When Donald Trump announced he was running for President, people scoffed. His earliest supporters were shushed, intellectuals informing America that he was a pompous ass and not to debase themselves by publicly approving someone who was so clearly a joke.
As it became clearer he was no joke, and in the very least not one to be counted out, collective America was still stamped down. Don’t waste your vote to someone who doesn’t have a chance, we were told.
But when the polls opened for early voting and they were packed from daylight till dark, and the plastic coat hanger signs popped up in yards, and the campaign tour wore on, it became obvious he did have a chance. And blue collar America had a voice. And they were screaming.
America turned out day after day to stand in line to cast their ballot for their best chance. Their only chance. And maybe their last chance.
And by God, he won. He actually won. And we couldn’t believe our luck. So we rejoiced. And again, we were silenced. We were told it was over, to stop celebrating, whatever. In four years, they’d show us. We think it’s gonna be so great, but it’s gonna be a train wreck.
And on Inauguration Day, Trump made yet another rousing speech, and it wasn’t a sugar coated backpedaling of all his promises from when he was lobbying for votes. Once again we were told to hush, nobody wants to hear it, it’s over and he’s not “my President”. Well, bullshit. As long as you live in The United States of America, he’s your President whether you like it or not. The liberals are scared. They’re scared of the people they think they’ve made friends with. That’s why they made friends in the first place, because they’re too scared to fight. He may have not been your pick. You may have disliked your choices. But you have to look at the long term: who is going to be seated on the Supreme Court, who means business when it comes to terrorists, who has a better understanding of business.
When you look for a political candidate, I think it would serve us well to look at whom the military supports. The candidate who believes in our front line of defense. Because that’s who protects us. It ain’t the celebrities. It sure ain’t the sports superstars, or the shopkeepers, or your momma. It’s the men and women overseas, tromping through the desert with their M-16 strapped to their back. That’s who I believe in. Those who seek out evil, look it in the eye, and blow its head off, then march off on their next quest looking for the next one. Not some panty waist sitting safe at home, spewing their personal poison while refusing to eat Monsanto’s.
And the next day, the day after the Inaguaration, women marched. They marched because they’re oppressed.
What’s that, now? I’m sorry, I must have misunderstood. I thought you said oppressed.
There’s your definition of oppressed. Obviously, they’re using the wrong word. A mistake, I’m sure. I know I’m not oppressed. Because if I was, I couldn’t post this. I couldn’t read whatever I wanted and I couldn’t go outside and sing at the top of my lungs. I couldn’t have a career, or vote, or get married to who I choose. And if I choose wrong, or changed my mind, if I were oppressed, I couldn’t get divorced. I couldn’t wear shorts or show my toes or leave my hair unbound. Hell, I wouldn’t be able to go without a bra if I were oppressed. (Although, that is oppression…by an inanimate object. But I’m not a free loving hippie, either, so bra it is).
You know I’m not a fan of children. I never had any, nor do I want any. But guess what? I never had to have an abortion to achieve my childless adult existence. I PLANNED for it. I dutifully took my birth control pill every day of my adult life. That’s after I marched my ass to the doctor, then I marched my ass to the pharmacy, so when I marched my ass out to the bar baring my cleavage and fat legs proudly, I didn’t have to march my pregnant ass to a “Planned” Parenthood baby killer two months later.
I’ll tell you something else while I’m on it. I know that women are consistently underpaid and overlooked for promotions in a workforce where men are in control, men who are often undeserving in their position. I know this because I was one of those women. I waited patiently for things to get better for me. I waited for change. I blamed the manager. I blamed the board. I blamed everybody but myself. And it was my own fault for staying when it was evident nothing would ever change. If you look, if you will open your damn eyes and really look, you will find someone who appreciates you and pays you what you’re worth. Often they’re standing right in front of your face. You just have to say yes.
So yeah, I’m gonna celebrate. And I’m gonna write about it. And you don’t have to like it. You don’t have to read it, either. That’s your right as an American. You know, the non-oppressed country.
So there’s my piece. I’m able to say it from the comfort of my home, thanks to a fearless line of leaders who have protected my homeland my entire existence in this world, and our great military, and the women suffragettes who really did make a difference.
I don’t make any plans beyond what to eat and what to read when there’s snow on the ground. Usually it’s soup or chili. Something hearty, you know. Yesterday was no different. While eating breakfast, I was plotting supper. I decided on chili. And I like Mexican Cornbread with my chili when I have time. So much more savory than crackers. But it is a bit of a pain. It involves lots of dirty dishes. But first things first: snow cream.
It surprised me a few years ago when we got about 7″ of snow dumped on us and so many of my Facebook friends were asking for the recipe. Recipe? I’m pretty sure that was the first thing I learned to “cook” because it didn’t involve an oven and the secret is you just add more sugar till it tastes good.
Step 1: Gather snow.
It’s best to get it somewhere your dogs haven’t been, for obvious reasons. But you might want to think about birds, too. Typically the hoods of cars provide unblemished snow. Get more than you think you’ll need. And if this is the wet, heavy stuff, you really gotta hustle.
