Thursday, June 2, 2016

I need some Bougainvillea, ASAP!

Oh, nothing. Just sitting here at 5am with my throbbing, infected toe soaking in a pan of salty peppermint water. Just the usual.

I went on a plant/tree/flower shopping frenzy about a week or so ago and ever since then I've been playing Ron Weasley wizard's chess with the trees. Dragging them around my hugemongous and embarrassingly bare front yard. Trying to find the perfect spots for all of them. And then I've also been waiting on the actual desire to get out there in the considerable heat and humidity and dig twenty-teen motherfucking holes. So, it finally rained while John and I were out (he was having an ultra-sound,  after which I was unabashedly buying more goddamn plants.  Canna and Asiatic lilies if you must know.)  Anyway, it rained a goodly amount and cooled off some and softened up the ground, so I carpe diemed the shit outta the moment and dug and mulched and planted. Two gardenias, a magnolia, a mimosa. a dogwood, the lilies and a sedum plant. Yay Me! And I only dug up one Charter TV cable and I only shoved something foreign and painful up one big toe.  Did I say "Yay me!" yet?  I smooshed some brownish-bloody pus out from beneath it about a half our ago. We'll see how it progresses from here on out.

In other news and events, two weeks ago I lost my job of basically 14 years. It wasn't unexpected. Everyone lost or is losing their job as the company, whom we'll call BandAid, decided to close three of it's DC's and build one ginormous one in SC. Ain't nobody got time for SC. So I, and 90% of my co-workers chose to be severed. As in, Give me my mother-clucking severance check. Like I said, it's been two weeks and I'm still waiting on mine.  In the mean time, I've already gotten another J-O-B. But I need some time to write a novel and plant a garden and dig-holes and annoy John and my crazylittlemama and my sisters and all the nieces and nephews, and do some fare to middlin' traveling, so I won't be starting the new job until July 11. Plus, we desperately need a new front porch, as ours looks like something out of an Erskine Caldwell novel. So I have to help John over-see that project. He's my shmoop, you know. And he found out today he has a 2.2 centimeter "nodule" type thinf on his thyroid. If you're a praying type person, now would be the time where I'd ask you to send out some love and healing vibes for that sweet and confounding man of mine.

As my toe-water has turned tepid, I'm gonna peace the fuck outta this post. See if I can squeeze some more mud out of the nail-bed, then snuggle back up with John and a cat or three. Gotta get up in an hour anyway to go flea-marketing/thrift-storing/shenaniganing with my eldest sibling. "Goddammit! Don't you people have fucking jobs?!!"

Thursday, January 14, 2016

Page 394

So 2016 is shaping itself into a big ol' dry hump of a year, huh? Me, oh I'm aight.  But this week alone we as a culture have lost David Fucking Bowie and my longtime, not so secret, sigh-inducing, swoon-worthy, lover man, Mr Alan Goddamn Rickman. This I learned this morning in the break room at work while watching Live! With Kelly and Michael.  Now I love me some Kelly Ripa.  Largely because she and my sister Angie could pass for twins.  They look alike, they share personality traits.  What's even better is that I've never mentioned this to Angie because Angie really, really, RILLY doesn't like Kelly.  "Oh! I love that scent your wearing! What's it called?  It's called Ironical by Patty Duke."  So anyway. I like Kelly.  But she's not the person I wanted delivering such heart-rending news.

I have loved Alan Rickman since Robinhood: Prince of Thieves.  Screw Kevin Costner and early '90s Christian Slater.  I'll take the evil, surly Sherrif of Notingham!  I was 15ish.  But by God, I knew what I was about.  Then a few years later Kate Winslet let that namby-pamby goober Willoughby sweep her off her penniless feet.  But not me, no sir!  Ever the dissenter, my heart held court with Colonel Brandon.  And I have loved him ever since.  I think what really set it in stone was Emma Thompson's combined script and  behind the scene's diary of Sense and Sensibility.  If you find a copy of it, buy the thing and fall in love with Emma and Alan and Kate and the whole movie crew.  It's full of lovely, utterly British and profane one-liners.

Honestly though, I know very little about Alan Rickman's personal life.  He wasn't much of a schmoozer, and he seemed quite private.  So really, I loved him for his work.  For his presence and ability.  If an actor's sole responsibility is to make the audience suspend disbelief and truly forget that what they're watching is pretend, then Alan Rickman was one of the world's finest at his craft.

