I don't want To straighten my hair To trade my glasses for contacts To lose weight To wear trendy clothes So you can say I'm pretty I also don't need your acceptance I just want to be left alone To drink my coffee in peace And enjoy the wind on my face Because I don't care enough About my appearance To leave the windows up Have you realized how deprived You are And how limited to liking certain things Just to fit in When you tell yourself You're standing out I wish you would sing Like nobody's listening (Because they're not) And if they are They just wish they had the courage to sing Like you're doing And have fun In that abandoned fashion I wish you would dance Even though you wore the wrong shoes And it's so hot And you don't know these people All the more reason The blisters will heal The sweat will dry And the people will forget If they remember at all Eat the cheese The doughnuts The cake The steak Drink the liquor The cheap wine The mountain dew that's no good for you Hold the hand Make the call Because you get one trip It's not easy to be a nerd In a party crowd To be a gardener In a city To embrace your contentedness In a room full Of money hungry Power tripping Hustlers If only You could just be As happy with ourselves As our dogs are I don't tend to measure success With money Or possessions I measure it In tranquility Moments that give me pause And when it rains It's another blessing Even if it rains On my picnic Or my freshly washed car I don't want to pick a season I want to enjoy them all I want to see something different Every time I look around I want to wave at strangers Like Kindergarteners do And not temper my excitement Even though it makes you uncomfortable I want to gallop across fields on horseback And wear gaudy hats And slurp oysters And drink beer And live life with abandon Because We Only Get ONE.
My commute to work sucks.
It doesn’t suck because of roadwork, or a road that NEEDS work. It doesn’t suck because it’s choked with air pollution or that it’s an exceedingly long drive. It doesn’t suck on account of the view or a particularly narrow and windy path.
It sucks because people are in a hurry and there are way too many of them.
I drive through school traffic the second I leave my driveway. There are four literally on top of me, and Kings Academy on one route I take to get to the highway. If I go Boyds Creek I contend with another school. There is no way to win. Every. Single. Day. I contend with tailgaters and road rage. I don’t care to tell you I travel 10 mph over the speed limit and I always have at least one car during my journey following so closely I cannot see their headlights. It’s often I’m not even the one holding up traffic; I’m in a long line of travelers just trying to get there. It gives me major anxiety and I honestly don’t know what to do about it. There are limited places to pull off the road and let them pass, but what good does that do when there’s another one blasting up through there to take their place? I don’t know the solution. There is often a county cruiser sitting at {the former} Dr. Bradley’s or at the old stockyard but I assume they have a hard time differentiating between people following placidly at their pace and the jacklegs who came flying around three or more cars to get that far ahead. It’s infuriating and dangerous. They put my heart in my throat and I just want to get out and give them a slap worthy of Scarlett O’Hara and a speech channeling Julia Sugarbaker. They clearly have no respect for human life to drive like that. I find it’s the same ones every day. I wonder if their momma knows. I wonder if they got it from her, or their dad. These people look to be all ages. I wonder how they’d feel if it was their best friend in the car they’re so intent on passing.
Anyway, on to this morning.
So I’m sitting here (in traffic, it goes without saying I’m ALWAYS in traffic) in downtown Sevierville in front of the bank. {If you don’t know which bank you’re obviously new here}. I was trying to breathe normally and unclench my grip on the steering wheel and remember that I love Sevier County, and the mountains, and most of the people, and thank God for Dolly Parton.
And there’s this bird.
She’s splashing in a big puddle made from the irrigation the bank has to water their landscaping. It’s right at the road, at the entrance into their parking lot. The blinding morning sunlight is bathing this bird as much as the water and she is having a big time. She’d duck under and flip up and water droplets flew like Queen Elizabeth’s diamonds through the air. She’d fluff her feathers and the spray was wondrous. There was another bird sitting in the grass on the edge, awaiting her turn. The puddle was big enough for both of them, I don’t know why she didn’t join her. But soon, another bird flew in. And another. And another. Soon there were six little common gray starlings flipping and preening in that one dirty mud puddle. Common and dull colored, yes, but it was miraculous how gorgeous they were and it transformed my vision on this morning. I was so disappointed I didn’t get a picture (it wouldn’t have been anything special though, I don’t have the ability to transform ordinary scenes to gorgeous photography like some of my friends and family). I felt momentary sorrow for the birds, that all they had was this very public drainage puddle to get clean in, but then I remembered the river, and it’s just right there, and plenty of little streams and ponds around. Maybe the birds were sent here to lift our moods and show us something beautiful in a very public place. Maybe they liked being exhibitionists and the center of attention for this moment in time.