Step 2: Reserve about a quarter of the snow to another bowl unless you don’t mind going back out or can send a minion/ husband/ child. Add milk, LOTS of granular sugar, and a few drops of vanilla. Taste frequently to see if you’ve got it where you want it. Health nuts might add coconut or blueberries. The possibilities are endless! If you add too much of an ingredient, that’s where the reserved bowl comes in. See how smart I am?
Step 3: Pace yourself. Snow cream gives the worst brain freeze headaches ever in the history of the world. Johnny sticks his in the fridge and picks at it all day. Drives me nuts, but his way is the smart way. Don’t tell him I said that. The powdery kind isn’t conducive to snowmen (this is my friend Rhonda’s, isn’t he precious???) but it’s perfect for snow cream.
After binging on snow cream, I was ready to relax with my current read, The Snow Child. I’m taking part in a read-along on Instagram and somehow managed to drag my friend Liz into it with me. It was a wonderful companion for the weekend. It only lulled me to sleep once.
After a while, I decided I better get started on supper. I put the hamburger meat in the sink to thaw and returned to my nest. I was quietly content for awhile then Johnny announced his plans to go camping.
I mean, what?
It was all of sixteen degrees outside. It was going to be six overnight. SIX. Like, no one or two or three in front of it. Six.
It’s not unusual for him and his buddies to camp in the rain. I’ve come to expect them to head out in the mosquito ridden months of summer. Of course, you can’t keep them out of the woods in fall. But…but….there is actual snow on the ground. There was no talking him out of it, so I set to work grilling the meat, chopping onions, and getting the beans out of the cabinet. I also assembled the fixin’s for the making of the cornbread. I was concerned about having enough eggs for breakfast because the cornbread takes four (!) but I had plenty. The blackberries had already thawed, and I briefly considered just fixing that and calling it a day. But alas, the love of my life was playing Walden tonight and needed something substantial in his gut.
I preheated the oven.
I greased my pan.
I measured out my sugar into my mixer.
I melted my two sticks of butter.
I searched for a can of creamed corn.
And searched.
And searched.
Hmmm. Peculiar. I vividly remembered buying a can not too long ago. I certainly hadn’t made any Mexican Cornbread since the purchase, and that’s all I use it for.
Well, I’d figure something out later. I could always use a can of whole corn and blend it (I’ve made this mistake before). I reached for a tiny can of green chilies. I KNEW I had those, because I bought three cans after the last time I went to make this dish and didn’t have any and I already had my butter melted and my pan greased and I had to rush to the store because obviously the nearby gas station doesn’t see them as a staple.
Wait for it….
Seems that Amy the Chef strikes again. Are you freaking kidding me?! I can’t even make an impromptu trip to the store because I am snowed in. Patsy may be 4 WD but Amy isn’t. Sometimes I am quite the helpless female. I need a fainting couch, like this one. OooooOoooOOoo.
To Google I go. I’m too far involved now. There has to be a substitution. HAS to be. I am not disappointed. Turns out, you can substitute canned green chilies for-get this-fresh green chilies. Now why hadn’t I thought of that???
IF I HAD FRESH GREEN CHILIES WHY WOULD I BE USING CANNED ONES?!?!?!
After I recovered from that head explosion, I eventually found something I could use that didn’t involve weighing, roasting, and skinning poblano peppers. Chili powder. Of course! So simple.
I couldn’t find a ratio (the truth is I quit looking as soon as I saw I could use it as a substitute and was too lazy to go back when I realized my blunder) so I figured a heaping tablespoon would work just fine and dumped it in.
Back to the corn issue. I never did find that can of creamed (but I did find two cans of sloppy joe mix and a mess where the honey had set…it’s a wonder we haven’t been carried off by ants), so I broke out the blender.
That’s right. It can be done. I don’t know if you’re supposed to drain it when you do this, but I do, then add back in milk. It just seems more savory. I came up with this all by myself a few years ago, but turns out everybody knows. I saw it on Pinterest not too long after I considered myself the ingenious inventor.
All that was left was mixing my dry ingredients and then putting both mixtures together. There’s where I struggle with baking. I’ve never understood that business. But all my stuff comes out much better now that I heed those directions.
When I took it out of the oven an hour later, it looked really weird, due in part to the lack of chilies and the addition of the powder, which changed the appearance dramatically. Shug even noticed. “What’s up with the cornbread, babe?” It looked like a sad pumpkin bread. And it sunk in the middle because my baking powder is out of date but I can’t remember to buy more, so I just keep using it. I bought one of those great big containers at Sam’s because the little ones are just as much as the giant one (and also because all reasoning goes out the window when I’m at Sam’s), and they don’t seal back, so they go bad even quicker. Whatever. It was edible.
Obviously, since I couldn’t be bothered to take a picture until after we’d hacked into it.
I didn’t get around to making the blackberry cobbler, they’re still chillin’ in the fridge. Maybe tomorrow.
