Tales from the holler

I meant to write this post about a month ago, but hey, this is summer, right? Where time has no meaning except when you're standing barefoot on the asphalt at noon.

Anyway, last month I took a little trip to the mighty homeland of east Tennessee. Well, actually about three hours north of what I might consider the homeland, but let's pretend I'm from the northeast portion, which is friendly and inviting, as opposed to the southeast, which is judgmental and full of meth addicts. But I digress. I was going to Knoxville to finally experience my lifelong dream of seeing Alice Cooper in concert, and since Broke Friend's family lived less than 20 miles away in a town we call M'ville, I was going to stop in there as well.

I got to Knoxville a few hours early and walked around a little. Then got dressed and made up in the car while parked in a parking garage with people all around. Don't worry, I'm pretty much a pro at this. You'd be surprised at how often, while it looks like I'm just tuning the radio or adjusting the mirrors, I'm really sitting there in my underwear waiting for the crowd to disperse so I can finish putting on pants.

The concert was held at a beautiful restored theater in historic downtown. I met a sixteen-year-old in line who made clay jewelry of classic rock band emblems, and who thought I was totally awesome (probably because she thought I was also in high school, and admired my homemade AC shirt). Uncle Al did a fantastic show and proved that time has not tarnished his status as the king of shock rock, even though he found Jesus and stopped dismembering chickens. I had an okay seat, but snuck up front during the first song and weaseled my way into the fifth row. There were guillotines, electric chairs, straitjackets, swords, and everything else you could hope for at an AC show. He threw a couple of canes into the audience (thankfully not the swords), and although I was not close enough to catch one,  I tracked down one of the lucky recipients in the lobby afterwards and she let me touch it. I loitered outside the theater's back door where the bus was parked with a handful of other fans for awhile around midnight, but finally started off to M'ville.

Here's where our story really starts. M'ville is a town of less than 2,000 people in northeastern TN, and as far as I can determine, it is the largest town in its county. M'ville is a place where roads share the name of the family that once owned the land they run through, and in reality, the families that still live there. BF's family lives on a road that bears their last name. Some of the mailboxes only have first names on them. All the churches along the route are led by BF's great-uncles and relatives, despite their memorable run-ins with the law. There's a sign when you turn off the highway that says "legalize cockfighting." M'ville is a world I did not think existed anymore, but I am so glad it does. 

M'ville is a place where people remember you and hug you hello, despite the fact that you've only been there once a year before and almost rolled your car into their barn at that. It's a place where the grandmas won't let you leave without veggies from their garden and honey from the hive, and the grandpas tell epic tales of wild cattle that terrorized the neighborhood and defied the Texas cowboys that came to catch them. Perhaps most importantly, M'ville is a place where they know they may be rough, they know they may be country, but at least they ain't as bad as them Beasons. 

The Beasons are a local family (Tribe? Clan? Cult?) that would make even a sheriff-shootin' minister shake his head. I overhead BF's family talking about a weird country family that lived nearby, so naturally I tuned in. From what I could gather, the Bs are a largish group of brothers, one of whom is married, who either co-habitat or live in very close proximity. I kept picturing the wife as Snow White in a house full of redneck dwarfs. Anyway, this conversation centered around the B's latest exploit, namely, removing all the metal parts from their wooden house and then burning it to the ground. Yes, you heard correctly. Someone asked where the Bs were living now, since their house was destroyed by their own hands for an unknown purpose. BF's mom answered that she had seen one of the Beason boys early one morning standing by his truck and combing his hair, so she assumed he was living in the truck.

During this whole exchange, I kept looking between BF's mom and BF, waiting for a punchline that never came. It never came because it's not a joke. The Beasons and their world are real. As BF's cousin said whenever the countryness of a situation defied logic or surpassed belief, "You're in Beason Holler now."

***

I've started saying "You're in Beason Holler now" every time something scary-country happens, which is sadly not that often. But then again, my uncle's not a renegade pastor, and there's currently a fire ban in my area that precludes any serious house-burning.

