I think I’m gonna start writing fantasy. Because people sure do love running their mouths. So maybe if I write something clearly so fictional they’ll at least look incredibly stupid to people they repeat it to. Why are people so invested in one another’s love lives? It brings to mind Taylor Swift. Who freaking gives a hoot who her boyfriend is? And if he’s a football player, shouldn’t she be at the games, cheering him on? I thought that was kinda the point of being in a relationship— a show of support. Or have I missed the point entirely of what people are griping about? I don’t know, and I also haven’t figured out the rage over Stanley cups. I think they’re kinda ugly, and wasn’t Yeti the thing to have? I’m so confused. I just wanna go crawl in a cave and read poetry to my dog. I could use another foot of snow…as long as my power stays on.
Anyway, how are y’all?
I’m feeling disgruntled, thanks for asking. I need a big dose of GRACE, because my fuse is running very short on a lot of subjects lately. Or maybe it’s running low on certain people. I’m just glad I’m not in retail anymore because it’s just a matter of time before I turn into the main character in a slasher movie. *melting emoji*
Just kidding. I can’t afford a breakdown. And Chessie would miss me.
My book that I was halfway enjoying went back today. I thought it said Wednesday. It obviously did not, because today is Tuesday. And it’s gone. And has a fifteen week wait. Yay. I’ll forget the entire plot by then. So how many books have I read this year, you’d like to know? Oh, that’s one. Uno. I should be at four.
The blood work went fine this morning, not that you asked. Not that you remembered. She only poked me the once. My vein quit before they were done, but she said they’d just hafta work with what they got. You know you have crappy veins when your doctor has trouble finding one. And isn’t very excited at the prospect of trying again. Ehh, I knew I wasn’t perfect. 😉
Oh. Lemme tell you. I sat through five cycles of the main light in Sevierville this morning before it ever changed for us. That was after I noticed something was wrong and started counting. There were people in line just peeling off and turning around. Beat all I’ve ever seen. I was calling the police department when it finally gave us a green. But I still had to wait for the next cycle. What a pain.
I am so tired. At least I have clean sheets. I am very much looking forward to going to bed after a long hot shower. I guess this is what old age is like: I don’t want to be bothered, I want people to stay off my grass, and I want to drink hot chocolate and read books in my cozy chair. Some people might call it loneliness. I call it peace.
Enough with all this. I’m starting to give myself an ulcer.
We walked over to Graze today from the office. If you’re gonna eat that unhealthy, the least you can do is walk to get it. They don’t open till 12 (winter hours since all the tourists are gone) so we walked around downtown a bit. My young, naïve coworkers weren’t aware that our courthouse was actually a working courthouse. I guess they thought it was just for show??? Not sure. But I walked them through it. And of course we had to go see Dolly.
We also passed by my favorite downtown house, the Dwight & Kate Wade house, a replica of a home showcased at the 1939 World’s Fair. Here’s the link to the walking tour: https://visitsevierville.com/Images/pdfs/SeviervilleHistoricWalkingTour.pdf
I just love old houses. I love a lot of old stuff, including the old ways of doing many things. Technology is convenient, but is there any replacement for face to face interaction? I think we all had better manners before we lived behind keyboards.
I said I wasn’t gonna do that.
All in all, not a bad day. My onion rings were on point, as usual. My Amazon stuff made it home. I had a good long chat with one of my favorite producers who has overcome yet another health issue. My coworkers are laid-back. I’m warm and dry. My dog is happy with life, and I should be so pleased with my lot in life, as well. And I am, I am. I’m just in a contrary mood. Maybe it’s the mud. Just the daily grime and slog that is winter. It’s not all crystalline peppermint. But I feel at this point, I’m just working for the weekend. Ah-wa-ooo…
Little short on love and definitely patience,
~Amy
January stretches on. I can’t say I’m sad to see it end, even I have my limits of enduring cold mud. And of course the week of entrapment due to snow didn’t help paint these thirty one days in a favorable light.
I have been reading Sean Dietrich’s column for years. I was all about him for the longest. You know we even exchanged a few emails after I won a little contest he had….even though he accidentally announced in his podcast another person as the winner. It wasn’t the end of the world, and he went to the trouble of sending me a specially selected matchbox Chevy truck. After awhile, his columns started getting a bit repetitive, waxing nostalgic about his father who committed suicide. I tried to be sympathetic because we’re told to write what we know about. And writing is good therapy, too. So I got to skimming those. And the baseball ones. I don’t care for baseball, unless I’m watching it in person, in the shade, with a beer in one hand and Cracker Jacks in the other. But to give him credit, he did try to make them entertaining. Then Covid came along, and I was up to my eyeballs with every bit of that immediately. So I quit reading him altogether because of all the triggers.
Then he got this blind bloodhound and suckered me back in. But lately I’ve been on the outs again as he wrote about a little blind girl and a number of other children with debilitating ailments. I just can’t take it. I like the human interest stories about love at the Waffle House. And angels. I like reading about peoples’ encounters with angels. It’s generally an optimistic column, but sometimes I don’t want sunshine blown up my hindquarters. Sometimes I want to read about how he had a perfectly crappy day for no good reason at all. Because that’s normal.
All this to say I don’t want to become like Sean Dietrich to y’all. Even though today’s installment was pretty good. It wasn’t good enough to warrant a love button from me, but it was alright. I think I’m reserving my likes and loves for the bloodhound.