I did, however, find time to buy several more pieces of Lularoe.
Clearly, I can’t be left unsupervised.
I’ve been craving fajitas since Christmas Eve. I wanted to make tacos for Christmas dinner and Johnny said it was sacrilegious. I think we had chicken pot pie instead. Like, I’m totally sure Jesus would prefer tacos on his birthday, but whatever.
Anyway, since he’s camping with his buddies this Saturday, I get whatever I want on Friday. Usually I make him take me to Maryville for Chili’s or Cheddars, and maybe peruse Hobby Lobby and the bookstore while we’re at it. I rarely push my luck for a movie, but it does come under consideration on occasions when I’m particularly vexed.
So it was decided early in the week that we would finally satisfy my fajita famine this Friday, unless an oyster craving took over my life between now and then. No, I’m not pregnant. I just like food.
So after two full days worth of snow advisory warnings and twelve hours of on again/off again snow showers, we bundled up and set off, he in his camo, and me in my Lularoe.
We take note of the specials and settle into our booth, making conversation with our favorite waitress (her kids are already hoping they won’t have to go to school Monday, nevermind the snow has yet to stick). We enjoy our drippy cheese dip. We make fun of the Yankees in the booth behind us.
Our tiny mousy waitress brings us our pitcher of frozen margaritas. With two glasses of ice.
Johnny makes the best of the situation and goes ahead and pours himself a helping over the ice, making for “very extra cold margaritas” while I try to scoop my ice cubes out with a fork to transplant into my water glass and dirty napkin. Yes, it would have been easier to ask for extra glasses…or new glasses…but then what would I have to write about?
We talk about work and this and that while we sip. Our cheesy rainbow fajitas come out quickly and we dig in. Everything is going great. The food is tasty, the margaritas are cold, I’m wearing some of my favorite leggings with my new Matilda Jane sweater, and my date is especially handsome. ☺ Thoughts of Polar Vortex 2017 are far from my Friday evening brain.
Chatter around us dies down and soon there is only ourselves and one other couple left in the restaurant. We get up and push open the tinted front doors to be confronted by a snow covered parking lot.
“Oh,” I said, stopping dead in my tracks on the sidewalk like it’s acid. “How long were we in there?”
Maybe an hour and a half, at the most, but East Tennessee had been transformed. The only thing that was on the road when we left were piles of salt. So much for that. So we thawed the windshield and set off down a slightly-more-treacherous-than-usual Chapman Highway. It looked worse going into Knoxville, more traffic seemed to be flowing on the southbound side. At least we didn’t have far to go. We eased off the highway into our turn.
“Look at our road,” Johnny murmured, like I wasn’t wide eyed and alternately gripping my seatbelt and door handle. There was one car in the distance and its tracks were almost covered already. It was around this time I began to despise Neil Young. (The current CD in the player. I never really liked him anyway, but now it’s by association as well).
So here we are, almost home. The snowflakes made me feel like we were in the Starship Enterprise, as always.
Obviously we made it, as I lived to tell about it, but next time I might pay more attention to the weather and less attention to my Mexican craving.
I….I….I….
Ahhh-CHOO!!!!
I swanny. All I want on my days off are to be able to relax. I love staying home. The rainier and colder it is, the better. I’ll loll about, reading two or three books, leisurely fix breakfast, maybe do some light housekeeping. I’ll bake cookies, troll Facebook, maybe pin some recipes or crafts that I have no aspirations of creating.
I’ve been craving fajitas for four days, but when going-out time rolls around, either Johnny or I don’t feel like venturing out. I made the typical New Years Feast yesterday (for the non-southerners out there, that consists of collards, kraut-n-weenies, fried taters, cornbread, and black eyed peas disguised as soup beans…because they actually were soup beans because black eyed peas are dis.gust.ing.). We technically should have eaten those leftovers today, but you know me, always thinking ahead…so I decided to go ahead and make supper tonight that way we could have the soup bean conglomeration tomorrow night, so that I wouldn’t have to cook after working all day. Once that was decided, I sought out a roast from the freezer. And boy did I find one! It was enormous and I plopped it in the sink to thaw. An hour and a half later, I skipped into the kitchen to transfer it to the crock pot.
This is where I encountered my first problem.
The roast wouldn’t fit. It was too long. This has never happened to me before with this particular crock pot (I have three). But I could just cut it in half. It would be fine.
Well, it wasn’t completely thawed. I’m hacking away from both sides and getting nowhere fast. So I decide to haul out my biggest crockpot, which I remembered cramming it into the waaaay back of my most inaccessible cabinet.
*Insert dramatic sigh here*
It’s becoming increasingly difficult for me to get down and under my kitchen bar, but here I go, rooting around behind holiday platters I forgot I had, a stainless steel cake carrier that I’ve never used, and a ten pound box of trash bags. There it is! I reach….and strain…and stretch….and triumphantly pull my other crock pot towards me. It moves approximately three inches my direction and gets hung up. Looks like a deviled egg tray is to blame. I struggle and rattle it around, disrupting a vase or two and manage to free the crock pot from the vise. It has popped out with a clatter and I notice the knob is now missing. Hmm. Turns out you can turn the little metal rod without the aid of the plastic piece. But how would I know what setting it was on? Eh, I’d worry about that later. It’s a slooowwww cooker, for Pete’s sake. I plunk the roast into the bigger dish, anticipating it to fit just fine.
