Leave the Pieces

I don't like saying goodbye. That's a rather trite statement, as I'm not sure there's anyone that does. Some times hurt more than others, but it always aches a little, regardless of how well or little I know the people from whom I'm separating. One would think I'd gotten used to it by now. I've hopped on a plane without so much as a by-your-leave more times than I can count and I've chosen the most transient city in the United States as my semi-permanent residence. People come and go so often here that it's barely conceivable that I might know someone for more than a year or two.

I just said goodbye, probably forever, to someone I knew on the most surface of levels. Yet he's sweet and kind and doesn't give himself enough credit. And I wish I had more time to speak confidence into him. Later this month, I lose my dance partner. He isn't just my partner, he's danced with eleventy different ladies in just about as many different countries, but for a few months, he led me.  He doesn't know these things, but he helped me face my fear and break-in this stiff, dusty skin called dance that's lived in me before and has been begging to breathe again. If it weren't for him, I'd probably still be existing in my half-life, a spell he broke with his effortlessness of being. He's leaving behind a hole that, here, at the start of it, feels impossible to fill. Saying good-bye is even harder with the ones that are irreplaceable.

Shortly after the holidays, I lose another. Our friendship lies somewhere between the other two, and although I don't see him often these days, I'm really going to miss his face. Whenever I see it now, I'm sad and helpless to change where he's going. These people are taking pieces of me away. The pieces will eventually return in some shape or another, but they'll never look quite the same. It's that fact that hurts my heart, and makes these holidays more melancholy than most. When I leave for Christmas, these people leave for their new lives, and my world will look different when I return. I usually don't mind changes of scenery. But I always hate losing things of beauty.

On the Street Where I Live

I found a pink plastic bag, a can of Fix-a-Flat and a new, stark white pair of Fruit of the Loom boxer briefs in my truck bed yesterday. I hesitate to even contemplate how these items came to be nestled in among the crackly brown leaves and day-old rainwater floating in the grooves. Once again, I am living on a rather interesting street on Capitol Hill where the neighbors are out on their porch all day (and sometimes all night), there's a blue taxi cab from Maryland constantly parked within five feet of my front door and there's a tiny corner market with bars on the window and a female Asian proprietor taking money behind about a foot of plexi-glass. In addition to cold Cokes, juices, and various assortments of chips, she also serves egg sandwiches and a host of other grilled items that may or may not relate to Chinese food. I couldn't say what her hours are as I've only found the door open once in my many attempts to satisfy my craving for dark, carbonated goodness, but as the place still exists and the sign remains painted above the windowless wall, I assume she's making enough to survive.

Our house does nothing but add to the block's character. The paint is peeling on every side, the green stuff growing haphazardly in the front 'yard' can only be called grass on a good day, and our front walk looks like it's seen more earthquakes than San Francisco. I suppose the cracks would also explain why our front door only occasionally seems to fit the door frame. My roommate has since dubbed the entire establishment "Sealander" and we're running out of room on the current list of necessary repairs. We discovered a water stain on the ceiling in the kitchen this morning and are now anticipating the day when someone using the upstairs bathroom finds themselves continuing their shower in the kitchen sink.

With all of its faults, I still love its character and am even thankful for the watchful neighbors who could probably tell you in a heartbeat how many times I've left the house in any given week. "Looks like she went grocery shoppin' again;" "Must be headed off to work;" "Ooh, better not stay parked there, baby. They gonna ticket you fo' sho." It's our own little version of Mayberry. Just with a little more flavah.

Trees and SUNSHINE

Sunshine is good for my soul. Turns out, Washington is home to the US National Arboretum which is essentially a zoo for trees. An entire property fenced in with walking paths for the visitors, all different species of trees and plants to peruse, and even handy signs sporadically stuck into the dirt explaining native habitats and growth patterns. And on clear days, bookoos of sunshine bouncing off the leaves and turning the pavement a silvery gray, I can't say with enough enthusiasm how much I love times like that. I have a new German friend who laughs at me (well, apparently all Germans laugh at Americans for this) for saying I 'love' things. They're amused that we use such strong language to express a lot of like for one thing or another.

"You're always saying 'I love this' or 'I love that.' We just say 'Oh, it's ok.' Even if we like it a lot."

So do they say the same of their spouses? "Oh, he's ok." Perhaps that's the point, that the word love should be reserved for relationships. I go off on this tangent to properly express my relationship for the outdoors and that big ball of glowy awesomeness that anchors the universe. I LOVE it. It's more than just ok. Except for those times that it burns me so badly that my skin turns reddish purple, and then I have to sit down and tell it that it's not working out and we need a break. But in the spring and fall, when the weather is eight different kinds of perfect and the sun just the right amount of warm, we work things out in record speed and I'm in love again.

Live

I went to kindergarden with a pretty little brown-haired girl named Jeri. I can't remember how often we played together, but I do remember that she had warts on one of her thumbs and the skin was always light pink, shriveled and cracked looking. Someone told me it was because she sucked her thumb too much. After that, my thumb never found its way into my mouth again.

Growing up, we went to the same schools until graduation. I'd see her occasionally in the halls; we shared a few of the same classes in high school. We were friends in the lightest sense of the word, but I always liked her -  a feeling linked with some indeterminate memories from kindergarden. After college I ran into her somewhere and discovered she was studying forensic and criminal science at a graduate school near where I was living in DC. Last year, at our high school reunion, she told me that she was doing forensics for the CIA in Virginia. I admired her. A decade after graduation she was still smart, beautiful, confident, and doing what she loved - something at which I imagined she was very talented. I was impressed and happy for her and a little bit envious that she had it all together, that her life made seemingly perfect sense. I got a text from a mutual friend this past weekend. Jeri died in a car accident on Friday.

We struggle so much in this particular decade of life to find ourselves, to figure out our purpose and who we are. Sometimes it feels like a waste if we can't reach some kind of conclusion at the same speed as everyone else. But regardless of how well you're doing, how successful you are, or how long you've had 'it' figured out, life can end in a second. I've been running around feeling sorry for myself for not having a concrete plan or direction, but even if I did, it wouldn't matter. Having it together wouldn't lengthen my life any more or make me any more invincible to the physical frailty of being human.

