The Christmas Trees Won't Fit in the Bathroom

I can write about this now, because it's over. But, I've danced perilously close to the line between sane and crazy these last few months...

Sugar and I are blessed with a large family, and we are grateful for each and every loved one. We love it when they all come over to visit. We were not, so much, prepared for five of them to move in for an extended stay. But, the economy and other disasters made it necessary. This is what family does, right?

The guestroom became an extended-stay bedroom, which meant all my off-season clothes had to either fit into my closet or be stored in the basement. Both my office and Sugar's also became extended-stay bedrooms, which meant that everything in those offices, including all the stuff stored in the closets, had to go downstairs. All of this had to happen quickly, which meant we ended up with what looked like the aftermath of a tornado in the basement.

When we first bought our current home, the partially finished basement served as an overflow area. It was eclectically furnished, and we could hang out there when all the family was around, or when we felt like rounding up a group of friends for Karaoke and didn't want trouble with the HOA. (The sound doesn't carry outside from the basement.) Also, there was a nice-sized storage room, the laundry room, and a pre-plumbed, but unfinished, bathroom.

We tried carving office space out of the storage room, but the Christmas trees wouldn't fit in the bathroom, which was the new storage room. With all the stuff now in what used to be the unfinished-but-not-too-bad Karaoke/Family room we were low on space for everyone to hang out separately when we started getting on each other's nerves. And, as I am slightly--okay, maybe much more than slightly--OCD, the chaos in my house was driving me to the brink of a breakdown.

Suddenly, the basement we might finish one day became the basement we needed finished lickety-split. All the stuff that had just been moved to the basement had to be moved to the garage. The cars had to be parked outside. Never one to pay someone else to do something he can conceivably do himself, Sugar drew up a construction plan, got a permit, and got to work--during the one day a week, some weeks, but not all, when he was home.

Progress was slow. Nerves frayed. Construction dust drifted upstairs and covered everything, no matter how often we cleaned. After about eight weeks, Sugar looked at me and said, "Call somebody." I did, and the work is mostly finished now. We had a few bad moments when we were cleaning the aftermath and moving things back in from the garage. Several pieces of furniture are worse for the experience, and one didn't make it.

But, we have a fully-functional family/Karaoke room now, with more than one bare bulb and a disco ball for lighting, and more than one electrical outlet to replace the two power strips and spaghetti bowl of extension cords. The Christmas trees have their own storage space. Sugar has his office back, and I have a killer new writing cave. And boy, does that extra bathroom come in handy.

Peace, out...

Susan

Trot Out Your Turkeys

Back in the late 1800s and early 1900s, there was a columnist at the Salisbury Post whose pen name was Venus of Faith. He was the "country correspondent," and he reported news from the small towns--Faith, Granite Quarry, and Rockwell, among others--surrounding Salisbury, which was the "big city" in the area.

Venus, (his real name was J.T. Wyatt) often ended his columns with the challenge, "If you can beat that, trot it out." With a tip of my hat to Venus, here is my turkey story, as related by my manicurist...

Another of my manicurist's clients is married to an engineer, or possibly a physicist--a man with some such nerdy occupation. She's a drug rep, or maybe she sells hospital equipment--something like that. Suffice to say they are both college educated, and have demanding jobs, a house, mortgage, 2.5 kids, etc. They are living the American dream.

The day before Thanksgiving, Mrs. Very Busy Professional asked Mr. VBP to please stop by the grocery store and pick up a turkey as she was in over her head bringing home the bacon, frying it up in the pan, and making her mani-pedi appointments. He agreed to pick up the bird.

Now, Mr. VBP had been reading up on locally sustainable food sources, organic farming, global warming, and many other socially conscience topics. He was looking to reduce his carbon footprint, et cetera. He thinks to himself, I can do better than stopping by the grocery store. I can get us a REAL turkey for Thanksgiving.

He drives his Mercedes all the way to a farm in Boiling Springs and picks up a LIVE TURKEY and totes him home in a cage in the back seat. The bird was unhappy with this development, and spoke about it to Mr. VBP all the way back to Greenville.

Can you imagine this man's poor wife's face when he unloaded that sucker in the backyard? I crack up every time I think about it. What kind of idiot... I wonder sometimes if too much education might unhinge certain personality types... I digress.

She stared at him with confusion and disbelief. "What am I suppose to do with that?" she reasonably inquired.

"You grew up on a farm," he said, rather defensively. "You can pluck it, right?"

Amazingly, she did not kill him.

