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

Jazzercise: The Cult

Okay, the thing with Jazzercise is, you really can't quit. They won't let you—I’ve tried. It's like a cult: Once you're in, someone has to send a team of deprogrammers to kidnap you out.

I had every intention of quitting earlier this month. But, as Betty (who power-guzzles her Kool- Aid) pointed out, my strategy was faulty. I went on a day when both Precariously Perky Julie and Casey, The Queen of Pain were there. I should have known better. They gave me all kinds of reasonable-sounding arguments why it was in my best interest not to quit. I caved.

Then, I went out of town, again, like we all knew I would. Since I didn't get home until after the 15th (the cutoff date for cancellations in any given month) I'm in through the end of September. This, of course, was their plan.

But... I figured I'd go ahead and fill out my cancellation for next month ahead of time (having come to my senses) when I drug myself in there yesterday.

Jules was ready for me. When I walked in the door, she shoved a clipboard at me and told me to fill out the form. Okay, I started doing that. A few lines in, I realized I was filling out the "I agree not to sue you if you kill me" form that everyone has to fill out once a year. I scratched my head. It wasn't time for me to do this. "Why do I need to fill this out?" I asked.

The place was full of people—Jules had some kind of special going on. She was very CONVENIENTLY too distracted to answer except for an over-the-shoulder, "It's the release."

Well, I knew THAT. I looked at her sideways. "You're just trying to distract me from asking for my cancellation form."

She trilled a laugh, tossed her ponytail, and quickly engaged in a serious conversation with someone behind me related to childcare.

“Here, Susan.” One of the class managers handed me a ticket. “We’re having a drawing today.”

When I turned back, Jules was chatting up a potential recruit. She had no time for my nonsense.

The crowd was moving toward the dance floor. All I could do was drop the clipboard and move with the group. It was that or be trampled.

After an hour with The Queen of Pain, I was too tired to argue with them.

Resistance is futile. At least I'll be 24 forever...

Peace, out...

Susan

In Which I Cancel My Jazzercise Membership--Again

Every few months I realize that I'm not home enough to make regular Jazzercise participation a reality. It's more like something I really want to do, and so, in one of my alternate realities, I Jazzercise daily. Here in the real world my attendance is not so regular. But the draft to my checking account is.

So, every now and then I go in and fill out a form to cancel my draft. Precariously Perky Julie (who owns the place) is no dummy. You can't cancel by civilized method like email or phone. You have to go there and fill out a form. Which makes you think, "Well, if I can drag myself in there to fill out the stupid form, maybe I should just put on my dancing clothes and go dance." I have done this several times.

Every time I go through with the cancellation, I email Jules a day or three later and say, "Never mind." Because every time I cancel, my schedule shifts (because Sugar's does) and I end up being at home because I don't typically go with him on a trip if he's flying. Precariously Perky Julie WILL allow you to cancel your cancellation via phone, email, smoke-signal--whatever. Like I said, she's no dummy.

Today is August 9th. We are 221 days into 2010, and I have MAYBE been to 15 Jazzercise classes. I'm thinking I need to come up with an exercise plan I can actually execute. I've decided to make an iPod playlist and dance in the family room--just do random Jazzercise moves I've learned over the years plus whatever the music moves me to do. I think I'll call this Spazzercise. If I'm out of town, I can Spazzercise in the hotel room.
 
Since I've already paid for August, I'll go dance with the Queen of Pain today. That way, I won't have to have the argument with myself about whether or not I should just go (because I can today) or cancel. I'll do both.

I'll let you know how long it lasts this time.

Peace, out...

Susan

I Need a Packing Intervention

I'd planned to post more pictures from The Mother of All Road Trips, and write something about our time in every city. But, I'm leaving Tuesday for RWA Nationals, and I have to start packing.

You'd think, maybe, since I just got back from a three-week trip, that I'd have a clue how to pack for six days in Orlando. I thought that, anyway. Until I started reading all the blogs on how and what to pack for Nationals.

Many conference veterans advise things like, "Pack one skirt, one pair of pants, and four tops that you can wear with either." Huh? My sister packs like this, but this is SO not me. I need choices. Who knows what mood I'll be in on any given day? Besides, we're going to be in ORLANDO, which is one big sauna in late July. I can't see myself wearing anything twice, but that's just me, and I have some well-documented neuroses.

Then there's the perennial travel advice, "Bring things you can wear during the day, the slip into evening by changing shoes and accessories." While this SOUNDS like common sense, my wardrobe simply does not lend itself to this strategy. You really can't just slip on pearls and heels with khaki pants, a lacy tank, and a sweater and call it evening wear.

