Minding the Farm

I've had the great pleasure today to babysit my hometown city hall. My mother, the town's clerk, is away at Municipal Election School, so I'm minding the farm. It's been an exciting day!

This isn't my first go as substitute town guardian. My mom was clerk years ago, and I often babysat town hall as a teenager during the summer when school was not in session. Things have not changed a bit.

So far today, I have looked up telephone numbers for seven different callers. The older people can always remember the number to town hall, but can't remember where their own telephone book is. I suppose it might be that the numbers are very small and difficult to read. So I look up the numbers for them. I've had to call the animal shelter to pick up a stray dog. I've also had to dispatch the police chief for a petty theft. I've tested the tornado siren, which is working quite well.

The exciting news of the week is that the recreation center is finally going up. The storm shelter/basement/foundation has been in place for months, but the building components didn't arrive on time. The truck came today, and the news spread like kudzu. I took a picture of the progress to send to the local newspaper. It will likely make front page.

Though I realize more and more that I should have gone someplace bigger when I was many years younger, there is something still very appealing about the small places. It's simple and unrushed. It's pleasing to think that the entire town will drive or walk by to see the progress on a community center, which will likely find itself used primarily as a place for old men to play Rook and checkers.

It's all right to be little bitty, Alan Jackson sang. There is nothing wrong with being content with small pleasures and small things and small places. I wish I had stayed content with them. Now I'm not exactly sure what to do.

The Truth (Book It.)

I don't want to give the impression that it is all fun and games in the Cleveland Browns forum. Oh no. We discuss all manner of deeply important topics. Why today alone we discussed whether or not the Browns should have the old throwback numbers on their helmets, exactly what would be an appropriate uniform for an internet BFF, and who got laid last night. These are no frivolous matters.

We also delved into a discussion of Truth. What is it? Does it exist? Must it necessarily be uttered? Can two contradictory truths exist at the same time? I report happily that the discussion resulted in few insults and no flames whatsoever. (Amazing, given that not all of us actually got laid last night.)

I said that, just because something is true, doesn't mean you have to say it. My Granny taught me that. For example, I may detest feta cheese. Perhaps I'm allergic and risk death by consuming it. The fact that you say you love it does not call for my declaration of feta hate simply because it is true I hate it. Even if asked directly, must I say, "I hate that shit! Are you trying to kill me?" or could I simply say, "I don't care for it. I'm allergic."

In regard to other areas of Truth, such as religion, the territory is even more difficult to navigate. Since faith can be neither proved nor disproved, my Truth as a Zoroastrian may be in direct contradiction to your Truth as a Neo-Pagan, let alone the Truth of an Atheist. All of us believes the Truth for ourselves. And while these many conflicting truths may be enjoyable and educational to discuss, there is no point arguing them. No one can win.

My friend deymond, who I anticipate will respond to this post, argues that we should not fear Truth nor fear to utter it at will. It isn't that I fear the Truth, but rather that I loathe unnecessary confrontation. I try to avoid the most inflammatory language, even if it is more true, for the sake of not alienating the other parties in the discussion. I would rather be misunderstood because I wasn't clear enough than be misunderstood because I put someone on the defensive. Conflict is normal and can't be avoided. Aggression is a choice.

Nine times out of 10, the Truth on the tip of your tongue is trivial and can go unsaid. The world will continue to spin quite nicely, and tomorrow you'll be happy you bit your tongue. And that's the Truth.

Talking to Kids

My son and a school friend came home from school today and demanded snacks. I made Scooter a ham-and-onion sandwich (he's recently decided he LOVES onions), and I asked Daisy, a first grader, if she wanted a ham sandwich also.

"Yes. I just want mayonnaise and eggs," she said.

"You mean mayonnaise and ham?"

"No, just mayonnaise and eggs."

"So you want an egg sandwich?"

"Yes. It's my best sandwich. Isn't it yours?"

Yep.

* * *

A few days ago my son was talking to my sister.

"Are you gonna have a little cousin for me to play with?" he asked her.

"Yes, and when we do, we're going to name him Captain Awesome."