She did what all wives do in the face of husbandly idiocy. She ignored him and carried on. She got into her BMW and drove to the grocery store, leaving him to deal with his new pet.

Thanksgiving dinner came and went, but big bird was not getting along well with the family dog in the fenced in backyard. The turkey tended to peck at the small pooch. The bird was likewise unfriendly to the children, who were afraid to go outside. Mrs. VBP had meetings the day after Thanksgiving, and demanded Mr. VBP deal with the poultry.

The farm apparently had a no-return policy, and it took some imagination and a lot of phone calls to find someone willing to adopt the turkey. Then there was the matter of cleaning the feathers and stench from the Mercedes. I guess some ideas sound better on the Internet than they are in practice.

If you can beat that turkey story, trot out your turkeys.

Peace, out...

Susan

P.S. Don't forget! Bob Strother's short story collection, Scattered, Smothered, and Covered, is scheduled for release in early February and is available for advance order right now. Order your copy today and take advantage of the discount price of $9.00 -- that's six dollars off the cover price! The book can be ordered from the MSR Online Bookstore. Here is a link that will take you directly there: Scattered, Smothered, and Covered

An Incognito Rock Star with a Sprained Derriere

You know that old Billy Joel song We Didn't Start the Fire? Sometimes my life is like that--one long rapid-fire series of events. But hey, I'm never bored.

When Sugar and I arrived home from two weeks in Indiana around tenish on Friday the 29th, we lugged our stuff upstairs, had a glass of wine, and collapsed into bed. Saturday morning, we had to fit our house tour and all the errands into a compressed time slot, because we were invited to a killer Halloween party in Greenwood,  ninety minutes away.

This was a Guitar Hero party, and we were supposed to go dressed as rock stars. All we could pull off was Sugar in his (typical) Jimmy Buffett weekend attire, accessorized with a captain's hat and shoulder parrot, and me in big sunglasses. I told our hostess I was incognito, and could be any rock star she wanted me to be. (For some reason, people kept calling me Tennille.)

The party was a blast--so much fun, good food, good company--but we stayed well past the pumpkin carriage's schedule, and spent the night in a local hotel instead of making the ninety-minute drive home.

We arrived back in Greenville on Sunday just in time to prepare for friends and family coming to our house for a cookout. When our loved ones left around tenish, we finished the laundry and repacked, as Sugar was leaving on a jet plane at 5:00 the next morning, and I was headed home to North Carolina to "handle" my father who was being obstinate about a gall bladder operation he needs. This, of course turned out to be a fool's errand, as Daddy is completely unmanageable, but I got in some quality family time.

I spent half the week with Mamma and Daddy, then went to Raleigh to "handle" another crisis involving my offspring. This leg of the trip was marginally more successful, and again, I got quality family time--always precious.

Then, when I arrived home on Friday last, I did a very stupid thing. I do not travel light. I have a large suitcase, which is always packed with everything I might conceivably need. (I'm nothing if not prepared.) As Sugar wasn't home yet, I carried this monster in my left hand, with my laptop and mammoth purse on my right shoulder, up the stairs. This arrangement required me to rest the suitcase on my left hip as I lugged it up the steps.

It wasn't until Saturday, when the lower back pain started, that the full consequences of my stupidity started revealing themselves. At a friend's house for dinner Saturday night, I had to keep moving from chair to chair to floor to standing trying to keep the pain at bay.

By three a.m. Sunday--mere hours before Sugar and I were scheduled to head BACK to Indiana--the pain in my left derriere was so intense I was nauseous. I nudged Sugar. "I hurt so bad I'm about to throw up," I said.

The love of my life mumbled, "Just relax. We'll go to the ER in the morning."

"Why do I have to wait?" I wailed.

"They aren't open now."

"It's the ER--THEY DON'T CLOSE." The louder wail woke not only Sugar, but likely the neighbors, and set several dogs to barking.

Sugar was up, dressed, and had me in the car within mere moments.

The doctor gave me a shot of something that allowed me to ride ten and a half hours in the car to Indiana, and five prescriptions. But, since the shot wore off, I can't sit. I can lie in any position that doesn't put pressure on my left derriere at all, or kneel at the desk and answer quick emails.

All of this to explain my absence from Jazzercise, Twitter, Facebook, my blog, and most human interaction for the last week and a half. I'm also over-medicated, so anything I do say should be taken with a large grain of salt.

Peace, out...

Susan

P.S. About the house... Your know that saying about how you can't go home? Sometimes it's true. When Sugar and I walked into the house we loved, the one that holds so many memories, we realized immediately the answer to what had mystified us a few years earlier: why did it take so long to sell such a great house?