Nothing much else going on here, except it's really hot and my dad tried to pry the CD that's stuck in my car stereo out with a knife. Actually, a homemade knife, made by my bro when he was in his high school "let's run a handmade knife business out of my dad's garage" phase.

What was I saying? Oh, yeah:

You're in Beason Holler now.

Once Upon a Time in the West

NYC-style vaca blog to come, because this place has to be seen (or read about) to be believed. When I finally amass a small fortune by exploiting my fellow man and need to hide away in a beautiful location where no one will ever find me, I will be returning to South Dakota. In the meantime, day by day bullet points.

5/23: Driving. Just driving, all the way to Independence, Missouri. Went through St. Louis and the infamous East St. Louis, which I've always been curious about. I can finally believe that their police cars can't afford radios -- most of the buildings don't even have roofs.

5/24: Independence, including westward trails sites, historic downtown, and anything that ever figured in the life of Pres. Truman. I've never been on a trip with this fam that did not include a presidential home, and this one was no exception. That afternoon, driving to Council Bluffs, Iowa.

5/25: Drive to various small towns in SD my stepmom lived in, and meeting her aunt and cousin's family. Many stories here, all terrible. In short, her cousin's husband is a taxidermist.

5/26: Laura Ingalls Wilder homestead in De Smet, Wall Drug. Driving forever. This state is huge, and the eastern half is terrifying! It's incredibly flat, all farmland, no landmarks, all the streets (only about half of which are paved) are gridded and named with numbers, because there's nothing to distinguish them. I saw the sign at the corner of 434th and 216th and couldn't believe it.

5/27: Deadwood, SD; Terry's Summit, Devil's Tower in Wyoming.

5/28: Mount Rushmore, Crazy Horse Memorial, and Custer State Park.

For best results, use a soundtrack.

Little Awfuls Everywhere

I know I promised daily recaps of embarrassing stories, but then May happened and I became a chauffeur and a babysitter and graduation rush of people coming back to college town and now I'm going to South Dakota next week. That's all. Anyway, here are some humiliating vignettes to keep you interested until (if?) I return from the Plains.

Sometimes bad things happen to good people. Other times, they just happen to me.
***

It was the first day of freshman year at college, and I was enjoying all the other firsts that came along with it: my first place away from home, my first phone line (didn't get a cell phone til much later, obviously), and my first day of independently taking care of myself. So far, it had been great. I returned home after my first afternoon of classes and met my first college friend and neighbor, who was also on her way back to our dorm. The second floor hallway was full of freshman girls in similar high spirits, unaware as they were that 80% of them would eventually declare pre-med and develop an eating disorder. As I unlocked the door and stepped into my room, I saw a red light flashing on my (my!) phone. My first message on the answering machine! Clearly this heralded my arrival as an important and competent adult. I was so excited I waved my friend in, and didn't bother closing my door before I hit 'play.' My dad's voice instantly filled my small room and echoed out into the hallway: "Hi [embarrassing childhood nickname], just wanted to see how your first day at big-girl school went! Call us!" My fingers flailed over the phone like giant useless electrified spiders, groping for the 'stop' button, as the second floor's laughter filled the hall...

My first college and still current friend occasionally called me by the nickname she'd overheard. I soon moved out of that dorm, never to return, although honestly that had more to do with the black mold.
***

This next story cannot, unfortunately, be written about as one concrete episode, because it happened to me repeatedly. A few summers ago, I was working in and around my then-current university. I had three jobs, but let's save that story for when I'm talking about things that were terrible without being particularly embarrassing. Anyway, one summer, three jobs in close vicinity to the downtown of a small city, and no car. I carpooled in at 6:30 every morning with a neighbor (despite the fact that my first job didn't start til 9:30 and I wiled away the extra hours napping in various waiting room chairs at the medical center -- you'll probably hear about this again, in a future embarrassing story post entitled "Public Places I Used to Stealthily Sleep"), and then out again at 5:00.  This schedule and the locations of my jobs meant that I had to carry everything I would need throughout the day with me, and do any errands on any spare minute I could catch.

