Chester is absolutely, positively, 110% wanting to go outside.

There is a skunk outside.

Chester will not be permitted outside tonight.

My house is haunted, in case you didn’t know. My ceiling fan will sometimes turn by itself. I thought it was doing it only when the heat or air was blowing, but it’s not turning now, and the heat is blowing. Last night it wasn’t turning, but the chain pulls were moving. Tonight, all is still. I can watch, as I am ensconced in my library chair and have an unobstructed view. It’s weird. And no, I haven’t had windows open to change the air movement one way or another. The only other fan is in my bedroom. There is no explanation, apart from ghosts. So ghosts it is.

People like it when I write about them. People like attention. I do, too. I’ve thought all day that I would write one sentence each about ten people and let y’all guess what was written about whom. And then in coming weeks I would elaborate as the mood hit me.

#1. A strong redhead who rides a proud red horse, prefers Sauvignon Blanc (but not Kim Crawford), who can mingle with any crowd, anywhere, anytime.

#2. A quilter, a baker, but not a candlestick maker, at least not so far as I know.

#3. A halfback Yankee who has a penchant for Christmas lights, Halloween decorations, and is an advocate for firemen, dispatchers, my writing, and the Kodak Branch Library.

#4. She sleeps a lot but she’d help me hide a body.

#5. This one will melt down if the phone rings but doesn’t shy away from page long texts, she loves cozy mysteries and Steven Tyler, and has a sweet tooth as big as her heart.

#6. Once upon a time, he told the funniest deer hunting stories, caught the biggest fish, and could whistle for a dog using the gap between his teeth.

#7. He drives the prettiest dump truck in the county, is a little backward and shy, is methodical and conservative, appreciates longevity of products and common sense in people, likes John Deere tractors and horned Hereford cattle, but above all else, is supremely humble and kind.

#8. Drinks bourbon and Diet Dr. Pepper, hits Signature Status at Chickalay mid-year, lives in the most droll city this side of the Mississippi but his cooking can’t be beat and his porch alone is worth the drive.

#9. Rode a buckskin horse, loves fancy things, can talk for three hours about absolutely nothing at all with someone he just met, and never backs down from a selfie with strangers.

#10. He loves taking pictures of vast mountains and tiny fungi, reading Stephen King, eating anything that won’t eat him, writing short hair-raising stories, and was the most famous dispatcher of 2016.

I don’t think anybody can name all ten, but it was fun thinking up some key traits of some of my favorite people.

I’ve got a busy day tomorrow so I will end this one here.

Love from Appalachia with the skunks and the haints ,

~Amy

My best friend has been in Texas all week. I’m actually not jealous, because she’s been spending time with her sister-in-law and brother. Her sister-in-law has been given a Stage IV pancreatic cancer diagnosis and so Lisa felt the need to be by her side for a time. I think it’s been a good visit for both of them. They had some late night cookie eating bonding moments.

She was flying home today and the Houston Hobby hub has been a cluster. First they landed from Midland, but had to sit on the plane waiting for a gate for over an hour. Lisa had been looking forward to her hour and a half layover to get something to eat. So that was shot. Luckily, her other flight got a late start boarding or she would have probably missed it. Then she had to sit on that plane at the gate for an eternity. And it wasn’t a weather delay, evidently they’re short ground crews. The Southwest flight tracker online was telling me they had departed, but then Lisa starts texting me and sends me pictures from the window and they’re still on the ground. So that would be frustrating if you were depending on accurate information from the airline. Also, their times had been skewed all day, and I don’t mean on account of time zones. Like, seven minutes into the future they’re listing that the plane had landed.

Life would be so much easier if I weren’t a worrywart.

But all this got me to thinking about how I used to really want to be a flight attendant. Or as we said back when, “stewardess”. It seemed so exotic and adventurous. Fly here and there, see the sights, meet tons of cool people from all walks of life. It seemed like a dream job for me, since I loved to travel and see new things and meet interesting people. I wasn’t tied to home, really, and I didn’t have a husband or children. But I never pursued the dream, and it went in the pile of other professions I thought I would enjoy: ballerina, veterinarian, sea turtle rehabilitator, lighthouse keeper, author. It would surface every now and then as the career that got away. I love to fly, but let’s be honest, if somebody got smart with me I’d probably throw coffee in their face. And if they were next to an emergency exit, Lord help them.

Maybe I should have considered being an Air Marshall instead.

Anyway, one day I was talking about missing out on at least trying it for awhile and my aunt said I should put it out of my head—I was too short. And she’s right, I don’t know why that never occurred to me. I don’t take a carry on, ever, because I can’t reach the overhead bins. I mean, I can, but if it was to shift to the back, I’d definitely have to ask for assistance. And I don’t do well asking for help with anything.

There are lots of prerequisites for making a flight attendant. No visible tattoos, no concealed tattoos bigger than a credit card, ability to push a cart averaging 250#, ability to stay calm in a crisis, a pleasant attitude, a neat overall appearance, ability to lift 60#, job history for the last decade, credit score…I mean it goes on and on and on. Delta is especially strict. Let’s face it: my hair alone lends a disheveled look unless Christy has had ahold of it, and I wouldn’t be able to put her in my carry on every day. And we all know how wide my ass is. That’s a hazard in itself, never mind adding some lecherous drunk guy to the mix.

All this brought to mind one experience at the Nashville airport. At least, I think it was Nashville. Wherever. I was in the queue, waiting to check my bag and get my boarding pass. Each agent was working two customers at a time. They had a light above each side that would come on when they had a free spot. I was at the head of the line, watching fixedly like a bird dog for my turn. A customer walked away from the agent, but she still had a customer on the other side and she didn’t turn on the light.