"That's a good name. But why not Ned?"

Ned?

* * *

"Mommy, what would win...?" is a question Scooter has asked me for years. Literally, since he was about two years old, he's been very concerned on who or what would win some fictional battle. The who and what varies as he gets older and his interests change. In the early days, it was all real, existing animals. Later, the question involved Power Rangers and dinosaurs.

This week: "Mommy, what would win? Mecha-Godzilla or Darth Vader from Episode III?"

My brain seized.

At least he's got a good imagination.

Here's Your Blessing

Somebody asked me today what I meant by being "blessed out." This is one of those nice Southern phrases which means something other than what it seems to mean. After all, to be "blessed" would be, well, a blessing, would it not?

Don't be fooled. This blessing is not what it seems. To be blessed out is the same thing as being cursed out, but without the swear words. In fact, mere swearing pales in comparison to a good blessin'.

My grandmother never swears. (She's also never even smelled a drink of alcohol, she claims, though this does not explain the bottle of "cough medicine" in the pantry, does it?) I can remember a day as a small child when visiting my grandparents. Some men came to shoot some of the dozens of yard chickens roaming the place. I was glad, because I always hated those damn things. My grandmother instructed them to shoot as many banty chickens as they liked, so long as they didn't shoot that big Dominecker rooster. Well then, they shot it right off the bat.

So my grandmother commenced blessing. Papaw got me by the hand and said, "We better just go inside and wait." We did. By the window so we could see. She blessed those men for a good 20 minutes, and they just stood there, .22 rifles hanging limply in the crooks of their arms, their heads hung low, taking their blessing. Occasionally they nodded and muttered something like, "yes ma'am."

While I am fluent in various forms of swearing, from mild "French" to full-on "Sailor," the classic Southern blessin' out is an outstanding example of how to talk really ugly to somebody and sound perfectly angelic at the same time.

Indigestion

I'm sick of Bear Grylls. Disgusted by him. Repulsed. It isn't his nasally British accent (though it is rather nasal), and it isn't his habit of rubbing mud on himself to keep the mosquitoes away. It's his insistence on eating disgusting things on camera for show.

In spite of my efforts to avoid Man Vs. Wild on The Discovery Channel, my husband somehow has control of the remote and I find I'm halfway through a program before Bear Grylls eats something disgusting and I say, "what the hell?"

I'm no wuss. I used to watch The Operation on The Learning Channel all the time. I love forensic science shows. I secretly dream of being the Luminol technician in some murder-prone city. I once wanted to be an undertaker. So it isn't just that Bear Grylls eats roadkill that I find disgusting. It's that he doesn't have to and still does it anyway.

Forget the revelations of Grylls and crew spending nights at the Marriott when they were supposed to be stranded in the wilderness. That's not even relevant to this discussion. I don't mind that these "survival" scenarios are set up. It's the knowledge they impart that's important. But Bear Grylls is insistent up on imparting the knowledge that he will eat from the dead zebra carcass of a lion's kill, or bite the head off a live frog or snake, or rip into the belly of a salmon fresh from the steam. He never builds a fire. Never. Apparently, in spite of the fact that raw meat can contain bacteria and God only knows what sort of cooties you can get from the flesh of a dead zebra which has already been chewed on by lions, building a fire is not an option for the manly Bear Grylls. What did I expect? He goes by the name Bear.

To make matters worse, he will drink liquids from the half-digested food in a camel's stomach rather than dig for water or suck on a cactus, and he will drink his own urine after being "stranded" for five minutes rather than find a stream. Bear Grylls is not afraid to drink his own urine. After five minutes of being stranded. With a crew. Near the Marriott.

Listen up, Grylls. Here's your list:

1. Build a fucking fire. Cook the meat. It will taste better and be less likely to kill you, and after all, your show is about surviving.

2. Don't drink piss until you are sure there isn't a stream 100 yards over that next ridge. If you're going to impress me by consuming penile output, why not fellate yourself instead for the protein?

3. There is only one Bear and that's Bryant, and even British guys who drink piss should know enough to know that.

Questions

I like questions. Questions are fun. A friend of mine likes to play a question game. He'll ask a question like, "If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be?" waits for the answer, and then asks, "Why?" Once that one is answered, he'll ask "Why?" again. You think you've already answered, but you find you didn't answer completely. You can continue asking "Why?" again and again, until you reach the core of the matter. It's very revealing and very fun. There's a pressure to that sort of questioning that challenges you to come up with the whole answer. The best part of it is, sometimes you had no idea what the whole answer is or will be until you get to it and you are surprised. Try it sometime.

I also have a little book called The Book of Questions that I bought at least 15 years ago. I came across the book again the other day when cleaning and flipped through it. It's interesting to see how your answers may have changed from years back. One interesting part of the book is that many of the questions require that you "assume you are single" or "assume you haven't been to college" or some other thing. The questions actually contain that instruction. Some people are so grounded in reality they can't answer questions like that without a little help.

Sometimes people are also afraid of hurting the feelings of friends and loved ones when they ask themselves questions, so they can't come up with their true answer. For example, someone might ask you a classic question like, "if you knew then what you know now, what would you have done after high school graduation?" This question is hard for lots of people because changing something means your entire life might be changed. You might not be married to the same person, have children, know the friends you know. But the point of such self-exploration is not to dismiss the life you have. The point is to look at the changes you think you'd make, figure out what you'd hope to gain from such changes, and then apply that knowledge to your life now.

One of my favorite questions is, "what would you do if you won the lottery?" Again, there are people who can play this game and people who can't. And some play it better than others. If you ask yourself this question, do yourself a favor and dispense with the "pay off my debt, donate to my kid's school, buy my mom a house," and other bullshit. That stuff is such a given, not to mention so unimaginative, it isn't worth the ink to print, the breath to speak, nor the wear and tear on your manicure to type.

Now then, what would you do? Travel the world? Why?
Go back to school? To learn what? Why?

I'd travel the world because I want to see places that were there before me and will be there when I'm gone. I want to walk where a million other strangers have walked so that I can have it in common with them.

I'd learn to weld. I want to make weird metal sculputures.

I'd go to cooking school because "not know how to cook is like not knowing how to fuck" according to one of my favorite directors, Robert Rodriguez.

I'd have a little donkey with a flowered hat to pull a cart in the Christmas parade just because I want one.

What would you do? Ask yourself a question.

Holes

I'm a Swiss cheese. I have some empty spots. Don't be alarmed; yes, my life is reasonably complete. I'm not on the verge of running away with the circus or anything like that. I'm a well-aged Swiss cheese with just a few holes here and there.

I've never been to Europe. That's a hole for me that I hope to fill sometime before I die. Until I do, it will remain a hole. Not all people feel this way. There are plenty of people who have barely left the confines of their home town or home state, and are perfectly happy, and that's good for them. I make no judgment on their contentment to live in a smaller world. It's an enviable trait, to be content where you are. And it's certainly cheaper to stay home than to spend a week in Paris.

Music is another hole. I've said before that I've toyed with musical instruments off and on for years, never getting anywhere. This is my own fault. I'm too much of an instant gratification girl to have the patience to learn. Realizing that, I at least know what I have to do to fill this particular hole. I can do it as long as I remind myself that it can't be filled instantly. Now I just need a guitar.

The biggest hole is the Adventure hole. I'm not sure what sort of adventure I need. I have nothing particular in mind. Going back to school for a new degree could be a great adventure. Moving to a large city would be very adventurous for me. A week in Paris would be quite an adventure, and fill two holes at once. (No jokes, please, ya perverts.) Of course, adventure can come along at any time. You just have to recognize it and go for it I suppose. That's difficult for a person who has always been timid about risking things. But at least knowing that now is a step in the right direction.

I don't know that I could ever NOT be a Swiss cheese. I'm too rooted in imagination to be completely solid. That's not necessarily a bad thing though. I will always have some niche I can work at filling. That should keep me busy for the rest of my life.

What the hell?

Let's see here. So far Bama has lost to Georgia, LSU and Florida State. Those you could forget. Didn't pick the Tide to win those anyhow. Then they lost to Mississippi State. Today... Louisiana-Monroe??? WTF?

As much as I have a shameful crush on you, Nick Saban, Tommy racks up six in a row this year on his way to Texas A&M, and you will feel the heat of the fickle and impatient Alabama fan base. Sorry dude. It sucks. But who would expect you to work a miracle in one season. Oh, that's right. The entire Bama Nation.

Just hang in there though. It's about the process. It's about finishing what you start, relative to improving and moving forward. I have faith in you, Nick. I believe you want to win every game you play and "dominate the other team in the state." You'll just have to wait until next year.

WANTED: SEC Coaches

Houston Nutt is gone from Arkansas at the end of the season. Speculation is that Les Miles will go to Michigan, Phil Fulmer will leave coaching and go into some administrative position and Tommy Tubberville will leave my Auburn Tigers and go to Texas A&M. In case you can't count, that leaves a whopping four head coaching positions open in SEC football. That's a full one third of the conference.

So please, review your resumes and put in your applications now. We will pay you well, thanks to Bama's breaking of the bank for Nick Saban. Just make sure you remember to pack your cup. We like instant gratification in the SEC, so if you can't beat your arch rival in the first year or contend for the SEC Championship in your second year or vie for the BCS National Championship in your third year, you're gonna take it in the nuts.

But if you desire to be worshiped as a god on earth, come coach in the SEC. We will worship you. Membership at your church will increase just so people can say they go to church with you. Your wife's pet charity will suddenly get a flood of donations. You'll be offered endorsement contracts by everyone from Ford Motor Company to Ford's Feed & Tack. Hamburgers and barbecue platters will bear your name. Children will be named for you. Just win.

And win in a hurry. And win big. No pressure.

Browns Need 'Complete Game'

In order to earn a wildcard berth in the playoffs, The Cleveland Browns must start playing a complete game.

While his success in the NFL is questionable, I really appreciate Coach Nick Saban's recent talk about what a complete game means and how Bama has "only played one complete game all year." The lack of a complete game was evident in the 31-28 loss to Pittsburgh last week.

The Browns defense has been weak all year, so we knew it would take a shootout to beat the Squealers. Funny now how it seemed to be the offense that let us down. Eric Wright led the Browns defense with 12 tackles and a sack, and the fellas put on their best defensive show of the year, IMO. So what happened to Derek Anderson? Braylon Edwards? The rest of the O? While the defense was busy holding one of the best teams in the conference to a manageable score, the offense went AWOL. Forget the kick. The object is to score touchdowns. One side of the ball stepped up, but the other side lay down. It wasn't a complete game.

Until Romeo and the boys put together this elusive complete game, the rest of the season remains in question despite its marshmallow consistency. If we want to secure a chance for a wildcard spot, a complete game is the only way to get it.

Cheap Woman

I like cubic zirconia. What's it to you? I realize I'm damaging the diamonds-are-forever, and the whole caring enough to give the very best thing, but in my book that's horseshit. You can buy me a $5,000 ring. Or you can buy me five $1,000 rings. Or you can buy me 50 rings at $100 a pop. Or I can get a friggin' pirate's treasure of $20 baubles and be happy as a pig in slop. I'm easy and I'm cheap.

Some people will never understand this. The label is king, the "authenticity" is paramount. And these people who feel that the very best is the only thing acceptable will never be satisfied for fear that the best they've got isn't the very best.

I like Chef Boyardee ravioli. I realize that it is not Italian food. It is what it is. And I like it. I wear $15 jeans from Wal-Mart because they feel good. I once got a pair of jeans for Christmas that cost my father $100--and that was 20 years ago. They didn't fit right. We took them back and I got enough Wal-Mart jeans to last me for the next five years.

This doesn't mean I don't indulge myself some things. Of course I do. For example, I love a Sak handbag. Difference is, I buy mine used from eBay for $10 instead of new at the store for $50. I'm plenty happy to live this way. There are plenty worse things than being cheap. Like being impossible to please.

Time to Grow a Pair

The problem with being a pleaser by nature is that you get screwed. There are a million maxims and idioms and mantras and proverbs and fortune cookies full of wisdom for people like me. Essentially, they all say the same thing: grow some nuts.

And they're right. The truth is, I'm not actually a pleaser. I'm actually a pussy, and inevitably, after I pussy out about something, I kick myself and stew in my own resentment and self-loathing until I'm impossible to deal with.

This doesn't excuse the vile ways or advantage-taking of others (see previous post), but it places a fair amount of blame on the common denominator. I am the common denominator in every screwing I have ever suffered. And sadly, I seldom see these events as a screwing until it is too late. I hope to mend my ways ASAHMFP.

I have sought advice on the matter, and am more than willing to take more suggestions on how I go about growing a big pair of balls. I love symbolism and I'm a visual person, so I will start carrying a pair of large stones in my pocket to remind me, literally, to have a pair. I may even fondle them through my jeans like guys do, just to keep them in my mind.

What Comes Around

I'm trying to figure out what exactly I did six months or a year ago or whenever it was to have such Karma visited upon me as it has been recently.

Betrayal.

Et tu, bitches? God, I am so right to prefer male friends.

It hurts when friends of decades decide to make you the frog to their gig. You wonder what hit you. You never see it coming. You feel like a fool. And all this time you thought you were a nice person and that they were also nice persons and that things would work out for all. Then they do something ridiculous like tell lies about you or take your job or turn another friend against you, and if that don't throw your hat in the creek I don't know what will. Really, the shit that has happened to me recently goes beyond mere hat throwing. My entire trousseau has been dumped in the mudhole. The specific infractions matter not; in the end they are all the same. They are attacks of opportunity committed by opportunistic traitors. They are bad kitties, shitting in your sandbox.

And still I persist in my Pollyanna ways. I believe in remorse. I have faith in contrition. I appreciate regret. I have felt all those things myself at times in my life, and been thankful to gain forgiveness for a transgression. Strangely enough, I've been called naive and too trusting and too forgiving by EVERY ONE of the friends who have recently torn my guts asunder. I wonder how they feel about that now?

Karma is a bitch, ladies, and it takes one to know one. I've paid for something I did, even if I don't know what. And you will too.

Ashes to Ashes

My friends and family have always considered me a bit of a pyromaniac. I am quite fond of candles, fireplaces, a chimenea, tiki torches and bonfires. So far I haven't burned down a house or anything.

Yesterday I built a cleansing fire. I gathered a lot of junk from around the house. Old clothes even the charity thrift store wouldn't dare sell were tossed into a pile. Television boxes and other assorted cardboard junk harboring mold and mildew in the storage shed were stacked. A couple old chairs, so broken there was no hope of repair, were dragged out of the pantry and put into the burn pile. It was a nice fire.

I was watching the fire from the back porch and noticed a table I have had for 30 years at least. It started as a small vanity table in my bedroom when I was about 6 or 7 years old. Over the years it was alternately used as a desk, a plant stand, a foyer catch-all, bill-paying station, and even a breakfast table. The years had not been good to this table. It was cheap and spindly from the beginning, and time only added to the wobbles, cracks and decay. The boards that were joined together to form the bean-shaped top had started to separate, but over the years I'd just add another coat of paint and fill in those cracks and pretend it was as good as new.

Of course it was not as good as new, which was why its job at the moment was on the back porch supporting a small fountain and assorted cans and bottles of insect repellent, wasp poison and charcoal starter fluid. It didn't live in the house anymore because it just wasn't any good. My husband had suggested ditching the table multiple times, but I always refused. I'd always had the table. I couldn't let it go. Until yesterday.

My fire was dying down and I hated for it to end, so I looked at the table. No doubt it would burn like a Guy Fawkes dummy. It was time for it to go. I got the table and tossed it off the porch. A leg broke off it upon landing and the small drawer popped out. I easily snapped the other rickety legs off and then tossed it all onto the remains of the fire. In a moment it caught. For a nanosecond I felt a surge of panic. My table! But then while I watched the latex of a dozen paint jobs blister and bubble and shrink away I wondered why I had waited so long. This table was symbolic of all the useless, sentimental clutter that keeps me bogged down. And now it was going up in smoke.