Since we left, we've lived in new construction, and have grown accustomed to an open floor plan, nine-foot ceilings, modern baths, and windows that work properly. We're spoiled, yes. We stepped into the foyer of our previous home, and immediately felt claustrophobic.

The good news is, we can quit pining for what we thought we missed, and even if we never embrace certain aspects of subdivision living, we can fully embrace our new home and get on with life. This is a good thing, as we have a full one.

Some People are Just Not Subdivision Material

Up until three and a half years ago, we lived in a neighborhood. There was no overall theme--the homes were whatever style the owner chose, and the lots were anywhere from half an acre to four acres. We had two acres with a brick house built in the sixties that I absolutely adored. Sugar called it Barbie's Dream House, and it was. It was Southern traditional--big front porch, screened porch in back, lots of big oak trees in the yard.

But... we travel a lot, and two acres of yard plus a large house with fifty-year-old parts that needed continuous maintenance made us think life would be less complicated if we had less to take care of. Small house, big scrapbook, we said to ourselves. Simplify.

I REALLY wanted to live in downtown Greenville, where we could walk to dinner, or to Falls Park, and could ride our bikes through the park trails without having to load them up on the bike rack. Sugar was not so keen on this idea, as ninety-five percent of the real estate in downtown Greenville is condos. "But our back yard would be Falls Park," I said. Sugar gave in on the condition that we would rent for a year, and if we liked it, we'd buy.

We sold Barbie's Dream House, and moved into a 1,200 square-foot condo half a block from Falls Park. Despite all the amenities of downtown living that we both loved, within six months we were both claustrophobic. No patio, no deck--no place for Sugar's grill.

We started looking at new houses, ones that didn't need anything done to them. The beautiful homes in neighborhoods that border downtown Greenville were older than the one we'd sold, so we looked further out. A subdivision, we thought, is the middle ground. Half acre yard, new house.

Covenants and restrictions? Oh, those are just to protect your property value--to make sure folks don't put up outhouses and such in the backyard. This is the fiction we were sold. Don't ever let anyone tell you this.

I believe there are three kinds of people on any given Architectural Review Committee:

Type One, the well-meaning sorts, who volunteer because they want to do the right thing, give back, etc. These are the minority, and they will be worn down to a nub by the rest of them, and likely take to strong drink.

Type Two are dragged in kicking and screaming, or perhaps convinced when they've had a few martinis, by their friends who are Type Ones. Type Twos will hide when trouble starts, and it will.

Type Three are the folks who want to be in charge. They have a driving need to decide what is best for all, and then shove it down their neighbors' throats. They will rule the ARC in any homeowners association because they are the most invested. They crave POWER. Likely, they were bullied in high school.

Two and a half years later, we love the house, but have ascertained that we are not subdivision people. We're rebels. If, on Saturday afternoon, we decide we want to put a trellis in front of the air conditioner compressor, we don't want to have to draw a picture, fill out forms, and wait FORTY-FIVE DAYS for the Architectural Review Committee to approved it (or not).

And don't get me started on the trees. The ARC has tried to dictate which trees we can plant and in what configuration. Thankfully, the attorney who drew up the covenants and restrictions assures me this is unenforceable, not covered in the covenants and restrictions, and ridiculous.

We're currently working on a scheme with our old neighbors--the ones who live next to Barbie's Dream House--to convince the folks we sold it to that the place is haunted so they'll leave. In the meantime, I'm thinking of taking up sculpture and creating a heinous piece of orange and pink yard art with tassels and old shoes stuck on.

Peace, out...

Susan

The Chick-Fila Cows Perform a Public Service

I love a cheeseburger as much as anybody--more than many folks, actually, if you take into account the vegetarian and vegan sectors. Grilled Angus beef on a sesame seed bun, with extra cheese, mayo, lettuce, tomato, pickle, and Heinz 57. Yum. My mouth is watering and it's not nearly lunch time.

And don't get me started on grilled stuffed filet mignon. The moaning might disturb other hotel guests.

I'm a fan of the cow, is what I'm saying--always have been.

But, I'm also something of a...ahem...hypochondriac. Yeah, I  know, you're shocked and all.

So, when I read this article on page 2 of today's USA Today, I immediately started inventorying my symptoms. The article states that "A program set up to test beef for chemical residues is not accomplishing its mission of monitoring the food supply for dangerous substances... The health affects on people who eat such meat are a 'growing concern.'" The article goes on to say that in 2008, "Mexican authorities rejected a U.S. beef shipment because its copper levels exceeded Mexican standards." The rejected meat was sold in the U.S.