My favorite advice was from the woman who advised taking only nude underwear because it works with everything. Okay--this advice I needed months ago, because I don't have time (or money) to shop for all new underwear between now and Tuesday. I guess I'll just have to try not to show mine.

But I really do need a new laptop case. And a "little black dress." Oh, and some Downy wrinkle release. Gotta go shopping. Maybe I should pick up that underwear while I'm out...

Peace, out...

Susan

Things I Learned on the Road Trip

Here are a few things I learned on our recent odyssey:

1. My mom will dance on Beale Street (literally ON the street--she would not go into the clubs) and have her picture made with the large rooster outside The Red Rooster bar. This caused my reality to bend a little.
2. The Mississippi River isn't all that wide in Memphis. I've always imagined it as a mile-wide river the whole length of the thing, but it's not. It's a mile wide in places.Someplace in Minnesota it's nearly 11 miles wide, but in spots, it's only about 20 feet wide! I'm sure I must have learned this in school, but so much has fallen out of my brain over the years. I've flown over the Mississippi many times, but had never seen it from the ground. Crossing it in Memphis and again in St. Louis on the way back was very cool.
3. Graceland isn't as large as you might think. (My dad had to go there.)
4. Oklahoma City is quite lovely. I'd picture all of Oklahoma like the black-and-white parts of Kansas from The Wizard of Oz. (We were in Oklahoma City the day of the flooding, and that was scary. We nearly had to swim out.
5. We visited 18 states in three weeks. Every one of them was beautiful, and watching the landscape change gradually from mountain to plains to desert and back to mountains is fascinating. I thought I would sleep in the car, as we drove about 8 hours every day on the way to California and back. I never closed my eyes.

More later. I learned a lot on this trip. I'll never forget it, both for all the beautiful country we saw, and for the gift of three uninterrupted weeks spent with Jim. This was the most consecutive time we've seen each other in the errr... some years we've been married. It was wonderful.

Also a very special gift was spending the time with my parents while they are still young and active and loving life. Here's to you, Wayne and Claudette!

Peace, out...

Susan

The Mother of All Road Trips

The Husband, (aka Jim, aka Sugar) and I just got home late Saturday from a three-week road trip from our home in Greenville, SC to San Francisco, then Napa. We took my parents. For their 50th wedding anniversary. (Note: Yes, they had me VERY late in life. I was a miracle baby, in fact.)

I'd told Mom and Dad not to worry about how much they packed--"take whatever you need," I said. They took me at my word. I myself am not a light packer, and I think it's safe to say that the result was that we hauled more stuff to California than your average family moving west in a wagon train.

So, it took a while to pack and unpack all that stuff, and I've been unplugged for a while. I'm catching up on email and laundry. Planning to drag myself in to Jazzercise today so The Queen of Pain can start working some of what I ate off my derriere.

Trip highlights are too may to count, but coming soon.

And, my dad was well behaved. He didn't show his tongue to a single soul, though he looked at it in the visor mirror a lot when he was riding up front.

Peace, out...

Susan

The Number One Reason I've Had No Time to Blog

Things have been intense lately. I've been traveling almost non-stop. Here are a few highlights from the road:

• Last visit to Indiana, while we were on a side trip to Amish country for pickles, the police raided our hotel. They brought the drug dogs and everything. Seems one of the locals had rented a hotel room to hang out at the pool and smoke some weed. Someone must have reported the smell. This was big news here, as we're in a very wholesome, family-oriented part of Indiana .
• Last trip to Jasper, AL, we NARROWLY missed an F-3 tornado, which formed virtually on top of us, then moved on to the next county where it did a lot of damage. I love Jasper, but I am SO not going back there in spring or summer. The Husband has strict instructions he can only work there in fall and winter.
• On a happy note, the hotel in Jasper now has a Belgian waffle maker. The Queen of Pain now has a few waffles to work off of me when I get home.
• I made a quick trip home to Faith, where I spent most of an entire day chauffeuring my dad (who is young and perfectly able to drive himself) to various doctor's offices so he could talk to the poor receptionists and nurses about this curious coating on his tongue and throat. Now, most folks will call and make an appointment to see the doctor. Not my daddy. He doesn't like dealing with the automated answering machines that require him to press one to make an appointment, et cetera. He just drops in. To his credit, this has proven to be effective in that these nurses will do ANYTHING to get him to stop showing them his tongue. I can relate, which explains why I was driving him on this fool's errand.

