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Amy
My hair was the wrong color So I dyed it And I felt much better I wouldn’t put up with it So I left And I took my horse And the cookie dough I couldn’t stand it And I told them so And they didn’t take me seriously So I left And I was happy For a time You were all I dreamed of But it was an illusion And I thought I could fight it But you wouldn’t stand beside me And so I sent you on your way Do you see the pattern I finally do I have a low tolerance for bullshit And I won’t put up with it Not for five minutes Not for forty years And I don’t trust any of you…
Sometimes I have words, sometimes I don’t. But I know that by writing it, I’m much more likely to get it right than if I try to say it with my mouth. I usually have an idea of what I want to talk about before I sit down to write. Sometimes I have to look at writing prompts to kick-start my motor. Since I’m not getting out a whole lot, I’m limited on subjects. Y’all can only read so much about my dog. One of my favorite columnists could benefit from this notion. I sometimes think if I have to read one more article about baseball or his dead daddy (who’s been gone way longer than he was ever here) I’m gonna send him a list of other stuff to write about. Just when I can’t take any more, he’ll pop off one about pound cake or some old lady eating alone at Cracker Barrel or something, and I’m good for another month or so. Anyway….yesterday I wrote about the herbicide thing. Well, really it was about women needing to pull themselves up by their flip-flop straps and believe in themselves what needs to be done, can be done. BY THEM. Sure, it’s nice to have a man around for the gunky parts of life, like plumbing, or the parts you just don’…
I sat on the porch today, watching birds. It wasn’t like I didn’t have anything else to do. But I like to watch birds. I’ve thought many times, as no doubt many of you have, about what it would be like to fly. More specifically, what it would be like to be a bird. In the past, I’ve thought I would most like to be a hummingbird. They’re fast, they’re tiny, they’re brilliantly colored, everybody likes them, and they hover like a helicopter and can fly backwards. Lots of friendly people feed them sugar water, which, I imagine, is the avian equivalent of Mountain Dew. This all sounds quite ideal to me. However, I have been giving this more thought. Hummingbirds have to fly south for winter. That’s a long way for such a little bird. And I don’t hear them do a lot of chirping. Which made me think about the mockingbird. Mockingbirds aren’t stuck with one birdsong throughout their lives. They’re gifted and continuously chatter with over twenty different voices. As much as I like to talk, this would be peerless. And, as an added bonus, they’re the state bird. But then I got to feeling guilty, because about the time I landed on being a mockingbird, the barn swallows showed up, calling and darting through the sky, chasing bugs. I love swallows so…
I have a confession. I used to silently judge these women that would come into Co-op and not know anything about killing weeds or, conversely, growing grass. They would ask me to put their $10 one gallon sprayer together before they left. “My husband always did this,” they would explain, sometimes glancing a little forlornly at their empty wedding ring finger. I would try (and often fail, I’m sure) to avoid rolling my eyes. I would instruct them on how much herbicide to mix, frequently using my ever-present mountain dew can as a prop. (I also did this for the men, because 100% of people carry the misconception that the more weed killer you use, the better. So wrong. So, so wrong.) Anyway, I haven’t mixed up or sprayed herbicide in ages and found both my sprayers gommed up because the last time they were used they didn’t get cleaned out. I was not the last one to use them, tyvm. So I had to prance in Co-op yesterday and buy a new one. I was on a cake delivery, anyway. I got my new Chapin sprayer out of the box this morning to use and was instantly assaulted by memories of the dozens I assembled for ladies. I had almost forgotten what a joy it is to spray herbicide. I felt like the Terminator. I hope that every woman I ever helped felt just a little bit more…
These old men Mountains Men of the mountains Mountains made these men The ground cold into May Wet till October And then the gold is abundant Don’t pan- just look up Salamanders scurry And squirrels scold And bear chew Lazy, arrogant Brides with wildflower halos And dulcimers on the porch Chicken and dumplins on Sunday After Bible thumpin’ amens Old baying dogs with black patches Flogging roosters Rusted tools hanging forgotten But don’t kill the black snake Didja hear about Shorty Gonna run ’em a cobbler Porch swing’s squeakin’ What to do with all this squash Yes ma’am And thank you Please don’t trouble yourself Prettiest quilt I ever laid eyes on There’s watermelon And sweet tea Cousins are all comin’ too Just wanna drop in this heat We’re headed to the lake To the funeral home Just want to set a spell All we do is run run run Rain’s on the way Mail’s late Kids comin’ in for Thanksgiving Can’t wait to get to the beach So green it’ll hurt your eyes So humid you can wring the water off of you So slow you think you’ll never get there And everybody’s talkin’ ’bout football Stay Southern, y’all Love from Appalachia, ~Amy…
