Wanna feel better about yourself? Here’s what I’ve done today:
Read twenty pages of my book. Borrrring.
Sprayed oven with cleaning kill-you-in-a-can chemicals.
Put out one box of Christmas decorations before calling it quits. I’ve decided I don’t feel up to dusting this holiday season. (Don’t worry, I’m still participating in Christmas, just not on as grand a scale as we’re all accustomed). Wondered why Pandora was so long in the making. I believe it’s one of the best things to come into my life, ever.
Had a two lively conversation with two old friends.
Ate one platter full of leftovers.
Retired to couch.
Wondered how it got to be three o’clock with me not accomplishing jack squat.
Bought a piece of Lularoe. A navy Sarah. It proved to be quite elusive in the finding.
Played the addictive game “Two dots” until I ran out of lives. That’s the only reason I’m on here now, I can’t play any more. I even watched the three musketeers video to get a bonus life.
Wonder if elves will come clean my oven if I take a nap.
Now. Don’t y’all feel productive with all your running around?
Mothers teach us all sorts of things. From the very beginning, they’re teaching us nonstop. They teach us how to walk, how to feed ourselves, how to treat the dog. As we grow older, the lessons get more complicated from the simple “No!” to how to read, write, & tie our shoes. We recognize danger, thanks to the values instilled at every turn (lots of treacherous stuff out there in the world). Before long, the complicated life decisions over which friends are suitable & what grades are passable are upon us. (Although Sevier County School Systems deem a “C” passable, the school of Jody did NOT). We might have to have several lessons more than once.
We learn when to push our luck & when to say I’m sorry. They show us unconditional love.
My mother decided to teach me about Indians early on.
The only thing that separated our house from the school was our cow pasture & pine thicket. The band practiced relentlessly throughout the summer & when we were outside together, the drums would beat ominously & I would shiver & shake with the resonating thumps. Of course I asked my momma what it was.
“The Indians are coming to get you,” she answered solemnly every time. This never failed to send me running back into the house, lest the Indians thunder in on their painted horses & scoop me up & carry me away.
That’s not all momma taught me about the Indians. Upon discovery of my belly button, I stuck my finger in it (duh) & asked what it was, like all kids do.
Now, I don’t know how many mothers will go into the facts of life right then & there, but my mother did not.
“That’s where the Indian shot you,” she explained.
My mother had effectively taught me to be terrified of Indians.
Now, for those of you who know her, know that my mother touts her Cherokee heritage regularly (she is as dark skinned as I am fair. I’m reasonably sure I fell off the turnip truck & she took pity on me). Mom has always loved the village just across the mountain. I was about five years old the first time she ever took me. I don’t remember much about the visit, but there is a photograph that was taken for posterity. I’m there, in front of a teepee, in my little blue velour short set showing my chubby knees, with my fists pressed to my eyes, quite clearly squalling my heart out. There is a somber “Chief” behind me, decked out in his finest orange & yellow feather headband, clearly at a loss at what to do with this child who seems to be sure she is facing certain death.
I don’t know what all mistakes other parents make but I’d say mom had second thoughts that day about why she told me what she had about the drums & my belly button.
It’s not easy being a mom.
Especially when you’re mine, & anything you do is liable to be written about for all the Facebook world to see.
On your BIRTHDAY!!!!!!
Happy Birthday mom. Sorry you had to work all day. Maybe someday I’ll sell all these stories from my childhood & we can put you on a boat so big you won’t even know you’re on the water. Until then, we’ll just have to keep on keepin’ on.
Pageturner’s Book Selection November
About a Girl by Lindsey Kelk
I’ll admit I groaned when this one was announced. I thought I was above reading chick lit—British chick lit, at that—in my ripe old age. But obviously, I have forgotten how much fun it is!
It’s pretty much the story of any up-and-coming girl in the city. Girl has entry-level advertising job, where she is desperate to advance. Girl is secretly in love with her best guy friend for going on ten years. Girl works her fingers to the bone with ad agency only to be made “redundant” & let go. Girl is now without purpose & is sitting on a park bench in London, all ‘woe-is-me’ when a Nazi sympathizer tries to rob her, only to learn she has nothing to rob. Not even a phone. Nazi sympathizer converts to Tess sympathizer & gives her the latest phone he’s ripped off somebody. At least now she has a phone. Girl goes home to the apartment she shares with Satan’s mistress, Vanessa, to drown more sorrows with her girl BFF, Amy, & biscuits (read: cookies. We’re in England, you knockers). The trio of besties go to Tess’s parents for a family function, girl gets blind drunk & snogs boy best friend…and more…& boy best friend morphs into a wanker afterwards. Girl’s mother is mortified that she lost her job, slept with Charlie, & got plastered in public. Girl is now rejected thrice.
But we’re only getting warmed up. Fortunately, we don’t have to endure dreary London long. We soon jet-set to Hawaii & are off to drink tropical frozen concoctions with a sex god. I’m telling you, it doesn’t get better than this. The girl is laugh-out-loud funny and completely relatable. You will not regret indulging in this. It is wholly enjoyable to any female who needs an escape. Best part? It’s a trilogy! Oh, happy days.