As exciting as all of this is, the number one reason I've had no time to blog is that I've been busy lurking over at Do the Write Thing for Nashville where I've been busy plotting my strategy for scoring some of the goodies.

I had my heart set on the manuscript consultation by none other than Janet Reid. I've had a little ebay experience, so I strategized waiting until the very last minute and placing one bid--but WAY before midnight last night the bidding got too rich for my bank account.

Then, I set my sights on five days at Kari Lynn Dell's ranch in Montana--only to be quickly left in the bidding dust. This one is still open, and a bargain for anyone who has ever wanted to go to Montana. I think the bidding closes at midnight tonight.

I hear that tomorrow Barbara Poelle and Holly Root have a combo meeting at RWA or BEA going on the block. I'm glued to my PC. but I have a sinking feeling this one will go for big bucks as well.

Y'all check it out--there's a lot of great stuff being auctioned for a great cause!

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

Somebody Gets It

I accidentally turned on Dr. Phil yesterday. Nothing against Dr. Phil, I'm sure he's a great guy and all, but I  don't do daytime TV. But, I'd stayed up far too late reading, slept in, and, as is my custom, I flipped on the TV while I had breakfast. I was outside my usual time slot for breakfast. Typically the news is on. That's a whole nother rant.

I was fumbling--pre-coffee, mind you--with the remote, trying to turn the channel, when I heard this guy say, "I tried that low-carb diet. I snapped."

He had my attention. I have SO been there. Several times, in fact.

I squinted at the sign for the day's episode. "The Ultimate Fat Debate."

Oh. Dear. Tara.

They had my attention.

The guy who was undone by the low carb diet turned out to be a comedian, John Pinette. This guy is FUNNY, and he is so after my own heart. Talking about his personal trainer he says, "I don't do ups. Sit ups, push-ups, chin-ups... I do downs. I can sit down, lie down...gimme a cheeseburger, I''ll wolf it down..." Some of his clips are available online. In another clip from this routine, he says, (as I have often maintained to The Queen of Pain herself) "Ups defy gravity. Gravity is a law, and I obey the law."

Aside from the comedian, Dr. Phil had a panel, and I gotta say, they weren't nearly as entertaining. Although, there were a few places where I thought they were going to go all Jerry Springer. That trainer chick from The Biggest Loser, was on, along with some guy with a shirt that said "No Chubbies." They were squaring off against a group of VOLUPTOUS women from groups like The National Association to Advance Fat Acceptance. These women were (justifiably) NOT HAPPY with the chap in the "No Chubbies" shirt. I couldn't look away.

But, I did hie me to Jazzercise yesterday, and defied gravity one more time.

Peace, out...

Susan

You Can't Tell That Here

I went home last week, to Faith, the little town of about six hundred, with one caution light, where I grew up, and where my parents, my brother and his family, and a slew of other relatives still live. I got into the whole ancestry thing about a year ago and was shocked to find out how many people in that town I'm related to and never knew it. I digress...

Dad is retired, and mostly he spends his days looking up imaginary symptoms on Web MD. He needs a hobby. Mom refuses to retire, mostly because staying home doesn't look all that attractive. Anyway, Dad and I went to The Faith Soda Shop for breakfast one morning--several mornings, actually. Side note: One would think that somebody who spends hours a day on health-related websites would stop ordering sausage and egg sandwiches with mayo for breakfast, but not my daddy. I'm just saying...

One morning, we walked into The Shop, and the couple who'd lived around the curve from us my entire childhood sat in a booth just inside the door. I graduated with their oldest son (and played in the creek with him, and fought with him, and love him like a brother). Their faces lit up when they saw me. You can't find that just anywhere...

I said, "I'd know these folks anywhere," and went over to chat. I hugged them, and they hugged me back, and it felt like I'd never left. There were a few other familiar faces in The Shop that morning. After we'd eaten, Dad and I made our way to the register to pay. We passed another pair of faces I knew well. This couple, parents of another guy I graduated with, lived a block and a half away from the house my parents still live in.

We exchanged the usual hey-it's-good-to-see-you kind of things. Then, Arlene patted my hand and said, "John just had a birthday, are you older, or younger than he is?" She was trying to pin down if I had already turned the same age as John, or if that was upcoming. She knew we were about a month apart.

I didn't answer immediately. Age-related chit-chat is not my favorite.

She said, "How old are you?"

I didn't miss a beat. I said, "Arlene, I'm twenty-four. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it."