This is where I was wrong for the second time today. That I’m gonna tell y’all about, anyway. A good two inches were hanging out. I try to force it on down in there. Nope. The roast could not be swayed, coaxed, or crammed. I was gonna have to continue sawing it to size. And if I was going to all that trouble, I was going to use the preferred cooker I started with. It’s the fastest of the slow cookers. (I feel that I need to create another synonym for crock pot. I’ve exhausted the only two I know). So here I go again, with my butcher knife and a set of four-letter adjectives. A dangerous combination, indeed.
Enter problem number three. There is a bone running the entire length of the meat.
*Insert second dramatic sigh here*
Well, perhaps I exaggerated when I said it ran the entire length. It probably ran within an inch and a half of each end.
When I see that butcher….
So what choice do I have but cut the ends off? Unless I wanted to cut it down the middle, also known as the most frozen section.
Alright. Finally got it wedged in there. I hoped it would settle as it cooked, that way it would cook more evenly. Next! Vegetables. Got my potatoes peeled, my onions chopped, my beef broth and cream of mushroom added. I was reaching for the carrots when I decided I should go ahead and season it so more would reach the beef. I liberally sprinkled salt, and decided I would do the same with the pepper instead of bothering with a measuring spoon. I buy those great big containers for common seasonings at Sam’s and I reached for the pepper canister instead of the shaker. It has a shaker option conveniently located in the lid. I gave it a vigorous shake or two and that’s when it happened.
Problem number whatever I’m on.
The side of the lid you use to insert your measuring CUP had popped open and was dumping pepper by the pound onto my king sized roast. As IF enough stuff hadn’t already gone wrong. At this point, I just shut my eyes. Maybe when I opened them all the pepper would be gone and it would be two hours ago before I thought this particular endeavor was a good idea. When we could decide leftovers are a fantastic idea for supper.
Wrong again.
So I wet a paper towel and began to blot at my roast to absorb some pepper. I gave up almost immediately and began to scrape it off with a spoon. Of course it had already began to combine with the cream of mushroom and I would have been better off just rinsing off the whole pasty mess but I was too far involved now. And don’t most restaurants have some version of “Black Pepper Whatever”? Sure they do! So I’m just spicing it up here at the plantation.
I added plenty of carrots. It’ll be fine.
If not, trust that I’ll keep you posted. It should be ready in an hour or so.
Update: The roast tasted fine. I only had to drink two cokes to get through it. Johnny didn’t seem to notice anything was amiss.
Here’s the CORRECT recipe, if you’re so inclined.
Large chuck roast
However many potatoes you’ll think you’ll need
Same for carrots
Onions, even if you don’t like them, because they’re gonna taste like everything else by the time you’re done
Can of cream of mushroom soup. You won’t know you’re eating mushrooms, unless you’re allergic to them. It helps make a nice gravy.
Teaspoon of salt
HALF a teaspoon of pepper.
Step 1: Find the largest crockpot you own. Plug it in & turn it on, so you won’t rush off to work and forget that crucial step. I’ve heard that’s a real letdown.
Step 2: Put your roast in. You can rub it down with the salt & pepper, if you so desire.
Step 3: Mix your broth & mushroom soup together, dump over roast. Add salt and pepper here if you didn’t rub it in.
Step 4: Add the onions, carrots, and potatoes.
Cover and cook on low 6 hours or so. You know your crock pot. My newest one cooks the fastest. It should fall apart if you don’t die of starvation from smelling it all day. That’s why I try to make mine when I’m not home. And I do like crockpot liner bags, they’re a timesaver for sure. But I’m also leery of them. Happy cookin’!
Here we find ourselves at the tail end of 2016. I’m ending it much the same as I have every other Saturday night of this year: in my pajamas with a book and a glass of wine nearby. Although I have recently debated the merits of hot chocolate over fermented grapes…
I am fully dreading taking down the tree tomorrow. Not because it’s enormous and laden with decorations, unlike the trees of years past. I’m dreading it because I’m lazy. That’s really all there is to it. I don’t WANT to.
I got around to packing everything else up today: all the candles and knick-knacks…I broke my Pottery Barn reindeer but I have high hopes for the miracle that is superglue…once I eventually find it. That can wait till next November, at least. Until then, I have plenty of things to keep me busy, such as this blog post I’m rushing to finish before midnight (or, more realistically, until I fall asleep, which would have been by ten o’clock if I hadn’t been going back and forth with the good techies at Bluehost).