The light turned, cars begun to roll forward, and the birds flew away. I wondered if anyone else enjoyed the scene as much as I did. I wondered if the birds came back when the light turned red again. I hope I get to watch them again next week. And I hope that I remember this moment each time somebody makes me lose my religion in traffic again.
I didn’t get a picture of the birds, but I did get this picture yesterday morning leaving Bojangles. It brightened my morning, too.
Deep breath.
You just gotta take what you can get.
We’re lucky there’s so much to get on a regular day around here.
I hope that my words never seem disrespectful. I usually feel the need to purge and sometimes it’s about sensitive subjects. I have been labeled a sensitive soul, because I tend to cry at the drop of a hat. But in the meantime, my smart mouth is forever earning me the label of…well, you know. You’ve heard. I AM strong-willed, I have no lies to tell.
I say all this because I didn’t take a picture today. It would have been disrespectful to take out my phone and snap one, no matter how badly I wanted to remember the beauty of it. I have only my words.
I go to a ton of funerals. I don’t see it as morbid. I was raised up in funeral homes like some kids are raised in church. Seems like somebody all the time was dying. Holly Hills, Berry’s, Atchley’s, Rawlings, McCammon-Ammons were the ones locally that we frequented. Once I started working at the Co-op, we occasionally branched out to Newport and Morristown. College friends laying their parents to rest were sometimes surprised to see me turn up, not understanding that I was raised to comfortably attend these events. It doesn’t matter if it’s Greeneville or Cookeville or Murfreesboro. I will come. People don’t seem to understand that you don’t have to know the person who passed, you might love someone who loved the deceased. You go for them. You might have not talked to the deceased in ten years, but fifteen years ago you were thick as thieves. You go for them, for that time. You go because you care, one way or the other.
I promise you will never forget who attended the funeral of your loved one. You will forget who attended your sixteenth birthday party, and you may get hazy about who was at your wedding. You won’t remember who made it to your daughter’s fifth birthday or her ballet recital or your son’s first Little League game.
You don’t forget who came to hug you when your daddy died.
I sometimes will be the only one crying at the receiving line, as the family eyes me with pity while they manage to hold their own tears back.
Funerals are as unique as religions. I’ve been to all kinds: ones like a tent revival, where I thought the preacher was gonna keep us there till the sun come up, and just when he wound down another stepped up to continue. Funerals where if I hadn’t seen the body my-own-self I wouldn’t know who the preacher was preaching about. I’ve been to funerals that wasn’t a funeral at all– like my Grandmother’s– where we all just stood around, not looking at her because she didn’t want us to anyway, and telling funny stories. She was buried in purple silk pajamas, if you wanna talk about strange things at funerals.
I’ve been to funerals where the family was already Into It, and it showed. I’ve stood at grave sites while the husband dug his wife’s grave in his shirtsleeves, and where the grandsons pitched in covering their Mamaw up.
Plenty of those, out in the country.
Funerals where the procession to the graveyard was led by a tractor, or a jeep, and once, a boat on a trailer. Amazing Grace played on a bagpipe, songs sung by women who could crack glass. Led Zeplin and Elvis and of course, Patsy Cline.
Funerals for old men, primarily. Women with cancer, teenagers in car wrecks. I’ve never had to see a baby buried, and I hope I never do.
I have now attended four military funerals.
They’re the ones that squeeze your guts out. They’re the ones where you learn about their other life.
The first one was for a coworker of mine, one Delmar Maples, mechanic and janitor. And Marine. A sunshiney day on a rocky hillside in Caton’s Chapel.
Doves.
21 shots.
Wailing.
The second was for my college friend’s Dad. It was at the Mason Lodge. Fired the canon. Presented the flag. My friend was pregnant and I remember her rubbing her belly and a big tear rolling down her cheek.