Some jerk face three or four travelers back started screaming at me to move up. And sweet, naive me, who takes zero shit, screamed back. “I will, when she’s ready, because the light isn’t on,” I hissed, instantly pissed. I’m not a seasoned traveler, but I can read and follow direction and this guy was a total ass. And as soon as the light came on, I went, and there was no delay in the action. But the rude dude kept giving me dirty looks and I thought to myself he’s the reason weapons aren’t allowed on planes. And good thing, because I was feeling a little stabby, myself.

So flight attendants have to deal with that kind of garbage day in and day out and I didn’t do so hot with that on the ground at the Co-op, I can’t imagine faring any better in the sky.

Even with the hassle it is today, even though my luggage got lost and rained on in Atlanta, even though I spent the night in a plastic chair in Salt Lake City, even though I thought we were gonna crash and burn upon touchdown in San Antonio, even though a child kicked my chair from Portland Oregon to Atlanta, even though Chickalay grilled nuggets smell like hot cauliflower marinated in skunk juice when you’re trapped in the seat next to someone eating them, I still love to fly. Can’t y’all just see me up there in my sensible black flats and my laminated safety sheet, using two fingers to point out the exits? Dang it. Why can’t my wingspan be just a few inches longer? I’d quit today and take to the skies! ✈️

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

Today was certainly…brisk.

I walked into work this morning, fully expecting to sink into the warmth of my cozy little office, but instead I could nearly see my breath, and at the same time my nose almost fell off. Luckily the landlord always answers his phone and has handymen on retainer, and they could get out there today. While I waited for it to get to be time for them (does that make sense?) I took myself to the hardware and purchased a heater. Then I took myself to the Cracker Barrel and made a complete hog out of myself on the “Grandma’s Sampler”. Grandma’s Gluttony, more like. And to think, I was disappointed there weren’t biscuits 🙄

Anyway, it’s so comforting to simply sit and sip coffee in a Cracker Barrel and watch people. There will be your retired senior citizens, traveling in pairs, as couples. There will be groups of ladies catching up. There are families, and young moms with babies, meeting their own mother for a few minutes of peace and being waited on instead of catering to another’s needs. There are road-weary travelers, and people on business, some still caught reading a newspaper at their table. And then there’s me: displaced from a frigid downtown office. Alone but content. Smiling at the life bustling around her.

My waitress’ name was Jamie. She had a big lipsticked smile and four stars on her apron. I checked. I always check. She kept my coffee topped off and brought me one to go, while cautioning me about the lid. I wanted to be friends with her. She seemed like a responsible sort, the type you could depend on to water your plants and feed your cat if you had to stay in the hospital. I don’t always get that with Cracker Barrel waitresses, but I feel like that should be part of the gold star standard.

Back at work, I plugged my heater in, donned my crochet fingerless gloves, and wadded up under my ultra soft crocheted blankie my friend Susan made me a couple of years ago. All was as well as it could be.

So the heating unit got a bandaid, I didn’t catch pneumonia that I know of, and it’s supposed to rain like the devil dickens in the morning. And the wind will be a-whippin’. So I’m glad I’m not a pioneer woman having to worry about keeping the fire going and water boiling and all that business. I would have never made it. Besides, my hair would have never gotten along with a bonnet. And if wasn’t the cold, it woulda been the heat. I tell ya, I’m a creature of comforts. I need central heat and air and Hobby Lobby and Texas Roadhouse. Today taught me something else as well: always look your best. My grandmother had tried to instill that in me, but obviously it didn’t take because Lord, my hair. But today I was presentable, and oh so thankful, as I was out traipsing about town. Plus, handymen.

I can see that I’m going to have to set aside a time every day for this, and put my phone on silent for a block. I end up putting off writing till the end of the day, mainly so I’ll have something to write about, but it never fails when I sit down to write I’m tired and instantly frustrated with every text and phone call. It’s not fair. I love that people have things to share with me. I love that my friends want to talk to me. Maybe I should write in the morning, fresh from dreams, with a hope that the day will bring only good things.

You know, my delusional state before I contend with school traffic and the general idiots who travel Chapman Highway.

But I have enough to do in the mornings, which is work my Wordle and drink coffee. Oh, and rub Chester’s velvety ears. Very important.

I sure wish I had some exotic tropical vacation to take right now. I know that would kickstart my creative gene. And give y’all something way more interesting to read than what you’ve been having to slog through. Maybe I just need a new activity. I am NOT taking back up spin class, though, I’ll tell you that right now.

I’m a bit tired of being on the hamster wheel, of always being available and dependable and good ol’ Amy. I’m glad to be that, most all the time, but I definitely need a break. I sometimes wonder who would show up at my house if I let all calls slide to voicemail and all texts go unanswered for 24 hours. ….and in all honesty, I’d really prefer to let them go a week. I just feel that I’m carrying a lot and 95% is not even mine to carry. And the ones that ask me to carry the most…well, sometimes they don’t realize I could use some help carrying my own. But grace. Grace. That’s what friends do. We’re all tired, no one always remembers to check on one another like we should. And this time of year is especially hard. All the twinkles and glitter and cheer is packed away for another year and we’re all regretting spending so much, eating so much, drinking so much. It’s the excess that wears us down.

It’s going on ten and I just want to wash my face and crawl in bed. I was up till midnight last night, and back up at six. I’m too old for that crap. And it wasn’t even for anything good. (Don’t ask me to define good, it’ll make your ears turn red). Anyway, goodnight and best of luck with the weather tomorrow. It’s gonna be yucky. I gotta dig out my thick socks.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

Happy Sunday! I have been quite productive today, if I do say so myself. And I do. I know you’re not supposed to toil on the day of rest, but I really wanted to get the tree knocked out and peace and order restored to my home. I didn’t get around to mopping (maybe by design, maybe I’m pooped) but accomplished pretty much everything else I sat out to do. I need to be putting forth more effort on reading, but maybe this week I can settle in and do some of that.