Our beef wasn't up to Mexican standards, so it had to be sold in the U.S.???

It's not just copper. (I'm still not clear on how the copper gets into cows, but some of the bad stuff comes from pesticide residue in the cow's drinking water.) Also, antibiotics are a problem, among them PENICILLIN, which I am allergic to. The article gave a chart with contaminants, some of which I can't pronounce, and SYMPTOMS TO WATCH FOR. These include oxidative stress (wtf?), renal dysfunction, and death. And those are just the copper-related symptoms. Call me a quack, but death is a pretty serious SYMPTOM.

I had reconciled myself to living with the threat of Mad Cow, now this.

It's enough to make a girl turn to tofu.

Peace, out...

Susan

Once More, From the Top

Well, at least this year I got my first post in during the month of January. It takes me a while to recover from the holidays, and with seven family (and several friend) birthdays in January, it feels like the holidays last until February.

Anyway, I'm traveling with Jim, using the hotel room in whatever city he's in as my personal writer's retreat. We're in Warsaw, IN right now, and today I worked in the swimming pool and spa room, which is all glass, and watched it snow. Yes, I do know how lucky I am. I really, really do.

Along with the usual New Year's resolutions, I've vowed to update the blog a little more frequently. It's really a waste of fodder not to, because so much material just falls right into my lap by virtue of my being a little nutty, and 98% of my family being certifiable. (Note: If you are reading this, and you are a member of my family, no, of course I did not mean you! YOU fall into the 2% of my normal blood relations.)

Things just happen to me... For instance, I always sleep with a glass of water by the bed in case I wake up thirsty. Lots of people do this, right? Well, when we're traveling, it's usually a bottle of water. (Yes, I know about the landfills and whatnot, but I just cannot drink warm tap water from the bathroom in the hotel room, out of a glass that has been gathering germs in the bathroom for who knows how long, no matter how clean it looks. I'm SO SORRY about the landfills, and will try to reduce my carbon footprint in other ways as much as possible.)

Anyway, night before last, I woke up, partially, and reached for my water bottle. When no water gurgled out of the bottle into my parched mouth, I tipped it up a little more.

No water.

I tipped it back further, and squeezed the bottle a little.

No water.

It took me a minute, in my groggy state to figure out that the cap must be on the bottle. I tried to unscrew it, but was having trouble. Then I noticed that the top of the water bottle didn't feel right. And WHAT was that goopy stuff on the side of my mouth and on my hand??

Well, turns out it was Jergens Total Nourishment, and I had been trying to drink my lotion.

I ran to the bathroom, rinsed out my mouth, and downed a whole bottle of Dasani.

I am now careful to put the lotion on the far side of the nightstand.

But this stuff happens to everyone, right?

It's Just Not a Party Unless EMS Comes Out

So, last Saturday evening was the first Christmas party of the season at Chez Boyer. This was a fun group,  which loosely consisted of local writer friends. I need to say up front that NO OFFICAL ORGANIZATION SPONSORED THIS EVENT, and each and every writers' group that grants me membership is blameless.

It was early in the evening--guests were still arriving. Groups of future literary luminaries chatted about all manner of highbrow matters in the kitchen and keeping room, while sipping festive drinks and nibbling on canapés--okay, it was Southwestern eggrolls, vegetarian meatloaf on crackers, and mini cheeseburgers. Hey, that meatloaf was good. I'm just saying...

Anyway, I was lounging on the sofa yakking with a couple of friends, when something went BOOM! in the kitchen.

I jumped up and looked across the bar, but all I could see was the backsides of everyone who had dashed to the middle of the kitchen.

My husband shouted, "CALL 911! NOW!!"

Clueless, but responding automatically to the tone in The Husband's voice I grabbed the phone and made the call.

"What's the nature of your emergency?" the voice on the phone asked.

I had nothing. I shook my head, gestured wildly, and gave my name and address. I peered over someone's shoulder. A friend we'll call Ginger because that is SO not her name sprawled in the kitchen floor on her back looking at the ceiling.

"What happened?" I asked.

Realizing my dilemma, everyone answered at once. I picked out a few things and told the operator, "My friend got dizzy and fell out of a bar-height chair onto the hardwood floor and hit her head."

The operator asked the standard questions, is she breathing, conscious, able to speak, etc. (All yes at that point, but at least one person said she'd lost consciousness for a moment.) I gave directions--oddly we weren't "in the system." The 911 operator assured me help was on the way.