I almost lost my mind there for a minute. You see. Turns out I’ve been logging into the wrong WordPress account. Who knew? When I log into Facebook, I log into Facebook, whether I want to post something on my page or the one for work. When I login to anything, it’s always the same flipping domain no matter what my purpose is. And I KNOW I told dude at least three times that it was Wordpress.com *Big huff* Anyway…
I also need to update my Goodreads, as I finally finished the Signature of All Things after three weeks. I am three books short of goal for the year. But I have justified it in my mind, as I read two tomes this year, The Witching Hour and 11.22.63.
So we made it to exactly 12:01. I didn’t finish my glass of wine, my blog, or even start my book review. Sounds about par for the course for my life. It’s fine.
I’m seeing a lot of negativity towards 2016. I don’t have any strong feelings one way or the other. Life comes at you sideways sometimes…maybe even upside down and backwards. Grab on and roll.
Peyton won the Superbowl and I got to say “told ya so” repeatedly.
I left my comfortable fun sales job of 13 years to go be a secretary at a local small business. It was almost like leaving home and I was definitely leaving family to forge my way with virtual strangers. It was far from easy. I cried a LOT. And I cry regularly, anyway, so it’s a wonder I wasn’t perpetually dehydrated.
We visited the tiny, Stepford-esque town of Seaside Florida, where a hurricane visited us.
I wrote for a magazine.
I rode a great big walking horse for the first time in several years.
I ate a lot of tomatoes and bought a lot of leggings.
I read a whole bunch of books, some ridiculously obscure that I loved dearly (here’s looking at you, That Quail, Robert).
I cried when Prince died.
I served (and drank) wine at the library.
I laughed, albeit victoriously, when Trump won the Presidency.
I was shocked and horrified with the rest of east Tennessee when we saw the scar that was left on Gatlinburg.
No resolutions. No regrets. But I do believe you sometimes need to look back to look the next obstacle in the eye. Remind yourself of what you’ve accomplished. You’re not invincible, nor are you easily broken.
Say what you want to about 2016, but at least we beat Florida!
Our holiday was mild, which is the way I like it. I especially liked the part about being off for four consecutive days. Friday I was run-run-Rudolph, indeed. I had a hair appointment at 8 (what? You think I’m competent enough to keep myself this perfect red? I can barely apply blush). A pleasant surprise was a Krispy Kreme doughnut as I processed. Then a quick elf run to my cousin’s house to drop her off a thank-you-for-helping-with-my-blog/ Christmas gift. Then, as is common for me, I had to come back by the house to pick up Robin’s gift because I’d had plans to meet her for lunch for a solid week. I hurriedly washed dishes while I was here so they would stop mocking me. They’d only been there for fourteen hours…which sounds like a long time when I think about it, considering they typically don’t last more than thirty minutes. I digress. I also collected a helping of éclair cake because the heathens at the Co-op hadn’t thought to save her a morsel of theirs. I had my own personal one delivered to the shop by both the Newmans! I skirted by the dump, then by the Co-op to drop the dessert so it wouldn’t acquire E.coli while I ran my other errands before lunch. I darted by the library to exchange books but they were closed (duh) then made my way to the bank. And then I dropped by my favorite boutique to drop off her Christmas card. I prefer hand delivered cards, anyway…and this had happened:
Notice how by the time my poor postman got to Tracy, he had given up. Surely to goodness he realizes it was a mistake. I didn’t expect him to decipher my handwriting (a feat in itself), seek out my friends by first name only, and supply the postage. Although Lorie had a point when she said they should have figured on the favorite boutique part. I mean, duh.
And I here thought I had been doing really good, making them out whilst watching American Pickers. My bubble had been burst the day before, when one of my good friends thanked me on Facebook for the best Christmas card ever=the reusable kind.
Sigh.
The people who did receive cards from the Johnsons that were properly addressed and had signatures thoroughly enjoyed the trademark wax seal.
I dropped it off and the girls squealed with excitement when they realized they’d scored a seal (not everybody gets one, only the people who gush over them, because they’re a bit of a headache to apply). I warned them the card was chintzy, though. I vaguely recall buying them a couple of weeks past Christmas last year. Not a great selection. Hmm. I should probably get to huntin’ some for next year.
I popped by my other friend Lorie’s work to pick up a cleverly wrapped bottle of wine and drop off her present (a gift card to the Co-op with explicit instructions to spend it on herself) then I shot across the road to a recently opened boutique. I bought a manly flannel blanket and pillow for Shug to replace the ugly Aztec print in “his” bedroom that makes me slightly nauseated every time it’s visible.
Christmas Eve started with watching Sixteen Candles, then Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (with the fabulous Marilyn Monroe). Johnny abandoned me just as Breakfast at Tiffany’s began. He said he’d already had breakfast at the Johnson’s.
Breakfast at Tiffany’s would find him having dinner and supper there, if we were speaking literally.
Anyhoo. Christmas it is. Just how I like it.
They tell me I need to post pretty regular on here. So here’s the current situation.
Last week, I walked over to my uncle’s house to pick up the latest installment from Amazon. Since our two enormous dogs tend to poo wherever the mood strikes them, one has to be cautious of land mines scattered throughout the yard. It was past six, therefore, past dark. I dug out my custom flashlight and, out of habit, checked to make sure the light was working.