Which brings me to my own journaling for today.
I had to go in for bloodwork first thing. Amy on a Monday morning isn’t always sparkling, and Amy on a Monday morning before breakfast and coffee isn’t someone to cross, period. The nurse offers me a smile and asks which arm is preferable. I cut to the chase. “They both suck, everybody has trouble, my veins run sideways, and if you talk about it, I pass out. And yes, I’ve had three bottles of water already today. Sorry I’m what you get first thing.”
She looked a little taken aback, so I started bragging on all the Valentine’s decorations and her eagle tattoo to show her I wasn’t Satan’s bride. She puts the tourniquet on my left arm and pokes around. Breathes a little deep. “I’m just gonna check your hand….hmmm.” She takes it off that arm and switches it to the other. More deep breathing. She looks over my hand like a reverse palm reader. More sighing. “I’m not seeing anything I feel confident about…”
“Neither does anybody else. I tell you, Amber and that little bitty skinny girl can usually get it with a poke or two.”
Too bad they weren’t there.
“How do you feel about going over to the hospital where that’s all they do?”
“I had to do that once before and they still stuck me three times.” I didn’t bother telling her about the oncology people who were really at a loss that other time. When they started talking about between my toes I was like, “Peace out.”
“Hmmm. They’ve got a vein finder. It shouldn’t be too bad,” she wheedles. I shrug. “Lemme go talk to—“ whoever and she disappears through the door. Poor girl.
She returns, all smiles, pleased that she got the approval to pass me off. “So it’s up to you. You can come back in the morning and let Amber get it, or go to the hospital.”
Since Amber is the one who orders the bloodwork and knows that I’m a problem child, I’m always eager to let her do the honors. So I get to go back tomorrow. Yippee. Get me outta this place. Except I’m trapped. My armrest won’t move.
“You got me locked in with child safety doors?”
“Well, you said you pass out and I wasn’t taking any chances.”
“I like you better all the time.”
So that was that and I got to leave with no bloodletting.
The phone was ringing when I got to work. It was, of course, a new transplant who knows exactly what he wants and where he wants it, but doesn’t know his address. And was sure to tell me he “still works” so if he doesn’t answer, to leave a message. Sure thing, Einstein. Then I get another transplant, but at least this guy knew the basic pleasantries including please and thank you. Then I got a call from another secretary across the state whose attitude instantly ran all over me, so much so that I had to leave. I went to pick up my curbside order at Walgreens. And when I realized I wasn’t in a curbside spot, I tried to move to one, but this Dick in a Genesis almost ran me over because he was in a MUCH bigger hurry and on a MUCH more important mission. He parks at the front door, in Curbside #2 spot, as clearly indicated by a glaring sign directly in front of it. I decide it’s not worth it to move and enter my info on the link. As I’m going to the trouble of entering my type, make, model, color, plate number, how many children I have, etc, Dick jumps out and goes in. Seriously.
In just a moment, here comes a grandmotherly type lady with silver hair in a bun with a giant paper bag. She spares me a glance, but goes up to the driver’s side of the Genesis. The windows are tinted, so I couldn’t tell if there was anybody else in there. I can see her expression, though, and it’s confused. I roll down my window. I should add here, the only reason I chose curbside is because I was on the phone and it’s always a cluster with my Bluetooth to switch off if I leave my car running. Anyway, she smiles at me and says, “Miss Johnson!” A bit of relief in her voice. “I was trying to give your stuff away!” I nod and reach through to take my package. “I would have parked in curbside but that guy tried to run me over and I decided it wasn’t worth it. And then he went in, to beat all!” She blares her eyes at me and shakes her head. “She wouldn’t talk to me,” she whispers. I see then a woman on the passenger side. Me and the sweet Walgreens grandmother roll our eyes in mutual disgust, conspirators now, as the man comes back out to get in his car. I leave before I decide to shank him. And without dwelling on why I bothered to enter my vehicle’s information if they’re just gonna blindly deliver to the first car they come to. It ain’t worth the blood pressure, I’m telling you.
The final straw was a call from my Allstate agent, who is clearly an idiot. I had issues with him several years ago when I was canceling my car insurance and the moron canceled my homeowner’s policy, too 🤦🏼♀️. This morning I had scanned and emailed over the letter I had received from them, as well as my estimate and canceled checks for my roof and gutters, as requested in their letter if I wanted to continue with current coverage. So he calls this afternoon and is like, “Everything looks in order, is that the only changes you wanted to make? I was making sure that we covered everything, I figured you called and we missed it.”
I just froze, closed my eyes, and exhaled.
“I don’t want to make any changes. Your company sent me that letter—unprovoked by me—did you read the letter?? It said my roof is too old to be insured under the policy and if it had been replaced lately to provide proof. Those receipts are your proof. I did not call, I didn’t feel it was necessary, that you’d just tell me to send what I already have.”
I have flustered him. “Oh, yes, of course. I won’t keep you, then. The underwriter may request something else, but it looks good to me.”
I wonder what else the underwriter could possibly request when he says, “Like, they may have to call the roofer, think that would be okay?”
“I reckon. Not that he’ll remember me. You can see that was in 2020.” What the hell, man?
Oh, and my ex husband was still listed on the policy, even though I’ve told them at least twice to remove him. He’s supposedly sending me a document to e-sign. We’ll see. I feel certain I’ll be complaining about that again in another few years.