Hearing about Jeri made me feel odd on the inside. Like it wasn't real or was some kind of misinformation. Then someone else from home verified it, and in that moment, the surreal feeling didn't disappear, but I stopped feeling sorry for myself. Life has been good, has been great for large chunks of it. And I can start today, right now, living it more. What I'm doing, where I'm working, how I'm managing to pay the bills isn't that important. What is important is that I woke up and took a breath this morning and my friends can still see my face and my mom can still hug me. While I'm not necessarily a fan of the phrase "Live each day like it's your last," because let's face it, a lot of times it isn't and there are consequences, I would say live each day like everything is possible. Because it is. And you just don't know how many chances to "live" that you'll get.

Current Mysteries of the Universe

- Why Red Baron singles pizzas are so good.

- Why my neighbors across the street need to loudly listen to the same Temptations song every afternoon.

- Why I'm not making beaucoup bucks just sitting around my house.

- Why the rest of the planet doesn't carry Cheerwine in stores.

- Why people don't use turn signals and get angry when other drivers fail to acknowledge their turn.

- Why things at the Smithsonian Gift Shops cost as much as my first car. (Really, Smithsonian? Because I'm pretty sure that's just colored paper...)

- Why policemen around here seem to have Turrets when activating their sirens.

- Why construction projects take longer to complete than insects processing our compost.

- Why mosquitoes always bite on your ankle bone/knuckle/forehead.

- The purpose of short-sleeved sweaters.

Why I Hate Grocery Shopping Reason #852

Let me reiterate why I loathe trips to the grocery store. Because people won' leave me 'lone! I swear, I went to Harris Teeter today, totally relaxed on my way over, anticipating a leisurely stroll through the aisles and a strict adherence to the post-it sized list in my pocket. Procuring items for my mini-buggy (I witnessed a Target employee in NC hollering to his coworker to "Go get the buggy train!" Thank you, Southern folks. I knew I wasn't the only one) was painless and almost pleasant but then I arrived at the check-out and realized my VIC card was on the keychain still hanging by my front door. Blast.

I tried both phone numbers, knowing neither would work as I tend to provide as little personal information as possible. Then I was sent to customer service, then I was sent back to the first cashier who was already ringing up other people, then I was abrasively asked by another cashier if she could ring me up at which point I felt the need to explain my lack of VIC card again to which she responded by haranguing me into signing up for another one despite my reluctance to do so. Ugh. I assented with as much grudginess as I could muster. THEN she wanted to me to put my email on the form for the eVIC account so I could get special offers. "No thanks," I said. She gave me a sidelong glance. "You don't want to get special coupons?" Unbelievable. Just take no for an answer. "Nah, that's ok," I replied. Her next words dripped with disapproval - "Mmmmm, ok." We did, however, survive the checkout process with a fake laugh or two and an "ooh, girlfriend" from her and then I was on my merry stressed out way.

Or so I thought. I was barely to the buggy corral when ANOTHER employee clear over by the door called out "HELLO!" I said hi and avoided eye contact as I parked my cart. She kept talking. "Do you have an eVIC account?" "Uhm, no ma'am I don't." "Well do you have a VIC card?" "Yes, yes I do." "Would you like to sign up for an eVIC account today?" "No, that's ok." She looked at me like I'd just grown another head. "But you'd get savings!!" Oh. My. Word. I had officially reached the point where I wanted to drop all of my bags on the ground and yell "Would you people PLEASE LEAVE ME ALONE! Can't a girl go grocery shopping in peace? I don't want your stupid email offers, I just want to go home!"

I huffed back to my house with my three bags and was so miffed I went ahead and cooked my $3.99 on clearance pizza, an item who's simplicity in preparation I was hoping to save for another night. Grumble grumble grumble. Where are my grocery shopping minions when I need them?

I Was Baarn Here...

(If ya'll'd read the following with a Suthern aksent, I'd be much obliged)

I swear, driving back into Greenwood, SC was like using a time machine. I've been back lots of times since high school, but for some reason, this time ghosts kept on coming out of the trees. Driving my pickup down Hwy 25, I passed my friend Jamie's old house where she used to live with her parents. They had had horses in the yard and last time I was there, her first wedding dress was hanging on the back of her closet door, never to be worn because her fiancé broke it off. She's married to somebody else now. He is too.

Riding down the stretch of 254 to my neighborhood, I remembered when a policeman ticketed my friend Jeremy for going 60 in a 45. He'd been on his way to see me. I had just laughed at him when he got to my house. He wasn't a boy used to breaking the rules and I wasn't a girl used to holding someone's affections as tightly and as unknowingly as I held his.

Then there was the Dixie, Greenwood's favorite greasy spoon. Walking in and picking up the menu conjured up my friend Derek right beside me saying, "Put that down. Whaddyou mean, comin' to the Dixie and pickin' up the menu?" As if we ever ordered anything besides a Dixie Cheese half and half and a cherry Dr. Pepper. Which I felt obliged to repeat in the present, just as if Derek were sitting on the adjacent stool giving me that look of good ole boy disdain while he chewed on a toothpick.

It's weird how spaces can have that affect on you. This town, that isn't so small anymore, is littered with my memories from end to end and even a little farther if you count that one New Year's Eve when we drove out to Saluda to smash Welche's Sparkling Grape Juice bottles on the pavement behind Adam's dad's fireworks' stand. I'd never live here again. I'm pretty sure I'd poke my eyeballs out in boredom. But this wasn't a bad place to grow up. And even when the ghosts bring with them a heavy dose of melancholic nostalgia, it's still a pretty nice place to visit ever once in a while.

6 Interesting Things I Saw in Chinatown Today

I highly suggest every now and then taking a walk just to see what's going on outside. Like Amèlie, the quirky French girl of cinema fame, I noticed a few things that stood out during my excursion to Chinatown.

6) A pigeon with a broken wing. Cruising along on the sidewalk just like every other passerby, but much less tall and I wonder if he'll make it through the night or end up some alley cat's dinner. Sad face

5) A guy in a purple and black Yamaka with matching backpack.

4) A man wearing a 2 sizes too big olive green suit over a bright red button up shirt. I had to do a double take to make sure I wasn't looking at a cartoon.

3) Three young black men in a jazz band on the corner of 7th and F St. All with facial hair, one wearing a redskins jersey, another in a black hipster tie, and as an ensemble, really rather talented. They were playing the sax instrumental version of O-o-h Child. Had I a dollar in my pocket, I would have parted with it in their guitar case.

2) Greenpeace guys complete with beards and flannel shirts. I may have gone an extra two blocks out of my way to avoid them. Why does everyone solicit on those exact two square feet in Chinatown? If I see one more person in a "Stop Bitching and Start a Revolution" shirt, I'm going to throw my slushy in their face and say "I just did."