Speaking of reading, it pains me to see someone apologizing for a lengthy post on Facebook. Guess what? You aren’t forcing people to read what you’ve written. It’s not literature class, they’re not obligated. Just like I’m not obligated to look at 80 pictures of your grandchild. I rarely see anybody apologizing for that, by the way 🙄 So stop apologizing! Say what you want to, with as many words (or pictures) as it takes! It’s your page.

Another thing you don’t have to apologize for is not taking calls. And not answering text messages right away. Sometimes you just don’t have the energy for people. You know what a phone call is about: they’re wanting to gossip or ask for a favor. An innocuous text asking what you’re doing is leading. I hate that so much. You’re under no obligation to tell anybody what you’re doing, what you’ve done all day, or why you didn’t answer the phone. “I didn’t want to” will burn, but it might cure them of their nosiness.

Now I’m off track. I was gonna talk about reading. My friend Emily asked me the other day who instilled my love of reading. Well, my mother did. She read to me in utero, and she ran me to the little Bookmobile once a week over at the bank. Every now and again, if I was lucky and her car was running good, she’d take me to the big library in Sevierville with a real childrens’ section. I could check out 15 at a time, and that was all my little bluejean satchel could carry, anyway, but they didn’t last me more than a few days. And if am recalling correctly, I read most of them twice. My mother encouraged me to read all the time, and continued to buy me books well into adulthood. I am eternally grateful for that. Reading is a gift that transports, and no one can ever take it away from you.

It’s funny. Just today, I was having a conversation with a dear friend about reading. He’s one of these that claims he doesn’t like to read, but he’s all the time got his nose stuck in farming journals or gun magazines and what have you. He says he’s only read one book in his entire life, and was ashamed to admit what it was. Listen, I’m judgmental about most life choices, but reading material is not one of them. He finally admitted that the one book that ever captured his attention was Where the Red Fern Grows. And he was a bit surprised I was familiar with it. Which prompted me to tell him exactly why I know about it. And if you went to Seymour Middle School, your story is the same as mine.

Mr. Hamilton, my 6th grade science teacher, would read to us for a few minutes every day. Or maybe it was once a week, I can’t remember now. And in those minutes, we were not in the crème-tiled classroom with the brown metal door with chicken wire glass that led into the greenhouse. We were not pimply, pre-pubescent smelly children, trapped for another 45 minutes sitting beside a guy who picked his nose. We were wild children, running with our dogs in the forest, in search of adventure.

I wonder how many times he read that book over the course of his career, standing behind his wooden podium at the front of class, flicking through the small, tattered paperback, and licking his finger as he turned the well worn pages. I wonder how many children sat spellbound, hanging onto every word, and groaning when he’d quit for that session. How we’d beg for just one more page! Not just because we didn’t want to do real work, but we loved that story. And we loved being read to. I don’t think you ever get too old for that. I remember being read to in 5th grade, too, by Mrs. Greer. We were plenty old enough to read alone at our desks, but Mrs. Greer knew the way to children’s hearts. We’d gather at the front of the grey carpeted classroom, sit grouped in a half circle Indian style (or as they say now “criss cross applesauce”), and she’d pull her swivel chair over and read a chapter or two. We made our way through Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, Superfudge, Ramona Quimby, and Queenie Peavy. I loved Mrs. Greer, even though we all were cruel, awful children and made fun of her, from her old fashioned beehive hairstyle that had a greenish hue, to the glasses she wore on a chain. Mrs. Greer had us enraptured and she did her best to make us lifelong readers.

My junior year, there was Mrs. Tipton. I think that was the year we had our choice of summer reading books. There was a list of a dozen or so, and we picked three. I know I picked some Mark Twains. And maybe Peter Pan? I’m high on adventure and fantasy to this day. But Mrs. Tipton made us understand that perhaps when a book didn’t entertain us, you could appreciate it for other reasons. Just like life, sometimes books teach us a lesson.

But Mrs. Tipton also recognized my writing ability. Once she gave us instructions to write a persuasive essay. Evidently I wasn’t paying attention and instead, I wrote a page about trail riding. It came back with an “A” and a note at the top, explaining that I hadn’t followed directions but she was giving me the grade I deserved. I guess in my own way I did persuade…I persuaded her to give me a good grade.

My friend wasn’t so lucky in teachers that guided him. He was too backward to speak up and get help, and has a tendency to fade into the background still to this day. He was passed over and never led to enjoy books. He thought that, on the whole, books are dry tomes filled with lengthy words and plenty of pretension. It makes me sad, because he’s missed out on so many years of filling his brain with fantastic stories. He didn’t know plenty of authors write like me, southern and down-to-earth. But I’m working on him. Now the hard part will be getting him to sit down and slow down long enough to get lost in a story.

How many people have only read the books that were read to them? Is this why audiobooks are so popular? Because it unlocks a core memory from our childhood? It almost makes me want to host a gathering once a week and all of us take turns reading our favorite books to each other. It’s such a wonderful feeling. It’s a hug, but with words.

I’m hugging you now, friends. Please let me know if you ever need a book recommendation. I’ll try my best to find you a great match. I promise to not give you a slog.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

Faulkner wrote “As I Lay Dying” and I’m inclined to pen “As I Lay Trying to Sneeze”. I love to sneeze, but they’re so hard won for me. Conditions have to be precisely right: no noise, must have plenty of bright light, and nobody looking at me. So generally I can only find release at home. I can sneeze in front of Chester.