When I could, I would catch the free bus a few miles to the public library to stock up on things to read while either a) waiting interminably for a ride, or b) doing job #3 as a dorm receptionist, usually for a dorm that was literally empty by this point. This meant that I'd be stuck lugging books around all day when I got back, but it seemed worth it to have an alternative to propelling myself slowly down the hall and back in my wheely desk chair. So I filled my shoulder bag with paperbacks and hightailed it back to campus.

Unless you're a shoplifter, I doubt many of us realize how many public places have sensors. You know, those things by the door that beep when you walk out with an item that hasn't been desensitized by being purchased, scanned, etc. Let me tell you: they're freakin' everywhere. And they all recognize the barcode of a book obtained legally from this town's public library. Coupling the book run with other errands, I would go in to places like shops or the bookstore only to immediately set off the alarm and be questioned by the staff. To prove I wasn't a thief or miscreant  (keep in mind, this was upon stepping into the store), I would always empty my bag on the counter in front of an employee to show that it was the books that were setting off the sensor and not ill-obtained merchandise. This is reasonable and I would've had no qualms about complying, were it not for the contents of my book bag. That's right, it was Baby-sitters Club books. Always. Stacks of pastel-colored young adult books were my undoing, despite the fact that I thought I could conceal my secret vice by using the self-checkout at the library and hiding them in my bag. Nope. Now I had to show them to everyone. I look younger, but not that young, so now I looked like either a very young mom or a very old YA reader and possible pervert. Thank God I'm not a man.

Anyway, I repeatedly had to flash my stack of BSC Mysteries and, God forbid, Super Specials to the cashier at the school bookstore, the pharmacist at Walgreens, and the clerk at the school library (that's right, a librarian. She knew damn well what they were!) to prove my innocence. Eventually I found ways to avoid this. "Stop checking out books intended for 9-year-olds in the year 1997?" I hear you ask.  Oh hell no. I would just hide my bag somewhere outside the sensor -- in the entryway of the store, behind the coke machine in the library foyer, etc.

O Ann M. Martin (and associated ghostwriters), what hath thou wrought?
***

I had more stories but I think I'll save them for future installments of MLI-Embarrassing-LT, since right now I feel the need to lie facedown on the floor with a Mountain Dew IV to recover from reliving these moments yet again. Thanks for your patience and understanding.

Go here and try not to get angry. Someone get on my level... please.

Two things

First thing: not a lot is going on here. I've moved "permanently" (ahahahahaha, yeah, like that will ever be true) back to college town, which is thankfully only an hour away from grad school town. Yes, that's right -- ALB is again pursuing higher education at the expense of The Man. Stay tuned this August to see how bad I can eff up classes and my promised job as a graduate assistant.

But til then, it's pretty much reading, hanging out, and scouring Craigslist for job postings. Fortunately I've been able to see some friends who have either stayed here or are passing through. While I do love catching up with recent news in my friends' lives, I have to admit my favorite part of almost any reunion is remembering old times. Particularly terrible times. As someone once said, "Comedy is tragedy plus time," and at no time is this more apparent than when I find myself sipping overpriced tea in a hipster coffeehouse while reminiscing how I once lived on peanut butter for three months.

This experience made me realize a few important things. One, that no matter what terrible things happen to me, if I can make it into a story that makes people laugh/cry/recoil in horror (or see the potential for such a story), it never seems as bad. And two, that I have a huge backlog of these occurrences that have never made it into blogs, letters, or even conversation. In other words...

I have a lot of horrible stories that I've never told you.

...

That suddenly strikes me as a terrible phrase to drop on someone. For example, please imagine this in the context of my wedding night.  I'm standing on a moonlit balcony overlooking the ocean when my new husband (you may know him as Mark Knopfler) emerges from our suite and embraces me passionately under the stars. "Oh, darling," he whispers, "I can't wait to start our new life together. Loving one another, sharing everything..."

