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Monthly Archives: January 2019
On December 13th, my Aunt Brenda and I journeyed to Maryville to pick up the little Nativity figurine. And a slice of cookie cake, turns out. You saw the blog. We were sitting at Chili’s when, for whatever reason, my Dad crossed my mind. I wonder about him every few years or so. I haven’t seen him since I was 18. It’s crossed my mind a hundred times if he even remembers I exist, and said so to Aunt Bren. “Oh, I’m sure he does! He loved you so good. I can still see him holding your little hand as you went across the yard.” This gave me pause. Dad always was good about taking me to feed the cows, taking me fishing, taking me to White Star. I remember him allowing me to ride in the back of his red S-10 pickup, and later attempting to teach me how to drive a 5 speed in his brand spanking new Shelby Mustang in the desolate Kmart parking lot. He had much better luck with the fishing lessons. He took me to Dollywood regularly on our scheduled Sunday visits, and lots of times to McDonalds. I remember he had a goofy laugh, an easy sense of humor, and skinny legs. I have inherited his mischievous blue eyes, snorting laugh, and curly brown hair. Unfortunately, I did not get his skinny legs. So I dwelt on this a bit in the…
I’m here to help because I’m totally exasperated with the male race who pretend not to know ANYTHING about women. Here’s you a How-To. That’s how to make your woman happy. #1) Tell her she looks pretty. Because she does. #2) Tell her her hair looks nice. Because she probably did spend more than thirty seconds on it, like y’all did. We have A LOT MORE HAIR AND IT’S ANNOYING. #3) Hold her hand and open her doors. Take her coat. Walk closest to traffic. Manners. #4) Pick the restaurant. For the love of all things Holy, PICK THE RESTAURANT. We will find something to eat, I assure you. We just don’t want to have to make one more decision on this day. And if we’re craving something, rest assured we’ll tell you what it is. #5) Chick-fil-A is never wrong. #6) Find out her favorite wine and surprise her with it frequently #7) Buy her a pony. 😁 You might wanna put this in your back pocket to save for when you’ve screwed up. #8) Stop by her work. It’s ok to show up empty handed, as long as you’re smiling. #9) Offer to pick up milk and bread. #10) Text her regularly. If you think of her, text her. Even if it’s just an emoji. She won’t mind…
Today was the big day!! Book fair day! This rates right up there with Thanksgiving and my birthday for me. We go to the library, where Rhonda has carefully cultivated a selection of about twenty books for us to choose from. We vote for twelve, and the ones with the highest number of votes go on our list for next year’s book club picks. We’re the Pageturners, so there is always an eclectic mix of current literature, suspense/ thriller, classics, chick lit, fantasy, with maybe a YA or apocalyptic one thrown in. It’s a blast, especially if there’s a tie and the ones who want to read it lobby for more votes. This probably sounds super nerdy to those of you who don’t devour books like the four of us us do, but let me tell you, I look forward to this day all year. Then, we go to the eatery of choice and have dinner and drinks and discuss the previous month’s selection. January’s pick was The Night the Lights Went Out by Karen White. Of course I’ve been fiddle farting around for some time now and didn’t get it read. I’m about halfway, but I had it figured out, for the most part. It didn’t matter. I’m there for the food. I mean, companionship. 😂🤣 We had a great time, discussing everything from Nazis to…
{#777 “I shouldn’t have consumed that water from Saturn”} My name is Amy Farrah Fowler Cooper. I married the world famous string physicist Sheldon Cooper in a small ceremony five years ago, and to date, this has been my greatest accomplishment. Admittedly, this is a fairly disparaging state of affairs, as I should be as famous as he is for my work in neuro-biology. But I’m not. So, one day about four years ago, Rajesh came to me bragging about how they were putting a man on Saturn like they had back in the sixties with the moon. Howard was designing a top-secret Rover for it. Howard would not be going, seeing as how the one fiasco in space nearly did him in. Of course, the excitement was palatable among our little group. And now we await the return of our cadet and all the spoils from deep space nine. Rocks for the geology lab. Some dirt for the ecologists. And data for everyone! Except me. I could study the brains of the astronauts, but I didn’t expect to find anything different than I ever had before. Maybe some endorphins from going where no man had ever gone before, pardon the pun, but no Earth shattering evidence of anything. I was bemoaning my woes to Sheldon that evening over dinner when he said in that offhand way he has with actual interesting information (instead of his usual tedious fact sharing…
I can only think of one story I want to tell. There’s this local color here in the mountains. Fly fisherman extraordinaire; he’s been featured on the Heartland Series several times. Everyone knows him for his singin’, and his late daddy for his preachin’. He’s an excavator by trade, but a big cut up at heart. To know him truly is to love him. So one day, I’m standing at my post behind the counter at the Co-op and he ambles up with his long legged stride. I don’t know how he finds overalls to fit. Toothpick in his mouth, he says to me, “How ya doin’ girl?” Same as always. I grin. “Just fine, Mr. Ball. And how are you today?” “Oh, I’m a-gittin’ by. I been at the hospital a-visitin’.” “Oh no, I hope whoever it is gets well! The hospital is no place to be.” “You’re tellin’ me!” As always, a smile was playing on his lips and his eyes twinkled. I had no doubt he had brightened the day of whoever it was he went to see, just as he always brightens mine. “I got in the elevator, and it was busy, you know. Lotta people sick this time of year. Anyway, there was seven or eight of us in there, and…