She laughed out loud and said, "You can't tell that here."

Now, in Greenville when I tell people I'm twenty-four, they look at me oddly, like perhaps I'm Not Quite Right, but no one has ever called me on it. In Faith, most people have a general idea how old I am, and many can tell you exactly what year I was born.

My eyes misted up. There is something so compelling to me about being in that place where, even after I've been gone more than...err...a few years, folks know me. Makes me think of that Cheers song...

I love Greenville. I do. We have friends here, and a lot of Jim's family lives here. There's a beautiful downtown, with a river running through it, and restaurants of every description. There's culture. Diversity. Costco.

But, on any given day, if I walk into any restaurant on Main Street, odds are, there won't be a soul in the place who knows me, or can tell you approximately how old I am, or remembers the time I painted the old shed in the backyard five different colors (on the outside) and turned it into a weird sort of clubhouse where I could have hang out with my friends with minimal adult supervision.

Lord, I'm homesick.

Peace, out...

Susan

P.S. This is NOT an invitation for my Greenville friends and family to discuss my age. The official age of all Jazzercisers is 24. It's a rule.

It's No Wonder We're So Screwed Up

On long car trips, I occasionally wax philosophic. I ponder the big questions. Last Monday, as we were speeding along some interstate or other on our way to Nashville, Jim The Husband (AKA Sugar), remarked how it felt like SPRING was in the air, even though it was still cold, and the trees still bare. Something in the air smelled of possibility.

This made me ponder the whole cycle of life thing--new beginnings, things sprouting anew from the dormant womb of Mother Earth...okay, I know, I went around the bend there, but you get the idea. The cyclical nature of the universe captured my imagination. Everything important is round. The Earth, the sun, Godiva hazelnut oysters--okay, they aren't really round, but they are roundish.

Things go 'round in circles... Everything has a natural beginning and end...

Of course, I went off on a tangent. If everything starts anew in spring, WHY DOESN'T THE NEW YEAR BEGIN ON MARCH 20th?

I asked Sugar about this, but he was busy fiddling with his Blackberry and wasn't paying good attention just then. He did mutter something about the Mayan calendar actually being more accurate according to some folks

Now THERE'S a thought that makes you feel all warm and fuzzy. We haven't seen the movie yet--it's in our Netflix queue. But if the previews are any indication, it doesn't end happily.

Now, you may wonder here if I paid attention in school, or perhaps went to school in one of those Southern districts that gets so much attention in studies and whatnot because children can't read. The answers are yes, and no, respectively. Any gaps in my education I blame on that bicycle accident when I was eight where I got the bad concussion. It impacted my memory. Some things I simply cannot remember.

Which is why I am so thankful for Google.

For any of the rest of you who suffered head injuries as a child, daydreamed in class, or possibly attended a sub-par school district, January (named for Janus, the Roman god of doors) was not always the first month in the Gregorian calendar. March was, originally. Ha!

It was changed around 450 BC because that's when counsuls were chosen or some such. (Yes, this is an oversimplification, but y'all can Google for the details if you want them.)

Between politicians monkeying with our calendar because of elections, and springing us forward to save energy, our systems are completely out of balance with nature. It's no wonder we can't solve the big problems like HEALTH CARE and WORLD PEACE. We're fundamentally screwed up.

On a side note, I did get the Tweety Bird Yellow out of my hair.

Peace, out...

Susan

I Cannot Think With All This Blonde Hair

Hair color is not an exact science. Even the colorist who has been making you ash blonde with platinum highlights for many years--okay, not THAT many--can accidentally make your hair yellow.

I know, because this happened to me, and despite two rounds of toner, I still look like Tweety Bird. And now I'm out of town, so the HIGHLY SKILLED colorist who accidentally made my hair bright yellow can't do anything else to fix it. (She really, really is highly skilled--I'm not being snarky at all because I have a YELLOW HEAD.)

It doesn't seem prudent to walk into someone's shop who's never done my hair before and ask for color correction, so I'm stuck until I can get back home.

The worst part is, I think all the chemicals have effected my brain. I can't seem to string two sentences together. Everything I write I end up tossing the next day. I'm either brain damaged, or just in such a foul mood over what I see in the mirror I can't function.

Either way, I'm on the verge of heading to Walgreens for some L'Oreal.

On My Own Recognizance

So I'm back in Indiana this week, last week was Kentucky. I've had no access to Jazzercise--well except for the DVD's I can use in the hotel room. I actually did this one day last week when the exercise room was full. Doing Jazzercise moves on carpet is less than optimal, but I tried. (Aerobic shoes don't slide on carpet.)