I lift my face from the embroidered placket of his cowboy shirt to gaze deeply into his eyes.

"Speaking of sharing... I have a lot of horrible stories that I've never told you."

...

Yes, even in my secret dreams of rock star matrimony, I can't picture myself not creeping someone out.

Regardless, I'm planning on digging deep into the convoluted, poorly ventilated archives of my mind to dredge out stories that will further illustrate why this blog is named what it is. Maybe a series: Awesomely Bad Story of the Week. Or Day. I really don't have a lot going on here. We'll see.

Anyway, on to thing two. In the process of moving, I came to the realization that I have a lot of books, probably way more than other people with the exception of Talmudic scholars and professors.  And in the process of packing, something else hit me: this stuff weighs a ton. I suddenly  needed to justify to myself (and others) the time and headache incurred by dragging these things cross-country.

How did anyone think I could get along without my books? Didn't they know writers need tons of books? In short, no. No one thinks I'm a writer, and after .5 seconds of introspection I had to come to that conclusion as well. If I were a published writer, people would know I'd rather lose a limb than my books. Or, as is more likely, I'd never be faced with this dilemma because I'd be a wealthy and respected member of the literati, amirite? Not even a little.

I also had to justify the contents of my book collection: I'm not hoarding the works of Shakespeare here. To be honest, at least ten pounds of my book collection is Babysitters Club, which they can have when they pry the regular series, Mysteries, and Super Specials from my cold, dead fingers. A LOT of it is '90s era young adult books (Beverly Cleary, Jerry Spinelli, etc.). And a substantial portion is books that I keep because I know they're terrible and dated -- '80s kids' books with lots of rad slang and bitchin' fashion, as well as old textbooks with no sense of shame or being P.C.

To sum up, I need to justify owning tons of books with little literary merit ("Trust me, I'm a writer!"), and I need to do it through writing ("No, really, look at this thing I wrote!"). You know what that means, right?

New blog.

a short but terrible story

On I-40 between Nashville and Johnson City, there is a town called Monterey where I stopped recently. It's a town of less than three thousand, whose per capita income is about $12,000. So there's that.

Anyway, by the gas station is a hotel, and in the hotel parking lot is a little covered area with a bench. I assumed it was a historical marker, or even a memorial for someone who died on the highway. Oh no. It is a giant engraved rock with the 10 Commandments. This strikes me as a little weird, and I start to walk away. I came here to buy gas, not be preached to beside the dumpster of the Super 8.

But wait -- there's more.

Upon closer inspection,  discover there are two giant rocks, each with ten commandments. Sitting on the bench, all you can see is ten commandment rocks on either side. I just...

Why two, you ask? They're engraved in different fonts, but surely that doesn't justify it. Oh, now I see: one of them is wrong. Yes, wrong. The one on the left has the same phrase repeated for commandments two and three. Whoever was entrusted with engraving this rock (or, more likely, keying the words into a computer that would then do it with a laser) was clearly taking a brain holiday.

Of course, my favorite part is not just that it's wrong; it's that I don't think anyone noticed for awhile. This isn't like accidentally writing something down twice. No, this is literally carved in stone and then cemented into a parking lot in middle TN. And then, instead of fixing it or taking it out, the town's solution is just to put another one beside it. Problem solved.

I wanted to laugh, but then I saw the hotel was flying an unknown flag with a cross on it, which I could only assume to be the Klan's. It's not (it's the Methodists'), but I still left this town in a hurry. This is almost as good as the huge rebel flag on I-40 W... almost.

When the Levee Breaks, You Got No Place to Go

Oklahoma is a national disaster area as always this morning. It's raining for the first time in a billion years and the town resembles nothing so much as the Great Mississippi Flood of 1927. Our house is built on relatively lower ground, so every spring the rain puts us literally underwater. The backyard is completely submerged, despite the presence of ground-level drains that are supposed to alleviate this problem. I walked out barefoot into three inches of icy water on the patio to check on the drains. I reached into a sea of brown water in the vicinity of a drain to make sure it wasn't blocked. By the time I touched it, my elbow was submerged.