Today has been a very satisfying day all around, even without adequate sneezes. I got most of my Christmas cleared away, I just lack the big tree. I got laundry caught up, but I’ll have to sweep, dust, and mop tomorrow. I fixed those little hot ham ‘n cheese sliders for lunch and was quite pleased with them until Kevin started sending me pictures of his chicken & waffles and later, prime rib. To be so nice, he sure can be a jerk. But to be fair, he did invite me up. He’ll be sorry if I ever get a helicopter.

I’m wondering about something and want your take, as I don’t have the experience to answer it myself. Feel free to text or private message via Facebook. I can’t promise you I’ll answer an email on here; I’m not sure what I did with my passwords. Yes, I know I’m supposed to just have them stored in my noggin, but get real.

Do you think anyone knows your spouse better than you?

Obviously the longer you’re married the better you’ll know each other. Well, maybe not….I see plenty of couples who are almost like strangers. All you gotta do is look around any restaurant. One, if not both, are usually on their phones. And not just on it, lost in it. Driving down the road, same thing. I know my best friend knows me better than my ex husband did. And no, that’s not why he’s an ex. But Lisa and I shared so much more history…and she cared more about a lot of things that he just didn’t concern himself with. And same for me, his formative years were as foreign to me as raising a child. I’ve always found myself rolling my eyes when I see those wedding invitations that say, “Today I marry my best friend”. I’m a firm believer in needing a best friend that isn’t your spouse. #1. Because you’re gonna need someone to complain to about them. And #2. There’s some stuff that the opposite sex just won’t get. Be it cramps, or trying a new recipe, or how you’re lusting over a pair of shoes, you’re gonna need a bestie. And sometimes you just need a sounding board. If you’re lucky, you’ll have a very honest best friend to rein you in when your crazy starts escalating to a detrimental stage.

I told a good friend today that I wish he could find a strongly opinionated woman to date, because most women seem to be scared to argue with him and it ends in disaster. He coasts along oblivious, and then bam, things are not fine and he’s thunderstruck. But to be fair, the women haven’t given fair warning, or at least not in words he can understand. I told him I didn’t know why nobody argues with him, I kind of enjoy it, myself. But I also don’t live with him so it’s easier to be truthful and voice my opinion without fear of The Pout. But I wouldn’t put up with that for long, either, so here we are.

I guess I’m just saying communication really is everything. I feel like the people who know me best are the ones I’ve known the longest and talk to the most, on a daily basis. We talk about the big things, the little things, the mundane, and the stupid. We’re just woven into each other’s lives. I read something once about how the person you love should know how you take your coffee and your mixed drink, and they always know when to bring which one. Or something like that. That’s a little thing, but it’s true. I think of pure love as how strongly I feel about my dog. Of course he’s never told me he loves me, but he shows me daily: he’s always happy to see me, he is always near and loves spending time with me, he likes to sit beside me, he protects me, he makes me laugh. All without saying a word. True love is caring about someone else’s happiness more than you do your own. And you can’t do that if you’re selfish. You can’t love if you’re guarding your heart. I think you have to be open with your feelings, even if you’re scared you’re gonna get trampled. You might be surprised to learn they’ve just been dying for you to say it first. I don’t know that love is work, because if you do what you love, you should be enjoying it. Love is sometimes about sacrifice: sacrificing your time and your feelings. And the longer I’m around, the more I believe in the Five Love Languages. I’m all about Acts of Service. But I still want to be touched and told how much I mean to them.

I hope our chances at love never run out. I hope it’s never too late. I hope that everyone understands that “matters of the heart are often complicated”. My good friend Emily said that to me awhile back and it nearly knocked me off my feet. They sure are. The only cure for love is to love more…and if you just can’t find it in your thumpin’ gizzard to love another human, go rescue a dog. They’re easy to love and they rarely argue. (Just when it’s time for heartworm preventative. And they’ll take it, eventually. Out of love.) And they are SO appreciative. You never have to wonder if they love you.

Go forth, be blessed, and try to spread some love or at least good cheer.

And if you can’t do that, learn a joke and tell it. People love to laugh. I was going to tell a time traveling joke, but y’all didn’t like it.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

One thing about it, these titles are easy 😉

You might get a poem today. Or you might not. Let’s see where this goes.

So concludes the ten days of Christmas and tomorrow I will begin tearing down, bad as I hate to. Yes, I could leave it up for another month, or heck, all year, but isn’t that what makes things special? The anticipation and the overall looking-forward-to-it-iveness? So I’ll pack it up. Sigh. Something is going on with my big tree’s lights, anyway, so best to get that taken down and out of here before it burns the house to the ground.

I was coming down the ol’ pike today (as my beloved late uncle called it) and I noticed a delivery type van pulling into my aunt’s driveway. It was a little late for the mail, and I hadn’t ordered any packages and I figured she hadn’t either. As I get closer, I decide it wasn’t a true delivery van at all, as it was a bit worse for the wear, and not in the FedEx “I’m in too big of a hurry to run through the car wash” state of dereliction. I’m now watching from my driveway, and the driver hasn’t disembarked. He pulls around the loop and to the top of the rise and throws his hand up at me. I don’t wave back, because I can’t tell who it is and I don’t want to install a false sense of hospitality when I’d just as soon shoot you if you’re bein’ nosy.

And derned if he don’t pull out here. I open my car door to get out and shut my gate before he gets any ideas about encroaching on my territory. I have my bag, complete with Annie. Dude has the audacity to stick the nose of his van through my gate entrance.

I detest feeling trapped.

He waves again.

I narrow my eyes and continue to march forward.

He hops out and around the front of his seedy van. He makes some comment about the weather or what have you.

“Who you huntin’?“ I ask, cutting to the chase.

“Anybody with a hungry stomach and an open mouth,” he quips with a grin that hasn’t been seen by a dentist in a decade or five.

I narrow my eyes further at his riddle. “Oh, you’re selling food,” I say, gesturing towards his vehicle.