I guess I've always had a thing for older dudes.  At least from afar, you know the ones in the Arts and Entertainment fields.   And up-close too, cause Hey John!  So now I've lost Bowie, who was my Goblin King when I was too young to understand that his tights were hella inappropriate, AND I've lost Colonel Nottingham.  What the fuck?!? It's not even the end of the week, let alone the end of the First month of this new year.

Kelly Ripa, if you're reading this, can you do me a solid?  If Kevin Spacey or Michael Stipe or Pat Conroy pass on to the Great Beyond anytime soon, can you call your doppleganger Angie and have her break it to me in private so I don't start sobbing at work like some mental case?   Otherwise, I swear to God I'm gonna storm your set and flip your little ass outta that chair of yours.  I can't take this shit no mo'.

Saturday, September 12, 2015

First post of 2015

I have debated as to whether I should play the catch-up game, or should I just launch into whatever topic I'm obsessing over at the moment. So, here's a little of both:  

I spend hours upon hours perfecting my role as an armchair expert. My range of interests is broad and varied. Like, embarrassingly so. Missing children, secret societies, Nazi war criminals, what it must've been like to be gay and dying from AIDS in the mid 1980's, celebrity secrets, abortion rights, religious rights, how to convert to Judaism, how to go back to school and finish my degree, how to open a coffeehouse, the Lindberg baby, how to lance a boil, how to thread a sewing machine... You get the idea? Well, this is what I've been doing with myself. Read a little, research a little, watch a little tv/movies. Work my ass off, eat, sleep, repeat. Nothing too major has happened. It's the same shit that happens in all of our lives. No broken bones. No deathly ill family members or furry friends. House stuff mostly. We're poor cause we're always poor.  I finally found a doctor who confirmed my fear that I still have Lyme and I just finished up my 3rd round of treatment. Back in the spring I went through a Celiac Disease scare... Which turned out to be unfounded. However, the results from a CT scan that determined I was negative for Crohns, also showed that I have a softball sized cyst on my left ovary. Ugh. Now I completely understand those people who prefer not knowing a goddamn thing. Just leave me in the dark. Give me a bottle of Percs and a gift certificate for massage therapy and leave me fucking be. 

That's that. 

Here's what I've been interneting all over lately:  A few weeks ago it was the Jacob Wetterling disappearance. Now, you can read about it over on The Charley Project. Or you can read all the additional investigative, blow your mind mess on  I suggest starting as close to the beginning as possible and reading your way forward.   While I haven't quite moved away from Jacob, I had to give it some space. It's a harrowing task. Delving into the minds of psychopaths and child molesters. It'll rob you of rest. So I moved elsewhere for the time being. I participated in a Healthy Recipe contest at work that turned out to be the biggest farce of a contest I've personally witnessed. I'm pissed because everything that comes out of the managers mouths is condescending, hypocritical and just motherfucking stupid. But I did walk away from the whole goddamn charade with a bit more confidence in my public speaking skills. This was a sign that one of the above research tirades, the one about going back to school, might not be so out there. As I have kicked around the idea of a Mass Comm/journalism degree. And one of the  things holding me back from it was my fear of public speaking. So the positive reinforcement in that area will inevitably lead to more thorough researching...

Here's the rub, bub. I'm gonna be out of a job come the middle of next year. Honestly, Ya-fucking-Hoo. I've been waiting on this for like 7 or 8 yrs.  So I gotta find another. Fine. Whatever. But I desperately need to learn how to do something that gives me some satisfaction and keeps me from hating and regretting every single decision I've ever made. I am not someone who is self-motivated.  Particularly since John and I are painfully co-dependent. But when he's away, I do ok at TCB. Otherwise, I will cheerily let him handle any and all mundane household matters. I just have to find that thing that keeps me buzzed. 