Spent the morning baling water off the patio like my name was Captain Ahab. I should check the real estate listing --  I thought I lived in a modest one-story ranch, not a damn whaling vessel. I won't miss doing this.

I blogged about this in a previous life, because it floods pretty much every year. Sometimes the water creeps over the patio and floods the dining room. I always get secretly angry at people when they wax poetic about how wonderful it was to sleep while listening to rain. I'm never bundled cozily in bed when it rains -- I'm sitting by the back door keeping a damn candlelight vigil against the destruction of our house. Having recently put down "wood" flooring to replace the ruined carpet, I can only assume, with our luck, it will flood again. What can I say? My life is like that.

I've put off writing for awhile because every time I try to describe what's going on at the current moment, I am sucked into a whirlpool of bitterness and anger that would put a Shakespearean villain to shame. Disposing of your childhood literary best friends and family-built furniture will do that to you. Some days you can't even afford your memories.

Outside, the rain wears on into hour twelve.

new adventures in the old west

(This post is ripped from a letter to CLB. Names have been changed, but only to protect the identity of the very, very guilty.)

So I’m sure you remember that when I come here I try to avoid everyone from high school, but particularly my old pal B. S**** who a) drove to Nash one summer to visit me without an invitation and embarrassed me hugely in front of the fam by doing so, and b) gave me that awk “I like you” letter and teddy bear two Xmases ago. So I never tell him when I’m in OK because, although I told him very firmly I was not interested, I’m still a little creeped out. There are other awk stories about him, but I think you get the picture.

Anyway, Mom came home sick around 10pm and we went out to get some drugs. I’m waiting in the car with the dog in the deserted Walgreen’s parking lot, when who pulls up to my window but a clown car full of S****s. Literally. B in the back and his twin and his wife (married 6 mos. after h.s. graduation) up front. I’m sure they recognized the car and pulled up. But instead of laying the seat down and playing dead til they went inside like a smarter person would’ve done, I waved. Idiot! So then of course we had to loiter on the sidewalk by the Redbox and talk… no sign of B yet but you know how he loves to show up at my house uninvited.

SF and I recently discovered a new way to exploit the college for our own gain: student movies and events. Like they did at our school, OU shows films in the union building for students pretty frequently, sometimes with events to go with. And they don’t check IDs. And BB borrows cuz’s on-campus parking permit, so we’re really living the high life for free. A couple days ago we went to an event called, wait for it, “Blood, Love, and Chocolate”. The highlights were a chocolate fountain, the latest Twilight movie, and lots of sad freshman girls. It was insane. I’ve only seen the 1^st Twilight film and this is like #4, but unfortunately I read all the books so I know what’s going on. Frankly, I think the whole TL franchise is a degrading, anti-feminist, racist, conservative nightmare, but I also don’t see how it could be so popular when the films suck so much.  I mean, people in the audience, lonely teenage girls who TL is aimed at were laughing at how crappy the film was! If I see another TL, I’ll make a bingo card/drinking game. Drink once every time an “actor” delivers a line like a robot, twice when a woman is willingly controlled by a man. Every time Native Americans are stereotyped or portrayed negatively, consult the actual Native American sitting next to you (SF) and make the :O face. 

As we were leaving, SF said “At least my boyfriend’s not a vampire.” To which I said, “Are you sure? He’s pretty old.”

In other news, I'm probably going to hell.

 

Can't stand the heat, but trapped in the kitchen

I broke the crock pot today.

I was washing it and it never occurred to me that the hellishly heavy ceramic inner bit was removable. When I set it down, this inner part hit against the outside case and cracked all the way around. Case closed.

This is just the latest in my ongoing misadventures with appliances and home goods: you may recall previous episodes involving bowls and glass from here and here.