By this time, The Husband had Ginger's head and feet on pillows, and had tried to cover her with a blanket, but she declined as she was too hot already. Ginger seemed a bit confused herself, as to how she came to be flat on the floor, but poll results indicated that 70% of the people who'd seen what happened thought that she'd leaned back in the chair, not realizing she was seated sideways, and toppled to the floor, where she was at least dazed, and possibly momentarily unconscious.

One resourceful soul asked for a flashlight and went outside to wave down the EMS team. Moments later, the firetruck arrived and parked in front of the house. I greeted the team at the door--I think there were three of them--and directed them to the kitchen. The writers backed off, allowing the professionals to form a circle around Ginger and ask her the same round of questions.

Then, the doorbell rang.

For the next thirty minutes, I alternated greeting arriving guests and additional EMT's. To each group of party guests I explained the firetruck and ambulance, then told them where to put food (and the best route into the kitchen under the circumstances) and coats, and offered them a drink. Periodically I popped by to check on Ginger, who seemed increasingly normal.

After everyone realized Ginger was okay, they went back to nibbling and socializing.



For a surreal while--I really couldn't say how long--the group chatting around Ginger was just one more conversation clutch at the party, only they didn't have drinks. After a bit, the EMT's got Ginger up off the floor. She declined to go to the hospital. The EMT's left, and Ginger stayed at the party and later sang a Karaoke duet with the gentleman who'd flagged down EMS with the flashlight.

It was a great party...

What A Nickle's Worth

On Monday, the parts for my space age washing machine did not arrive, as scheduled, from NEW ZELAND, in time for the TEAM to make it out to fix the d&%n thing. The new control panel and pump arrived late Monday afternoon, and the TEAM showed up bright and early yesterday to restore order in the Boyer laundry room. Mission accomplished!

The brave repairman came upstairs with the ticket, which had already been paid, because parts must be paid for upfront as UPS only runs in one direction--FROM--on the New Zealand route. Along with the ticket, which I had to sign for reasons unclear, the brave repairman held a nickle, and the old washing machine pump motor.

I bet you can see where this is going. He spun the rotor on the motor. It made a hellacious noise. He grinned. "The nickle got in the motor and made it go out. That's what shorted out the control panel.

"How did the nickle get into the insides of the washing machine?" I asked. I mean, even if it was in the tub, how could it get to the motor?

He shrugged. "I've seen all kinds of stuff get in there. Underwear, rocks, sticks..."

A month, without a washing machine, because one of us missed a nickle when emptying the change from our pockets into the jar which holds lottery money. (Not money we've won, but spare change with which we allow ourselves to purchase tickets, in hopes that we will one day win Giraffe Money. If you don't know what Giraffe Money is, here's a clue: Michael Jackson owns a Giraffe, or used to, on his Neverland... err, Ranch.

Talk to y'all later. I've got to go search a load for stowaway coins. That nickle cost me $396.65.

Peace, out...

Susan

Yet Another Reason to Buy Stuff Made in the USA

On April 29th, my washing machine died peacefully in mid-cycle. One minute it was spinning my delicates, and the next, it had departed this world. As it was only four years old, and had died long before its time, I pulled out my manuals, located the customer service number, and called New Zealand.

You see, when we purchased this state-of-the-art-high-efficiency-eco-friendly appliance and its brother, the dryer, we were totally sold on how efficient and eco-friendly it was. It was a high-end set, one that we normally would have avoided due to the price tag. But it was ON SALE!

The folks at Jeff Lynch saw me coming. They'd likely had this blue-blooded marvel of modern machinery for months with no takers, because the suckers were made in NEW ZEALAND, and most folks in Greenville have better sense. Regrettably, I do not. I was quite impressed with the salesman's assurance that THIS washer and dryer only had two moving parts each which would naturally cut down on repairs...

The nice lady in New Zealand informed me that, of course their washers will last longer than four years. It simply needed to be repaired. She gave me the phone number of the lone authorized repair shop in the area. I called. They come to Greenville on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, they said, but they were all booked up that week. They could come out the NEXT Monday.

Because my husband loves me, and knows that if I had to go inside a laundry mat my therapy sessions would increase to three times a week (which would be very expensive), he went.

On Monday, the repair team (yes, it takes two repairmen to look at appliances made in New Zealand) were here exactly four minutes before the brave one informed me that all they could do that day was collect the $65 for the service call because the control panel had gone out, and a new one would have to be ordered. They don't stock repair parts on this brand.

I said something my mamma probably wouldn't approve of, then wrote him a check. He told me that I'd have to call the office and order the part because the computer was down. He wasn't sure what it would cost, but I'd have to pay for it in advance because parts ordered from NEW ZEALAND are non-returnable.