Current Internet obsession: Jane Pratt and Sassy/Jane magazine. I just read this gag-inducing, thinly veiled fictional account of the rise and fall and rise and fall and rise again of Jane, called Falling Out Of Fashion. Don't read it unless you were as devoted to Sassy magazine as I was. And even then, just be prepared to wish you really, really hadn't.  I loved Sassy with all my heart. It crafted me and trained me and got me.  Sassy was my art-school cousin from the city who swooped me up once a month and introduced me to all her cool friends and then shoved a handful of condoms in the pocket of my vintage Levis as a parting gift. Sassy was my best friend. Sassy is the reason Evan Dando follows me on twitter. Sassy is the reason John and I bonded over REM during our first conversation. So I've enjoyed the last 24 hrs or so of butt-ugly fashion, snarky reviews, shameless name dropping and post-feministing. 

This is what I do. This is how it's did. 

Saturday, November 1, 2014

Reeses Are My Favorites

I've probably told this story before.  Probably already related this little piece of remembrance. But because it's that time of year again, and because I'm full of nostalgia, I'm gonna go ahead with the telling.  When my sisters and I were little, our Daddy was the one who always took us Trick or Treating.  I'm not sure how that decision came about, but I'm thinking it had something to do with the fact that all of the houses we visited were his relatives and it gave him a chance to see and say hey to just about all of them in one night.  I could be wrong.  But Mama always stayed home and handed out candy and Daddy always chauffeured.  I'm not a fat kid for nothing.  I like candy.  Preferably chocolate. Preferably with peanut butter.  And I generally wracked up in the treat department each year.  But there were always those few houses that I hated going to.  I'd roll my eyes and grump up and ask daddy if it was okay if we skipped those houses.  He refused my wishes.  My Aunt Kate and Uncle Guy lived in a small three room house a few hundred yards behind my grandparents.  Uncle Guy being my Papaw's older brother by close to 20 years. They had electricity, but no running water, which meant they had, and employed, a genuine outhouse and a genuine well.  Now, I loved Aunt Kate and Uncle Guy.  I loved Aunt Kate's gold front tooth and I loved that the two of them always smelled of sunshine and Ivory soap and I loved how they were always happy to see me.  They weren't grumpy old people.  They were kind and they smiled a lot.  I loved their outhouse and I loved their well.  I loved sitting underneath the pecan trees with them in the summer and reading out loud to them from whatever book I was consuming at the moment.  I loved the big river rocks that served as steps to their back door.  What I did not love was the parched peanuts and yellow apples they offered up each year as Halloween treats.  In fact, I down right detested these items and  I think I may have even felt a little embarrassed for them.  But every year we went.  Every year I begrudgingly accepted the treats into my pumpkin shaped pail.  And every year my Daddy would happily eat those peanuts that Aunt Kate had painstakingly parched in her own oven and then poured into individual sized brown paper bags, and that mealy red or golden delicious apple.  Those were Daddy's rewards for driving us house to house. The kind of treats he was pleased to get when he was my age.
Nowadays I pass out Twix and Three Musketeers and Snickers bars at my house.  Mostly because I know I'm gonna get to eat the leftovers.  But every October 31 since my Daddy passed I make sure I text my sisters the warmest of  Halloween memories because we would all trade our weight in chocolate for a sack of warm peanuts and a car ride with our Papa.

Sunday, February 2, 2014

It Gets Okay From Here On Out

It was a long summer what with my broken ankle and John's broken wrist and our broken bank accounts... It very nearly broke both of our spirits.  But here we stand, alas. Living proof that you can't keep the working man down.  This means that I returned to work at the end of July ( two days before my birthday, yay) and that things have slowly returned to our fucked up, branded version of normal.  Halloween and Thanksgiving were quite good.  We got trick-or-treaters for the first time in ever which is a big deal to us because we lived in the woods in Connecticut and never got not nary a one.  This year, we got like 15. Six of them in one fell swoop in the beginning and they were being led by a 5'8" 13 year old girl who looked and behaved like a character straight off  the pages of some Erskine Caldwell novel. 

Thanksgiving, after much soul-searching and deliberation and teeth-gritting, was hosted at our house. I jest of course.  Oh, we hosted alright, but it was fun.  The night after was more fun because the small ones were all home with their frazzled, highly tolerant parents and the growed-ups re-convened at our house again and we ate lots and talked lots and re-bonded.  I love you, younguns, if you're reading this years from now and trying to decide if I'm worth the mediocre resthome. But sometimes big folk need to be able to converse with one another with out interruption.  It keeps us clinging to sanity and it keeps y'all out of foster care.