My Uncle’s best friend was next.
Brass on asphalt.
Bite of smoke on the frosted breeze.
Taps.
Cheryl looking straight ahead, chin proud. As she should be.
Stronger than me.
And today, John.
We gathered at the little stone chapel next to the Veterans Cemetery overlooking the river. A humid morning, fog still hiding out on the riverbank. We found respite under the maple trees and watched birds wheel until it was time to file in. Flag at half staff. I found a farmer from the valley to talk to while we waited. He hadn’t known John stood at the casket of John F. Kennedy. He’d known him for decades, farming right alongside in the mud and snow and heat. But he hadn’t known that. None of us did. We knew about the hay, and the weather, and the cattle. We knew the man who devoted his life to agriculture. We were learning he’d also devoted it to the United States of America, his church, and his family.
I was full circle again, sitting beside Judy Godfrey, the one who introduced my family to John when I showed his sheep. Judy, that I serve with on the library board. Judy, that instructed me at the library summer camp when I was six or seven years old.
I clenched my jaw.
John was laid to rest in a steel John Deere casket. I don’t mean that it is simply green. I mean that it is BRANDED John Deere, complete with emblem. Dedicated to the end.
His remains were up front, between the American Flag and the Tennessee State Flag, with other service flags as well. His John Deere casket was covered with another American Flag.
We sat.
The salute.
Firing
Firing
Firing.
Taps.
Silence.
All at attention as the flag was folded and presented to Miss Glenda. She smiled a quavering smile, accepted, nodded.
Sniffs.
The officer saluted, long and slow.
My nose dripped and pressure built behind my eyes.
The grandson rose and read Paul Harvey’s So God Made A Farmer.
Of course he did.
And he didn’t get hoarse until the last paragraph. And there wasn’t a dry eye in the chapel.
His granddaughter read Ecclesiastes 3:1-8.
His son-in-law told some jokes. Yeah, we agreed, wiping our eyes, he knew John.
Yeah.
As I left I could hear John saying, “let’s go eat.”
And so it was today, when we buried John Huff.
Have you ever been treated as an outcast? Like you were the only kid in your class who wore glasses, or had freckles or curly hair? Or maybe you were a transplant from some far away city into a rural type town. Have you ever felt like you were the only one? And so, since you didn’t have anyone to talk to, you turned to books. And in books you found others just like you, a kid who had glasses and curly hair. A kid who had divorced parents. A country kid in a city school. A kid who wanted a dog but only had two goldfish in a glass bowl on the kitchen counter. You identified with these characters because they had things in common with you, and it seemed like a miracle because you were all alone until you discovered this book that appeared to be written just for you.
Some kids are fortunate enough to have parents who talk to them, who pray with them, who teach them right from wrong. Some kids aren’t fearful of talking to a teacher, or a church leader, or maybe they trust a neighbor or relative with their deepest secrets and use them as a moral compass. But some kids don’t have that. Some kids only have books as friends, and as allies. Some kids only have books as a means to justify feelings or to trust with their heart.
Maybe these kids use their library after school, unsupervised other than the library staff. The PUBLIC library, which is for EVERYONE.
It’s a wonderful, magical place where you can travel to anywhere you’ve ever dreamed by simply opening the cover and flipping pages. There are books on our mountains, present day, and what it was like living in them over a hundred years ago. You can travel to ancient Egypt, or the Netherlands, or even outer space and the Jurassic period. You can travel to a place that isn’t real, except in the author’s and readers’ minds. You can be anyone – a gold miner, an acrobat, a gorilla who skates. You can be a billionaire or a hobo or a teardrop in an ocean. There’s something for everyone.
And as a member on the board of trustees for our library, I intend to keep it that way.
The library staff is not trying to indoctrinate any children. They are not trying to brainwash or be subversive and make kids out to be anything other than what they are. They are trying to reach the teenagers who feel like all is lost and they’re alone with these new feelings of who they like.