I called. I said some more things my mother wouldn't approve of to the poor lady who answered the phone. She ordered my control board ($245) and scheduled the team to come back out the following Monday. Poor Jim went back to the laundry mat.

But, the part didn't arrive on time from NEW ZEALAND, and she called me the next Monday morning to let me know that they'd have to reschedule for Wednesday. On Wednesday, I was going to be out of town, so we rescheduled for the next Monday.

Poor Jim went back to the laundry mat. But this time, sure that the washer would finally be fixed on Monday, he only did what we absolutely had to have to get through the weekend.

On Monday morning (of this week) the repair team came in with the control panel. "This shouldn't take long," the brave one said. I came upstairs and went about my day. Ten minutes later, the brave one called upstairs, "Ah, Ma'am?"

I was on the phone, but quickly finished my call and scurried downstairs, alarmed by his now not-so-confident tone. The team was huddled over the patient, which had been disassembled like one of those bodies being autopsied on CSI. I will tell you right now that there are way more than two moving parts.

The brave one shook his head. "It was your motor that shorted out the control panel. Soon as we got the new one on, it took it right out. We're going to have to order a new motor," he said. From--you guessed it--NEW ZEALAND. All they could do was collect the money for the motor. The computer was up, so they knew they needed a check for another $86.43. "You won't have to pay for another circuit board," the one that never would look me in the eye assured me.

They're coming back next Monday.

Poor Jim will go back to the laundry mat this weekend...

But because LAST weekend he only did what we thought we'd need until Monday, I am slap out of workout clothes. Which is why I did not make it to Jazzercise yesterday, nor will I make it today or tomorrow. I am not happy about this at all, because I was finally back into my routine, but, let's face it, I can't dance without my motion-control workout bras and lycra capris.

I bet you those New Zealand washing machine manufacturers are all are part of the Vast Fat-Wing Conspiracy.

Peace, out...

Susan

There is Order in The Universe

So we were driving home from Jasper, AL, last Thursday afternoon. We timed our departure so as not to hit Atlanta rush hour traffic, congratulated ourselves for planning ahead and put a John Hiatt cd in. We were tooling across I-20, passing an 18-wheeler, when an old beat up pickup truck (complete with all the accessories--gun rack, fresh coat of mud, et cetera--came hurtling up behind us. As soon as we cleared the 18-wheeler, the pickup darted at a dangerous angle in front of the tuck, passed us on the right, and swerved in front of us.

Jim had not finished spitting expletives and muttering something about suicidal morons--this particular one turned out to be a female in a tank top with a ponytail and a cell phone--when a guy that looked like he just stepped out of the board room driving a souped-up hot rod of undetermined lineage passed Miss Armed and Dangerous. Then two more cars and an SUV pulled up even with Hot Rod and Dirty Truck.

Jim scooted back into the right lane and backed off from these maniacs--or tried--but we were on the Interstate, and being passed doing 80 miles an hour. Before we knew it, we were in the middle of about twenty cars that were changing lanes back and forth, passing each other and jockeying for position with maybe 6 inches clearance between them. Something bright yellow that I couldn't identify--but Jim said was a Chevrolet Nomad--was riding our bumper. As best I could tell, Minnie Pearl was at the wheel. There was nothing we could do but hang out and try not to get run over.

"What are they doing?" It was me that hollered that out...Jim was busy yelling out stuff I can't post on the Internet--my mamma sometimes reads this blog. "Bunch of morons," he yelled. Moron is Jim's pet name for other drivers. He's kinda stuck on it.

Anyway, cars were zooming by, weaving in and out, and back and forth. Expeditions, Cadillacs, Pickups, an El Camino...cars that looked like they'd been built from parts of 5 or 6 different makes. Toyotas, Volkswagens--every kind of car you can think of. And a camper! Minnie Pearl passed us and waved--not her parade wave, either, but the kind that doesn't require the use of all your fingers.

Then, I saw the sign.

Talladega County.

As in, Talladega Superspeedway, the "biggest, fastest the biggest, fastest, most competitive motorsports facility in the world." According to their website--which I have no reason to doubt--"Records for both speed and competition have been established at Talladega."

Suddenly, everything was clear. Everyone in the county was training for a NASCAR tryout. Sure enough, before long we passed the shrine of speed, oddly painted cars and spectacular crashes. The further we got away from it, the more normal people started driving. After a while, traffic thinned out, and slowed back down to 75.