1) The Government Accountability Office still in operation.

The Day After

After hours and buckets of rain, it's finally stopped. The wind still blows and rainboots still abound but I would hazard to say that the weather is nice. I like it like this - cloudy, a little stormy, everyone walking around slightly subdued. I'm traitorously sitting in a Starbucks enjoying an iced coffee with milk and vanilla and a "Bistro Box," an item I think would be a brilliant addition to plane fare: cheese cuts, crackers made of more seed than cracker, apple slices, and a mini container of dried cranberries and almonds. Fresh and delicious (although I still haven't made up my mind about Brie unless it's smoked with ham and I'm at a pub in England) and the perfect compact size. When I'm starving on a 9-hour transatlantic flight, I'd appreciate such a snack. It would make flying a bit more enjoyable for those of us not in business class. I keep imagining that one day I'll have enough money to purchase first-class tickets on a regular basis, that I'll have a quaint apartment in Paris, and that somewhere on the planet will be parked a silver BMW to which I own the title. Unfortunately, I believe the first, single step to this particular journey of a thousand miles is having some idea of and obtaining a job I like. Which, I'm finding, is MUCH easier said than done.

The Devestation

Just to give you guys an idea, here's a link to a picture of the devastation...

Devestation

I think this is an Earthquake

I survived my first earthquake yesterday. Not ever having experienced one before, I must admit to being a little freaked out as I stood there in the midst of stocking sugars at the condiment bar while the building around me and floor beneath me, things that I take for granted will remain stationary until the end of time, continued shaking. My first thought was "what in the world?" my second, "I think this is an Earthquake;" my third, "Ummm, should I do something?" Our emergency drills in grade school on the east coast consisted of how to effectively exit your burning house (Children's Fire Safety House, anyone?) and what to do if there was a tornado (sit on the floor in the hallway with the rest of your class, strategically place yourself next to your crush and stick an opened text book on top of your head). I vaguely remember something about doorways, which they talked about probably once, but other than that, we left the emergency know-how for quakes to our west coast peeps.

After we all looked at one another to confirm that no, it wasn't just us, my coworker who had just finished his shift looked at the two of us behind the counter and said, "I hope you guys are ready, because you're about to get slammed." I said, "What do you mean?" He grinned. "They're gonna evacuate both of those building across the street." Sure enough, within the next ten minutes, people were streaming out onto the sidewalks. Within half an hour, half of them were inside our walls or lounging outside on the patio, cellphones glued to their ears. I don't remember much about the hours between 2 and 4pm except for a blur of pouring steaming coffee, shoveling ice, calling out drink orders (my voice carries the most, not always a good thing), and lots of paper and plastic cups sliding back and forth over the counters. Despite a less than smooth morning (I had spent about an hour taking down orders manually, adding up totals, and making change in my head), I loved it. My brain registers fast pace by clicking into high gear and all of the sudden, I was all over eight things that needed to be done, and with probably more acuity than when I'm just keeping up with two. Bring on the chaos, I say. But maybe next time without the earth moving under my feet.

Possibility or Lack Thereof

It's days like today that I feel that anything is possible. It's days like yesterday that I feel like nothing is. It makes me wonder which is the more accurate perception of reality, and I think for all of us, accuracy lies somewhere in the blurry lines of in between.

Today's potential had much to do with sunlight just a tad too warm and a breeze that's temperature was nothing less than perfect. Every time it lifted my hair away from my neck, it carried magic with it, tempting and teasing like something phenomenal was waiting just around the corner. It wasn't. Only more deceitful breeze. The wind's fingers across my skin, though, and its playfulness with the clouds against the cerulean backdrop I'll take any day, despite its duplicitous promise of more.

Yesterday had nothing at all to do with the weather, but then the weather acquiesced to my mood: the sky growing dark, the light in my bedroom turning gray, and the clouds unleashing drops that fell hard against the pavement and bounced back upwards in defiance. It eventually settled into the kind of gentle drizzle that had me merging into a warm, fluffy mass with the too many pillows on my bed, drowsiness rubbing away thought and replacing it with the bliss of unknowing. I have a feeling that figuring out the intricacies of this human soul is going to take a lifetime.

A Literary Master on Politics

I have read Charles Dickens before and I will read him again, but I never realized his wit or how relevant his commentary on his government in the past would be to my own today: one to which I'm forced to pay attention because I live a stone's throw from our "parliament." Clearly men of power have been running in circles for time immemorial. I give you, Dickens:

"It is true that HOW NOT TO DO IT was the great study and object of all public departments and professional politicians all round... It is true that every new premier and every new government, coming in because they had upheld a certain thing as necessary to be done, were no sooner come in than they applied their utmost faculties in discovering, How not to do it. It is true that from the moment when a general election was over, every returned man who had been raving on hustings because it hadn't been done, and who had been asking the friends of the honorable gentleman in the opposite interest on pain of impeachment to tell him why it hadn't been done, and who had been asserting that it must be done, and who had been pledging himself that it should be done, began to devise, How it was not to be done. It is true that the debates of both Houses of Parliament the whole session through, uniformly tended to the protracted deliberation, How not to do it. It is true that the royal speech at the opening of such session virtually said, My lords and gentlemen, you have a considerable stroke of work to do, and you will please to retire to your respective chambers, and discuss, How not to do it. It is true that the royal speech, at the close of such session, virtually said, My lords and gentlemen, you have through several laborious months been considering with great loyalty and patriotism, How not to do it, and you have found out; ... I now dismiss you."
Little Dorrit
Charles Dickens ©1857

Here here Master Dickens. By no means could I have said it better myself.

Everything I Need to Know in Life I Learned From Salsa - Part Dos

Conversing with strangers on the dance floor when they're a foot away is not entirely comfortable. Trying to figure out steps during a lesson when you think you know the right way and they think they know the right way when in reality, neither of you is correct, is tense. There's pushing and pulling and lots of "No, your hand should be on my back"s and "I think we're supposed to be holding hands this way"s and "Are you sure that's the way you turn?" which then translates into blundering moments during open dance where if I don't learn to keep my elbows away from people's cheekbones, I'm going to be in real trouble on the salsa circuit.