Christmas was another matter all together.  It was not fun. Not for us anyway.  Lotta loss, lotta folks not there who should've been there.  That being said, I didn't take our tree down until a couple of days ago.  I think I kept hoping the spirit and pleasantry would swoosh over me and I could run over and turn on the lights and drink a big mug of hot cocoa bullshit... but it never was. So I gave in and disassembled and tucked it away in the spare bedroom for next year.  Hoping it'll feel better and right then.  It may.  But there's a whole heaping of grief inside of me and it wells up and pours out on a near daily basis.  Loss is a natural progression of life.  I'm trying to be Tao about it.  Each day brings its own set of challenges.  That's it... I'm 'bout done with the one-liners.

In other news, I just gotta say that I'm pretty fucking pissed and sad about Phillip Seymour Hoffman's death.  It broke on Twittter an hour or so ago and I can't express how wrong and tragic it is.  He was pure genius and pure talent. 

Sunday, June 2, 2013

Such Good Roots

Today was the Scronce family reunion.  I guess it's to be expected that the numbers have dwindled over the years.   Even still, it doesn't make it any less sad and bittersweet.  The past few years the reunion has been held at the reception hall of the Methodist church where my daddy and grandmaw and fifty-eleven other relatives are buried.  But when I was growing up it was always held in the pastures behind my granddaddy's house, in the yard of the old homeplace where my daddy was born.  There were always lots and lots of people. Young and old and in between, we played softball and ran through the cow pastures and took turns drawing some of the sweetest, coldest water I've ever drank out of the old well.  The night before the reunion, my daddy and his cousin Marshall would  sit up all night drinking beer and sipping branch-water and eating and smoking boston butts in their special made portable smoker.  That was the best damn barbeque I've ever eaten in my life.  It was different then.  I never thought about who wasn't there when I was a kid.  And I surely never considered those who wouldn't be around the next year.  But today, I found myself counting the dearly departed in my head and I felt old and bruised.  Tender in my heart and thankful and proud for these clannish genes of mine.  They don't know it, all these cousins and nieces and nephews of my wonderful papa, but they're the reason I moved back home.  They're my roots, salt of the earth and dear to my heart and I am proud to be among their numbers.

Wednesday, May 29, 2013

We call her Christine behind her back.

Two months to the day after I broke my ankle, John broke his wrist.  And the day before the wrist happened, he left his iphone in the back pocket of his jeans and I washed them.  The jeans and the iphone.  It was a catastrophe. Srsly.  Also, my ankle's still not healed.  So I'm still out of work.  And we're still broke. But, we're still together.  It's okay.  We say that a lot to one another.  "It's okay." and "It'll work out.  We'll be alright."  Which is really code for, "I don't wanna scare you, but I think we might be fuuuucked."  

Good stuff though is that I'm able to move around more, and I've been planting all the half-dead, half-price flowers I can afford and any clippings that anyone will pass on to me.  I also pressure-washed the house.  It looks brandy-new.  We have a house!!!  We love our house.  (gulp)

Thursday, March 28, 2013

Keeping It Elevated


We bought a house a couple of weeks ago.  It's pretty awesome even if it was a huge hassle and everyone involved in the process acted as though this was their first time dealing with such, even though I know that it wasn't.  It was my first time buying a house and I think I knew more than the lender and the lawyer just by Googling it for 15 minutes.  It was a mess and a nightmare and I'm pretty sure I made at least one enemy for life, but I gots my gotdang house and a happier person, I could not be.  So, we've been in said house for less than two weeks.  This past Monday morning I was leaving for work and slipped down our back deck and broke my damn ankle.  Thirty-six years I've gone without breaking anything more than a major sweat and a week after I pledge my last dollar to the bank, I break a bone.  My first thought was "Goddammit!Goddammit!Goddammit!" on account of it hurt a whole freakin' lot and I came very close to puking.  The next thought was, "This house is trying to kill me."  But here's the deal:  We did a house blessing before we brought any of our stuff in.  I'm talking sage and salt and prayer and meditation and asking the Earth Mama and the little baby Jebus  to rid the house of any negative or malicious juu-juu.  And I firmly believe that it worked.  So after a couple of days of contemplation and of being waited on hand and foot by John and watching him clean and fix things and make me coffee and bowls of Cheerios and baloney and cheese sammiches, I have come to the realization that this broken foot thing, well, it might not be a negative.  Maybe, it is in fact a big positive with a few minor negatives attached.  The main positive is that it's totally making John feel like a useful, productive member of society.  He's a homeowner, and for now he's the only functioning homeowner in this home, because I can't even pee without needing to make sure he's standing outside the bathroom door in case I can't get up off the bowl. Point is, this is doing wonders for his self-esteem.  Which in turn does wonders for my disposition because I'm not having to reassure him nearly as much as he once required.  The negatives are the accumulating hospital bills and having to file for short-term disability and other financial woes that are pretty much a daily task anyway.  Oh, and the broken ankle and the possibility of having to have surgery in a couple of weeks.  But for now, for this moment, I'm good.  I get to spend lots of time in my new house with my not new paramour.  I don't have to cook or clean.  I can read and write and tweet and pester the cats and text my sisters and make an ass out of myself on FB at my own leisure.  I can work on my British accent by watching copious amounts of Masterpiece and I can work on my pectorals by swinging myself around on my walker and crutches.  Everything little thing is gonna be just fine.