I keep thinking about when I was a young girl and I was sitting at my desk in class. I looked over and another girl had a book laying on top of her textbook. She wasn’t reading about our lesson. She was reading this other book, a book about when your parents divorce. I saw it, and I thought, “hey, me too, I wonder if that book could help me.” I don’t remember if I ever read it, but the point is, it was there if I needed it. Because Lord knows your parents have their hands full coping with their own trauma than to deal with the fallout from a twelve year old kid caught in the crossfire. So having feelings validated and being told what to expect and what is normal and what isn’t rational could certainly be beneficial.
Kudos to those of you who had supportive parents, open relationships, and plenty of people to talk to. Not everyone has that. Some people only have books, regardless of age- be it five years old, seventeen, forty, or eighty. Bless the books, and bless the librarians who help get them into the hands that need them.
“Every book is a children’s book if the kid can read!” ~Mitch Hedburg. If you don’t want them reading it, I certainly hope you curtail their TV watching and video game playing. Lord knows that’s pure garbage for 80% of the programs shown. I also hope you are having all the hard conversations and teaching them your expectations and your religious beliefs. Don’t let them float. Don’t expect someone else to do it for you. And don’t get mad if they learn their own ways for themselves because you were absent. They have their own mind, and it can be filled with all sorts of things, whether you approve or not.
“Books are the quietest and most constant of friends; they are the most accessible and wisest of counselors, and the most patient of teachers.” Charles W. Eliot
Soil is one of three things, when we are evaluating pH. Acidic, alkaline, or basic. Depending on what you’re growing, you could want any one of them. You modify your soil by using lime or sulfur. But sometimes you just leave it alone and it’ll straighten itself out over time.
“Hold whatcha got.”
How many times have I heard those words? My earliest memories are of working on the farm, stretching fence. “Hold whatcha got,” because I wasn’t strong enough to pull any more, but I could hold what was there. I might have to bear down and dig in, but I would hold.
I am stubborn as an oak when I need to be. Stubborn as a deep rooted thistle, more like, seeing as how prickly my disposition is.
“Hold whatcha got.” As I grew up, of course I made friends. Sometimes it was hard to stay friends when we had a difference of opinion or new people moving in who were brighter and shinier. But if you have a good friend, you better keep them. I’m proud to say I’ve had my best friend in the whole world for thirty years now. She is definitely worth holding onto.
“Hold whatcha got.” Now it was money. This is probably the most recurring mantra for holding on that I would hear in my life. I had saved, but it still wasn’t enough for that saddle, or those shoes, or that ticket to a show. Maybe a relative would come along and help me out, but more often than not I just had to keep saving, and hold on to what I had.
“Hold whatcha got.” Working cattle, hemmed up, or maybe one twisted in the chute. Maybe a cow in labor, struggling. Holding tails, holding the headgate, holding the rope. Just hold. Help is on the way. Don’t let go, and don’t try to be a hero. Just hold on.
“Hold whatcha got.” Ordering products for the Co-op and needing more…but knowing a big sale was coming up if I could just hold on to save some dollars…maybe direct customers towards other products that work to clear some old inventory and hold on to what I had.
“Hold whatcha got.” Helping a friend move: opening a door, letting down a tailgate, taking part of the load.
Your marriage. If you care about it, hold on.
Your religion. You may not understand, and you may be close to losing hope. Just hold on. Things might seem bleak in church when your preacher decides it’s time to leave, or if the organ player runs off with a deacon, but just hold on, it’ll settle.
Sometimes staying static is boring and as Americans we’re conditioned to always be hustling, to want more, to always desire to achieve the highest goal. It’s exhausting, honestly.
When we look around us, it’s easy to see those who are doing better- plenty of people with monstrous houses, multiple houses, three or four cars, boats, RZRs, vacations, horses, campers, you name it. All the necessities and plenty of extras, and everything is the finest money can buy.
It’s also not difficult to look around and see those less fortunate- those driving raggedy cars, houses a-shamble, failing health. They’re holding on by a tenacious thread.
My house is old. With age comes deterioration. There are plenty of things that need to be updated or simply fixed. I would like to have a deck along the back and a screened porch. But the truth is, I can’t keep what I’ve got maintained. I detest mopping and cleaning baseboards and sweeping the basement. I’d love to live on the water. But the thought of packing up and finding a place is daunting. I hate even scheduling an appointment on the phone, forget finding a realtor and getting a loan and all that jazz. Sometimes less is more and I sure don’t want to get over my head.
