grass to hammer in stakes. It was me and the “Men of the Church,” meaning me and a bunch of southern senior citizen males. They were forever worrying about my ability to lift heavy objects, which was both kinda charming and REALLY annoying—particularly since I heard several of the Men talking about participating in tomorrow’s Memorial Day parade…as World War II vets. I’d like to think that I can do more heavy lifting than, say, your average 85-year old.

After the church was all prepared, I dropped my parents off at square dancing and drove my daddy’s pickup (a manual, natch) back up the mountain to the house. I was covered in grease and grass stains, and there was banjo music playing through the radio. I think I definitely earned some “Country Girl” cred today…although now I’m sitting down with a glass of Pinot Grigio, watching Jeopardy.

So much for that.

Pimples are the Lord's way of chastising you.

I’ve never been one to have qualms about going to a movie by myself…but I will admit that I had a smidgen of shame when I walked up to the counter all alone yesterday and asked for a ticket to the matinee showing of “The Prom.” In my defense, I had a gift certificate and a need to see something incredibly light and clichéd—plus I’ve always had a thing for teen movies. Still, when the cashier kind of smirked at me, I was glad my face was partially obscured by the hat I was wearing. And then I got annoyed that I felt embarrassed in front of the chick who runs the mid-day, weekday shift at the Regal Cinemas. Who is she to smirk at me? (OK, yes, she has a job and I don’t, but I’m also not swathed in maroon polyester. Perhaps we’ll call it a draw.)

Anyway, after hitting the concession stand (with the same judgmental cashier, I might add), I headed to the theater. (BTW, one matinee ticket, a small popcorn and a small soda? NINETEEN DOLLARS. Thank God for gift certificates). For the first time in my life, I was the only one in a movie. The glee I felt at the notion I could pull out my cell phone and text at any moment (take THAT, “Please be courteous” promos!) was quickly squelched the creepy vibe an empty, mid-day theater apparently emits. But I got over it.

The movie was exactly what I expected, and thus exactly what I wanted. It fulfilled every teen movie cliché (apart from “kids from different groups bond over alcohol/pot”—this is a Disney film, after all). Mostly, though, it just made me feel old. My prom will be fifteen years ago next week—most of the stars of this film were in diapers then. Oy.

Plus, the “bad boy with a heart” had a mother played by none other than 90210’s Emily Valentine (the original 90210, kiddos, not that travesty they show on The CW now). And Emily Valentine has NOT aged well. On the plus side, she seems to have gotten over her mental issues (burning down the homecoming float) and turned into a sensible, hardworking single mother.

I felt slightly placated when The Cranberries’ “Dreams” (a song that very likely played at my prom) started playing at the movie prom. Granted, it was a cover of the song by a band I’d never heard of called “Passion Pit,” but nonetheless, I will cling to that mid-90s reference as I sign that I am not completely past my prime.