“Yes ma’am!” He crows, obviously pleased that I got his little joke.

“Well, I’ve just been to the grocery store,” I tell him as nicely as possible. I’m for anybody trying to make a living. I just don’t appreciate them doing it in my driveway. Call me territorial.

“I’ve got some really good deals…” he wheedles.

I make a shooing motion with my hands. “You best be on your way,” I tell him plainly.

“Yes ma’am. Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year,” I echo. And I stood in the way to make it clear he wouldn’t be turning around in my yard. He backs away and parks at my neighbors. I beat a trail to the house to unleash the hound.

Dude is ringing the dinner bell on the porch next door when Chester lunges out and makes for the fence. So if he was casing the joint, hopefully that was enough to make him cross us off his list of potential sites.

Friendly, I ain’t.

I don’t really like pineapple. I’ve tried. I think I foundered on it as a child when my mamaw and aunt visited and then had an entire pallet shipped back. I like it IN stuff, like pineapple mango salsa, or with fish. I like ham & pineapple pizza (thanks to JA). But as a snack? No, thank you. In a fruit bowl? I’ll eat around it. Give me grapes, apples, and peaches. Or even kiwi.

I’m just sitting here admiring all my Christmas decorations for the final night. Back to drab and un-sparkly tomorrow, blah.

All for now. So no poem. You might have gotten one if I hadn’t gotten on the phone with a heartbroken friend. Heartbroken friends always come before exercising, even if it’s writing exercises. Here’s to tomorrow, when I’ve possibly spent part of the day pondering on something important and I can expound on deep, penetrating pensive thoughts and y’all don’t have to read more rambling crap.

Sleepless in Seymour,

~Amy

Whew, being disciplined takes dedication. And I’m a little short on suitable, safe topics again tonight. I guess I could write about my dog, as he’s a fan favorite, but considering how much of his hair I sucked up in the vacuum tonight, he’s not on my highly favored list right now. (I know he can’t help it, yes, I knew he was a shedder from the first time I laid eyes on him, and yes, he gets brushed daily. I vacuum at least twice a week with the Shark Petpro XLT or whatever it’s called but DANG.)

I’ve been asking myself why I’m so critical. It especially concerns Facebook, which is a sure sign I’m spending too much time on there. I’m for less kids and more dogs. Less “what your Ninja Warrior name would be” and more chicken and dumplings. Less griping about politics and more about what you’re reading. Less bragging about what you’ve bought and where you’re going and more about how you’re spending time with those you love in their homes, or yours. Why ya gotta be so fancy? Less pretension, overall, and more truth. Less passive aggressiveness and more directness. Quit faking it. Who are you trying to impress with some of this stuff?

Enough.

So I’ve come to the point in my life, when I go to buy something, I have to face reality and determine where I’m going to put it, and therefore, what am I going to get rid of. Because the inn is full. And the basement. And my office. I’m precariously close to being called a hoarder if I purchase one more book. There is no more room for bookshelves unless I have built-ins made. And then I would lose wall space, and where would all my Gone With the Wind pictures go? As you can see, this is quite the conundrum.

For Christmas, Kevin got me this block sign that says, “Alcohol. Because no great story ever started with someone eating a salad.” {Except Stacy has one. A very, very delicious salad has been the catalyst for many belly laughs🤣🤣🤣}. So in order to display said sign, I had to find a suitable location. The kitchen is the obvious place, but my windowsill is full to brimming with other little trinkets, especially here at Christmas.

I eyed my shelves that bracket the window. They don’t have too much stuff on them, because I hate to dust, but I could definitely get rid of some stuff. Especially shot glasses. I don’t know how I wound up with so many! Oh, wait, yes, I do. Lisa.

But where would I put them? Then I noticed my lemon tree. It was like I was seeing it anew. And I found it ugly. I took it down, snarled my nose at the dust, and took it outside to see if I could salvage any parts of it. I thought maybe I could stick the little lemons in a mason jar and keep the pot for an aloe plant or something. I have aloe running out my ears at all times.

Well, the lemons had definitely lived past their prime so I chunked everything but the pot in the garbage. Then I stood there wondering how long I had not truly loved that object I bought back in my early twenties. And how long had it been since I really LOOKED at it? And how many other things are in my house that don’t bring me joy, and are actually weighing me down?

I wasn’t prepared for all this on a Thursday night that I kept thinking was Wednesday. So I decided to eat some vanilla Oreos instead, and begin my fourth blog post of the year.

Chester wanted me to let y’all know he got a pedicure today, and no longer identifies as a velociraptor.

A friend invited me out to Barley’s tomorrow night. I declined, and told her to have fun. She asked what my plans were, why couldn’t I come. While I find this line of questioning a bit nosy, I answered truthfully: “No plans, I just don’t want to. I don’t like driving downtown after dark and I just don’t want to get out. Plus, last time I ate there, their pizza hurt my belly.” And you know what? My friend said she really appreciated my honesty. And I appreciate her being able to hear my truth and not trying to convince me or make me feel like a fuddy-duddy. I’ve made my peace with never being hip. Sometimes I wish I didn’t have to leave my house at all. I really like it here. Especially now that I’ve dispatched an ugly lemon tree.

I have a feeling spring cleaning may come early. Like with Epiphany. 😁

Tomorrow is Friday. Tomorrow is Friday. Tomorrow is Friday. Maybe I’ll get straightened out this weekend. 👠👠👠👠👠👠 If not, maybe it’ll make for a more entertaining post than this one. Yesterday when I poured my guts out, all the comments were centered around Trader Joe’s, a minor player in the grand scheme of things. I wonder what will be the standout from tonight’s.