As time goes by, we lose it all. Our life basically erodes, just like soil. We start out with a big family, and people divorce, people die, people move away. Friends are the same. Some come, a few go, until we’re left with a handful at the end with whom we share interests or maybe just a proximity. Our health starts strong (if we’re fortunate) and then gently wanes. Our intelligence….we build and study and learn…only to forget more and more as we age. None of these can be changed. You can’t hold people, you can’t force people to stay. Sometimes the loss is too much to overcome and you have to simply stop it from getting worse by shoring up and stabilizing. Holding whatcha got means I won’t add to your load, but I need you to do all you can to hold what you’re already straining under.
I say hold what you got. Times are so hard right now, groceries through the roof, building materials out of sight, and gas prices the highest we’ve ever seen. I wouldn’t want to be buying or selling in this market. Be determined, be strong willed, be gritty.
So if you have something….hold whatcha got.
When I say I love East Tennessee, I mean it.
I love possums waddling across the road and chickens scratching in the ditch. I love roadside produce stands, how when in doubt we fry it, the sunrises and sunsets, the drone of the katydids in July evenings, the Friday night high school football pride that transitions to a love for the Big Orange, how we bleed orange from birth– if you’re raised right. I love the mountains on display at every turn, the proud mindset of all us mountain people who continue to find a way to get by. I love the lightning bugs, bringing just a little magic to twilight. I love the Junebugs too. I love a lazy Sunday anchored in a holler on the lake, and a fiddle playing breaking out at a family reunion at Metcalf Bottoms. I love the festivals celebrating every season and holiday. I love Jack in the Pulpit and the history of our hills and valleys. I love the books that pour out of people after they visit just once. I love the poetry on the tongues of every native. It’s a cadence, it’s a way of life, our storytelling is communication of our love of the land. I even love the funerals, and the hellfire and brimstone preaching. I love bats on the wing and swallows diving for skeeters. I love that you always know somebody no matter where you go. I love Girl Scouts hawking cookies at the grocery store and craft fairs with alpacas. I love signs for vacation bible school and potluck suppers and fish fry fundraisers.
I love people who work with their hands.
I love the pull of home when I’ve been away more than three days.
Summer and oppressive heat brings out the Southern Romantic in me.
This is a lily next door at my aunt’s. It’s her birthday, by the way, and she’s had a rough few days. Prayers for a better year to come! There is always hope, faith, and love. But the greatest of these is Love….and biscuits!
I sit here
On my ugly porch
(it has multiple cracks)
(and needs pressure washed)
(and painted)
In the dusk
Trying to read
But my book is dull
And my across-the-street neighbor
Is walking
Up and down his driveway
I have observed five trips
So far
But I am also watching my dog
Who has made four rounds of the perimeter
While I have eaten Oreos
So many I lost count
His looks could be cruel
The snarl his lips make
The cutting eyes
Always smirking
And he thinks
That I belong to him
As if I ever did!