Anyway. That’s been my day. And that’s why I bought myself flowers and made garlic cheddar biscuits. That’s what self love looks like under a roof that was replaced in 2020.
So no, I’m not going to pee on your leg and tell you that it’s raining. I’m going to say I had frustrating phone calls today and aggravation in abundance. But I’m still blessed, I’m still happy, I’m warm and safe and dry. Thanks in part to my roof.
Ahhh, I slay myself.
Love from Appalachia,
~Amy
Another week and weekend, gone in a flash. I feel like I did accomplish a few things, though. And you will be glad to know I was able to fish out my roof receipt. It was just where I thought it would be: with my tax documents from 2020. Thank God for small miracles and my ability to file important documents in a place they can be located quickly. It’s just the procrastination that gets me.
I also washed a blanket I was told to never wash and I have ruined it forever. I have washed it before, but I now know there’s an enormous difference between hand wash and delicate cycles. FAAFO.
While I’m on the subject of washing…men reading, feel free to exit. You won’t have any input here. Going once, going twice….
Ok. Maybe they heeded my advice. Maybe not.
So I see an ad today from Thirdlove that says your bras aren’t supposed to have birthdays.
Wait. What? I know for a fact I have bras that are every bit of four years old. I only throw them out when the underwire pokes out. And even then, I don’t want to! I wish I could sew a stitch and I’d fix them up. Bras are EXPENSIVE! Last ones I bought were $75!! I feel like this is a marketing ploy to sell more bras. Now, maybe if you only had one or two and you were wearing them constantly, yes, I could see where they’d be toast in a year. But I have several I rotate through. And that’s something else, we’re not supposed to wash them very often to preserve the integrity of the elastic and straps and everything. So, how often do y’all wash? It’s hard to keep up with on mine, so generally I wait until the deodorant stains are looking grimy. I would say, minimum, every four wears. Probably less in the summer. And what a production it is to wash the dang things. Who actually has time to hand wash anything?? I fasten the clasp, throw them in on the delicate cycle, and hope for the best. I have a friend who washes them on normal, but in a bag. Which calls to mind the old days of Grandmother washing my stuffed animals in a pillowcase. Same concept, but now we have a fancy, more porous bag. But do y’all pretreat or spray something under the arms? I ask because I don’t feel that mine are coming clean. And I’m too lazy to scrub.
Other than that, I’ve led a drama free existence over here today. I did do something I’ve never done before. Wait. Two somethings. First thing was I didn’t soak my soup beans overnight. I forgot I wanted them. So I did the quick soak, where you almost boil them, then cut the heat and let them sit an hour, then cook them. It seems to have worked just fine. Of course, as much salt that’s in them from the ham hock, anything would taste just fine. The other new thing was I cooked a steak in the air fryer. I’m gonna hafta modify my method some, but it was edible, so all in all I’m pretty happy. That air fryer is perfect for me since I don’t like using the microwave and it’s way more cost effective than using my oven. Especially for just me.
My dog is asleep on me so I won’t be getting supper anytime soon.
I wish I could think of something else to tell y’all. But I’m gonna get back to my book. This one is the first one that’s held my attention in ages.
Love and beans in Appalachia,
~Amy
You know what’s a conundrum? When you’re hungry, but not too hungry, but hungry enough to know you need to eat a little something or risk waking up starving…but you’re too tired to cook, and too lazy to go get something, and if you do go out, it needs to be something remotely healthy.
And so you say to heck with it and fix some Hamburger Helper because it’s delicious and comforting and quick. And you don’t have to put shoes on.
The weather has been perfectly miserable. I drove most of the way back from Cookeville in the rain. When it wasn’t raining, it was foggy. Once I got Knoxville, the rain had nearly stopped, but that’s when the traffic congestion started. You cannot win. But the good news is I still made it in just over two hours, there were no super close calls, and I only hydroplaned once 😳
I may not ever get constipated, but I’m discovering I do get writer’s block. I’m sitting here, perched in the corner of my couch, looking around the room and wondering what I could possibly write about. All the subjects in my head seem too controversial. Besides, I’ve already written about the majority of them at least once already. You know, the Selfie Trend, and fake smiles and fake lips and fake lashes and not living in the moment. And how you can be a very pretty girl with a very ugly personality. One thing for sure, I’ve never been too embarrassed or nervous to eat in front of someone. It’s never occurred to me to not order something because it isn’t ladylike or healthy or whatever the parameters are for girls who obsess over that sort of thing.
I’m also relieved I didn’t have any children. Because I still don’t feel that I am reliable and responsible enough to take care of one. I feel certain I’d forget about it sometime and run off to the store or wherever and just…leave it. And there’s plenty of stuff I just don’t know about. You know kids are constantly asking questions and I wouldn’t have the right answer, and then there I’d be, looking like the dumbest person alive and raising one just like me.
At least I do have manners. At least I do obey common rules of the road. I’m not a total idiot. You’d be surprised at the people who don’t possess those seemingly simple characteristics. Just dine out and take in the scenery around you. People have trouble making conversation with each other. They are dependent on their phones. As handy as they are, I sometimes wish they could be banned in restaurants, or at least frowned upon. They take away so much! At my cousin’s wedding a couple of years ago, the dear girl had a sign at the guest book to please keep your phones put away through the ceremony. A simple enough request, and understandable. You’re paying a photographer to capture the day, and every shot has got somebody in it with their phone in front of their face. I guarantee you, no matter which iPhone you’ve got, you ain’t as good as the professional.