It's not that I'm stupid, per se, or even that the rules governing treatment of kitchen utensils are that confusing. As I've recently realized, my problems in this department seem to stem from the fact that, as a lifelong and semi-professional brokeass, I'm basically ignorant of the way modern and blissfully middle-class cooks operate.

Let me elaborate.

Fancy dishes that aren't supposed to go in the dishwasher or microwave -- I was not aware these existed. I mean, beyond the obvious things like plastic plates that I wouldn't put in the microwave, all our dishes seem to make it through being washed and nuked with relative ease. So of course I assume that any non-plastic dish is good to go.

Having to regulate the temperature of glass anything -- we don't have glass things and we don't really cook. So no, I was unaware of this horrible quirk. How has science not come up with glass that can regulate its own damn temperature?

Anything with actual gold trim that can't go in the dishwasher or microwave -- see #1. Oh, I tell a lie. We do have one coffee mug with a thin gold border. The gold's all scratched and chippy... because we put it in the dishwasher. I learned the no-microwave rule when the boring activity of heating up some tea in a school cup in a school microwave suddenly became a pyrotechnics display I could've sold tickets to.

On a similar note, let's talk about heating water. We've always done it one way, and one way only: in a cup, in the microwave. Yes, the cup gets hot, but why would you use stove energy to heat up six ounces of water to fill a teacup? A kettle always struck me as pretentious as hell, and the first time I saw my stepmom heat water in a Pyrex cup (again, in the microwave), I had no idea what was going on. Even now that I understand it, I still feel the urge to shout "Hot glass, oh damn!" every time I witness it.

I recently had a conversation about this with a friend -- let's call her "Student Friend", to distinguish her from "Employed Friend" and "Broke Friend".

ALB: "I never understood the rules about heating stuff up! I mean, glass: when it's hot you can't do anything with it or it'll shatter. What are you supposed to do with it til it's cool?! Will it blow up if I put it on the room-temp countertop?"

SF: "Well, normal people have a hot pad."

ALB (ignoring the 'normal people' jibe): "And the microwave: everything effs up in there. God forbid your cup have some metal parts on it because it starts shooting off sparks!"

SF: "You heat up water in the microwave, in a cup?!?"

ALB: "Well, yeah... doesn't everyone?"

SF: "I'm pretty sure only poor people do that."

  Clearly SF did not mean anything by invoking my white trash heritage in regards to my idiotic cooking practices, but on the other hand, there it is. The school of <insert last name here> cooking seems to rely heavily on recipes that can be prepared easily in either a mining town or moving wagon, so no, we're not fancy and no, we never own utensils so fussy they require a chemistry degree to operate.

If the recipe calls for a skillet, let me at it. If it wants hot water or anything made of glass, you can handle it yourself.

The Sharkdog Cometh

  Another day at Casa de WTF?. Still no job, but my years as a borderline housekeeper are paying off as I continue the task of cleaning, organizing, and ironing everything in sight. In an effort to wring every last dollar out of this train wreck, we're clearing the closets and making offerings to a snooty consignment shop in town. As I mentioned earlier, I don't think we've ever gotten rid of anything. The things I've found would shock even the most clueless fashion victim. Also, apparently in the 80s (which extended well into the 90s in rural TN), it was okay for career women to wear shoulder-padded suits in pastel Easter egg colors. This hypothesis is based on the many such heinous examples found in my mom's collection this week. Three pink suits, Mom? Really?

  Cleaned out what we long referred to as the "junk closet" (in imitation of more sane households' "junk drawer") and saw the floor for the first time since we moved in. How is that we managed to hold onto decades-old fabric scraps, yet somehow misplaced actual important things? The mystery of the lost original Nancy Drew continues...

  That, plus some kickass transcribing work (women's lib be damned -- secretarial work pays well!), take up most of my time. The transcribing is for an academic dude I met in D.C. who's interviewing musicians for a book. I didn't know anything about the topic, so it's nice to hear some good stories and get paid for typing them up.