No dice.
Johnny oh-so-helpfully offered the use of his, which is a chancy privilege indeed. He’s picky about his flashlights. And he has like, two dozen of them. Must be a guy thing.
So grudgingly, I took it. It was one of his better ones, I knew. It sure was heavy, for no bigger than it was. You could screw the end around to get your desired brightness and beam diameter, or you could hold the button down on the end for immediate use. I elected to hold the button, since I wasn’t going far. Once I got on the other side of the fence, I tucked it into the kangaroo pocket on my sweatshirt with my dead one.
I collected my packages after a few minutes of small talk and headed back home.
Now, here’s where things get hazy.
I placed my (non working) flashlight in my sweetgrass basket on the end table, where it resides with other important objects like keys, my chapstick collection, and a plethora of ink pens. I know I deposited it there because it’s there now. I either handed the fancy flashlight back to Shug, or perhaps laid it on his dresser. The jury is still out on this particular detail.
At any rate, a few days ago he asked after the whereabouts of said flashlight.
“I gave it back to you,” I replied automatically.
“I can’t find it.”
“We were downstairs,” I supplied helpfully.
“I know we were downstairs when I gave it to you, but I don’t remember you giving it back to me.”
Nonplussed, I immediately got up and went to my basket. Only my sad little flashlight. I checked the basket underneath the table, where I typically store my growing stockpile of Scentsy bars. Nope. No little black flashlight with a screw end. No little black flashlight at all.
Hmm. “Well, I’m sure I gave it back to you,” I say authoritatively.
“I’ll look downstairs again. I gotta find it. It was two hundred dollars.”
And that was the end of that. For two days.
So, yesterday I no more than get in the door than the question of the flashlight is broached again.
“I can’t find my flashlight,” he says by way of hello.
“Well, I can’t help it. I gave it back to you.”
“I don’t think you did. I looked in both places I keep it and it’s not in either one.”
“This sounds suspiciously like not my problem,” I retort, going about my business of settling into my routine after working all day.
“Babe, I don’t feel like you’re grasping the magnitude of the situation. It’s a tactical flashlight. I’ve had it almost ten years. It was $200 ten years ago when I bought it.”
“I can’t help it. If I made it back with my $5 flashlight, surely to goodness I made it back with your $200 one.”
“Well, I don’t know where it is.”
By this point, I’ve made it as far as the kitchen. “I’m sure I gave it back to you.”
“It was two hundred dollars,” he stressed.
“It sounds like you overpaid.”
“Well, I can’t imagine me keeping up with it all this time and you using it for one night and it’s suddenly mysteriously missing.”
I sigh. “Did you look on your table?”
“Yes.”
“Under all the crap? And under the table?”
“Yes. And in the pouch I keep it in.”
Next thing I know, he’s on the phone with Uncle Dale, inquiring after a flashlight that maybe perhaps had been left over there. My name, of course, is mentioned in conjunction with the missing light source.
“I didn’t lose your flashlight!!” At this point, I have become shrill.
He’s too busy talking about how it was Two Hundred Dollars to notice.
I begin my search. I check my baskets one last time. I methodically search the pockets of my coats in the closet. I check the basket under the coffee table. (Do you think I have a basket problem? I think this affliction affects many southern women). No black flashlight. I pace back to the spare bedroom Shug uses for all his clothes and “man stuff” that’s too important to live in the man cave (and by that, I mean the entirety of downstairs). I scoot some papers around on his dresser and feel underneath piles of clothes. My husband is a bit of a slob for awhile, then he picks everything up and it’s spotless for 48 hours. We’re soon to approach the cleaning duration of his cycle.
Aha!!! I spy a black flashlight of the correct dimension on his desk. I squint. No, that can’t be right.
This one has NRA emblazoned down the side. A freebie, then. My eyes dart to another one on the shelf, near a crusty bandage.
Surefire. Shitfire! It’s the Surefire two hundred dollar flashlight. I pick it up gleefully and prance back to the living room, where Shug is dully staring at the tv, mourning the loss of his treasured tactical flashlight.
I clear my throat.
“The missing flashlight….is it about this long?” I indicate by spacing my hands approximately six inches apart.
“Yes.”
“And it’s black?”
He gives me a look that says “you know damn good and well exactly what the flashlight looks like because you’re the last one who saw it alive”.
“And does it say ‘Surefire’?”
“Yes.”
I whip it out. “Well, lookie here, lookie here what I found on a shelf in your bedroom!”
“Nuh-uh!”
“Mmm-hmmm. So I guess you need to add a third spot where you keep your two hundred dollar flashlight! I’ll just stand here and await my apology.”
To his credit, he immediately set forth with only a somewhat sarcastic apology. I then called Uncle Dale to clear my good name before my reputation was forever tarnished.
And that is how I found the missing flashlight.
Now, I must go try to find his work keys.
You can’t make this stuff up.