Well, people can’t help themselves, and when the preacher came out, he gave another little reminder to please put your phones away. The lady in front of me was on FaceTime with someone who couldn’t make it. I thought for sure she’d hang up, but no, she just lowered it. I was mortified. And sure enough, when the pictures got posted, there she was. Grrrr. Bad manners and blatant disrespect.
So concludes another blog post about a whole bunch of nothing. But maybe this will keep me in the habit and my writing skills flexible, even if my subjects are stale. Feel free to message me if you have something in mind that you’d like to read. ‘Cause I’m game.
Love from Appalachia,
~Amy
I’m a day late, and I petition you for your grace and understanding. I was in no way shape or form able to write last night, even if I had a subject in mind, let alone the time. And since yesterday was the most exciting day of my year thus far, of course this will be another journal-esque entry. It’s a good demonstration of how one without kids or attachments lives their life.
6:30 and I’m up, drinking water (gonna be too hot for coffee), and doing my Wordle. I get it in three and I was super proud of myself. Aloof, in case you’re curious. Double letters usually give me the devil, especially when the word begins with a vowel. My head just doesn’t wanna work like that. So as I’m sending Lisa a text to say how many guesses it took, as is our custom first thing in the morning, and I see she is typing me something. I figure it’s her Wordle number. But no. “You wanna drive out to Cookeville this afternoon and spend the night and hang out?”
And me, with basically no obligations to anyone whatsoever, is like, “Sure! But lemme make sure Angela can let Chessie out in the morning.” Because that dog constitutes the entirety of my responsibilities, apart from work.
And lo and behold, Angela could, and I started working out a timetable in my brain of when I should leave, and meal planning throughout the day in order to capitalize on the offerings of downtown Cookeville or places convenient to my travel route. And what to wear and pack, of course. I decided not to leave before six, as that would give Chess a good long break this afternoon while I was home throwing stuff in a bag. Also, I am unwilling to sacrifice any more vacation time till we see what the rest of the winter holds. Honestly, we’re just getting started. Plus, since Lisa was meeting two Cookeville friends, I didn’t want to intrude on their time with her. It would work out perfect, since I’d be gaining an hour.
The drive was blessedly uneventful, and there was a stretch of interstate with no visible taillights in front of me. Being a Sevier County native, I will forever find this situation miraculous and glorious.
Downtown was hoppin’, but I was able to park where we always parked: the bank. I made my way over to The Blue Pig. I don’t know how the place stays in business. Last time I was there, they were out of pulled pork. It’s a barbecue restaurant. How do you run out of pulled pork? Luckily, they weren’t out of it last night. But the way you go about getting your food is highly unorthodox. First, you enter and walk to the counter. There’s a screaming huge chalkboard in front of you, hanging above the counter. There’s a smaller chalkboard giving instructions: you can order at the counter or through the QR code on your table. (I never saw them take one order at the counter the entire duration of our visit, just sayin’). A host is supposed to seat you. I stood there for some time; I believe the host was gathering a Doordash delivery. Lisa and them appeared from the backside. The first thing she says to me (now mind you, I haven’t laid eyes on her since June) is, “So apparently I was molested at 17.”
This is a lot for me to process as I have just driven 100 miles on a very empty stomach and everyone else in the party greeted me politely with, “How are you?” And “good to see you!” No. My best friend leads with this.
Seeing as how we were best friends at seventeen and I remember no such seedy incidents, I shuck right to the cob. I mean, besides, she used the word “apparently” so obviously there was no reason to call to arms or get emotional. “By who?”
“You remember when I was going through all that testing to join the Army?” To make a long story short, the doctor was inappropriate. The whole ordeal was inappropriate and they stalked her for over a year, plumb to another state.
But back to my issues at hand with the restaurant. So since this bunch are regulars, they know the owners well, and we’re immediately ensconced at a makeshift table. The waiter disappears and I’m left scanning this QR code and looking at the tiny menu on my phone. I remembered this procedure from Covid. The owners are clearly leftists and I’m instantly irritated. I held my breath that the pulled pork was available, irked that the tater salad was on the glaring chalkboard but not offered on the digital one. Whatever, broccoli salad it is.
Then comes the kicker. You go ahead and pay before they even bring you your food. WITH GRATUITY. AT 15%!!! For what?!?! What have they done to deserve a tip??? Especially before I even get my food. And of course, as the cashless society becomes more prevalent, you can conveniently pay with a debit or credit card. I don’t know what they do if you don’t have one, or don’t want to use one.
But, as all my stories go, I was hungry, and I will not be denied. So I dutifully entered my card number, agreeing to the 15% gratuity for services not yet performed and food not yet consumed. I wait for the ghost server/ robot/ mythical creature to bring me a glass so I can go get my drink from the self serve fountain.
No one appears.
Lisa ordered cowboy caviar and when it was delivered I asked for my glass. Oh, they’re by the fountain. So I suppose I could have just helped myself and saved $3.00. And I should have, to make up for the tip.
So I get to wait in line to fill my paper cup, with no lid provided. Then I get to wait in line for sauce. Then I go back to my party.
I will not lie: their barbecue is delicious. Their Cottontail sauce is a perfect compliment. I love their broccoli salad and baked beans and even the fiery pickles. But I do not like the way I had to go about getting it. And I won’t go back.