Sunday, February 3, 2013

I'd cut your ass for a cherry-lemon Sundrop.

I'm supposed to be writing an op-ed piece for a new magazine.  I fucking volunteered my services and now I'm all at a loss.  At first it was going to be political.  Then I thought, no, I think I'd rather it be more social commentary.  Now... well hell.  Now I've got no clue.  The editor has left it completely up to me.  He wants varying opinions.  Honestly, I think I'd rather do book reviews.  Right now, John and I are reading Proof of Heaven by Dr Eban Alexander.  It's mind-blowing.  I've only read 40 or so pages of it, and John is nearly finished.  But I think I want to do an essay somewhere along the lines of faith and compassion.  And honestly, I'm better at talking the talk than I am at walking.  I tend to trip on my own feet and step on toes. 

Mostly, I can't be pinned down.  I'm a ball of nerves, what with this house buying/mortgage thing and feeling like I'm about to come unraveled.  Odd things are afoot.  I've been seeing the shadow people... those images or shadows in the corner of your vision.  It's been my experience that when I see them, it means something's about to go down.  I like to think they're my guardians.  Daddy's birthday was the 23rd, which was the same day we officially applied for the mortgage.  Then a few days later I had a conversation with a complete stranger at the gas pump and she said, "There's no shame in not knowing how to do something.  You can't be expected to know something if no one's ever taught you."  And I felt like I'd been punched in the gut because my Daddy used to say that very thing.  But it's been years since I've heard anyone else say it that way.  It's been sad and hard, but I'm trying so much to make an effort.  To do my share and not rely on someone else or procrastinate and not do anything at all.  I hate that about myself.  That I'm afraid to put myself out there, I'm afraid of rejection or "failure" so I don't even try.  But the past few months I've been trying harder to make the effort. 

Other than that, I had another bout of the malaria and slept for like 17 hrs between Saturday and this morning.  Woke up with a stiff back and a case of the horribles.  Read some.  Drank some coffee.  Ate granola and pizza.  Have managed to lose 10 pounds over the last month or so, probably because instead of eating, I'm sleeping.  Wanted to go hiking in Linville, but am trying to conserve gas.  Visited with Wendy and Double A Friday night.  Katie and Carrie came over and entertained us.  Carrie says hippopotamus and octopus now.  Also, her first whole sentence is "Give me just a lil' bit more."  I love an assertive woman.

Sunday, January 13, 2013

John ate the last piece of fudge. :-(

I bought like 20 back issues of Mother Earth News a couple months back.  I keep them in the bathroom if you must know.  Anyway, I was reading a letter to the editor and this old dude from Texas was all pissed off and uppity because Mother Earth shares apps and ipad widgety-widgets and high-tech shizz and he was like, "Us country folk don't want anything to do with your new-fangled shit and how dare you infer that your readers want to have the Internet AND grow their own dang lettuce!".  I felt really bad for him and his wife and children. 