{#411 The story you shouldn’t have overheard on the bus} I was looking at their shoes and thinking they didn’t belong. I admit, I judge people by their footwear. I can’t help it, I profile. Forrest was right, you can tell a lot about people by looking at their shoes. Where they are headed, where they’d been. And these Christian Louboutin’s did NOT belong on a scuzzy old city bus past midnight, or any other time. You’ll find duct taped running shoes on the bus. Or polished-within-an-inch-of-their-life secondhand oxfords. Or sensible thick soled lunchlady shoes. People eking their way through life, working two jobs in order to scrape by. But never Louboutin’s. Maybe some knockoffs on a hooker, some that she’d painted the soles red to fool no one. Because the people who knew what Louboutin’s were knew they weren’t gonna find ’em on a girl painted up like a brazen hussy at two o’clock in the afternoon. But as I was saying, it wasn’t two o’clock in the afternoon. It was two in the morning and I sat very still in my muddy Redwing work boots, pretending to look at my phone but really watching a guy on the aisle two rows up on the right, silently nodding along to his iPod music. Or maybe he…
You have to wait 21 years for the privilege of learning about people. You will find no more truthful person above the age of five than you will at the bar. You will find no bigger liar than you will at the bar. You will find love, heartache, loneliness, and elation at the bar. You will find quick tempers, bruised egos, generous and agonized souls at the bar. You will find great senses of humor and know-it-alls and the barely literate at the bar. You can also find excellent examples of these in almost any church pew, but I’ve found that you get to know them much more quickly over a Miller Light than a hymnal. Once upon a time, at a bar in Gatlinburg that has been closed for at least ten years, the bartender said something that has stuck with me forevermore. “Don’t ask, just pour.” I was eating twenty-five cent wings. It was Monday. I had been at work all day. His wisdom was beyond his years. I did want more beer, but I don’t think he was only referring to my empty glass. A good bartender knows to let the patron initiate conversation. I didn’t want to talk about why I was at the bar without my boyfriend. I didn’t want to talk about my crappy day spent waiting on the ungrateful spoiled public. I didn’t want to do…
{#112 A man goes to a pawn shop with one single item. What is the item, why is he at the pawn shop?} Jena chose C, the word prompt is peanuts. This should truly be a challenge…🙄 ********************************** He was down on his luck. He was down on his knees. He was in a pawnshop two towns over. “They’re magic beans,” he assured her. “Man, you crazy!” She replied, flipping a long braid over her left shoulder, popping her grape gum loudly. This was followed by the drumbeat of her outrageously painted nails on the scuffed glass countertop. Girl sure could make a lot of noise. “I’ll give you a dollar, Jack, and that’s just because I’m kinda hungry and don’t want to eat another candy bar.” “They’re magic beans,” he insisted. He was here because these truly priceless magic beans, disguised as lowly legumes, had broken him. They had broken him mentally, physically, and financially. He would have sold his soul to the devil as a young man to get his hands on them…but now…now they only caused him pain and remorse. “They’ll take you anywhere you wanna go. You just gotta believe.” “Where I come from, you put ’em in a RC cola and watch ’em fizz,” she said absently. He shrugged, keeping his eyes steady…
{#63 Word count 200. You are on death row. Describe in detail your final meal} It arrived on a styrofoam plate but even that couldn’t diminish my delight. The bacon wrapped filet, prepared medium rare, was the most perfect piece of bovine excellency I had ever laid eyes on. (It could nearly be cut with my fork, but I had been allowed a plastic knife for the occasion). Paired with a two pound sweet potato, dripping with cinnamon butter and brown sugar, I couldn’t get it in my mouth fast enough. There was spinach maria too, creamy, cheesy, salty, and steaming. I sunk my fork into the shallow dish and watched the cheese stretch. A marvel. I gulped the sweet tea and reveled in memories of decades ago, on my momma’s porch, before everything went so wrong. Mama tried. Lord, she tried. The roll I requested was hefty with quality grains and yeast. I slathered it with butter and didn’t look up except to eye the turtle cheesecake patiently waiting for me with a glass of milk. I took my time, relishing in every bite, savoring the texture and all the flavors. Bless the hands that prepared it, and the farmers that grew it. Let them never know the evil that I had in me…
You don’t have to crack the spine to read a book. I’d prefer you never crack it at all. If given the opportunity and GIFT of holding a brand new book in your hands, simply open it, fan through the pages a couple of times and gently bend the front and back covers 90°. That’s all that is necessary for breaking in a new book. Now, once you’ve chosen your new book, or it has chosen you, as is so often the case, you just open it up and get to reading. My preference is to be in a chair I can nest in, with my water and chapstick nearby, under a good light. I plan to stay awhile. I don’t want to be sidetracked, so I don’t have my phone near my person. I might even bring snacks. And then I’m whisked away, often to the Lowcountry, but sometimes my Book Club forces me out of my comfort zone and I have to read about the poor women in Kabul, or tribes in Africa two hundred years ago. Sometimes I don’t read about people at all. The best part about reading is there are no rules. Whenever I meet someone who says they don’t like to read, after I swallow my disdain and overall nausea, I quickly ask them about their interests. And guess what? People always enjoy reading something, whether…