  I don't know if I've mentioned the new dog yet. Well, there is one, and he is a pistol. W, or as I call him, "Sharky", keeps me pretty busy with walks and ball games and pulling his head out of shoes and stuff. You have to take him out on a leash in the backyard because he's small enough to fit through the not infrequent gaps in the fence. Nine pounds of pure insanity combined with the misplaced bravado that is a hallmark of small dogs everywhere. Walked by a fence today and the dog on the other side (who, judging by his bark, had been a heavy smoker for at least 15 years) wanted to start an argument, but our brave Shark does not back down. Dragged him back home for the safety of all citizens.

  W is a mixed breed pound puppy: from his Westie ancestors he got his comically short legs and sturdy tail (twice the length and thickness of a leg), and from the Chihuahua side, the excitable temperament and urge to strike out like a cobra at everything that passes. It doesn't help that he's both black and stealthy: half the time you're searching the house for him while he 's following close on your heels, undetectable and probably snickering to himself before pouncing. The dog wants to chew on you all the time. Suppertime, pottytime, bathtime -- any time is fair game for this little assassin. I'm glad I watched all those Swamp People marathons -- you have to wrestle him like a damn alligator to get him into bed.

  In other news, I've finally been able to sleep after months of insomnia and unsettling, anxiety-induced dreams. I thought it would get better once I got to OK and (assumedly) stopped feeling guilty, but guilt has been replaced by the anxiety of not finding a job. Every night I would lay down at a reasonable hour and almost immediately find myself overwhelmed by the thought of every stupid thing I've done over the past couple of years. After a couple hours of Nightmare on Memory Lane, I'd fall into an unsatisfying sleep plagued by nightmares.

  Fast forward two months: I realized I had to supplant my anxieties with something else, something powerful that would eclipse them completely. So I asked myself, what's the only thing scarier than unemployment? That's right, vampires. Not the teen-lit. pansies of the modern era (cf: movies I will never again go see with my dad), nor the ones who drank themselves to death on Sunset Boulevard. No, I needed the old-school blood-sucking fiends. Read a couple chapters of Dracula and slept like a baby.

Biding his time until the moment is right to strike.

Dear CB, volume one

It's January 24. Yesterday the first ice cream truck of the season rolled through our neighborhood. Why am I here?

I'm also officially on Twitter now -- did you know porn spammers make fake accounts there? I do, because they all subscribed to me immediately after I joined. "Wow, look how many followers I have!", I naively thought to myself. False. Oh well. Find me @mylifeslikethat.

Gainful employment has thus far eluded me, so I'm occupying my time with cleaning out the garage, reading, and writing. Not blog posts, obviously -- that would require internet -- but I write a lot of letters, some of which I even send. Since nothing has happened that is much worth relating (or actually, that I could relate without being outrageously offensive. Cf: the rejection of my application at a Goodwill store and my family's attempt to get me to apply for a museum cop job), I'm going to post a recent letter instead. It's to CB, and, well, you'll see.


Dear CB,


Jan. 8:
I know I wrote you like 3 days ago, but I’m sitting here at 10.30 pm listening to the country station and pretty much pissing myself over these songs! Maybe I’ve been out of the country loop for awhile, but I don’t think they’re playing these in Nash! Anyway, here are some of the best songs/lines I’ve heard today:

Toby Keith – Red Solo Cup is pretty funny. TK is from the next town (Moore) and, because they have nothing else to be proud of, they have “home of Toby Keith” on their water tower.

Some song about “I’m so much cooler online” that I was dying at. **edit: This appears to be a Brad Paisley song. Am I the only one who hears "Brad Paisley" and expects a New Wave singer? Just saying, that is a way effeminate moniker for a country artist.

Jason Aldean’s new song (complete with awkward rap!) about “chilling on a dirt road / laid back swerving like I’m George Jones.” Pissed. Myself. Laughing.

Montgomery Gentry, “Where I Come From”. So, let me get this straight, MG. You’re proud of your quiet country hometown… where dudes can fight in the parking lot and no one calls the cops? WTH is wrong with your police force, MG? What are you trying to promote? I’m never going to where y’all come from because I’ll get mugged and no one will care!