I’m off to count sheep.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

I don’t wish to treat this blog as a journal, but that’s what I’m reduced to, as I have procrastinated all the livelong day. So here we are, going on 9:00 and I’ve got nothing.

I have desperately wanted to turn my phone off today, due to conversations I’ve had, as well as conversations I felt were on the horizon. But I didn’t turn my phone off, and I didn’t have a nervous breakdown, and I managed not to bite anybody’s head off. Score! The bottle of wine I shared with my cousin after work helped immensely, no doubt. As Ernest Hemingway said, “write drunk, edit sober.” I’m halfway there!

In case you didn’t know, I live under a rock. I have never been to Trader Joe’s. I thought it was some upscale gourmet grocery store. Evidently it’s a home for fantastic cheeses and $6 bottles of wine, so I gotta get there pronto Tonto.

Stumbled across a song today that I haven’t heard in decades. “Say Say Say” by Michael Jackson and Paul McCartney, two of my favorites. Funny how music from our childhood sticks with us, but I could hear a Taylor Swift song seventeen times a day and at best may get the chorus by the tenth playing. Nothing against Taytay, just my memory is quickly dissipating. And I’m not remembering the important stuff either, before you try to come to my rescue.

I’m tired of being told I’m picky, even if it’s true. Maybe if more people were particular, we’d all be happier on the whole. Sure, I have high standards. You should, too, in all aspects of your life. I don’t want to see trash on the side of the road. I want people to have tidy yards. I want whoever is selling me a product to say hello, then the total, then thank me and tell me to have a nice day. Is this too much to ask? I want men to date that tell me I look nice and hold my door and make another date before that one’s over. I don’t want a “wyd” text three days later. I want EFFORT.

I want people to be honest with themselves so they can be honest with me. I want my best friend to have a safe, stress-free flight to Texas tomorrow. I want her sister-in-law to pass peacefully, with no further suffering. I want my dog to know that he’s safe and loved and will never be on the streets or at the shelter again. I want to always have enough money for tires and home repairs. I want to only read worthwhile books. I want to have people in my life who can always go for wings and beer and talk about books.

I want snow and everybody to be cozy and warm at home, and then I want long summer days on the lake. I want all beef hotdogs and hot chocolate with lots of marshmallows. I want my coworker to stop sniffing and blow his nose. I want my 1199s to be without error the first time I type them. I want to see Alaska and tour castles in Ireland and spend many more long weekends strolling Savannah.

I want things to change, but also to stay the same. I want to write and be paid for what’s in my heart, not what I’m told to say. I want glee and spontaneous laughter and flowers just because. I want glitter and much ado about nothing and picnics. I want to lay on my back on a blanket and read poetry by day and watch the stars twinkle at night. I want candlelight and campfires and citronella candles or maybe just a bunch of bats. I want to be kissed silly every day for the rest of my life. I don’t want passion to fade. I want romance forever.

I want to tell you about my childhood, raw with emotion, with no judgement. I want to compare our lives, and shake our heads at how different it is now and what it was like for your children, too. I want to be able to stop playing these mindless games. An addictive personality is a mildly dangerous thing.

I want to ride strong, fast, willing horses and I want to learn to fly a helicopter. Why has no one invented personal wings yet? I NEED them. I want products to ring up correctly and I want to possess an innate sense of how to do taxes correctly.

I want to eat wedding cake every season but somehow avoid attending the wedding. I never want to be invited to another baby shower again. I want to decorate and buy fun pillows and smell candles and look at art. I want jeans to fit right away and always, and my bra straps not to show. I want to wake up and know what I want to wear. I want a commute that moves at 60 mph. I want people to text me when I’m on their mind.

I want you to love life, love reading, love food, love the Lord. I want you to find joy in the mundane every single day. I want us to count our blessings and hold out hope that we’re all gonna be okay. I want you to love a dog.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

Here we are. Day 2. The day where many of us are back at work. Although I learned that University of Tennessee students don’t begin until January 22nd. That’s some break! I dressed up, I curled my hair, I put on makeup…it’s all a ruse. I am here only in body. Everything feels just a bit off kilter. I can’t explain it. But, on a much brighter note, I got a free car wash today! It is unknown if the guy took pity on me (Maggie had bird doo on the door and probably elsewhere, I’ve been trying not to look too closely) or if I look like the type to gripe and he wasn’t gonna take any chances. Regardless, the “basic” three minute car wash is $12, which is highway robbery with a water hose. Plus it always makes me a nervous wreck. I do not like those things pulling me along and buffeting me with the wind and slapping at me with those giant rubber bands. Now they’ve added concert type lighting and it’s all very disorienting. Several years ago, right after I got my car, I went over there and there wasn’t an attendant in sight. I thought if I just eased my way into the tunnel the magic would begin but it never did and so I came out and circled around to the then-present employees. They were amazed at my stupidity but trying not to be obvious about it, which I appreciated. They didn’t refund my money but they did provide me more instruction and I left with a sparkly clean car. I couldn’t help my ignorance. Patsy hadn’t had but one automatic bath in 18 years and it was straight out of a Baxter Black story, complete with dog food and baler twine. I am not up to date on all this newfangled technology in the world of car washes. But I guess we’re even now. I thought it was very nice, especially since he didn’t know of the unfortunate incident from four or five years ago.

Speaking of dog food, I got that squared away on my lunch break, too. I’ve had to switch, which stresses me, but maybe it’ll be okay and the transition seamless. My sweet little saleslady, none other than the illustrious Lindsey Mae, instructed me to feed less or I’d have a mess. Always appreciated. But Chester feeds himself so I have my fingers crossed that it’ll all work out. I’ll transition slowly and pray for no accidents.