I've been trying to visit with my Papaw and Uncle Jimmy on Sunday afternoons.  I didn't make it this week, but a couple of weeks ago I was over there and Papaw was fascinated and dazzled by my iphone.  Mostly the camera part of it.  I took pictures of each of them and then showed him. And then I showed him an old picture of he and my mamaw and my daddy and Jimmy from like 1942 that I'd downloaded onto the phone.  He thought it was plum spectacular.  We conversed about the state of the world for a while.  The cost of milk and what not and I told him when I get to be 93, I hope I'm living in a cabin by a creek, growing taters and beans. And he said, "There you go!".  I am a very lucky girl.

John and I house-hunted this weekend.  We put a bid on a house.  It may or may not be accepted.  Every time I think about it I feel light-headed and giddy and terrified.  I'm trying not to like the house as much as I do.  Because I really, really do.  And I really, really want my own house.  But if it ain't meant to be then I reckon I'll get over it.

On a different note.  I am totally in love with Brandi Carlile and her brothers.  I listen to Hard Way Home and Bend Before It Breaks every single day on grooveshark.  Then I even it out with Pixies and the Violent Femmes. 

Brandi Carlile - Hard Way Home

Sunday, January 6, 2013

It's a long one, ya'll

So this is how most of my days go:  I get up at 4:30am, I get dressed and pack my lunch and I get in the car and drive to town where I purchase coffee and a breakfast sammich of some sort.  Then I drink and eat and drive and listen to a book on CD.  Last week I was listening to The Cove by Ron Rash, but it bored the ever loving shit out of me so I returned it to the library about 30 minutes before it was finished.  This week I'm listening to an Alice Hoffman book.  Anyway, I drive to Charlotte and work my ass off.   My schedule is supposed to be 9 hrs Mon-Thurs then 4 hrs on Friday.  This would rock if it ever actually worked out that way.  However, the past month or more I've been working 12 hrs Mon-Thurs and 6 hrs on Friday.  This means that I don't get home till 7pm.  Then I spend half of my weekend sleeping and the other half trying to cram in all of the things I needed to get done during the week. 

So there's that.

The holidays were pretty fucking awesome.  Thanksgiving was awesome because Angie and her gang crashed at Mama's for a few days.  We had 8 folks in the house.  It was a buttload of fun.  I'm glad I don't have any of my own, but other folk's teenagers make me laugh and laugh.  A week or so after Thanksgiving John flew back to CT to spend time with his sister and family there.  This coincided with the tragedy in Newtown.  While he was thrilled to be with his kin, he was ready to leave, because all of CT was in a state of despair.  I missed him.  But it was good for my head having to prioritize and take care of things I don't normally bother myself with.  Which leads me to 12-12-12.  I celebrated by myself.  Went outside in the dark and played my granddaddy's harmonica and stomped and contemplated.  In the 15 or so minutes that I spent outside I came to term with a lot of things.  I don't know how it all happened within that span of time, because quite frankly, I forgot all about 12-12-12 being 12-12-12.  I worked all day and drove home and took care of the cats and my household chores and showered and ate and sat down and talked to Mama and was skyping with John when it occurred to me.  So I just ran outside in my pajamas with the harmonica and I let it all out.  I had no notion of what I was going to do or think about. And other than knowing that I wanted to play music,  I hadn't prepared myself.  But these were some of my epiphanies:  I believe in God.  And not just an idea of God, but I actually believe in God.  Like, the Lord.  And I've spent way too much time being angry at Christians and being purposefully bad-ass about it and trying to be PC, and you know what, it hasn't made a damn bit of difference to anyone else.  Mainly me.  I've distanced myself from myself and I'm truly sorry for that.  I can't identify as Christian, but I can be completely comfortable praying a Christian prayer or sitting in church if I needed to.  The other kind-of epiphany I had was more of a vision. I saw the way things will be.  I saw what was true and purposeful.  How after a long day of working and surviving and tending and thriving, there will be a time for loving and laughing and being silly and being a child.  How all of these things need not be separate.  That you can't know one without the other.  That life isn't black or white or goddamn gray.  It's the color of passion.

Then Christmas.  Christmas with the all the kids and  the noise and food.  It was a blast for all of us.  We spent most of the day at Wendy's.  New years was more quiet.  John and I ate collards and beans and stew with Wendy and baby Carrie and then spent the rest of the day lounging and listening to the rain.  I was sick with a mee-graine and indigestion for a couple of days.  The weekend came.  I went treasure troving behind Papaw's house with a trowel and a ten gallon bucket and found a few shiny play-purties.  John and I went to Boone and West Jefferson yesterday.  We drank too much coffee and listened to lots of hillbilly music and didn't argue once.  Next up is monkey bread and Downton Abbey and then finding a proper house for us to buy. 