Unknown singer, song about how he’s not worried about the new guy she’s dating, because he’s (#2) not country and she’ll come back to guy #1 after finding out about new guy’s flaws: “he can’t even bait a hook/he can’t even skin a buck…” Go with new guy, girl! Ex-bf’s gonna kill you and make it look like a hunting accident!

So many [edit] songs, which all sound the same and have the same theme: life sucks sometimes, let’s have a beer! His songs must be written by either a)the man himself, b)feral cats, or c) that guy from Nickelback. Seriously, how is he famous? **Name withheld to protect me from the wrath of this guy's sizable fan base.

An ad/infomercial that starts with an official-sounding lady saying “Attention, women with muffin tops!” I have no idea what happens after that b/c I’m usually on the floor in the fetal position, tears running down my face “like some sort of sad Jesus fountain”, to use your phrase.

Jan. 9:

“Tequila makes her clothes fall off” – my god, will it never end?

Jan. 11:

Took the dog outside last night and it was def snowing. TF is wrong with this state? ** edit: It was 70 last week.

Yesterday I walked to some apts in the neighborhood (okay, let’s be honest: the ‘hood) that had a ‘now hiring’ sign out, to ask what jobs they had available. The guy said “Maintenance”… then laughed. FML.

Today I am archiving the garage, yet again. Found a giant surprise box of clothes. As I sorted them, I kept thinking they didn’t look familiar, and why would we wear such ugly pants, even if it was the ‘90s? Then I realized: they’re my bro’s from middle school. Well, that one year of middle school before he left us to live with our dad. That was 10+ years ago.

It’s like I’ve stumbled into a time machine… but one that is rigged to only transport you to the shittiest times of your life.

Later: Okay, so I officially weeded all of my and mom’s clothes from the garage and there were a ton. Surprise southern handicap: after you move away from fam and traditional recipients of hand me downs (cf: twin cousins), you have no idea what to do with old clothes. I mean, c’mon!

I commandeered some of mom’s outgrown and more heinous outfits and now have all the makings for either a Charlie Chaplin or Sheldon Cooper costume. I mean, how many pairs of suspender pants did one person need in the '80s? I wore a pair once to high school, unfortunately the same day as the school play. All day people kept asking me if I was in the play. Nope, I’m just dressed like a tool.

Maybe I’ll start that blog – terrible h.s. stories.

I accidentally watched an ep of "Bones" via our illegal free cable hookup (so classy) – mistake. A) It’s pretty gross, b) it’s pretty inaccurate, and c) see title. This ep talked a lot about the spine, so I won’t sleep for a week. And then the news – suffice it to say that our current state hero is an 18 year old widow with a 3 month old who shot/killed burglars who were breaking into her house (read: trailer) in search of prescription meds. You stay classy, Oklahoma!

**edit: The comments on articles about this situation are the real gems: "I'm glad this Oklahoma woman received national attention but what they have failed to report is that Oklahoma has a unique law unlike other states. It is called "Make My Day Law" where if someone comes in your house uninvited, you can shoot them. She didn't have to call 911."

...
This is not a totally accurate statement, but ridiculous nonetheless.

Let the hard times roll

  Well, here we are again, parked behind the 12th St. McDonald's to use their wifi... only this time, there's a dog in the car because we had to vacate the house so some people could look at it. Got up pre-dawn to clean. Although I'm not sure why: anyone who's shopping in our neighborhood couldn't be picky enough to pass on a house because the mirrors were smudged..

  The most merciful thing for all parties concerned would be to burn it down and flee the scene. But no. It hasn't rained in awhile and I don't want to be held responsible if the whole state goes up.

  The only person really enjoying this day is the guy dressed up in a robe and crown, dancing on the sidewalk. Liberty Tax Service hires sign-wavers to advertise, and that may be the one "now hiring" sign in town I haven't inquired about. Sooner or later I'll have to go in there...

  Hard times all around!