But at one point, I caught Lisa just looking at me. I figured she was just wanting a bite of my food. “What?” I asked warily.
“I’m just glad to see you,” she said, and my heart thawed by one degree.
“That broccoli salad looks so good. Can I try a bite?”
I knew it.
Next stop was the new speakeasy in town, and that was a fun little escapade. It’s in a nondescript office building. The drinks were tasty, our server was fun, and a good time was had by all. We stayed awhile, relieved that we were let in with our ripped jeans and basic tops. The Oliver, it ain’t. But I would absolutely recommend it, just for the experience.
Back to 37 Cedar, where they had begun the night prior to my arrival. We had lost half our party by this point. There was live music, and one ol’ gal dancing in some red platform heels. She was a hard sixty, ifyaknowwhatImean. And evidently a purse thief. But she was having a really good time and everybody in the restaurant knew it. She would give a holler, then grind on her boyfriend. They were seated up front, next to the door, against the plate glass window. Lisa kept saying she was pretty sure they made a baby at one point, but my attention had been diverted to the guy in the fur coat sitting in a lawn chair behind his van parked front and center. The van was far more interesting than the clientele, in my opinion. It had all sorts of charming phrases scrawled across it, including, but not limited to: “Trannies 4 Trump” and “Jesus is a Palestinian Jew”. I had noticed the van earlier while walking over to the Pig, had even stopped a moment because there was something written about Chester across the hood, but I couldn’t quite make it out. There had been no one about at the time. Now the owner was in residence, sitting under the hatch, but I was avoiding him due to my knowledge of the backpack bombers in the last few decades. This guy looked like a prime candidate. Kinda like Uncle Si on Duck Dynasty.
So I’m watching him, I’m watching ol’ Shake It in her stripper heels, and I’m watching three guys watch the new Unibomber. I’m hoping when it detonates, I go quickly, maybe a glass shard directly through the heart.
I drink my beer and speculate.
Of course nothing happens, or I wouldn’t be here, writing about it. We left as soon as Lisa started talking like she was gonna go ask to try on his coat. I told her she’d get scabies immediately and I would not permit her to ride in my car afterwards.
We return to the hotel, now down to just me and her, and make our way to the rooftop bar. The hotel I speak of is a Holiday Inn Express, right off the interstate. You can just imagine the ambiance. Why the developers thought this would be a prime location for a swingin’ rooftop bar, the world will never know.
We were served French 75s in wine glasses, then frosted martini glasses, but never the champagne glasses that are the norm. Whatever. Our bartenders were 19 and twenty, and if I cared, I would be trying to work out how that is legal.
Selfies on the roof with the ghetto right below us.
Lisa regaled the only other patron with the story of how she became a goat mom. Which, as you should know, begins with: “Well, I was drunk.” 🤣🤣🤣 Then she goes on with the rest of it. “And this lady who owns this store had a goat in there that was for sale, and I bought him, and she said, ‘he has a full brother at home.’ And I hated to separate him from his family, so I said I’d get him, too, and when we went out there to get them, there were 12 others, so we bought all them too, and that’s how I went from no goats to 24.” And the guy is looking bumfuzzled, because clearly we were only at 14, but don’t worry, Lisa got him caught up. Plus the impending chicken delivery. And we mustn’t forget about the already existing turtle orphanage. And donkeys, including Georgia the Surprise and the late Mister Biscuit.
It’s quite the show when we’re out together.
One of the bartenders called her mean for something she said and we kinda looked at each other and I set him straight with, “She’s the nice one.” Which prompted Lisa to leave him a sketch on her receipt (“I drew you something”), which prompted me to persuade her to draw her north-walking cat.
All in all it was a good night. I’m thankful for rooftop bars, people who are good sports about two mouthy white girls, the fact that I feel the urge to brush my teeth (and subsequently drip toothpaste everywhere), and my best friend, even though she made me look for her contact for ten minutes only to throw it in the trash once I located it after an intensive search.
After a foggy and pothole-riddled drive back East, I am most definitely ready for bed. Which still leaves me a day behind. Oh bother.
Love from Appalachia,
~Amy
One month exactly since Christmas. Isn’t that crazy? Eleven to go! Hippity hop!
No significant report for today. I made my second trek to the post office this morning, trying to beat the crowd. And I reckon I did, because I didn’t see a soul I knew for maybe the first time ever. Got justifiably aggravated by the Yankee receptionist at the clinic, as she persistently tried to get me to come in for blood work tomorrow morning. Evidently declining politely doesn’t work with her type. You have to yell, in the middle of the aforementioned post office no less, “NO, BETTY, I WOULD NOT LIKE TO COME IN FIRST THING TOMORROW!!!”
People give you a wider berth when you get a touch frustrated in public like that, which is also fine by me.
I was already in a bad mood because I had to endure sniffling Jake all day, as I tried to eat my eggs over easy, as I attempted to work on the Annual Report, as I tried and failed to compose a thoughtful card to my dear friend in Texas. Cough, cough, cough, sniff, sniff, SNIIIIFFF. Meanwhile, I’m gag-gag-gagging. Plus, did I mention, I had to go to the dentist? Just one irritation after another. All the livelong day. I won’t even mention the psychos on the commute home. 60 mile an hour tailgater, darting in and out of traffic, getting a whole three cars ahead of me before making a turn that brought us all to stand on our noses. NICE.
