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Amy
I’m gonna tell y’all one story, although I have hundreds relating to deer. It is the account of the one time I went deer hunting. I know what you’re thinking: “Amy? In the woods? To shoot a deer?” I know, it’s preposterous. There are ticks there. And deer are graceful and agile and beautiful….and I’m so decidedly NOT. I was eleven years old. My uncle, having decided there were no boys forthcoming in the family, had taken me under his supervision for all things outdoors. It started simply enough, with frisbee throwing. I was the blue ribbon winner of my Kindergarten class on Field Day. And Field “Day” used to be a week, in my glory days. But it looked weird when I typed it. Uncle Dale also taught me a great many more things, including varieties of trees, how to tie my lures, how to fish, how to clean a fish, how to double knot my shoelaces so I wouldn’t eat dirt, how to shoot a pistol, a rifle, AND a muzzleloader. I assisted him when he processed deer, and I picked up sticks for the duration of my childhood under his watchful eye. He gave me my first dog and my first knife. He gave me $5.00 for my own crawdad lure, but he didn’t buy me a My Little Pony kite from McDonalds. He’s…
I used to never hit snooze. Now I hit it almost every morning, unless there’s a really good song playing. I’m really digging my new station. I like to listen to nearly everything, and they very nearly play everything. Tear in my beer country, pop from the last four decades, Beach Boys and the like, and I guess you could call it Indie Rock for those songs I’m not familiar with. I pet my dog and rub his warm ears. I void my bladder and start drinking water. I do a little virtual farming. I look at the clock. I do a little Facebookin’. I look at the clock and sigh and hop in the shower. I clean my ears with a q-tip even though everyone says you’re not supposed to and that one did come apart on me that time. I scrub my face, scrutinizing it for fading freckles, newly arisen blemishes, and the always present forehead wrinkle. I pick out clothes to match my attitude. Or sometimes, in contrast to my attitude. I pile on the jewelry. I roll my eyes at my fat legs and add cute shoes. I sigh at my hair. I drive and bask in the luxury that is Maggie, reflecting on Patsy and her jarring ride. I sing along to some empowering females, most usually Brandy Clark, Pistol Annies, and Cyndi Lauper. I make coffee. I type, I file, I chat on the…
Of course a January topic would be “New You”. New Year’s Resolutions and all that. Every year I say I’m gonna do better. I’m not gonna cuss so much, I’m gonna quit being such a gossip, I’m gonna stay off the internet and quit ordering books and start reading the ones I already have. It never works. I rarely even make it to the afternoon of January 1st. So this year I said I was gonna write more. I adopted a second writing challenge. I was doing alright till last weekend, when I became a lazy slug. I was exhausted from packing up all my Christmas decorations and I finally had a clean house and I just wanted to lay around and enjoy it. Which I did, and no writing was accomplished. I have also abandoned all hope of keeping my checkbook balanced. I’ll just have to spot check my bank. Or something. *yawn* But I tell you what I HAVE been doing. I’ve started going to spin. Spin? you ask. Yes. That’s a stationary bike that you pedal. And you don’t just pedal lackadaisically, you pedal like the hounds of hell are nipping at your feet. You engage the resistance, and you feel like you’re pedaling underwater because by then you’re sweating so hard you think you’re swimming. I take my glasses off…
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…