There are lots of pictures over on the Twittah.  There's a link ----> thataway.  We'll see if maybe I can't get back into the swing of blogging.

What I've been reading:  The Blue Orchard by Jackson Taylor, My Extraordinary Ordinary Life by Sissy Spacek and Angel Among Us by Katy Munger and back issues of Mother Earth News. What I've been watching:  Dexter, Homeland, American Horror Story and The Walking Dead.  Movies:  Lincoln and Moonrise Kingdom.

Also, if anyone knows how to get rid of stinkbugs, I'm offering up sexual favors in exchange for their complete annihilation. 

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

12-12-12 World Peace Day

My soul sister Tonya has come up with the most marvelous idea.  A world peace day on 12-12-12.  But not just your typical peace day, but a day or an evening to cut loose and let your child-like instincts come out and play.  Obviously, Tonya can explain it better so here's a link to her blog Soul Pony.  I'm already planning mine. 

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

Sometime's There's Less Than Meets the Eye

Sometimes you have to sit back and realize that the only thing that's gonna make you calm is to stop trying to be something other than what comes natural.  If you get the urge for something, well then just gotdang do it.  Don't second guess it.  Do it.  It's all well and good to be inspired by others, to get your juices flowing and your brain whirring, but you can't be something you're not.  It will eat at your soul and it will have the opposite effect than the one you desire.  For instance:  years ago, when I was at my freshman orientation at UNCA, they grouped us all together by dorm floors in a "getting to know one another" way.  There were probably 50 chicks in that room and in under five minutes I instinctively knew which girls I would eventually be closest to.  It wasn't what they were wearing, or how they tried to project themselves.  It was the natural way they all carried themselves.  To this day, two of those girls are still my most beloved friends.  The point is, you can cover it or douse it or sprinkle it with glitter and Bonnie-Bell, but the real you is gonna come pouring out.  So embrace it.  Being trendy or edgey or trying to look like fifty miles of bad road before you're all of 20... that shit only works for the folks that it works for.  If you can feel it fluttering around inside you, then it's yours.  In fact, that's some pretty good advice there.  If it flutters, do it.  Cause when you act on the flutter, it will always lead to peace.  If you try to follow someone elses flutter, then you might be too busy to realize when you're feeling your own. 

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

Eff You Thomas Wolfe

Things are settling down some here.  We're developing our routines and every day I ride through the town where I was born and raised and I can't believe that I live here again.  I can't believe that I lived so far away for so many years... not that it was bad, I just can't believe that I did that.  But that's how most things are in my life.  I do these strange ass things and then I look back at that chick with wonder and awe and I'm usually so proud of her.  I'm proud of me.  I'm proud of John for adjusting so well. 

What's so wonderful about all of it is that my family lives close enough by that we can see each other whenever we want.  It's still astounding to me, that I can just hop in the car and go see my sister or any of the babies any ol' time.  I get to watch them grow.  I get to be present in their lives. 

The boys are all doing so well.  Ernie's taken to lying underneath Mama's dog Doodle's chair.  So Doodle sleeps in the chair and Ernie sleeps underneath it.  Mama calls it the bunk bed.  We finally got DSL hooked up here last week and we've introduced Mama to the ipad.  It's pure entertainment, watching her tap on the screen with her ring finger.  John got his MLB package through DirectTV and I got rid of Hulu and Netflix and all that mess and other than DVRing Masterpiece Mystery, I've stopped watching television all together.  I was trying to stay busy outside with the yard and flowers and such, but it's been over 100 degrees here every damn day for the past three weeks.  That shit'll kill you dead.  I floated around in the pool with Wendy and Carrie ("Little Baby") last week and somehow avoided burning myself to a crisp.  John and I drove to Boone and Valle Crucis on the 4th and I ate boiled peanuts on the ride home and posted a picture on Twitter. 

There's more stuff.  I'll get around to all of it later. 