Barry the Chigger sent me some more prompts today. Which, let me remind you, you are ALL free to do. The one that’s sticking with me is “your first rodeo/ circus”
It’s amusing he thinks I can remember my first rodeo. I’m not Forrest Gump. I feel sure I was at a rodeo before I was out of diapers, but I can definitely regale you with a few stories that came after I was out of short pants.
My Most Huggable Cousin and her boyfriend took me to one at Thompson Bowling Arena when I was in high school. I don’t remember why she deigned to let me go on one of their sacred date nights, but she did. I also can’t fathom why I even wanted to go, as I detested her boyfriend like the Queen hated Camilla. If memory serves, it was a PBR event, not a true rodeo. And I know for a fact the Dixie Chicks were there at intermission. You know, before they tried to become politically correct and dropped the Dixie. This was also before they hit it big and said all the nasty things about our country while touring France. Anyway, they were so incredibly bad that people were walking out on them.
That’s the first of many rodeos that left an indelible memory.
There would be hundreds more, from Pensacola, Florida, where I acquired one of the top ten worst sunburns of my life and quit my job to do it, to Sisters, Oregon, where I watched the original One-Armed Bandit drive three buffalo on top of his stock trailer in the middle of the arena.
There were many nights spent in an unyielding plastic airport chair, the armrests digging into my rib cage—seems like it was always Salt Lake where we got stuck. There were a few nights curled into a ball in the backseat of a rental car, on some highway between Here and There. There was the time we rode out a tornado in the Lance slide-in camper underneath a magnolia tree in Rome, Georgia. I’ve been to plenty of places where I couldn’t pronounce the name of the town when we pulled in, and still couldn’t when we pulled out. There was Rodeo De Santa Fe, where I seen Joe Beaver three sheets to the wind and a Rodeo Queen fall off her horse in the Grand Entry, and she appeared to be sober as a judge. No place better for it to happen, either. That’s the snottiest city I ever set foot in.
There was Cody, Wyoming, where they rodeo every night, and I saw Chris LeDoux’s son right regular. The ones in Kansas, as common as wheat chaff, and equally as forgettable, with the tall, silent cowboys. Nebraska, cold and dry nights with the crystalline air cutting through the thickest Carhartt, my knuckles pressed against Hot Hands packets shoved deep in my pockets.
I met so many people, so many families with little wannabe cowboys, growing up with a feather in their hat. Dave always had a word of encouragement for them, because — believe it or not— there are worse things to grow up and be than a cowboy.
It’s a lonely life, because nobody wants to stay, waking up looking at the road every day, maybe the gas in the tank the only thing left from the last paycheck, the looming possibility of getting really hurt and then what? Greasy cheeseburgers, greasy hair, no time to waste, gotta push to get there. Always dusty, it didn’t matter if it was inside, outside, or under cover. The bulls were traditionally sweet behind the chutes, and the broncs rangy and temperamental. But mainly, I remember the late nights, the clanging of the gates as the cowboys rode slack, after the crowds cleared out and went back to their three bedroom houses in subdivisions and their lives devoid of cow manure and broken ropes and busted dreams. But maybe they dreamed of this life, his freedom from mortgages and analytical spreadsheets and figuring out how to finance a week at the beach. Maybe this night at the county fairgrounds was as close to free as they’d ever get to be.
It was wonderful, but it was only for a season. So that’s why I can be nostalgic about it. It’s been a long time since my first rodeo, but it’s like anything else horse related: it bites and it never lets go. Garth Brooks got it right once: “the white line’s getting longer, and the saddle’s gettin’ cold, and I’m much too young to feel this damn old.”
Gotta go, gotta go, gotta rodeo.
Love from Appalachia and all the miles in between,
~Amy
The moon is trying to kill me.
Ok, that’s a bit dramatic.
The moon refuses to let me sleep.
What else can I blame on the moon? I spilled another glass of water this morning. I say another, because I also spilled one Sunday morning. I make myself so mad. Really, I should be thankful it’s merely water and not something sticky. I mean, I spilled coffee today, too, but not much. Just a little as I poured it from the pot.
To address yesterday’s post: thank you to those who read my prayer requests. Lisa, Mike, & Squirt have all come to terms with the loss. Their healing agent is going to be a mixed brood of chickens! I’m very excited. I hope to have one of the Polish ones named after me. I told them this is what they should have started with in the beginning, instead of 15 goats and two donkeys. I feel like peafowl are the next logical acquisition.
David’s papaw is also doing well, at last check. And so is David. So thank you for the prayers for him and his family, as well. When you wrap someone up in prayer, I can assure you, it is felt.
I had a few phone calls today to tug on my heart. My truest friends love me in spite of my honesty, and sometimes because of it. One friend lost her dad in a sudden fashion. She was calling me while she worked on a eulogy of sorts. She knew I would shoot straight and tell her if it was over the top or just out of line. Yes, I will. Another friend called me to talk me through a glitch in my matrix but we ended up leaning on each other as he got some unexpected news, as well. It’s hard to be a cheerleader all the time, but it’s called rallying for a reason. It’s nice to know people care and that people value my opinion.
Life can really kick you in the teeth and January is just tough anyway. All the sparkles and glitter packed away and good cheer is in short supply after digging out of a snow and ice storm that lasted one full week. I’m not telling you anything. Next year maybe I’ll be on vacation in some tropic isle with all this a very distant memory.