I saw a post today that said, in summary: “When I wish you a ‘happy new year’, I’m not expecting this to actually happen, for that is not possible- a year must be all things. Happiness must come and go, like the tides and the winds, just as sadness, and all the emotions in between. I’m really wishing you a baseline of peace and of gratitude. Because if you can sit with these things, happiness will thrive. When sadness does arrive, it will know its place in the mix. If you can nourish these things daily, you will also grow hope. And hope is the key. When I say ‘happy new year’ I’m really wishing you more happy days than sad days, more joy than misery, more laughter than tears and the wisdom to accept that they all belong. Happy new year, my friends. Happy new year. ~ Donna Ashworth (again, I took liberties to condense and primarily to delete unnecessary commas). I thought that was very accurate, Happy New Year is merely a wish that your year isn’t all gloom and doom and good things happen. Kinda like telling people “Have a good day”. I don’t expect it to be perfect, just for you to be able to manage any obstacles that arise. Some people take offense to it. It’s not an order, just a hope. And if you get mad about that, then perhaps some medication or an stress relieving activity may behoove you.

In an effort to appease my dear, devoted reader and retired director of dispatchers, he suggested the following topics, I believe mainly in jest, and also to illustrate how quickly his brain synapses. I look for it to short out soon if he keeps this up.

• Are charcuterie boards merely cutting boards put to alternative uses? And why the hell do we need another term for snack trays?
  ~ Well, sort of. I didn’t look up the history of how charcuterie came to be, but it makes sense that some woman short on time had been chopping and slicing and scraping to the side and when she took a moment to look, instead of scooping the vegetables and cheese from the cutting board to place in pretty, matching bowls, she found that a little tweaking could make it perfectly presentable where the cucumber slices lay. And a snooty pastime was born, all to make food look more appetizing. Like it wasn’t going to be eaten anyway. And we DON’T need another term for snack trays. See ritzy comment above. It’s humorous all us rednecks have embraced it. So it’s probably on the way out by now, and we’ll go back to cut glass bowls and silver trays, as our great-grandmothers intended.
• Why is blockchain even in our vocabulary?
  ~ It’s not in mine. I had to look it up. Then I realized it was sort of familiar to me, but I couldn’t have given you the definition if my life depended on it. And knowing Barry, I figured it was a slang term for some perverted sexual act that he’d picked up in emergency services, a career notorious for dirty-minded individuals. I’m sure tech savvy people use it regularly in their line of work. So there you go.
• Other than Ryan Seacrest who the hell was on Dick Clark’s New Year’s Eve Special, and why am I supposed to care about them? And why is it still Dick Clark’s when he has been dead for over a decade? Does anyone know that his middle name was Wagstaff? Why didn’t he name his show Guy Lombardo’s New Year’s Eve? His career lasted more than 50 years!
  ~ Uhhhh…..I don’t know any of this. We watched about two minutes of the final countdown and I was thinking “That guy looks like the guy from American Idol…he got old….oh yeah, we are old, so it probably is him.” but that’s as far as that particular train of thought went, because I started remembering the Friends episode where Ross and Monica got invited by Joey’s Australian hot dancer roommate (his words, not mine, to be clear) to be on Dick Clark’s Rockin’ Eve and they were so stoked but SO nerdy that they ended up on the bloopers/ outtakes. Which DID make me wonder if Dick Clark was still alive, and why the networks were still giving him top billing celebrity host status when he was clearly not trendy and hip. Is Ryan Seacrest still considered trendy and hip? Was he ever, really?? I don’t know any of these things, because I have never been trendy and hip, myself. Is WHOSE middle name Wagstaff? Ryan or Dick Clark? *googling* Ryan’s middle name is John. Of course it is. Wagstaff is a cute name for a dog. I’m assuming it was a family name, probably on his mother’s side. Mothers can be very influential when it comes to naming children, so I’m told. I have no opinions on Guy Lombardo. I googled him, classic violinist. Well, Barry, I’m guessing he just wasn’t as well known. We are a population of uncultured swine, as I am proving with my blog posts.
• When did “entrepreneur” start to mean someone without gainful employment? Who does an influencer influence and how? Is there a minimum amount of likes and followers?
  ~I think this “entrepreneur” business began in the last five years. Or maybe in the year of Covid, when it was the norm to quit your job because we may not have another precious moment to waste at a dead end job where you are under appreciated. That just sounds like life to me. Maybe my standards are too low, but I came by them honestly, while working a job where I was underpaid and definitely underappreciated for 13 or so years….But in my limited knowledge, didn’t entrepreneur {wow, I don’t think I’ve ever typed that before} use to describe one who was an inventor and trying to procure a patent or licensing? We would say “They’re between jobs” when they didn’t have a source of income. It used to be a noble thing to have a job that provided insurance and benefits. It feels like anymore you’re looked down upon because you’re actually reporting into a job at a desk with some degree of supervision. I guess those of us who are following this outdated form of employment will continue to support the entrepreneurs of today well into our hard won retirement. And that makes me sick. As far as the influencers go, I take that to mean these people who post reels of applying makeup, doing hair, dumping things out of cans and calling it cooking, and shopping (!!!!! YES, SERIOUSLY). Until very recently, my blog was set up for me to share links to Amazon of things I wanted to promote. I would have gotten like a half a cent on every dollar for anything purchased via one of my provided links. *Disclosure* I was never paid one red cent and they kicked me off their affiliate program two years in. Even though I, personally, had bought things via my website, and so had my husband at the time. So I guess companies pay these people who somehow achieved a level of stardom on the internet (YouTube, Instagram, and whatnot) to use their products. Kinda like a sponsorship in the sports world, I suppose. I don’t know if there’s a minimum follower count that companies look for. Pinterest showcased one of my boards one time and I got 20 thousand followers overnight and I felt a small measure of celebrity status. It wasn’t amazing at all, in my opinion. More like a migraine, what with all the spammers.
• Why do we need Starry? What was wrong with Sierra Mist?
  ~ More googling…I didn’t know this had happened. What was wrong with 7-up, for that matter? I have read to understand it is a Dr. Pepper product distributed by Pepsi, but hel-lo. Starry is a dumb name. But I suppose it’s in keeping with Sprite. Follow the “S’s”. I haven’t tried it. Hopefully it has real cane sugar. But my preferred is Coke, then water. If I don’t trust the water and they’re out of coke and Mountain Dew, then I might go with Sprite. Starry would be way down on my list, after sweet tea, beer, and wine.
  