I have to say though, as a bit of a pat on the back, that I must be improving somewhat since one of the better dancers on the floor asked me to dance twice last night. The really good ones make me nervous. All of the sudden, I start thinking too much (story of my life, le sigh). They figure out that I turn rather well and the next thing I know, our arms are all pretzeled over our heads, my elbow is once again precariously close to his face and I'm inwardly dreading how the next 3 seconds are gonna go. I'm laughing nervously, my partner's face maintains the expression of a Greek statue (could you just smile guy, so that I know we're ok and you're not praying for the end of the song?) and my usual ability to read people goes straight out the window. Cue unease and a slight blush of embarrassment. Finally the song draws to a close, there's the customary hand squeeze and exchange of "Thank you"s but do they really mean it? AGH, it's so hard to tell! Nevermind, I'll just go home and dance by myself. At least most of the time I know what I'm thinking...

Lesson #2 - Life is awkward. (So is that word, by the way. I mean just look at it: three awkward looking consonants squished between two vowels. Rather appropriate I say...) Interactions with strangers are rarely going be suave and effortless. No one is 100% sure of themselves all the time, even the Greek statue faced guys who've had lots of professional lessons. And occasionally you're going to whack someone in the face. It just happens. Go with it. We're all stumbling through this mess together.

Oasis

My favorite café now sits only 2 blocks from my house. It has a back patio that's almost a gateway into another world; one far from the city with all of its noise and hurry. The wind blows peaceful here and the rustling of the leaves is enough to cover up the occasional street noise that sneaks in. Unless you know about the patio already, you'd never suspect that the back door led to anything other than a dumpster. But flowers bloom here and wispy green vines snake down the wooden fences and tremble in the breeze that pushes the clouds across the sky at its leisure. I come here to escape reality because it's only once I'm here that I realize how lucky I am to have the time to do this. Although I wish I was so much more than I am, that doesn't equate to eight hours a day in a building, and I marvel at so many people's ability to call that success.

Everything I Need to Know in Life I Learned from Salsa - Part Uno

Dance is a conversation. Often, as is the case with me, it’s a monologue. I don’t care what you’re saying, just listen to what I’m saying. Or, even more often, it’s a monologue in my house when no one else is home. I only hope our curtains aren’t see-thru.

Yet, in disconcerting attempts to better myself as a human being and teach myself that it’s not all about me (a lesson that comes as a shock most days), I’ve recently been making forays into social dance. More specifically Salsa. Just like when using actual words, sometimes you and the other person are totally on the same wave length. You get each other, you understand the movement, as a female, I can pick up on the signals (which in dance I find a bit easier than in life, but that’s another story and, er, em, moving on...).

Other times, you’re both speaking the same language, but the meaning isn’t coming across. Yeah, we got the steps down, but I’m not sure what that last thing was and although we both seem to be on beat (for the most part, cringe), I can’t tell by you lifting your hand in front of my face if you want me to duck and turn under it or if you’re trying to poke my eye out.

Sometimes I’m apparently giving the wrong signals as no, pretty sure I didn’t want to do that triple turn and end up looking at the room upside down, and I definitely didn’t want you to try to kiss me as I left the establishment. As I have a hard time giving off the latter signal when I do mean it, I marvel at strangers’ inability to correctly read the situation.

But most uncomfortable are the times when dance feels like I’m speaking German in the remotest regions of Mongolia. All the hand gestures in the world can only get you so far. It’s those times when I’m praying for the song to be over so I can extract my somewhat introverted self from a tense embrace and regain my much coveted personal space in which I can wipe my sweat/the sweat of someone-who’s-name-I-didn’t-catch (Jorgé?) off of my arms/neck/forehead. Gross.

Lesson #1: People are sweaty, you’re sweaty, they’re going to get in your space and you’re going to have to talk to them. And it ain’t always gonna be pretty.

HEAT

Everything is moving with the speed of mud. The patio furniture at the café sits haphazard and abandoned, like an inappropriate joke. It's oppressing, this air that is two clicks short of hazardous, and any water splashed on the skin warms to it so fast it feels like sweat. Even the cars are sluggish pulling through the four-way stops. Breezes feel like exhaust and traversing black pavement is as unpleasant as walking through steam erupting from a manhole cover. It's unreal, the thickness lying in wait outside the door. Time ticks, the sun is merciless, and eventually the sky will rumble and burst from the pressure. Tepid drops will rain onto the sun-baked bricks and steal ten degrees with a sigh.

it isn't

My head tells me it's ok,
my heart tells me it isn't.
My lips tell me one thing
and with different words my body agrees,
but my mind is trying to placate;
to avoid the disappointment
if things don't turn out as I hope.

Why hope if you don't know? it repeats.
But my heart refuses to accept only what it sees,
instead beating wildly in the midst of imageries.
Stay calm, this isn't it,
don't hang your hat on hooks that aren't there.
There'll be a house soon with plenty of space
and room to touch and features on a face.
Wait, just wait, the world still turns
one orbit at a time, the life inside me coursing.

But time steals from me my magnanimity
and I drag my feet the way home,
because while my head tells me it's ok,
my heart tells me it isn't.

Panache

The stage intrigued me as a child, teased me as an adolescent, rejected me in college, made an occasional, but un-noteworthy appearance during my forays into adulthood, but today, wooed me and won me completely in a two hour production of what in typeface is my favorite play. I picked up a copy of Cyrano de Bergerac about seven years ago on a whim; thought I'd read for myself the story behind what was a rather ridiculous, though endearing film starring Steve Martin and Darryl Hannah that I'd seen as a child. As my eyes took in the prose, wit, and meter emanating from the title character with every line, my heart thrilled. Although I love to read, reading plays never thrilled me. Plays were written to be performed and the action never quite came alive for me until it was presented in flesh and blood on a stage. Cyrano was different from the very first page. I wondered if I'd ever have the chance to see it live.

I got my chance this afternoon in a performance that moved me and unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, dislodged that part of me that has become somewhat satisfied with reality. I escaped; my world was left behind without so much as a tear shed in farewell, and I wanted more than anything to grace that stage with its players. This Cyrano won my heart. Of course he doesn't exist, the man is merely playing a character; there exists a horrible and jarring disjunct between fact and fiction, but I may just be ruined. Theater, when done really well, affects me thus. It's the most bittersweet experience. I want to watch it over and over, but I cannot. Every performance is an entity entirely its own and can't be taken out of the venue in which it lives. Eventually the run is over and the production can never be revived in quite the same way again. I find it quite tragic. These actors will move on to play other parts and compose other ensembles, and I wish I could trap them there under that heavy proscenium forever. Perhaps that's what so special and unique about performing. You only get one chance to play, one chance to watch, one chance to experience. For a moment in time, your life is intersecting with the lives of a group of very entertaining strangers and you exist for that space and time away from the outside world in the mysterious magic that habits only the inside of theater houses. I want more of this magic... more of these words spoken with such deeply felt speech.