That he can summon me
With no more than a promise
And I will gleefully scamper
To please him
But no
He never realized
I only entertained him
When I was bored
And I don’t think I’ll be bored again
For I don’t believe
That he could be bothered
To attend my funeral
If I were to pass
And even so
He will be secretly pleased
That I wrote of him first
He was a crush
We both wished
I had the loose morals
To be so much more
And seal the wistful looks
That meant if only~
But I couldn’t
Even if he would’ve
And he would’ve
But then
He’d just be like all the rest
You were supposed to be my friend
But you could never leave well enough alone
And you never stopped calling
And texting
And messaging
And stopping by
Until I wanted to pull my hair out
And I let your lips say the lie
That your mind had built
To save you from yourself
A pity
This one
I never thought I’d rebuke
I thought it was love
For decades
But really you’re a cad
A disappointment
I held you to a higher standard
We still laugh
And remember
But I don’t want to talk
About the past anymore
When we’re not together
In the future
And I don’t want you anyway
Because I see what you are now
And what you aren’t
And you
A tentacle
You let me go
How many times
You made me crazy
I was not myself
Timid
Pressured
Controlled
You stripped me of everyone
So I could only be yours
But you held onto yours
And gathered more
And the keys
But we’re still friends
I’m no longer scared
But I am cautious
Unafraid because I will never let you that close again
And I’ll lump these together
Because you are all alike
A big talk
A big game
But you won’t even interact on Facebook
Because your wife
Your girlfriend
Your friends
Might see
Your weakness is me
So erase my comments
And undo your accidental likes
I see you
Coward
Your mother ruined us x2
One too nice to mention
Not worth my words
The betrayal saved me
I was back to normal
By the time I met you
A missed opportunity from Before
And I thought it could happen
For real this time
But you turned out to be crazy
Not just indecisive
But actually broken minded
Persistent
But not enough to overcome
You lived in an alternate universe
From those of us who mean what we say
You were supposed to be my forever
And it ended in fire
You thought it would consume me
And tried to give me your hand
I didn’t want your hand
When you couldn’t give me your heart
And I didn’t want your heart
It was black
You’re no patriot
You’re no hero
You’re a liar
And a thief
And an addiction
That I thought would kill me
But you’re nothing I thought
I hope God still loves you
Because I don’t
And this should summarize
Why my dog
Is the only male welcome
In my house
And the only one I care for
Because he has not lied
Or wasted my time
Or crawled in bed with another woman
…except that one time with my best friend
What’s love
Got to do with it
All I want now
Is safety
A soft place to land
A bed of truths
A vase of lilies once in a while
A nice bottle of red
And a steak still bleeding
Like my soul
Chester’s Chronicle, Year One, Month Five and one extra day
Well, here’s where it ends, folks. The end of the road. Where we say goodbye….
Princess Glitterpants has had all she can take. The Chester hairs have finally made her cross over and there’s no going back. I am, once again, up for adoption.
I’m not sad. It’s not really in my repertoire of emotions. Just think– last time I was up for adoption I just had to wait a little while and then I got all this!!! I have no reason to believe it won’t be even better next time! I mean, with an attitude like mine, how could I go wrong?
So I’m offering myself here first. It’s not a bidding war, I just want someone who can satisfy my requirements in the most timely fashion. My requirements are as follows:
• I am only outside on perfect days. Example: under 80°, but above 50°, no rain, sleet, frost, hail, wind that would blow my Chester hairs in an unfashionable manner, and/ or snow for an extended time. Snow is fine in small increments. Rain is also acceptable if you’re willing to follow me around with a golf umbrella. (Good luck to you if the wind is blowing gale force)
• Towel treatment to my toes and body if so dampened by aforementioned weather.
• On the days I have to be inside (described above), I must have full access to a cushy couch and blankie. No crating. I promise I am a Very Good Boy and do not counter surf or otherwise destroy things that do not belong to me. PGP says she can provide a signed & notarized affidavit guaranteeing this trait.
• Permission to sleep in the Kingdom of Fluff and Squash at my discretion. If you snore, kick, or otherwise prohibit my own snoring, kicking, or general state of bliss, I should be allowed access to another Kingdom of Fluff and Squash nearby. Or the couch.
• Allowing me to lick your eyelids open at 6:30 every morning. I don’t have that in my current accomodations, and I would seek this as a deal breaker. As a human, I could think of no better way to be awakened than by looking into my sweet face right off the bat.
• Bi-weekly fluff cups. This is non-negotiable. And I must ride along to supervise and be told what a pretty boy I am.
• Bark box subscription. This is the highlight of my month. It should be the highlight of my WEEK, but PGP insists they only offer monthly subscriptions. I have reason to believe this is a fib, but since I am at the mercy of my non- opposable thumbs, I have to comply. So you must supplement with a new toy weekly.
• Sebastian replacements. He is my favorite, and quite frankly, I love him to death.
• At minimum, two bites of whatever you’re eating, unless it is forbidden fruit, like chocolate or grapes. And I still believe this is another fabrication to keep me from getting the best stuff, but alas. The last bite is critical for my consumption, as I know it is often the tastiest.