I've been using the treadmill, elliptical machine, and/or bike for an hour every day except the one, and I have to say, exercise is painfully dull when you're watching the news instead of moving to the groove. Also, NO ONE in the exercise room taunts me with a microphone, or yells when I slack off. I've come to depend on that.

I really don't enjoy watching the news anyway. The only time I watch it is when I'm in the exercise room and someone else has it on. As if exercise wasn't depressing enough...

Valentine's Day

Last year around this time, Precariously Perky Julie devised a particularly brutal Jazzercise set. It was full of what my husband refers to as "Man-Hater" songs. Songs with lots of punching and kicking to lyrics like "Why'd you lie to me...good for nothing type of brother" (Anastacia) and "I'm not in love" (not the original by 10 CC but a remake).

The Queen of Pain used to have sets like this back during the unfortunate phase between He Whose Name Cannot be Uttered and when she found her True Love.

PPJ roared and  foamed at the mouth while teaching this set. At the time, I thought we really needed to find poor PPJ a man because we were all paying the price for what the last one had done--she like to put me in traction. I started to blog about it, but, then I thought, the poor girl is obviously upset about a recent breakup, so I didn't.

Fast forward to this year's Valentine's Day set. Same songs. Same growling. Same pain. At one pint, she shouted, "Angry hips!" WTF? I allowed as how this set seemed familiar, and I asked her, "Jules, are you mad at the same man from last year, or is this a new one?"

"ALL MEN!" she howled.

Hmm... this explains it. Women who look like Julie are without a man for one of three reasons: One, their romantic interests are not of the masculine variety (pretty sure that's not the case here); Two, they have some sort of screw loose, and no matter how gorgeous they are, they keep running men off (you know, women who boil rabbits and such--again, not the case--PPJ is a sweetheart when she's not kicking our rear ends); or, Three, some jackass has put them off men for good. They simply have decided they do not want another man, have adopted multiple cats, and watch a lot of reality TV.

This is our Julie.

This situation is not irreversible, but it requires a special man to repair the damage done to a woman's psyche after she has been jackassed. I'm thinking that the clientele of Jazzercise of Taylors should perhaps mount a search before next Valentine's Day. And, round up a posse to hunt down whoever did this to PPJ. We are paying for his jackassery.

Time for my aspirin...

 

Home Sweet Home

Okay, so I wasn't thrilled about coming home (where I have to make my own bed, breakfast, and afternoon cookies) but now that we're here, I'm warming up to the place.

No matter how nice the folks are everywhere else, OUR PEOPLE are here. Some of them, anyway. Our family's a little scattered, but there's a clan of our relatives and friends in Greenville, and I do miss them when we're gone.

Also, hotel beds have come a long way, but none of them is quite like the one in our room at home.

And, while hotels have treadmills, elliptical machines, stationary bikes, and indoor pools, at home, I can go to Jazzercise and dance while being mocked by an insanely thin ALIEN. As I've mentioned a time or two, The Queen of Pain is gorgeous (but once again completely flat-chested now that she's finished the final phase of her most recent birthing ritual--no more shimmying in her class--BLESS HER HEART). But, I think she'd be a little less cranky if she ate something besides salads and grilled chicken with steamed vegetables every day. You just know she's NEVER had a Mega Moo Mocha Moo Latte.

I want credit towards my 100 club T-shirt--which now takes 150 classes to earn--for all that huffing and puffing I did on treadmills, etc., but the Queen of Pain is having none of it. This is patently unfair, as I can't attend class while out of town, but have been working our regularly--okay, semi-regularly. I think I'll appeal this ruling to Precariously Perky Julie. I'm not holding my breath...

Off to take some aspirin and soak in the tub.

It's good to be home.
  

I May Have Gypsy Blood

Last year I spent some time on Ancestry.com tracing my family tree and Jim's. Okay, Jim is part Cherokee, and I really wanted to see if we could document this. No, I was not angling for a casino check to support my writing habit.

Anyway, I found no evidence of gypsy blood on my side of the family, but there was one branch I couldn't trace past four generations, even though we ordered the DNA test that was supposed to put you in touch with your dead relatives.

I'm now thinking perhaps these folks were gypsies...nomads...vagabonds.

Because I am loving this mobile life style. We're headed home tomorrow, and I DON'T WANT TO GO. The Hilton Garden Inn and/or a Hampton Inn now feels more like home to me than my own house. I have the system down here. And I don't ever have to clean or cook...