Nicknamesies

Nicknames are bizarre. They're rarely ever thought through but rather appear one day on the tongue for no apparent reason and stick from that day forward. It happens regarding humans, furry creatures, babies, automobiles, etc.

I've known since the day I moved in that my labrador roommates' names were Boomer and Scout respectively. Yet somehow, and I'm not even sure when it began, I've taken to calling them Boomsy-pop and Scoutness. It sounds like a throwback band from the eighties, for crying out loud, but one day, there it was, and now forever after, that's what pops into my head when graced with their limpid brown eyes and abnormally large wagging tails. "Boomsy-pop!" "Scoutness!" It's like we were all born with a gene which, about the fifth time we lay eyes on something, causes a random descriptive word to emerge in our thoughts and burst forth in speech. For those of us with unfortunate nicknames from high school, this is a phenomenon with which we are overly familiar. I believe it began with Adam, chilling in the Garden of Eden, when all of the sudden, a small, feathered creature came shooting out of the trees, fluttering its wings in flight and Adam shouted, "Bird!" (or whatever the Hebrew/Aramaic equivalent). It's a good thing I wasn't tasked with naming the creatures roaming the planet, otherwise children the nation over would be learning about Wingednesses and Elepops. What? I think it gives them character.

Brusha Brusha Brusha

I had the pleasure of going to the dentist Monday. I’m pretty sure it’s been about 7 years since my last visit. That’s a lot of plaque and tartar, so much so that it felt like the hygienist was using an ice pick on my teeth to scrape off all the build up. I had no idea I had such a dhur-tee mouth. Suppose I need to start chewing more Orbit. I never minded the dentist as a kid since it was another excuse to get out of school and I was one of those wonder children who never got cavities. I loved having someone else brush my teeth for me and then hand me a sticker and a free toothbrush like I’d done them a favor.

This time, however, it was rather uncomfortable as she poked and prodded my gums with her sharp metal implement, and, as expected, when I spit into the whirring paper cone, my saliva was tinged with pink. “Your gums are really inflamed.” No kidding. Which is why they’re throbbing in pain right now. Thank you. I was also gifted with a take home image of how my bottom two wisdom teeth are basically taking a nap on my jawbone. Doctor’s diagnosis? Rip ‘em out. Oh, and while we’re back there, we should take the top two as well since they’ll no longer have an antagonist. What is this, a novel? Who cares? Why are you just willy-nilly suggesting that I get all my teeth ripped out? Obviously, although the black and white proof of my X-ray is a little hard to ignore, I’m a bit skeptical when dentists just throw around recommendations for what to me sounds like no good reason.

Since my diagnosis, several of my friends have felt the need to share their own horror stories regarding wisdom teeth removal. I love how it usually starts with “Oh well then I shouldn’t tell you what happened to me,” and then they proceed to do just that. Thanks friends. Thanks for the encouragement and putting my mind at ease. During one recounting I had my hands over my mouth as my eyes bulged out in horror. Needless to say, I am NOT looking forward to this experience. There had better be Wendy’s chocolate Frostys in abundance for the days after.

Animal Crackers in my Soup...

I was overjoyed this week to discover that a single serving of Animal Crackers equates to 13 cookies. Thirteen!! After having already made the everyone-knows-better mistake of filling a small bowl with them and stashing them away in my desk drawer for easy access, I now feel less like a glutinous junk food eater and more like someone who prefers a double portion. Twenty-six cookies is just two servings, I can say and prance off into the distance singing my Shirley Temple song through bites of buttery animal-shaped goodness.

PS, and not that this is news to anyone, but you should never go grocery shopping hungry. You should especially not go when hungry and having eaten nothing but Saltines and Shredded Mini Wheats® like a hobo for the preceding three weeks due to what should have been an imminent move. Enter me, heedless to both aforementioned no-nos, skipping through Harris Teeter like I desperately needed those four bags of shredded cheese that somehow found their way into my mini-buggy. I saw more than a few buy-one-get-one-frees that had me grabbing things off the shelves like the nation was about to go on rations and I was solely responsible for feeding the army as opposed to just my own tiny fist-sized stomach (that may or may not have grown two sizes bigger at the sight of Hint of Pepper Jack Tostitos. FEED ME.) Not to mention my picking up of items that never EVER make it onto my grocery list.  Jars of pickles? Yummy. Breaded frozen fish filets? Tacos, holler! Turkey pepperoni? What else am I gonna eat with my bag o' shredded Italian blend cheese? Surely you can slap those two things together on something and call it pizza.

Despite the plethora of items that ended up making it to the register (including one bottle of blush champagne... What? It's Saturday), I still managed to come in under $70. I have to confess to this being my most pleasant solo trip to the grocery store EVER. Running halfway down the aisles and riding my mini-buggy the rest of the way may have contributed, but word to the wise: in parking garages, the wheels on those babies lose all sense of alignment, so steering capability is key. Otherwise you may find yourself having to explain to a bewildered car owner how you wrecked their vehicle with a grocery cart. Lucky for me, I've got years of experience in maneuverability.

The Beauty of Woe

A few days ago, I babysat a beautiful, pouty-lipped little girl with bright blue eyes and blond curls. She isn't speaking yet so most of her communication consisted of grunts and pointing. She was rather more discontent than the last time I watched her which translated into crying jags where she shoved both hands in her mouth causing her face to become a wet, slobbery mess of saliva and mucus. Whenever I attached her to my hip, said excretions usually ended up on the upper sleeve of my shirt. Or my pants. She was just a lot soggier than I remember. Upon mentioning this to a friend later in the day, he shook his head and responded, "I don't like kids." Although I do like them for the most part, I get it. They're noisy and demanding; full of snot and saliva; their poop has to be wiped from their butts with what is essentially a wet nap; and they exist in the world as if the world exists for them. And for the span of several years, it does seem to, because unlike dogs, you can't just take them to the kennel when you go on vacation.

Yet in the fading part of the day, I stood in the basement of our coffeehouse at a worship service, my soul so moved within me that I was becoming a blubbery mess myself, when it hit me. In comparison to a God whose gleam makes Mr. Clean look like he's been rolling around in a dugout, humans are like that all the time: wet with snot and tears, red-eyed and blotchy, dirt under our fingernails, smelling like Cheerios and hot dogs, orange pasta stains on our shirts. We're kinda gross. And loud. And insistent. We grunt and gesture towards what we think we want when we don't have the language to make ourselves understood. And when things don't go our way, we throw fits. When God does something we don't comprehend, when His answer to a prayer is something that doesn't jive with what we think is right, we turn our face to the wall, cross our arms and either pout and maintain a stony silence, or wail at the injustice of it all. We try to understand His reasoning with the rationale of a two year old trying to understand why Mommy isn't letting her eat that perfectly tasty looking tab of dish detergent.