• Additionally, 3-4-5- or 6 bunny treats daily, typically given after I’m put through my paces of sit, stay, up, high five, lay down, and spin.
• Annual vet visits with shots and medications and pedicure, and additional as needed. I don’t especially care for it, but I know it’s important. I do not want to contend with worms in my heart. I also don’t want to froth at the mouth unless I’m eating a fluff cup.
• A fenced yard, the same size or bigger than my current accomodations. I have to have room for daily zoomies, and I can’t be trusted not to lose control and run into the road, where I would be flattened and you would be devastated. I must also have my credentials updated, in the event I bust out. I have done this a few times, because I am an ungrateful BRAT who doesn’t think about the consequences of my actions. Clearly, PGP’s words, not mine. 🙄
• If I misbehave and require disciplining, you will not beat me. You may talk sternly and administer a light swat with a magazine or junk mail, but please, please, don’t come at me with your hand, stick, or other weapon. I will cower and whine for mercy. I would never snap at you. Your words hurt plenty. I only want your approval and company.
• Superhuman strength to hold me when we go in public. I am HIGHLY excitable and I weigh a LOT so it takes a freakishly strong person to hold me; balance and core strength a must.
• Understanding that my bark is a lot worse than my bite. I don’t think I’ve ever even used my bite, so that should speak volumes.
• Daily brushing with the plastic porcupine. Again, this takes brute strength, as I like to twist away (it tickles!!). But it’s important to get my loose hairs off me.
• Food and water bowl at maximum, 24/7.
• And most importantly, kind words. Sweet loving pats. Tug of war with whatever toy I bring you. Telling me you love me and kisses on my ears at least a dozen times a day. Letting me curl on your lap like a five pound doggie, even though I’m a svelte 80#.
I guess that’s about it. Obviously, I am not being unreasonable in my requests. Please send all applications with minimum 1000 word essay on why you should be my next best friend and letters of reference from your current vet, employer, and current pets (no dogs or cats, please. Teach your goldfish to write), along with tax records from the last decade to PGP’s email. Of applicants selected, we will require a site visit to make sure you’re up to snuff.
Warmest regards,
King Chester Charles Copperpot of the Johnson Plantation.
***April Fool’s!!!! Chess Pie ain’t going anywhere. Although sometimes I wish I could send him to day camp so I could perform household duties without him under my feet.
I haven’t talked books with y’all in awhile. I just finished one that’s like all the rest: Devastatingly handsome guy meets girl. They fall in love. They get married. They both have brilliant, successful careers in the big city that has a small-town vibe. Guy becomes abusive. After much back and forth, girl leaves. He begs for her forgiveness and to come back. Meanwhile, girl has reunited with high school boyfriend, who is perfect in every way, wealthy, and unattached. Girl discovers she’s pregnant by dreamy, abusive, estranged husband. They try to work it out. Girl decides she’s gonna be strong and still pursue divorce. Guy is emotionally wrecked and never stops trying to win her back.
The author’s note at the end said she wanted to create a strong female protagonist and show that abusive relationships aren’t always black and white. Yeah, I get that. Abusive relationships are generally created by a subtle, gentle erosion. They don’t just throw you up against the wall and break your jaw on your honeymoon. It’s a much slower process that I believe begins mentally.
My problem is this.
You want to create a strong female character? Well, give her a life that won’t be so great without the abusive husband. Don’t give her her own business with a strong support system of girlfriends and an understanding mom who lives five minutes down the road. Give her a job that she’s been at six months or less that’s just that– a JOB, not a career. Somewhere that people don’t get to know you or look at the bruises on your arms. Make her relationship with her family strained, or make them live far away. And certainly don’t give her another man to go running to, or even one waiting in the wings just in case she needs him. Don’t always let the man be sorry, let him hate her with a poison so strong it leaves a bad taste in the reader’s mouth and let him go be free to entangle other women in his web.
I need more realism. I need less neurosurgeons and more plumbers. I need less displays of men so in love they’re on their knees crying and more of, “Do we need milk, I’m gonna stop at the store for beer.” I need less granite counters and more cat vomit in the floor.
I need freaking REALITY.
🤦
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Spoiler alert……..
The book was Colleen Hoover “It Ends With Us”.