I wanted to tackle a new subject for tonight as sent to me by the notorious Barry the Chigger, but my bed beckons. Perhaps tomorrow when my eyeballs don’t feel like sandpaper. I also think Chester might have a little input.
A little love from Appalachia is all I can muster,
~Amy
Why is it I had an idea for my blog subject rattling around in my head all day long and I couldn’t tell you what it is now for love or money? Aughh.
Well, I’ll just have to tell you about how I’ve had to part with my alarm clock of at least 15 years. I bought it at KMart, if that tells you anything. I loved the numbers, they were gigantic and blue, which is far superior to red. It was a clock radio, so I’ve been awakened by WIVK, WIMZ, & Electric 94.9 over the course of years. I’ve loved this alarm clock. It had two alarm settings, so it was helpful when I was married, too. No, I’ve never been one of these people who would take their phone to bed and use it as an alarm clock. That just didn’t appeal to me, especially in the years before we had the “do not disturb” option. Talk about making me mad, send some stupid meme at 1 a.m. I’ve always worked, and the two jobs before this one required rising no later than six. And I still had to drive like I was on my way to a fire.
But over the last few years (okay, probably six or seven) my beloved alarm clock has been giving me a little trouble. As in the tuner knobs were finicky. The volume would blare, then go to whisper soft. The radio frequency would be loud and clear when I set it, but you could just barely make out a little something the next morning when it should be squawking. So it was becoming a bit of a chancy situation on whether or not I’d be awoken on time. I’m told this is a common problem in clock radios of a certain age.
Enter Chester, who seems to have an innate understanding on when I need to be up at six, or six-thirty. Weekends he lets me snooze till seven. But I decided I should probably break down and buy one and not depend on my poor puppy for rousing me.
I should have taken a picture of it when it was plugged up so you could see the beautiful blue numbers. Alas, hindsight is 20/20 and it’s in the garbage now. You’ll just have to take my word for it. But this thing is a BRICK. It looks relatively small here, but it’s about as thick as it is wide. My new one would fit in my back pocket and doesn’t weigh as much as my cell phone. But RCA!! Wow! How long have they been out of business, ya reckon? So that’s TWO electronic devices I’ve had to learn this week! I need a major award.
I’m requesting prayers for some people who are very dear to me. I should have written about them first, but this is what you get when you’re dealing with me. I lure you in with a stupid story about a twenty year old alarm clock, then get to the heart of the matter. Lisa and Mike suffered a loss on their mini farm this week, a newborn miniature spotted donkey who was going to go by the name Biscuit. He was ADORABLE. He had a puffball on his head. The two best pictures of him are still heartbreaking so I won’t share them. But please say a prayer for Lisa, Mike, and Biscuit’s mother, Squirt, as they grieve this unexpected loss. It’s part of it, but you never get used to it and it’s always the cutest ones that seem to never make it. Auburn University Large Animal Veterinary School did their best but they couldn’t pull him through.
The other friend I need you to keep in your heart is my coworker David. He recently buried his paternal Grandmother, and today his maternal grandfather suffered a serious heart attack and had to have an emergency open heart surgery. He got through the surgery but as far as I know isn’t scheduled to wake up for a few more hours. He is extremely close with his Papaw, and has always lived just next door to him. It’s hard watching people you love age, and sometimes the suddenness in which it happens will flat knock you off your feet. So I know he could use prayers, as well as his whole family.
I know I’m s’post to be praying for somebody else but I couldn’t tell you now who it was if I had to. I’ll end with that bookend.
Love from Appalachia,
~Amy
Y’all ain’t gonna believe this, but I’m typing from my personal laptop. I couldn’t tell you the last time I fired this puppy up. It took it a good ten minutes to get all loaded and stuff. And then I panicked because I didn’t think I could remember my password, but I did, I did!! Why am I on my laptop? Well, y’all remember just yesterday and I was whining about how it was a little difficult typing on my iPad with just one index finger. These tend to get lengthy, in case you didn’t know. So I was planning on busting it out. I bet I haven’t used it 100 hours and I bought it back in 2016 or ’17. There’s probably a timer on here somewhere, if I just knew where to look. Anyway, I said that, but it wasn’t like I was planning on implementing my bright idea in the next 24 hours. That’s one of those things I have to sit on for a week or two then ease into it. Well. I forgot I turned the data off on my iPad this afternoon because I STILL haven’t finished this book, I’m at 77% and I knew I wouldn’t get it done before the digital loan expired. So here I am, stealing from our public library system. A fine board member I make!!
It feels pretty nice to use this, I will say. This sumbuck is heavy as a box of lead though. Which, I suppose, in essence, is all it really is. I gotta hurry and knock this out, I’m using my phone as a hotspot and I’m not totally sure that’s in my plan. Plus it makes my phone super hot.