Gross as it may be, all that snot and mucus looks a little different to us when it's smeared all over the face of someone that's imprinted with our specific genetic code. They're ours. Although we can't explain why we love them, we do. It's the most basic and intrinsic thing. I realized in that moment, tears making tracks down my cheeks and nose snottier than usual, that I may never understand why God really created us in the first place: why He brought us into a world knowing bad things happen and that we'd get hurt, and although He would have the power to keep us from everything that would cause us pain, He knew from the beginning that He wouldn't. Just as we know when we have kids, just as our parents knew when they had us. Despite the agony and the discomfort we know they'll endure, we come together and bring something into existence because we love: a thing that can't be proven or written out in a scientific formula; a thing of which no evidence found in the bowels of the Earth can explain the power. It just is. It's a Love that gently forms our features, paints our personalities, and fosters dreams within our souls. In that perspective, the sliminess coating the scrunched up features of a squalling child doesn't look so bad. Because I look like that to God quite a bit. And He picks me up, Shamwows my face with a Kleenex and loves me anyway. It's beautiful, deep and prehistoric, but one thing it is not is comprehensible.

Eek!

Alright, so now that I have strangers commenting on my blog, I suppose I better step this up a little. A funny thing happens when life blows up and all of the sudden you find yourself with eleventy billion things to do. That little gremlin (we'll call him Mus-ee) jumping up and down in my head saying "Write this down!!" finds a bag of Jalapeño potato chips and gets distracted. (Yes, that's the second time in a week that I've mentioned Jalapeño potato chips on these here interwebs. Apparently I'm rather enamored.) So while Mus-ee is back there stuffing his face and getting grease streaks all over his pants, my blog title is collecting cobwebs. Annnnd because it's Saturday and I feel like cheating, I'll clean them off on Monday. Ha!

My Buds

This is fairly typical. Scout standing there, boring holes into me with her eyeballs and Boomer lying nearby thumping his ginormous tail. 

Check it out!

What It Really Means

It's my first online (well, outside of this guy) article! Written for my church newsletter, and perhaps a little small beans, but I'm kinda excited about it.

Who'd a Thought?

Of all the things I never expected to overhear on H Street, a conversation about turkey burgers would be one. I was prematurely headed back from SoVa, my current haunt of choice due solely to its proximity, because a group of ladies decided to bring their work meeting to the table right beside me, and my headphones weren't loud enough to drown them out. When it's quiet as a library, what makes you think coming in and disrupting the peace is going to ingratiate you to anyone, I haven't the slightest. But I digress...

Turkey burgers. I'm walking down the sidewalk, and a guy is coming toward me, talking on his cell phone. The first words I catch are "my turkey" and "that's what I do with my turkey," and I think, well that's odd.  As he's passing me, I hear, "Well, ya know, then I usually put my turkey burgers in the wahrma (warmer). But I messed around and served that Mutha F*@#er two raw-ass turkey burgers!" Although unable to suppress my ensuing grin, I managed to get passed the man standing at the edge of the Auto Zone parking lot before bursting into an audible guffaw. I didn't know the people in this neighborhood would even come within a two block radius of a turkey burger. However, they were raw-ass thereby making them Hood Accessible. Thank you, stranger, for my Monday bliss.

Yabba Dabba Doo

I seem to be morally opposed to taking vitamins if they appear in any other shape than Fred and Wilma Flintstone, probably because I took them as a child, and I remember the tart, chalky taste lingering on my tongue and lodging in my teeth grooves. The red ones and purple ones were my favorite, but if I had to suffer an orange or green, I suppose I made do. With my mother's brand of diligence however, we rarely took them daily, only perhaps weekly or however often she happened to lay eyes on the bottle and say "oh yeah, you guys should probably eat one of these." If I am currently iron and/or B12 deficient, I'm blaming it on the far from daily intake of Fred and Wilma.

My pregnant friend recently told me her nails were a lot stronger than before, and she guessed it was on account of all the vitamins she was taking. I felt a sharp, grass green pang. I should be taking vitamins. I hear they're good for you. So on my toilet paper trip to Rite Aid today, I took a gander in the vitamin aisle and found no box so appealing as the orange one with FLINTSTONES tattooed across the front in prehistoric white lettering. Fred was even there, looking ridiculously thrilled that I had picked up his vitamins. "Is this childish?" I asked myself. Should grown-ups take these? Would it even make a dent in my bloodstream, or would it be akin to eating a jar of baby food for dinner as opposed to an adult serving of pasta? Lo and behold, directions for both 2 & 3 years of age and 4 years of age & older were on the back. Score! as I do believe I fall into the latter category. They even contain choline, a pretty vital nutrient found in breast milk, and it could be the lack thereof post eight months out of the womb that accounts for rampant stupidity. Hooray for choline! Check. Increased mental acuity, here I come...

Bo-red

Boredom. Let's explore.

It's those moments of "life can NOT be this unexciting." In all events, it's raining outside, which gives me something at which to look. If I'm not doing anything interesting, at least the sky is. The thing about boredom though, is that even though I have lots of unsolicited time on my hands, there doesn't seem to be much I feel like doing with it. Like, I could have painted a mural today. Yesterday, I'm sure had I been so inclined, I could have cranked out several chapters of one of my books. Did I do so? Pssshhh, no. Instead, I watched TV, which by no means is a favorite pastime of mine, read a book I had checked out from the library until the words started to run together and my eyes drifted shut, and due to aforementioned drifting, took several naps and then played my Ukulele. But I am remiss: I did, indeed, accomplish one thing of worth to other people, but quickly gave up on going above and beyond, instead slamming my computer shut and walking back through the gray weather to my house to stare at my wall. This even led to spontaneous working out. Maybe that's the secret, folks. Bore yourself almost to death, and then you'll start exercising just for something to do. New workout regiment? Done.

Sigh. It's official. I'm a bum.