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

We're finally here. Been here a week and it hasn't been less than 97 degrees the entire time. But it's good. Of course there's no internets at mama's house and won't be until this weekend so I'm leaching wi-fi off of my sister. Everything's still in a complete state of disarray thanks to it being so did-dim hot and me working all the way in Charlotte. But it'll all work out. Boxes and totes and unpacked suitcases and litterboxes in three rooms and us all adjusting and what I'd really like to do today is sit my ass in a cool mountain creek and enjoy some solitude. Also, posting on an ipad kind of sucks for us folks that was taught to type on Selectrics.

Friday, May 25, 2012

Well, we're still living in yankee land. We half way packed up everything and I'm currently dressing out of suitcases. However, I'm still waiting to be transferred from my job here down there. Waiting. And waiting some more. It's very agitating and infuriating as I gave them over a years notice that this would be taking place, but apparently that made no difference at all. The devil inside wants to burn bridges, but the responsible adult knows that they've got me by the she-nuts. On account of I like to eat and I like my car and some day I'd like to buy a casa. So that's where we're at with that. In other news, John completed his treatment! That totally warrants an exclamation point. His blood test results are all excellent and he feels a thousand percent better. We've been laying(lying?) kinda low, trying not to tap into the moving resources. See, they screwed ME, Jerry! Mostly I've been reading and bird-watching and watching tv on HuluPlus. I've worked out a few times. I've developed a deep appreciation for dusting powder because it's been swampy humid up here. I've discovered Pinterest. I'll post pictures later, once I get my shite together.

Thursday, April 19, 2012

Pour Some Music On It

We're a maudlin sort of house this evening as we've just read the news that Levon Helm passed on. He was a soulful and fascinating person and yet another in a growing line of decent men that have left this world better for having been born. A few years ago, John and I were in Woodstock and we asked around and got directions to his house. We drove by a few times, but didn't see any activity so we just rolled down the car windows and yelled, "We love you Levon!". I'll bet that probably only happened fifty or sixty times a day. The man was a shining star.

Thursday, April 12, 2012

Jane, his wife.

We finally broke down and bought the new ipad. John wants to have intimate relations with it. I'm not ready to go that far just yet, but I will admit that that Garage Band app kinda blew my mind. I'm like a cross between Fergie and Tchaikovsky with that damn thing. To be honest though, the whole ipad/iphone/skype/twitter culture makes me feel like I'm in an episode of the Jetsons. Sort of makes me feel like canning vegetables or milking a cow or taking a bath in a rain barrel just to get some ding dang perspective.

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Concord, Mass

I took a mental health day today and John and I wound up in Concord. We have many fond memories of Concord because it's one of the places he took me during my first visit to New England. We got kind of a later start so we didn't stay too very long. But we did visit the Alcott House. Home of Louisa May and her fascinating family. Unfortunately, they don't allow photography inside the house. But it was lovely and well-preserved and this is the 100th year that the house has been a museum. It was originally built in 1650. That's right. 1650. How crazy is that? Anyway, I love Little Women even though I haven't read it since I was 12. And the Winona movie is one of my favorite movies of all time. I love everything about it. We enjoyed ourselves this day. Concord's an adorable little town with a village feel, but it's also right outside of Boston and is home to Concord Academy. So it was really crowded and there were more BMWs and Volvos than you could shake a stick at. It was still very pleasant. Today John coined a couple of phrases. Such as "the humble Hyundai". Because interspersed lightly amongst the German imports, we saw a few beat up Hyundai's which we figured is some parent's way of trying to humble his prep school youngun. My personal favorite phrase of the day is "un-shorts-unate". We pulled a u-turn in the parking area of the Minute Men state park and I asked what exactly was supposed to have occurred there. The whole time, John and I are eye-balling this poor middle aged bastard in running shorts getting into his convertible. We decided it was the scene of the Unfortunate Short Incident of 2012. Which John shortened to un-shorts-unate. We've gotten a lot of miles out of that one. I don't even know why we waste our time on television and movies when clearly we are our own form of entertainment.

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

You know how I'm always a couple years behind on all the cutting edge music? Well, I've just discovered the Civil Wars. I think I'd heard of them, but only because I was at Mama's house when the Grammys were on last month and she DVRed them and it took her like three days to watch them. So I heard their name. I youtubed them today. Sorry if this is old news. You can download their live album for free over on their site. I'm listening right now.

They certainly have something. They're like Don Draper for the ears.

Plus, this is just about the best cover of all time: