12 Trivial Tennessee Tidbits
I know I’m writing a lot today, but I’m doing it because I CAN!!!! Peace! Quiet! A niece who’s at the movies! Wowee!
Here are some little Tennessee tidbits, things I’ve been wanting to share with you since I relocated.
1: The first week I was here, several of us were going to meet for dinner. My nephew rode along in my car, and we stopped for gas. Here’s the weird part. For some reason, I couldn’t figure out how to get my gas tank on the same side as the pump. The convenience store parking lot was very crowded, and a lot of people were waiting to fill up. Finally, I got my brain in gear and maneuvered my car to the right place. I handed my nephew some money, and as I did, we noticed a police car pull in behind a pickup truck, lights flashing.
My nephew got out of the car, and said, “BUST-ed!,” and that’s when the policemen called out over his loudspeaker for everyone to clear the parking lot immediately. Suddenly, seven more police cars pulled in, and I saw one of the guys in the back of the pickup raise his hands in to the air. I yanked my nephew back into the car. “Where are we going?” he asked.
“We’re getting the hell away from here!” I was almost tinkling in my pants. I asked him for directions, and he told me to take a right, then a left, then another right… Suddenly, I realized that he was taking me back to the scene of the crime.
“Okay,” I told him. “We’ll rubberneck for a second, then we’re out of here.” We drove back by, and saw about ten police cars. The po-po were behind their cars with rifles trained on these three guys. I saw two guys on the ground with shotguns pointed at them; once was being handcuffed.
I couldn’t believe it. I thought these things just happened in Dayton, but apparently it followed me here. I promise, I do not make this stuff up. Later, I mentally kicked myself, because if, instead of nearly passing out from fear, I’d grabbed the notebook and pen from my backseat and nabbed the story, I’d probably have a job right now. It also occurred to me that things happen for a reason. If I hadn’t had that little bit of gas tank confusion, I’d have been standing at the gas pump, or my nephew would have been walking out of the store when all of that happened.
By the way, I never did see that actual story in the podunk paper here. My sister showed me a picture of some guys who’d been arrested for stabbing a girl’s boyfriend, and one of the suspect’s photos was definitely the guy in the back of the truck. But my nephew and I are the Paul Harveys of this area, because we have The Rest of the Story.
2: A little over a week ago, I turned 48, also known as “two years before fifty.” I thought it would be traumatic, but actually it was okay. My phone rang a lot, but I have this ritual on my birthday where I don’t like to answer because I love saving the lovely voice mail messages for days when I’m in a bad mood.
My mother took me shopping, my brother-in-law cooked steaks on the grill, and my sister, niece and nephew took me to a movie. It was wonderful.
Two people I met really cheered me up. One was this terrific hairdresser at the mall. She found out that I’d never colored my hair before, and was amazed. She gave me a fantastic makeover, covered my gray and gave me the cutest haircut in the world. I swear, the woman took ten years off my appearance and only charged me for the cut– the color, she said, was my birthday gift from her. I’ve never hugged a hairdresser before, but I hugged the hell out of that one.
The other person who changed my life was Dianne, the PBL (Professional Bra Lady) at Dillard’s. I have never been to a PBL before, but since I’ve officially turned middle age and am now in the lobby area of Death’s Doorstep, I determined that it was time for a decent fitting bra.
I spotted my savior in the foundations department and said, “I want a bra that fits. I’ve never had one. Today’s my birthday and….” my voice trailed off. “I’m having a midlife crisis,” I muttered.
Dianne smiled. Dianne understood. She looked into my soul and instantly understood me and my sagging boobs, and shared my belief that the key to happiness is a good-fitting, gravity-defying brassiere. She handed me about a dozen bras in all shapes, sizes and colors, led me to a dressing room and patiently explained what constitutes a good fit. It was like a crash course in boobology. I learned that a taupe bra can be worn under any color without being seen. I learned that I have cleavage. Best of all, I learned that I was a full cup size larger than I’d thought.
I called my sister with the news. “Wow! I just found out that instead of being a 38-C, I’m a 36-D!”
She asked, “B, as in boy?”
“No,” I said, “D– as in delighted.”
Thank you, Dianne. I will love you forever.
3: Speaking of good fits, this town is not a good one for me. I knew this when I moved here, but my location was decided by the fact that my brother-in-law had a truck and was willing to help me pack it. Isn’t that how most people relocate?
Anyway, I know this sounds sort of crazy, but when it comes to locale, I’m all about the vibes. For some reason, there are parts of Tennessee that feel like barbed wire to me, and this is one of those places. Soon, a friend is coming to visit me from Columbus, and she and I are going to check out Nashville in more depth, so that I can determine if I can make a home there. We’re also going to get our drink on one night, which will be most excellent. Mmmmm… martinis…
4: My friend “Botmo” has invited me to stay with her for a couple of months in Ft. Worth. She’s offered me a room where I can write in solitude, and I can even bring Theo the Wonderdog®. Why? Well, because she’s an angel, that’s why. I’m strongly considering it, against the wishes of my family. As my sister says, “You’ll just piss away your money, then you’ll come back here, and you’ll be back to square one, without a job or a place to live.” Yeah, well, that’s true, but I’d get to write.
5: Tom and I talk every day. We don’t consider this a breakup so much as a break. I still really do love him.
6: I adore my niece, Hyper Girl. This chick has given me enough material for a novel the length of War and Peace. More on this later, but I will tell you that, while literacy was always a big thing with my children and me, it was never quite as big a deal for my sister and hers. Don’t get me wrong- they’re intelligent enough- but my niece rags on me a quite a bit about the amount that I read, and I rag on her about the amount that she doesn’t.
One night, we were playing a game, the object of the which is to turn over a card with a subject written on it. The other players try to match the card in their hands that most closely matches the subject card, and the designated judge chooses the winner. So, the subject card was “Great Leaders,” or something like that. Hyper Girl was the judge. One person put down a card that said, “David Letterman,” another said, “fireman,” and mine said, “Napoleon Bonaparte.” She chose “fireman.” She had no clue as to who Bonaparte was, nor how to pronounce his name. When I tried to explain, she rolled her eyes and said, “Who-ever.”
“No, it’s important,” I told HG. “You need to know some of this stuff.”
We argue about pronunciation of words. One day, she wanted to show me how clean the bathroom was. I admired the sparkliness and the scent. “Yum, what’s that smell?” I asked.
“Oh, I just sprayed some Glad,” she answered, holding up a can of air freshener.
She’s twenty-two, by the way.
7: My sister, Hyper Girl and I went to TJ Maxx one night. We were walking by the housewares department, and there were two little boys, about two and three, admiring this big, purple glittery ball.
“That’s awesome,” one of them said.
“It is awesome,” I agreed as I passed by. “Do you know what color it is?”
“Purple!” one of them said proudly.
Hyper Girl rolled her eyes and made a disgusted little “ugh” sound.
“I could’ve told you that,” she said.
Oh my gosh, I adore her.
8: My sister and her family want me to go to church with them (although they never push me). My mother wants me to go to synagogue with her. Sis and company are major McCainers and my mama’s for Obama. I choose “None of the Above” on all of it. Theo and I are Independents. I feel like such an alien sometimes.
9: I attended a writer’s group meeting the other night. I thought it would be a bit like a Star Trek convention, but it was nice. Met some really interesting people, some of whom wrote really well. Actually, some of the things people were telling about themselves were as interesting as the stories (if not more so), but that’s what makes me love life.
10: I need a website for a business I want to start. I know nothing about web design, and when I read about it, my eyes start to roll back in my head after the first sentence or two. If anyone has any suggestions…
11: My sister’s entire family calls Theo “Paco.” Please make them stop.
12: The other day, I was in tears because I thought my fibromyalgia had flared back up. I felt that old familiar achiness and muscle weakness and feared the worst. I have been SO lucky, because it’s been in remission since July, and the thought of it coming back sent shivers of dread down my spine. But it was just the flu. I’ve been living on green tea, water and Theraflu, and it’s really doing the trick. Only fibro makes you say, “Woohoo! I have the flu!”
(Love and prayers out to Kaylee. She needs a double dose of it right now.)
American Idle
So, what I have I been doing all this time? Not much. I spent the first couple of weeks at my sister and brother-in-law’s house. While Theo bonded with their grizzly bear-sized dog, Bo, I grieved about Tom and me, and tried to get acclimated to my new surroundings.
The house was crowded. In addition to my sister, her hubby and their dog, the other cast of characters included my nephew, my mother and her cat, all of whom are at home during the day. The computer is located upstairs in the family room loft, near a constantly blaring big screen TV. Writing was impossible. I went to the library and plugged in my laptop, where I immediately managed to blow out the keyboard. Everything I typed looked like this: 555_6s )($@ we cata98l} 8l.09s
The library, which I believe was once a prison, does have a computer lab, but it looks a lot like this:
I am really ADD. I just can’t handle distractions. When I write, I need what I call the three S’s– silence, solitude and sigarettes, all of which have been extremely difficult to come by these days. I’ve tried to explain to my family how much I love peace and tranquility. I mean, I REALLY love it. Something as simple as wind rustling through leaves on trees reminds me of ocean waves, and calms my mind. I explained this to a family member while I was trying for some quiet Camel time one evening, and she looked at me as though I’d farted loudly in the lobby of the Waldorf.
“Whatever,” she replied.
So, I bought some ear plugs and a box of nicotine gum and moved myself and my computer in with my niece (henceforth known as “Hypergirl.”) This seemed like a good idea to both of us. I could stay on her futon for a month or so while I job hunted, pursued some freelancing plans and wrote, and I’d defray some of her living expenses. Her husband is currently in Iraq and she said she’d enjoy the company. She works at a preschool, and I imagined that I’d have plenty of delicious solitude while she was tending to the kiddies. The only downside was that Theo would have to stay at my sister’s. But my mother loves him and he enjoys snuggling with her at night and hanging with Bo during the day. I go there each day for visitation. He jumps into my arms and we spend hours of quality time together, but I miss him terribly, and can’t wait until we’re back together 24/7.
Otherwise, the living situation has been wonderful, with the exception of the whole solitary quiet time thing. While I am a lover of the three S’s, Hypergirl is a fan of the four T’s- talking, television, tee-heeing and turmoil, which she and her hubby have in spades.
She’s also a fan of all things Rachael Ray. Her kitchen is an orange homage to the Thirty-Minute Meal 
Queen, and she tapes the Rachael Ray Show so that she can watch it each day when she gets home from work. When she’s not watching, she reads Rachael’s magazine, or plans meals from Rachael Ray cookbooks. I cannot relate. I cannot eat this much food. In fact, I try not to think much about meal preparation at all, because I’m only three feet tall (okay, almost 5′2″, but still), and one gourmet dinner can cause me to wake up looking like Gary Coleman on steroids. I also have no willpower, so I don’t like to keep a lot food around. Hypergirl doesn’t listen to my pleas though, and now I’m looking for Weight Watchers meetings in this area.
Mornings are my best time to write, but I’m hanging with HG now instead. My ear plugs aren’t working, so my typing time is spent cleaning the kitchen from the previous night’s Big Meal. I then straighten the living room, peruse help wanted ads (which in this town take up less than a column in the newspaper), work on some business plans, then visit my canine son. My evenings are spent watching television with Hypergirl, because I’m in Rome now, and apparently the Romans are watching Rachael Ray, Survivor, Army Wives and the Janice Dickinson Modeling Agency. Oh, and Criminal Minds, CSI, Big Brother, House and every made for TV movie on the Lifetime channel. Tom and I never watched TV. We didn’t even have cable, for Regis’s sake.
My brain is turning into fondue.
Sigh…
Wherever You Go, There You Are…
…or something equally Holly Hobby.
Anyway, here I am, a middle-aged runaway with a toddler-aged puppy, living in a place that’s as bad a fit for me as a size 2 pair of jeans.
It was hard for me to figure out how to get restarted posting here, for several reasons. I’m so accustomed to blabbing about my life, and the stuff going on in it, that when the dookie hit the blower and I left Ohio, I was faced with a dilemma. Should I tell you all the intricate details of my relationship, and the reasons for my decision to go? Should I try to work things out, and figure my life out on a blog page, as I usually do? Should I spill my guts, since gut-spilling is my specialty? After weeks of mulling all of this over, my carefully thought out conclusion is: “nahhhhhhhh.”
I’m editing, censoring, glossing over, protecting my privacy and Tom’s. We’re cutting to a new scene, and if this town had a skyline, that’s what you’d see. There’d be honky tonky country music plinging in the background, and at the bottom of the screen, a caption that said, “ONE MONTH LATER.”
So, here we are, one month later. I’ll post more in a little while, after I’ve finished my coffee.