At least I haven’t borrowed them. Maybe we need another basket for organizing.
Purina Mills has been around for over a century. In that time they put on the most informative sales meetings (for companies & feed customers alike) I have ever attended. A few stick out in my mind. One was where they showed a tag for a 12% horse feed. It sounded pretty good from a nutritional percentage standpoint. When you got down to the ingredients they were actually motor oil, cardboard, and a whole host of deadly components that carry protein, fat, and fiber ratios.
Purina sets itself apart from competitors by constantly researching. Their private farm is home to over 3000 animals situated on 1200 acres.
Once upon a time, I was attending a training meeting hosted by Purina. This presentation began by telling a story that *I benignly thought* had nothing to do with feeding horses.
Seems that there was this woman that was cooking her Christmas ham. Her husband was in the kitchen, underfoot and watching. He noticed she cut a good two inches off each end of the ham.
“Why’d you do that for?” he wanted to know.
“Do what?”
“Cut the perfectly good ends off.”
The wife reportedly scrunched her brow. “Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t know. My momma always did it when she fixed the ham.”
The ham was pushed into the oven to bake in pork peace. Later, as it was transferred to the table, the woman asked her mother why she cut the ends off the ham.
“That’s the way my mother did it, so I did too.”
To get to the end of this once and for all, the woman sought out her grandmother for the answer. She was found on the couch, patiently waiting for her Christmas dinner to be brought to her.
“Grandmomma, why do you cut the ends of the ham?”
“What are you talking about, dearie?”
“Well, I’ve been fixing the ham for the last few years, and I cut about an inch from each end. I never thought much about it, but Bill asked me today why I did, and I didn’t really have an answer besides that’s what I remember watching momma do. So I asked her why SHE did it, and she said because that’s what you always did, but she didn’t know why.”
The younger woman waited patiently for the secret to be unlocked and bequeathed to her.
The old woman began to laugh.
“Oh, honey. I used to cut the ends off because the ham was too big for my roasting pan! I couldn’t afford to buy a new one, those disposable ones were unheard of, so I would just cut the ham to fit.”
So, for who knew how many years, these women had been following a tradition without questioning why. They had also been wasting Lord knows how much ham for no good reason.
The same is true for many horse owners. Lots of people feed “A coffee can full of sweet feed with a half a can of corn and oats” with no better reason for doing it than “that’s the way my daddy always did it and he said it was the best.” But Purina nutrition analysts know better. And you can know better, too. You just have to listen, or do your own research.
Before you blindly accept something presented as tradition (which is a fancy way of saying I’m scared of change) find out why you’re doing it the way you always have. It may be the trappings of tradition binding you to a particular unhappiness.
Ask questions, or become a lemming.
This goes for religion, politics, AND cookin’.
I don’t read emails. I mean, I used to. When they were new and novel. But the past fifteen years, I have been inundated with all manner of “chain” emails, sales, and stupid jokes…so along the way I just stopped reading them. Ask Mike Rucks, he will tell you. He was my Farnam rep while I was at Co-op and it took him a year or two to catch on. But see, here’s the thing. If it was really important, he would come by. So technically, I’m a product of my environment.
Well, anyway. Now that I’m a DOMAIN owner, emails evidently have a new level of importance.
You’re probably wondering why I’m writing this on here instead of my sparkling new blog, as promised.
Well, I’m getting to that.
It has to do with reading emails. Or not, if you wanna get technical about it.
So I go to login tonight and I can’t. I thought I had inadvertently reset my password so I hit the little “forgot password” located oh-so-conveniently at the top, just there.
“Email not found” it spat back.
Well, that’s just garbage. WordPress has been nothing but a headache from the get-go. So I moved to step 2. “Check that spelling is correct.” Of course it’s correct. I may not know what 8×7 is, but by George, I can spell!!!
Step 3: Validate that you have a wordpress.com account and not a wordpress.org
Hmmm. Now there’s a possibility. So I try to log in over there. No dice. I keep reading. It instructs me to go to “Recover account”. It asks me all these hard questions about transaction id numbers and url’s and a whole mess of other crap. I scan my emails (alllllll my accounts, which takes some time). I get my credit card bill. I got nothin’ like what they want. I login to Bluehost, they’re good people and have never failed to help me. And I go to the frequently accessed “Help” menu. I know just where it is. I type in my latest problem. So it gives me a variety of reasons why I could potentially be locked out, including something about a validation email. This gives me pause. Seems like I skimmed something about that.
The title, you all will be delighted to learn, included the words “Verification” AND “Action Required.”
How ’bout that.
Turns out, the email expired after two weeks (which was today, even though it seems like I’ve been fooling with this crazy thing for eighteen years) and it instructed me to request a new one.
With no handy link button.
This required further digging. I was well and truly aggravated by this point and it was nobody’s fault but mine. To the help tab I go. Again. And find the steps to take to get the email resent (I mean, is it THAT hard for the computer gurus to give me the link right where it tells me to request it??) and I accomplish getting the second email sent. IT comes over immediately and really, it took less than two seconds to click what I needed to.