(Sigh)

Maybe we'll sell the house and just live in hotels. They even have a party room for Karaoke night...

I wish this didn't appeal to me so much.

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...

Return of The Queen of Pain

She's baaack. Actually, she came back last week, but I had a very good REASON for not showing up on Wednesday. I had a migraine--weather changes, etc. I CANNOT exercise after taking a Relpax. I can't drive after taking a Relpax, but that's a whole nother story.

The Queen of Pain is back onstage at Jazzercise of Taylors, and every muscle in my body is aware. We got an early start on my New Year's resolution today. She thinks (and I know this because she made a smartass comment during class--while wearing the mic) that I will abandon my early NYR by Wednesday. That sounds about right. On the other hand, I might stick with it just for the novelty. I have a vague memory of what being thin felt like. Seems like I was hungry a lot...

QOP quote of the day: "Breathe through your noses. Those aren't just for piercing." I guess thirty women gasping for breath and clutching various body parts is unattractive.

In other Jazzercise news, the group that marched/danced in the Greenville Christmas parade won some sort of award--best dance troupe or some such. I did not participate--I've done the parade thing, back in high school. Only we didn't shimmy.

Look, I'm not saying that pole-dancing moves got them the award, but I did hear that they were PRET-TY theatrical when they pranced past the judges' stand.

I'm just saying...

Off to pop some aspirin and soak in the Jacuzzi...

There's No Place Like Home

Like a lot of folks, I went home for Thanksgiving. I've lived in Greenville for a while now--we won't go into how long, as that brings up troubling math problems related to my age. But somehow, the little town in North Carolina where I grew up will always be home.

Mom did what she always does--she made enough food to feed a small country. While we stuffed ourselves silly, we caught up on the ins and outs of each other's lives... Dad's acid reflux problem, my niece's ear tubes, my uncle's new red El Camino with the orange Firebird-looking thing on the hood...

And the latest on the group of women who bought my grandmother's civil-war-era farmhouse.

My maternal grandmother passed away a little over two years ago. My grandfather had been waiting for her at the Pearly Gates for years, so their six-thousand-square-foot house was empty. It's a gorgeous home, and it had been lovingly cared for. Our family had many years of happy memories there. It was an emotional thing, is what I'm saying. No one wanted to sell, but it was the only practical thing to be done. None of us needed a house just then, especially one that size. Though everyone hated to see it pass out of the family, my mother, aunt, and uncles decided to sell.

After a year or so, a group of women bought the house. My understanding was that they planned to use it as a shelter for abused women. Now, to say that this home (on six plus acres) in a rural part of a county that's a hundred miles east of nowhere is an unusual place for a shelter would be an understatement. Whatever. They bought the place.

What The Shelter Women did not purchase, was my uncle's house, which is next door and shares a driveway. We'll call my uncle Harley, because he would not appreciate having his actual name on the Internet. The government, and all that.

The Shelter Women want Harley to leave.

They have told him, multiple times, that he cannot stay there, as the women who will be given shelter have been traumatized, and will not like having a strange man so close by--I'm paraphrasing, but this was the gist of it. Harley would be happy to leave if the Shelter Women would buy him out. They just want him to leave.

The Shelter Women have never moved into the house, but periodically they come by. I think my uncle watches for them, and maybe goes outside and acts extra crazy just for fun--maybe shoots something. (He once took out two squirrels with one shot.)

So, The Shelter Women showed up a few weeks back with a minister of undetermined theology. He didn't speak English, and my uncle didn't recognize whatever language he was speaking, but the minister's mission that day was to exorcise the property.

Recently, The Shelter Women have become upset that my family didn't tell them the house was haunted. Listen, my grandparents lived in that house for thirty years. My grandmother lived there for seven years by herself. There were no ghosts. (At least if there were, they were well-mannered and quiet.)

But the minister, nevertheless, went into the house with a bottle of what was presumably holy water.

Then, he walked all over the yard sprinkling and chanting.

Then they--The Shelter Women and the minister--came next door and asked if they could sprinkle Harley's yard. He's an easy-going guy, so he said, "Sure, why not?"

Then, they wanted to sprinkle Harley.

I think they settled for rubbing his head with some of the water in the bottle. What the minister was chanting is anyone's guess. Hey, they can sprinkle Harley with whatever they want to, but unless they come up with some money, he's not moving.

Poor Dad. With drama like this, his acid reflux got no attention whatsoever.

I really need to go home more often. And take a tape recorder. You can't make this stuff up.