It was very satisfying to burn that table. It had served its purpose in the world. Done. I burned more things today. I liked it.

Pink on the Inside

At one time I protested against the allegation I was the "girliest girl" in my circle of friends. My basis for protesting was the fact that, among all the girls in my circle, I'm the only one who ever changed the oil in the car, went hunting (or even fired a weapon at all), or owned anything camouflage. This seemed like a sound argument.

But as I glance down at my fingernail decorations (flowers with rhinestones), I realize I'm full of shit. One look in my closet confirms it. Examining the contents of my purse leaves no doubt. My cell phone is pink and its screen decor is Hello Kitty. My iPod is pink, and its engraving proclaims me a princess. I have two messenger bags, both black and professional on the outside, but hot pink on the inside.

At this moment, the contents of my purse include: five lipsticks, two body sprays, assorted jewelry, a miniature teddy bear, a book of "love poems," a journal and my very nice, expensive pen. The pen is pink, by the way.

So I give up. I'm a girl, full-fledged. I'm gonna go put on my Browns jersey and my eye-black stickers now, but it won't change the fact that I'm all pink on the inside.

For my fellow Disorganisms

Years ago I put a sticky note on my compter. (I use a Mac, so my sticky notes are actually little electronic notes on the desktop and not real paper. How very green of me.) The note said, "You are Organized and Efficient." It was a lie, but I was hoping it would inspire.

My disorganization is wide-ranging, sparing no area of my life. My desk is a mess. My house is a mess. My purse is a mess. While it has been said that a messy desk is a sign of genius, I am inclined to think some fellow messy person just made that up to console our feelings and confuse the neat-freaks for whom incongruities will sometimes ruin an entire day. Hehehe.

Truth is, the mess is depressing when it gets to be too much. Being the instant gratification sort, I look for quick fixes for my problem. I actually purchased something once called "pile sorters." These were folders, complete with a labeling area, designed to lay flat on your desk. In a pile, as it were. The organization part was that you put the papers you normally pile up on your desk inside the pile sorter folders, and thusly sorted, you are instantly organized! When cleaning the other day, I found my pile sorter folders--all empty--at the bottom of a big pile of papers, most of which ended up in the trash.

I've bought a million "organizer" handbags, which never help and only add to the clutter in my closet. I'm the proud owner of a new Palm Pilot aimed at figuratively organizing everything in my life. So far, I have loaded some pictures into it.

Short on Quarterbacks

It's been a bad weekend for college football here in Alabama. My Auburn Tigers lost to their oldest rival, Georgia, via pure backwoods beatdown, and Bama lost to Mississippi State, which just should never happen. Croomed again.

Central to both of these losses are the starting quarterbacks, who both turned in sorry-ass performances yet again this season. Brandon Cox virtually duplicated his performance from last year's loss to the Dawgs, including the four interceptions, while John Parker Wilson still wants to throw the ball on every down as long as it is out-of-bounds or to the other team.

Modern college football no longer relies on running the ball up the gut seven plays out of 10. The quarterback must know how to find his hot receiver, release the ball on the last step of his drop, and make the big play happen. His job is not to stand out there looking pretty while the running back and tight end do all the hard work.

Now...if standing there looking pretty was all they had to do, Brandon and John Parker would have it made. (Click on the pics to enlarge!) They are both pretty tasty with that black stuff under their eyes, and JPW has the most bite-worthy lips I have witnessed on a college football player in some time. Believe me, I pay attention.

But I also pay attention to how many times they give the ball to the enemy or end up on their ass with a lost of eight or more yards. It's happened to both of them more than my liking this season. This is Brandon's last season as a starting college quarterback due to graduation. This could very well be JPW's last due to poor performance. In two weeks they will meet each other in the Iron Bowl--a religious holiday here in Alabama--and I hold out hope for good performances from each of them. However, the outcome could just be decided on which quarterback sucks least, and that is not an encouraging situation.