Things Jenn Does Not Like To Do

Oh, on this list, there is many a thing, but today, I'd like to focus on just one. Grocery shopping. One of the banes of my existence. Not sure one can have more than one bane, but I say you can and I do. Having to do my own grocery shopping is one of the many, MANY reasons adulthood does not recommend itself to me. I'm sure there are many pros about being an adult; independence, self-sufficiency, being able to rent a car, etc. However, I find most of these over rated and one of the few things adulthood does have to offer that I'm looking forward to, I currently don't get to participate in. Draw your own conclusions.

This idea of pushing a squeaky-wheeled buggy (yeah, that's what I said because that's what it's called) through aisles and aisles of pre-packaged food product, agonizing over whether or not shaved and vacuum-sealed sandwich meat is really worth the dollars pasted on it's price tag, is utterly ridiculous. Who came up with these flourescent lit, warehouse sized refrigerators that consistently pipe bad lite rock out of the speakers as if having to buy stuff there to survive isn't bad enough on it's own without having to listen to Huey Lewis and the News for half an hour? It is NOT hip to be square but it would be very hip to be wielding a buggy that didn't sound like a caboose clacking down train tracks with every trip down an aisle.

In case the previous paragraphs weren't clear, I HATE this task. Even when it is completed, I look in my fridge a few days later only to find that I still have nothing to eat save a sweet potato and bread crumbs. How do these things happen? Because I'm pretty sure I just bought about $50 worth of brilliant food product in hopes of becoming the next Wolfgang Puck, and suddenly it's as if the basement nymphs snuck in during the night and ate all of my food. Bring back my Oreos, ya little punks! I'm craving them now, so I must have picked some up at the Edibles Asylum.

Does Not Love Dogs

When it comes to our furry canine friends, I can usually take them or leave them. However, at the moment, I have two grown labrador retrievers as roommates. When I say roommates, I mean in the sense that I occasionally must take them for walks, pick their steaming, smelly poo up off the sidewalks, and endure their earnest stares and colossal thumping tails as I eat my meals. Good news: such maintenance only falls to me every so often. Bad news, in case you missed it: I'm picking up steaming, smelly dog poo. Let's examine this aspect further.

One, I've never been a stellar primary care provider for canines. In high school, my mother actually took two of my dogs to the pound as I continually forgot to feed them. Before you call the SPCA on me, this was a long time ago, and both of them are in a better place now, I'm sure. Two, even when these two were in my questionable care, they lived outdoors and could poop wherever they damn well pleased. If you stepped in it, well tough titty, go find some pavement on which to vigorously scrape your shoe and move on. Yet in large cities, it is mandated that one eradicate all evidence of canine defecation and disseminate plastic, feces-filled baggies in sporadic city trash cans.

Enter me: not above getting my hands dirty by any means, but I used to have standards. Yet last week I found myself staring at several greenish-brown turds of hazardous bio-waste lying next to a spindly tree growing out of the sidewalk. After using their hind legs to kick dirt in a direction that was nowhere near the crime scene, my "roommates" mingled around, pulling on the leashes like there was nothing left to see.  Turning a plastic bag inside out, I placed my hand in one end, held my breath, and approached. For those of you who have never had this experience, imagine microwaving Play-Doh, rolling it in vomit, and tossing it in a bag of fart smell, and you'll have some idea of what this stuff feels like when there's nothing separating you from it than the thinnest of plastic. After procuring all of the pieces, I tied a knot in the bag but not before catching a whiff and almost tossing my cookies all over the sidewalk. Boomer looked at me, tail wagging and tongue lolling. "Don't even..." I wanted to say. "You did this. We're not friends." I don't think they speak English though, because they both still shadow me in the kitchen. They can be lying on their sides, seemingly oblivious to the world, and one click of fork on plate and heads are up, tails are thumping, and puppy dog eyes are in full effect. I'm immune to such tactics. They may occasionally receive a head scratch, but with the smell of their poo still lingering in my nostrils, there ain't a whole lot of room left for sympathy.

Dear St. Valentine

I'd like to thank you for existing because now, every February 14th, I get a heart shape box of chocolates that never fails to delightfully surprise/disappoint me based on whatever it is into which I bite. (Heaven forbid I leave a dangling preposition there, hence the odd wording. Thank you as well to Mrs. French for schooling me in 10th grade grammar.) The world becomes a wonderland of pink and red construction paper, silvery glitter, paper lace, and boxes and boxes of el-cheapo Valentines for the kiddie boos to hand out to their classmates. My friend Brooke said those boxes always made her nervous because she was afraid she wouldn't have any sitting in her desk, and I thought to myself, what kind of punk kid doesn't give a Valentine to all of his classmates? What a jerk face. Parents, please teach your children that it's the unpopular school kids that need these cheap Valentines the most. These tiny little incidents can be the defining moments in our lives, making or breaking us in preparation for the cruelty to come that is higher grade school. So dang it, I know that nerdy girl in the glasses looks funny and wears mustard yellow all the time, but is it gonna kill you to write her name on a flimsy piece of colorful cardboard? I think not. Take one for the team.

My apologies, St. Valentine, for my preceding rant. I now return to the task at hand. Thank you again for the multifarious chocolates and the abnormal number of people populating Wal-Mart on the day itself thereby proving themselves lazy, inconsiderate bums for not buying a card before the fact; however, it is these very people that create the demand for the burgeoning enterprises that sprout up along highways selling oversized stuffed bears, ridiculous swirly lollipops (guys, we NEVER want these), and flowers that looked like they were reaped from the Sahara. Three cheers for capitalism and taking advantage of people's horrible propensity to procrastinate. Here here!

Sincerely,
Me

German Tales: Hamburger Haffen

By the banks of the river Elbe, Hamburg was colder than a snow cloud. The sky was gray, the seagulls more numerous than the boats, and the smell of fish and brackish water held fast even in the cold. I had boarded my first submarine a few hours previous, the U-434; a rather young Russian submarine that the Germans converted into a museum. It was still partly submerged, and it was like crawling through an entirely metal McDonald's playground except there was a torpedo room, a gajillion controls, pipes, and the creepiest looking mannequins dressed in sailor uniforms I've ever seen. One was lying on a bunk looking like a dead body save for its painted-on features. I suppose they were simply trying to show how small everything was in comparison to a human, but as I am human and was standing right there, I think I got the picture without the eternally grinning Ensign beckoning me into his chamber. Creeptastic. Walking through a submersible, sneaky, Cold War weapon? Very cool.