Sigh of relief as I sit back and go to sign back into wordpress.
And it still doesn’t recognize me.
I hit the roof. “Nothin’ but problems!! WordPress has been NOTHIN’. BUT. PROBLEMS since the BEGINNING!!” I rage. Bluepress will help me. I dial them up. I select my menu on the automated system while I read more about this validation email.
I’m on hold for the next available associate when I see it: “It may take 24-48 hours for your login information to be recognized after you have been locked out”.
HOW NICE.
I hang up. Somebody in New York probably heaved a sigh of relief. I’m sure they’ve got my account and phone number flagged up there.
So, long story short, I didn’t read a Very Important Email this one time and caused myself a lot of undue stress and aggravation. And I can’t be mad at anybody but myself this once. And I HATE IT when that happens.
I’m having trouble understanding the people who are going to sightsee the ruined areas of Gatlinburg. They ogle, they take pictures, they take souvenirs of ash and more. They are trespassing on all that remains of many people’s homes.
I know people are curious, but melted aluminum isn’t “cool”, what’s left of the Castle isn’t “awesome” and the dregs of the apartments on Ski Mountain aren’t to be gawked at. I’m just sickened by what thrills certain people. I can’t bear to look…I still have trouble digesting how many people lost their jobs, their businesses, and their transportation.
That Monday night I sat in my living room, surrounded by my life’s work. I can’t fathom what I would try to make it out with. I have no doubt that Shug would get the dogs and hopefully a chainsaw. I’ve lived in this very house almost my entire life. It was built by my great-great uncle for my Grandmother when my momma was still a wee tot. I reside on what remains of the original farm. I know every inch.
My town has grown up around me. All these people have moved in and brought with them their restaurants and their way of doing things (namely driving entirely too fast and not waving when they see you working in the yard).
So say my neighborhood caught on fire. Say I had two minutes to grab and git. What would I take from my lifetime of memories? Would I take my sweetgrass basket from Charleston? Would I make a grab for some of my most treasured books? And what about my loads of photo albums and scrapbooks? My collection of Coach bags beckoned me…I finally determined that more than likely I would just have to hope the things in my pocketbook would sustain me for a few days. But what if I didn’t have the presence of mind to even get that much?
The road would be clogged with all the yuppies. I’d hafta put Patsy in 4-wheel dig and hope for the best. We’d make west, towards Knoxville. And I might not stop till I got to the mighty Mississippi.
So that was what I was thinking that Monday evening as I sat paralyzed keeping updated via Facebook. As I prayed for my friends that were trying to get away. As I wondered what would remain of our mountains when I rose the next morning.
I ticked off the known losses in my head. Would downtown survive? It wasn’t looking too good, and Dollywood was in peril. My county was burning down. Evacuations are unheard of here. Our mountains protect us from violent storms but how can we protect our mountains?
It was around this time I thought of my good friend I made while dispatching. I decided to check on her, knowing if she was at work I wouldn’t hear from her. She’d be into it up to her eyeballs.
Again, the news wasn’t reporting much. All the action was on Facebook.
Another friend was curled up on her couch, much as I am now, watching Lifetime movies with her Jack Russell terrier, when her phone began to ping with notifications from friends. They were checking to make sure she was ok. And her response: “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Because she lives in Pigeon Forge. And the fires were at the Chimney Tops. And everything was fine at six o’clock. But as she flipped over to the news, finally finding a station that was airing anything about it, it was almost too late. The pounding at the door for evacuation got her moving. She grabbed her dog, her purse, and her laptop and made for the door in her pajamas and houseshoes. No makeup, no bra, and no idea which way to go. The fire was on both sides now. She lives on Wears Valley and Black Bear Falls, across the road, was fully engulfed.
Luckily, my friend’s house was spared. But what if it hadn’t been? What if, one week later, she was finally permitted to go back to see for herself, and was confronted by the sight of people–locals and tourists alike– driving up and around her neighborhood, gaping and taking pictures and pulling over to scuff through the rubble for some artifact to take home and put on their shelf as proof to their grandkids years from now that they got to see Gatlinburg on fire?
Can you imagine, as a local, fighting your way down Ski Mountain Road Monday night? It’s hard enough in the summer in broad daylight. Now set it on fire from both ends & put some burning logs in the middle of the road. Add darkness & people screaming in your ears.
And now imagine you’re on vacation in the mountains for the first time. You’ve driven this road exactly one time: earlier today with the aid of a paper map the check in desk provided you with and your GPS. And now you can’t find your map because the power went out when the lines began to melt and your GPS isn’t working because the smoke is obscuring satellite signals.
Don’t cancel your plans to come to the smokies. We’re just a little bit damaged right now, but don’t feel guilty for coming & enjoying yourself & having a good time. But please, be respectful. Keep your distance. We’re still mourning. You any have lost a piece of your favorite vacation destination but we lost our jobs and homes. We need y’all, almost as badly as we need your prayers.
