This should be fun, as I am still about 10% lit.

So I was still mildly grumpy this morning: residual from yesterday. I was trying to just live in the moment, as I’m constantly encouraging y’all to do. My commute wasn’t even strenuous; I came right on up the road, jamming to Whiskey Myers. I love me some Whiskey Myers. Anyway, I got situated at work, ate my breakfast, and as it goes, I started to feel altogether better about life. It’s just a matter of prioritizing aggravations where they belong and knocking out chores.

So after awhile I decided to return my steel voting box and see if I could get in to cast my vote in the primary, and even more importantly, the heat for school board. There aren’t many things I like better than voting. And since not a one of y’all jerks brought me cupcakes, I needed a boost. So off I went.

The commission is forever friendly. They didn’t have much going on, and gladly relieved me of my steel box burden. The little feller who showed me to my machine was ever patient and knowledgeable about how to cast my votes. I told him I was very familiar with the process; I vote early and often 🤣 but he was just doing his job, and it’s a lot to memorize, so I let him rattle on. He did ask if I was having a nice Valentines. Sure, buddy.

On my way out, I enlightened the men working the exit proceedings that it is historically bad luck to go out a door you didn’t come in. David McNabb would have fought you over this detail. I didn’t push the issue, but that’s not to say I liked it.

Then, while I was on that end of town, I decided to brave the “little Walmart”. As a rule, I don’t like Walmart, but they are cheaper on vegetables and canned stuff, so I bought a few things. $100 worth of a “few” things 🙄 it sure doesn’t take long. Especially if you have to have a bottle of wine.

Let’s see. After that I came back to work and scarfed down my Caesar salad and was perusing Facebook when Blackhorse’s dang Valentines ad came back up. I am such a sucker. I simply cannot resist crème brûlée. The more I thought about it, the better idea it seemed.

So off I went.

Did it occur to me that the funeral for fallen officer McCowan would be traveling the same path as me? Of course not, because I hadn’t done my research and thought that all that had transpired in the middle of the day today. Did anyone have the foresight to warn me? Well, yes, sort of, but it was too late and I was like a fly in a spiderweb before I knew I was upon it.

But truthfully, I did not mind. I felt an odd sense of gratitude and remorse as I sat in traffic to honor the man who gave all. And I also had the wayward thought that if one wanted to commit a crime in Blount County, now was your opportunity.

I saw officers, rescue squad personnel, and firemen from all neighboring municipalities. There was a cavalcade of privately owned motorcycles bringing up the rear after the cruisers. All I could do was turn my headlights on, my radio off, and weep silently. I couldn’t begin to imagine the grief and anger behind the wheels of every car. It stretched for literal miles, and I only bore witness to the tail end.

It took me over an hour and a half to travel the same distance I can typically make in 45 minutes, and that was with turning around and taking a side street. But I am not complaining. I would not be an officer of the law for any amount of money. Someone posted a live video yesterday of them bringing down the convict, and I had to stop watching. The blatant disrespect and complete rudeness of this videographer was enough to make me want to crawl through my phone and mash her mouth. Against concrete. Over and over until maybe brain matter leaked through her nose.

Anyway.

I finally made it to Blackhorse, and my hopes were dashed about sitting at the bar with all the fun singles. Two barstools remained, one was being saved for a girl and the other was staked out with some roses, a beer, and a “reserved” sign for Officer McCowan.

“Table for one, then, please,” I said to the perky hostess who couldn’t conceal her quick flash of pity for me, alone on the commercialized love day. I flashed a winsome grin and dropped a wink as she showed me to table sixteen, where I was quickly greeted by my bartender from last week. I ordered the gin and elderflower. Once it was placed before me, I warned him, “I’m gonna knock the bottom outta this’n, and you’re gonna bring me another’n.”

I delivered my half of the promise, and when he came back by, he said, “I looked and you had just took a sip, and I looked again and it was half gone!”

“I told you I wasn’t messin’ around. I ain’t kiddin’.”

“I can see that.” And he had another one delivered.

When he asked if I wanted a third, of course I did, but my eyebrows weren’t acting right, so I decided I better get the trout on the way, too.

I love making my dreams come true. The last time I had done something this rash and outwardly selfish on a holiday was Thanksgiving 2019, when I took myself over to The Boathouse on Isle of Palms and had lobster and steak and sweet tater casserole at the bar with the locals. We sat with bare feet dangling off barstools and passed homemade liquor around and talked about how crazy our families and exes were. I loved it.

I stole a glance at the bar. Most people, surprisingly, were coupled up, as was the rest of the restaurant. There was a table of four guys who kept looking my way like I was an aquarium exhibit. Maybe I was and didn’t know it. I basked in my knowledge that I was happier than 9/10s of the people in the dining room. Most were on their phones. Several had children in tow. A few just looked patently miserable. I was the only mermaid, and the only single diner.

I sipped my third drink and smiled. If anybody asked, I was a travel blog writer on a mission. Nobody asked, but that’s still what I was, instead of a single girl with a penchant for fish and flaming custard.

The sweet honey kept trying to bring me cocktail #4, but I knew I had overindulged as it was, so I sipped my coke and scraped my bowl and watched as the night wore on.

I had the sweetest guy waiting for me at home. He wasn’t even mad I didn’t bring him a to-go order or flowers or bling bling. He simply wagged his tail in a circle and gave me a very wet kiss ❤️

I sure hope y’all have someone who loves you half as much as mine does. I hope you got flowers, candy, and jewelry, if that’s what you wanted. I hope you know what love is really all about. Love doesn’t always say “I love you”. Usually, love asks if you if you made it home okay, and if you had a good day, and how you slept. Love will check on you through the day and wish you luck in your endeavors. Love is interested in you and your activities. Love wishes you the best, all day, every day. Love is protection and security and awareness. Love is forehead kisses and teasing and holding hands when nobody’s looking. Love looks out for you. As first Corinthians tells us, it does not boast. I know you want to sing from the rooftops when you’re loved, but another loved us first, and loves us best. Furthermore, love yourself. ❤️

Valentines. Still a racket. But I sure am glad I got my favorite dessert today.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

Postscript: I said in a text yesterday to my friend Stacy and I meant to include it but I forgot and now I don’t see a good place to work it in: it’s a waste of money and shallow and thoughtless. Love me the other Wednesdays, the other 364 days a year. Love me when I’ve had a shitty Monday or I’m sitting in traffic mad. Love me when I’m unloveable, not when the calendar tells you to. Love me with effort.