  

In other news, I still need a tutor for WordPress. They don’t have a helpline, they have chat forums. Lots of times when I type my question into google or their search box on their site, I wind up with more questions. For instance, I’ve hunted for “how to make a drop cap” “how to change font size” and “how to change font color” today and have found myself on posts dating back ten years and now I realize I’m also missing a toolbar that I desperately need. This sucks.

One last funny thing and I’ll let you go. I was holding the door at the library for a lady who had her hands full. She makes a remark about how she was trying to switch hands and then, quite unexpectedly, “Do you like cabbage?”

This took me so by surprise that I answered her, “I do not,” when all actuality, I do, but only when someone else has prepared a dish for me. I did not want this woman pushing bushels of cabbage on me and insisting it makes the most wonderful kraut. Or coleslaw. Or cooked cabbage.

She returns, “You do or you don’t?” Kind of hostile and a bit exasperated.

“I do not,” I repeated, wondering if this would constitute as a lie in the big book of my sins. Especially now that she’s asked twice.

“You don’t???” She’s truly incredulous now, and I want to turn around and go back outside and get in my car and drive off the closest cliff. This is what I get for being nice and holding a door.

But I did get to see my dear friend Brenda on the way back down to the lobby after the meeting, so that made up for it. I took a selfie, but it’s unflattering, so I’m not sharing it.

And this concludes my entry for today. This would be exhausting if I didn’t enjoy it so much. 1847 words. Need to research what constitutes an article. (600-1500, with up to 3500 for a magazine article). And as Paul Harvey would say, “And now you know….the rest of the story.” *insert tinkly giggle here

Love From Appalachia,
~Amy

I could have written when I woke up this morning, while the house was quiet and I was snug under my Christmas quilt. I could have told about all the things I’d eaten the night before, and how I was in no hurry to scarf down breakfast. I could have expounded on the many virtues of my host, or how Bowling Green has a few things I wish we had in Sevier County, Tennessee. Like the Tostitos Salsa Verde chips I was finally able to procure. But at least we didn’t have any kind of weather to write home about. I was thankful for calm skies this trip.

I could have written from the passenger seat of the Ford as we made our way back home, via the circuitous path via Portland that pains me, apart from the giant strawberries and Hereford bull. I could have told you about the nice man at the gas station who has a truck just like this one, and how we wants a diesel F250 and a fifth wheel in order to travel indefinitely. I told him to go for it.

I could have collected my thoughts, at least, so when I sat down to write tonight, in the soft glow of my still-decorated Christmas tree, I would have a real topic and an idea of what my first post of the new year should say. I would appear to you as a responsible adult with clear goals and the capabilities to achieve them.

But instead, you are chipping your way through this, wondering if I’ll ever get to it, and if I do, will it even be worth the five minutes of your time? You’re unsure if you’ll agree with what I say once I do make my point, and you hope I’m not going to complain about the absolute WASTE that I find fireworks to be.

I am so tired, and I barely did anything besides ride and listen today. My aunt and I decided, on the whole, women passengers aren’t as likely to nap as our male counterparts. We’re geared higher, in her words. I tend to agree. I want to be alert to any dangers, but I also don’t want to miss anything. I like seeing cows, and reflecting on the weather, and picking out cars I think I would like to own. Or maybe just remarking on the color of the vehicle or the intelligence of the one behind the wheel. And I need to control what I can— that being the thermostat and the radio.

My mind is on tasks to be completed tomorrow: pin down the exact time for a committee meeting, call some board members, start 1199s, get dog food. The dog food is a chore unto itself, as Chester’s brand had a recall some time ago and still isn’t back in stock.

I just finished a piece of cake that’s so rich it needs its own tax bracket: Elvis Presley cake. It is unknown to me what makes it an Elvis cake, but I certainly took care of business when I got down to eating it. All it is is a butter cake, baked bakery style {butter in place of oil, milk in place of water, add an egg and vanilla}. While it’s baking, heat a can of crushed pineapple and a cup and a half of sugar. Take the cake out, jab holes throughout, and dump sugar/ pineapple mix over it. Allow to soak in and cool completely, then frost with cream cheese icing (block of cream cheese, stick of butter, pound of powdered sugar, and vanilla).

My GAWD.

It kind of reminds me of my cousin’s piña colada cake, but a thousand times richer. I think it would be delectable with cool whip frosting, as well, with the added incentive of not causing type II diabetes overnight.

I’ve just spent several minutes hunting my word count. Maybe that’s something not available on the app. I’m writing on my tablet.

Funny how the word tablet has always meant “an object on which one writes” (or doodles), but the object itself has evolved from a rock, to paper, to a digital device. Hmm. We all must evolve, or risk being left. I admit I am not one for big changes. I don’t necessarily fight, but I do tend to stick with what I know. Hard to fix something that ain’t broke, in my book.

I wonder where the year will take me. Some things are much better in my life today than they were a year ago. But I’ve lived long enough to realize most stuff will flip. Nothing gold can stay, Ponyboy. But here’s hoping. And here’s to me being able to share it with y’all.

Happy New Year. May we all prosper peacefully, and may we all be able to laugh our way through it.

Love from Appalachia,

Amy