I guess it's a kind of salute the locals give the race track when they drive by after work. They get within a couple miles of the place, they all start driving like Richard Petty--or whoever. I don't speak NASCAR.

But I still get it. Next time though, I think we'll take rush hour in Atlanta over rush hour in Talladega County.

Peace, out...

Susan

New Year's Revolution

Okay, yes, I know I haven't posted on this blog since November 1. But I have many, many reasons. Not excuses...reasons. Here are the top ten:

10. I was kidnapped by aliens--not the beautiful-but-flat-chested, Jazzercising kind, but honest to dog aliens--and their Internet does not support inter-planetary communication.
9. One of my multiple personalities, Starla, was in charge, and she refuses to use a computer because she believes that they emit radiation that causes a vitamin K deficiency, wrinkles, and the impulse to ballet dance down Main Street wearing a hat with fruit and combat fatigues, while twirling fire batons and singing Hello Dolly.
8. I've been on a Top Secret mission for Homeland Security.
7. My dog ate my laptop.
6. I've spent every spare moment exercising.
5. I've eaten so little that I was too light-headed to type.
4. Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years and multiple family birthdays in rapid succession.
3. We finally sold our house, and downsized to a condo 1/3 the size and it is quite time consuming to rid yourself of 2/3 of your belongings, but you can only fit so much stuff into 1,400 square feet.
2. I'm in a funk because of the move I thought I wanted to a downtown condo, walking distance to everything, including all my favorite restaurants and the Starbucks where Renee Zellweger was hanging out until The Greenville News chased her off--and the hotel where George Clooney is staying during location filming for Leatherheads. Not that I'm a star-stalker--I mean, I'm sure they're very nice people, but honestly, I get no thrill out of close encounters with celeberties.
1. I'm this year's chairperson for the South Carolina Writers Workshop Conference, and while this is a volunteer position, it is taking more of my time than any fulltime job I have ever had in my entire life--not that I'm complaining--au contraire--most days it's a blast.

Okay, those last four were for real.

A Little Too Real to Be Fiction

My sister sent me this story. I don’t forward emails…it’s just one of those rules that I live by that I occasionally break when I feel like it. This one smacked of reality, so I thought I’d post it. Let me state, for the record, that I do not condone drunk driving, do not personally believe that folks from Tennessee are any more prone to drinking than the rest of us, and do not consider “Hillbilly” a slur anymore than say, New Yorker. It’s all just geography.

Anyway, with apologies to any one from Paris, Tennessee, who might not see the humor…

From the county where drunk driving is considered a sport, comes this absolutely true story.

Recently a routine police patrol parked outside a bar in Paris, Tennessee. After last call the officer noticed a man leaving the bar so intoxicated that he could barely walk.

The man stumbled around the parking lot for a few minutes, with the officer quietly observing. After what seemed an eternity in which he tried his keys on five different vehicles, the man managed to find his car and fall into it. He sat there for a few minutes as a number of other patrons left the bar and drove off.

Finally, he started the car, switched the wipers on and off--it was a fine, dry summer night--, flicked the blinkers on and off a couple of times, honked the horn and then switched on the lights. He moved the vehicle forward a few inches, reversed a little and then remained still for a few more minutes as some more of the other patrons' vehicles left. At last, when his was the only car left in the parking lot, he pulled out and drove slowly down the road.

The police officer, having waited patiently all this time, now started up his patrol car, put on the flashing lights, promptly pulled the man over and administered a breathalyzer test. To his amazement, the breathalyzer indicated no evidence that the man had consumed any alcohol at all! Dumbfounded, the officer said, "I'll have to ask you to accompany me to the police station. This breathalyzer equipment must be broken."

"I doubt it," said the truly proud Hillbilly. "Tonight I'm the designated decoy."INT00077692

Utter Madness

From Wednesday, March 21: My brand new brother-in-law won $100 in the lottery, so my sister (Sabrina) suggests we focus our efforts on purchasing as many as possible in an effort to retire to an island somewhere. But today isn’t my day to buy lottery tickets. Here is how my luck has gone: the repairman is coming back tomorrow (4^th trip) to fix my 6 month old Kitchen Aid (for the way it’s made) refrigerator. The compressor or condenser or combobulator or something isn’t combobulating. Until this morning, only the freezer was on the fritz (intermittently). Every so often I’d go down and clean up a puddle of water and empty the ice maker, and then it would start working again. This morning, the refrigerator quit, too.

So, I hauled everything down to the old refrigerator in the basement (thank God we kept it for overflow, parties and such). I only lost what was in the freezer. Twice.