Afterwards, since we were on the docks, it seemed only fitting that we would try Fischbrotchen, which directly translates to "fish bread." Envisioning a Captain D's style fried fish sandwich, my stomach thought that a grand idea. I ordered, set my things down with the guys, and went to use the toilet. When I came back, the side piece of what looked to have been caught two minutes before was sitting on my plate (no seriously, I swear the fisherman came in and emptied his net on the counter while the waitress grabbed a specimen, sliced off its flanks, plopped it on a bun with a whole mess of raw onions, then served me my sandwich). The guys looked at me expectantly between snickers. "You'll be awesome if you eat that," JC smirked. To which I replied, "I don't have to eat that to be awesome." Nevertheless, the challenge had been issued, and since usually I am of the 'when in Rome' mentality and was so close to the salty river I could have rollerbladed out the door and been submerged in two seconds, I put on my game face, cut off the scaly flank hanging over the edge of my bun, and bit in. My first thought - raw fish, Raw Fish, RAW FISH. Second thought - hmm, a bit sour. Third thought - without these onions, I'd be throwing up right now. Fourth thought - I may be able to do this.

In the midst of my mastications, I watched JC gag a little, but I kept charging through. Round about bite five, I'd had enough. As much as I wanted to reign triumphant over my Fischbrotchen, my mouth no longer wanted to set the taste of raw flesh from the sea and creamy, sugary latte at war. I tossed the entire mess back on my plate and ceded my defeat. JC still looked slightly green, but gave me props nonetheless, and really, what more can you ask for? Further evidence that women are still ruling the world, one chunk of raw fish at a time.

German Tales: Breath of Earth

Germany is dark a lot. Sometimes it seems as if the clouds will never go away, and the people will never shed their unhappy, shades-of-gray coats. In the cities, they dress very chic, layers of winter matching everything just so, and their stylish boots conquering the cobblestones with every step. The villages don't adhere to so strict a dress code: old women wear long, puffy coats from twenty years before, feet tapping the sidewalks clad in shoes rescued from the second World War. Their eyes sit in soft wrinkled flesh but flash with intelligence and impatience. Everything happens on time here, on the dot, and for mistakes, there isn't much room.

On the other hand, I hear them laughing sometimes completely without restraint, and I think to myself that if they did that more, and out of doors, maybe the laughter would punch holes in the dreary clouds, and the sun would show its face again. Of course, I write all of this in winter when it seems the entire universe has never known such a warm and inviting star. Having lived here before, I know that in summer, the foliage is so green it hurts the eyes, the air is fresh and pleasant, and the warmth of the rays caress with promise: if only one can survive the winter. I'd rather inches and inches of snow than this constant, dank dreariness that seeps into my bones.

Other times, I love the fog and the wetness of the leaves on every black sidewalk. The air is a damp, foresty velvet like the breath of Earth itself. Despite the cold, I could swim through it, this cloud that's graced the ground with its visit. It fills my lungs, and life is so solid in that moment I can almost touch it.

German Tales: Garmisch-Partenkirchen

It cracks me up that I walk into a small Backstube (read-bakery) in the Bavarian region of Germany and Kesha is playing on the radio. Among the smell of bread, the heavy wooden accents, and the language floating in the air, that music seems a bit out of place. It doesn't stop me from nodding my head and tapping my foot to the beat, however, while I enjoy my oh so delicious vanilla and chocolate croissant. There's icing on the outside, and Surprise! Gooey chocolate goodness in the middle that's probably getting all over my face. Good thing I'm facing the door so I can smile and greet the locals in mumbly, chocolaty toothed German. "Morgen!"

The weather is drop dead gorgeous and the plan for the day is to go hike an Alp. I wish I could say I've always wanted to say that, that I hiked an Alp, but I haven't always wanted to, just the last couple of days. Ever since I walked out of our hotel and they'd be nonchalantly chilling there, giving me a head-nod and a "What's up? Yeah, that's snow you see. You know you wanna come play in it." Yes, Mr. Alp. Yes I do. And crunch on it in my snow boots. Alpine glory, here I come.

Quote of the Week

"Maybe happiness was an hourglass already running out, the grains tipping, sifting past one another. Maybe it was a state of mind... a country you could sculpt out of air and then dance into."
- Paula McClain, The Paris Wife

Whiteout

It snowed all day on Monday. I woke up to three or four inches on the ground, and the sky continued to sputter out sporadic smatterings of flakes until finally letting it all loose again in floating wet tendrils until dark. This is unusual for the South and made all the headlines of the newspaper that arrived a day late and was the top story of the evening news. The upside was playing in it and getting snow up my shirt from making a snow angel and watching the birds hop around in it like they'd been transported to another planet. They were practically looking at each other saying, "We already are south for the winter."

The downside, for those of us no longer in school, was the city and the county shut down. No newspaper, roads covered with re-located slush that completely froze over, and coffee houses whose one employee couldn't make it in to open up meaning that, once again, I was relegated to a world with no internet. The information highway hasn't been open my entire life, but I am at a loss as to how people got anything done in the early days. What did we do for fun before TV shows and movies were streaming at our fingertips? Watched the birds play in the snow, I guess. And made snow cream from the piles of it scooped off my truck hood. YUM. Sure glad the ozone is clean... or wait....

Soda and Eggs

Gramma's asides to herself while flipping through the grocery store advertisments: "Organic peanut butter? Now how good can that be?"

A few minutes later: "'Delicious organic strawberry preserves.' How more organic can you get? They already come from the ground."

It's the little things, folks. She makes me giggle. In addition to getting a laugh from the priceless gems that either of my grandparents utter on any given occasion, by staying with them, I'm also in danger of turning into a toasted deviled egg sandwich that pees Cheerwine; a soda that I'm convinced is the nectar of the gods. For those of you unfamiliar with the glorious south, if Dr. Pepper and Cherry Coke got married and had little soda babies, they'd all be called Cheerwine. This stuff is so addictive that several of Grampa's brothers who no longer inhabit southern North Carolina request/demand through telephone lines that he bring cases of it down with him to the annual family reunion. I'm not much better myself as it's the one staple I require in any care package. I don't think soda is supposed to be shipped through the mail, but I think Gramma and Grampa get a kick out of surrounding the cans with bubble wrap and packets of grits so that the postmaster can't hear the liquid slosh when Grampa hands the package over the counter. They always ask if there's anything liquid or perishable in them. He leans all nonchalant on the counter and lies. I mean, everybody needs a little clandestine spy activity in their life, and in Gaston County, there just isn't much opportunity for that. They take it where they can.

In conclusion, despite the numerous moments of being bored out of my skull here, I am consoled by an unlimited supply of Cheerwine. And deviled egg sandwiches. The world isn't all bad.