Speaking of hot, I described myself as “a lukwarm mess” today. Because I’m not pretty enough to qualify as a hot mess. A hot mess is a girl who has fake eyelashes and acrylic nails and drinks Starbucks. I am none of those things. Well, the person I was talking to is brand new to my life and asked me what made me a hot mess. And this gave me pause. Because in the grand scheme of things, I pretty much have it together. My bills are paid, I have a steady income, I don’t have three kids who are behind in school or on drugs or hate me just because I had the audacity to birth them. Or that’s what I hear having kids is like, anyway. I wouldn’t know. So it really gave me pause and I finally came up with “Well, I wore a sweater with great big sleeves today and I evidently inadvertently drug one through my ketchup, which in turn got it on my pants, except I didn’t realize it right off, I just saw a mess on my britchie leg, and I thought I was bleeding (it had already turned rust colored and set up), and then I scratched it and sniffed of it and realized it was the ketchup. It’s things like that”. And, I didn’t add, telling someone I had just met that story definitely constitutes as a mess. And then I rediscovered my other mess from this morning, how my coffee filter had slipped and so grounds had gotten down in the pot and I had unwittingly consumed some. But I guess that’s pretty normal, and not too bad in the grand scheme of things.
Ok, so as much as I would dearly love to rattle on about all the things that make me a mess, this laptop is flashing at me and has made a very loud chiming racket like a warning of sorts. It crashed once but I didn’t say anything because I know my time is limited, And of course I hadn’t saved my draft, but when I got it all back to life it pulled right to this screen, so that’s a miracle. However, I don’t believe my spell check is on and I can’t find where to turn it on so I’ll hafta deal with that at a later time. Maybe when I get the wherewithal to move these to their own heading. Because I don’t know how to do that on my app. At any rate, like Snowman says in Smoky & the Bandit, “Hell, I got to go.”
Love from a very messy Appalachia,
~Amy
I am so full.
I have eaten one meal today. One. I was having coffee and doing my Wordle when a friend texted, wanting to know if I’d had breakfast. It was 8:30. “I have not, but I have also not had a shower. Tell me what I’m missing.”
And this is how I found myself bellied up to the buffet at Loco Burro two hours later. And quite miserable an hour after that.
I recommend the following: the jalapeño biscuits with chorizo sauce, the carved chicken, the mahi, the fajita chicken, the beans, the guacamole, the chorizo mac & cheese (that’s right, finally found some I like!), the cinnamon doughnuts, the honeydew, and the Belgian waffle. Lord, I’ve almost conjured myself an appetite just thinking of the deliciousness of it all over again. I figured it would be impossible to eat again before tomorrow. Hmm. Maybe not. Popcorn would be a good snack. ….my microwave is in the trunk of my car. Can you put popcorn in an air fryer? ….*googling*…. YES! ……however, you cannot put microwave kernels into it. Well, dang. Ok, two peppermint Hershey kisses it is.
Walked West Towne mall over. Found lots of things. Did not buy anything. Sipped my incognito mimosa. It was hard to warm up, since I was moving at a slug’s pace. I guess that’s where we get the term sluggish.
It was great to be out. It was starting to feel like Covid times again, sitting at home except to go to work or grocery shopping. Knoxville still had a crap ton of snow. Oh, there’s a truck in the ditch in the curve above the house. On the wrong side of the curve, might I add. I guess that happened Friday, because it wasn’t there Thursday. There was a tour bus on the side of 40 at Papermill, surrounded by gray snow. Imagine having to debark on the side of a six lane interstate and it 9 degrees. Shoo. We rode out through Farragut and Dixie Lee Junction and then across Fort Loudon dam, looking at all there was to see. It was pretty wild. The snow was still beautiful, and all glossy looking from where it attempts to melt and just keeps freezing. Who knew? There were still plenty of places that were ice covered. Many parking lots hadn’t been cleared, which made me anxious about people sliding their vehicles into other vehicles or over people on foot 😳 Anyway, we made it okay, and hit a couple of antique stores that were open. I finally found an apothecary jar for my sand from Hunting Island. I had been searching for one since I got back. Usually TJ Maxx has a good selection, but I guess they’re not trendy anymore. I haven’t run up on any in over a year. The snow shoes and skates were really catching my eye today. I’m curious how ice skates end up in East Tennessee. I see them all the time!
Antique stores make me a little sad. Sometimes because I see stuff that I remember using with regularity and I wonder how it could possibly be considered an antique, since I am but a mere babe myself. Then I see stuff that I know with certainty I threw away in one of the purges and it kinda feels like burning money. But it’s here in the store and nobody’s fighting over it, so maybe it’s not very valuable after all. Maybe it’s wishful thinking on the shop owner’s behalf.
But mainly I see all this junk and reflect on how it once belonged to someone who loved it. They went to the trouble of buying it, placing it in their home and living with it. They looked at it every day, they cleaned it, they moved it around. And then this person more than likely died, or was put in a home, and their relatives cleaned out their house. And now here it is, being pored over by strangers who don’t want it and think it’s junk. It makes me sad. Just like what will happen to all my wonderful, beautiful things that I have collected over my life. All my books that I curated (and many that will never be read because…life. But also because I’m writing this blog every day to tell y’all a bunch of nothing).
Anyway. It was a good day. Still a lot of snow around Knox County. Got my sand in its permanent home. Permanent until I break it, anyway. And lemme tell you, sand is a booger to clean up, if you didn’t know.
I’m gonna hafta get my laptop set back up. Writing on this iPad is killer. I can only use my pointer finger. It’s ridiculous I don’t ever use my laptop, anyway.
No, I didn’t hunt my roofing receipt. I’ve been taken hostage by a large, hairy, muscular male.
I think somebody’s rotten.
Anyway, after such a big day at large, I guess it’s time to wash my face, brush my teeth, and set my alarm. Yuck.
It’s still January. Forget about making it through December, it’s January that’s killer.
Love from Appalachia, where the snow refuses to melt,
~Amy