Then Sandra (my neighbor, one of my dearest friends, hereinafter referred to as my next-door nut) called, to say that Mason (our scrambled-breed dog) was running through his electric fence. We just changed the battery in the collar, so I was sure it was a break in the wire, which would have to wait until Jim got home—this I was hoping for even though I know this is a huge problem since Mason has been known to do such socially unacceptable things as tinkle on the neighbor around the block’s BMW tire (freshly washed). But no. His collar was missing—Mason’s, not the BMW guy’s. Sandra and I searched 4 acres, and no collar.

I called Jim, the man who promised to love, honor, and solve all my problems, even if he was two time zones away. He said, no problem, we have a spare in the utility closet. Great. I ventured into the giant mound of such items critical to household maintenance as a zillion batteries of undetermined age, No-sew fabric glue, and an MRE (one of those freeze-dried meals soldiers eat—don’t ask). I found the collar, and put in a new battery. Experience has taught me that these collars must be tested or they may either a) not work at all, or b) give the dog a three foot circle in which he can roam without getting zapped. I walked out to where the wire is buried, close to the edge of our yard. No beep. The collar is supposed to beep a warning, then zap. I went to Lowe’s (where we bought the system) to get a new collar, and happened to notice the ten year warranty on the package. We have only had ours for 2 years. I decided to raise a ruckus, as a new collar is sixty bucks.

The young lady at Customer Service, aka We Couldn’t Care Less, told me to call Pet Safe. I asked her, “How do I keep the dog in the fence while I’m waiting for the new collar?” “I don’t know.” She shrugged and turned her back on me. Not to assist another waiting customer, mind you, but to signify that I was dismissed. My good deed for the day is that I refrained from jumping down her twenty-something throat and stomping on her liver. Neither did I report her to the Authorities. I was way too wrapped up in my own psychotic episode to mess with her. Probably a good thing.

I appealed to the cute, nice manager guy, who made a phone call and then said he’d swap it, no problem. But I had to come back home and get the old one. Yada, yada, yada… got the new collar home, and, of course, at first, it didn’t work. Fiddled with it. Slammed it against the kitchen counter. Stomped it twice. Then, it beeped. Unfortunately, it was now in three-foot mode. I had to fiddle with the dial thingy to adjust signal, then chase down the dog who is smart enough to know he doesn’t want that collar back on. Finally, the dog is once again contained, and BMW's everywhere are safe.

Did I mention I had another flat tire?

Maybe tomorrow will be a better day for buying lottery tickets.

You Don't Have to Call Me Darlin'

Today was one of those days you don't get a darn thing done that you wanted to, but a big pile of icky things you've been putting off shrinks a little. The three icky things I did today--and the reason I didn't write a word or go to Jazzercise--were: 1) I took my kingsize comforter--the one that won't fit in my washing machine--to the laundry mat. Amazingly, this was the least icky thing on the list. 2) I dug out from under the pile of mail and other debris on my desk, filing or tossing everything, and 3) I went to the doctor--the real doctor, not the dermatologist.
Remember last week when I was having trouble breathing? Well, Jim made me make a doctor's appointment. When you tell the doctor that you feel like you can't get enough air in your lungs, she is going to run some fun tests. The chest xray wasn't bad, if you leave out the fact that, while she's sure it's nothing, there's a spot on my right lung and it's my body, so I have a right to know, and she doesn't want me to come back and say, "Well, you told me it was nothing," if it turns out to be something, but she's sure it's not. So now, instead of a week of blissful ignorance, after which there would have been a remote possibility I might be miffed at her, I get to spend a week with my overactive imagination running hog wild with all kinds of horrible scenarios just so she won't look bad in the unlikely event that it is actually something. I just think this is poor manners.
But the really fun test was the EKG. It was perfectly normal, but the precious little technician who performed the test kept calling me darlin' and sweetie and sugar the whole time she was sticking those little patches all over me. There is something undignified about lying with your bra pulled down around your waist and having a stranger lean over the top of you to attach wires to your bare chest, all the while speaking in soothing tones and calling you darlin'. I know she meant well.
Anyway, it's probably just my allergies, which I have three brand new prescriptions for, and an appointment to go back in two weeks, after I have one more test. Meanwhile, I have a lot of catching up to do tomorrow. I've got to get the first three chapters of Lowcountry Boil off to a critique/contest for a conference I'm going to in May. The deadline is April 1. And, I have to get myself to Jazzercise in the morning. Maybe if I go to the 5:45 class, I can stop by and get a Mega Moo Mocha Moolatte on the way home for breakfast.