I’ve fallen super far behind on these writing prompts (shocker) but when I was looking at the topics this morning for ideas (I’ve got the itch again) this one jumped right out. I’m a great example of a person you would come to for precisely this kind of advice. “Hey Amy, what’s fun to do in Knoxville?” “Hey, Amy, if you had one day in Pigeon Forge, what would you do?” “Hey, Amy, whatd’ya think about ridin’ this horse?” But the monumental worst decision I tend to make is….”Yes! Cotton Eyed Joes sounds like a FANTASTIC IDEA!” It’s not. It never has been. And I’ve not even been in more than ten years, but it was a terrible idea then, too. Cotton Eyed Joes is a bad idea of catastrophic proportions. It sounds like fun, let your hair down a little, have some beers, laugh at some drunk folks trying to dance or ride the mechanical bull, and then…..then it’s two o’clock in the morning and you’ve had two fishbowls, nine beers, and a line of cocaine and you’re the drunk girl on the bull….or you’re hunting “the queer in the yellow vest” to go the hell home. See how it deteriorates? QUICKLY. And then you’ve gotta…
I do not stop for him I will not even pause But if he gives chase I will give him a smile over my shoulder I will flip my hair And arch my eyebrow And maddeningly For both he and I I will pretend that he’s the one Even though I know better And he should, too But I trust my name in his mouth And I love when he tells me little things It’s like Drops of nectar from a honeysuckle flower Never enough But sweet all the same What I offer him Is myself Uncensored Honest Bare I don’t know why But I don’t need a reason…
Day 2. Some place you are grateful for. Oh myyyyyyyyy. Right now I’m grateful for all the places. All the places I can go (home, work, Food City) and all the places I used to could go. (Yes, that was intended to sound redneck. Cause I AM.) I know. I’m grateful to Holston’s. Sevierville needed them so badly and we didn’t even know. We needed a sit down lunch spot on this side of town, without having to go plumb up to Pigeon Forge or getting out on 66. We needed a place that served good food for a reasonable price, nothing fancy and some different dishes from what Ruby Tuesday’s has had for a thousand years. We needed a place to gather for a relaxing drink after work and a good spot for little groups and still private enough for a dinner date. Holston’s remains virtually undiscovered by the tourists, so you’re bound to run into someone you know when you go. The waitstaff doesn’t have a huge amount of turnover, and so they learn your preferences on where you want to sit and your favorite libation. I always feel welcome and appreciated under their care. It seems like I’ve eaten there at least once with nearly everybody I know. It’s my go-to. I like their catfish and coleslaw better than anywhere. Any time someone is unfamiliar with…
Wouldn’t it be nice to remember things as you wished they happened, but not as the actually did? Well, one of the small joys of being a tortured writer, is that I can rewrite history to my liking and visit it at will. I’m not usually one to bide my time. I like carpe diem and all that jazz. Dessert first. Explosive. But that’s not always wise, as I’ve come to learn. I found out about the indiscretion through his own stupidity. Isn’t that how it goes? These cocky men, underestimating the intuition of the woman they’ve been sharing a life with. They also tend to underestimate our cunning vengeance, thinking we are much to sweet to react with such murderous contempt. And so, after I talked to my attorney and realized that, yet again, it had not served me well to be a self-sufficient woman for so long. Because I had always had a steady income, and the lodgings originated in my family, and we had no children, I would get little to nothing from the man who had so easily taken my trust and reputation and totally wrecked the illusion I had of our marriage. I decided I would get it all, anyway. And the sooner the better, because no doubt he was squandering every dime on that crack whore. It was coming up on my birthday, and of course I preferred to celebrate out…
You ever feel like enough is enough? As Gus says, “That. Is. E-NOUGH.” I can’t take one more quarantine post. Not one more. Whether it’s funny, political, informational, factual, or pure made up CRAP, I’m DONE. So. Here is my reprieve. And yours too, if you want it. Day One (too bad I’m not starting this on the first, but that’s just like me, a day late (or six, but who’s counting?) and a dollar short). Someone you are grateful for. Well, I’m grateful to a lot of people but in the spirit of keeping this light, I’m gonna be grateful to the writing team on the Greatest Sitcom Of All Time: FRIENDS. Bright/Kauffman/Crane. I mean, they’ve kept me going all these years, through good times and bad. You could always depend on them for a laugh a minute. Still, to this day, I will laugh out loud watching that show. And I’ve seen every episode at least three dozen times. It wasn’t always squeaky clean jokes, but it wasn’t nearly as raunchy as what’s on now and passes for comedy at prime time. Chandler, Rachel, Monica, Joey, Phoebe, and Ross keep me in stitches no matter what they were doing. And they did A LOT in ten years. They played endless games of foozball, got married, got divorced…