A Book That’s More Than 600 Pages
The Witching Hour by Anne Rice
Well, I reckon. Coming in at 965 pages in my hardbound 1990 version, with smallish print, I do believe this is the longest novel I’ve ever read.
Of course I’m proud of myself. This is like the New York Marathon for book dragons like me! Up till this point, my greatest literary accomplishment was Gone With the Wind, or maybe The Goldfinch. The heft of this book set it apart from either of those. I’ve heard wonderful things about Anne Rice’s works, & this seemed like the perfect spooky October read.
Unfortunately, it took much longer than the two weeks I allocated. More like four. But it was so worthwhile. As lengthy books are wont to do, it sucked me right into the history of these Mayfairs. Upon learning this is a trilogy, I kinda wanted to poke my eye out because I knew there would be many mysteries left unsolved. And when you read a book of this caliber, you want to know ALL THE THINGS.
Don’t let the size intimidate you. It’s sweeping in an unpretentious language. It provides a beautiful description of New Orleans. The middle third of the book takes place overseas, hundreds of years ago, so you don’t get stagnant waiting on things to happen. Mrs. Rice provides an entire rich history of these generations of women, who traded healing powers for demon worship & enormous wealth. But they all learned, one by one, you can’t outsmart the devil. And he only wants one thing: to grow stronger.
So there’s all these characters, all with these lives spanning several centuries, & it is advisable to make an intricate family tree as you read because you will find yourself referring to it repeatedly (you can thank me later). Some of the Mayfairs you’ll love, & some you’ll want to destroy yourself. None are what they seem. You’ll have favorite (if it’s not Stella, we can’t be friends). It doesn’t get too wicked & gruesome until almost the end, & by then it’s too late—you have no hopes of putting it away now. Look how far you’ve come!
This book is a representation of true talent & creativity and the snaring capability of a magnificent novel. Bravo, Anne Rice. Bravo.
This deplorable, gun-toting, educated, working white Southern republican female is having chicken-n-dumplins and sweet tea tonight with her middle-class, patriotic, white Southern Christian husband.
There should be something for everyone there.
If you’re mad about the outcome of the election, you’re probably not still reading this. But I will say this: those of us who grew up in church are accustomed to hearing the church isn’t a place you go.
Church is withIN us.
Same with the government. Government starts at home. Get educated. Get involved. Per Ghandi, “Be the change you want to see in the world.” Or if you want to get out, by all means, don’t let me stand in your way.
Our weekend:
Our water line has had a gradually worsening leak for several years & Wednesday it finally showed up in the middle of the driveway. So we’ve been turning our water on & off at the road since then. Johnny rented a ditch witch & dug almost 200′ this weekend. He is bruised & sore from wrestling that thing through rocks & hard end-of-summer ground. I helped fill the ditch back in after we laid the line & that was plenty hard enough for my tender constitution. I woke up with my arms aching this morning. If you have an old water line, I STRONGLY encourage you to replace it. Like, now. Completely disgusting what we were washing our clothes & bodies in…and cooking with *full body shudder*
Paid $6.79 for a gallon of milk at White Star. I don’t know if it’s been that high for some time, but I hadn’t noticed it. I guess because when it’s with the rest of my groceries I just don’t pay attention.
I started a 900+ page novel set in New Orleans. (The Witching Hour by Anne Rice, if you’re curious, & yes, it’s wonderful)
I cooked a pork roast, corn pudding, green beans, mashed potatoes, deviled eggs, rolls, & sweet tea for the laborers (Johnny & his two friends, including Scott the Plumber) for helping get us back in the land of People With Running Water.
Released the squirrels we rehabilitated. They fell out of a tree on the other side of the fence almost two months ago & Johnny has raised them up. I couldn’t tell him no, but I did tell him to get them off the dining room table pretty quick.
I only ordered one new pair of leggings.
Watched Tennessee get the snot beat out of them. Cried a little.
Was going to fix homemade biscuits this morning (because we’re out of the frozen type) to go with sausage & eggs, but turns out, we’re out of sausage, too.
And bacon.
So we had egg sandwiches & oatmeal…which is a combination I don’t recommend.
Uncle Dale is still recovering in the hospital, but is doing great. The ballgame didn’t set him back, & I think they’re talking about sending him home tomorrow.
I’m currently doing laundry that has piled up all week. What a blessing to be able to do it!
It took a lot of beers & a lot of cussin’ to get through this weekend. I’m exhausted.
Furthermore, I do not trust your book reviews when the one, two, & three star ones have been mysteriously removed, even though you can see they used to exist. This was the case of three different books I looked at this weekend. Just a little bonus Wheel of Random for you.
I think that’s all. I sure hope so.
Why I take Boyds Creek/Gists Creek/ Indian Gap for my commute instead of the treacherous Chapman Highway:
#1) Because if I’m gonna do 45 mph, it’s gonna be on a road with people who are used to it & most don’t have a death wish
#2) Because it’s only a quarter of a mile longer
#3) Because you never know what you might see. Tuesday I had to brake for turkey vultures dining on a coyote, Wednesday it was a chicken crossing the road, Thursday an unsure border collie, & today a multitude of squirrels.
#4) Because that route is still populated by people who wave when they pass you
#5) Because it feels like home twenty years ago…a slower pace…less Yankees…more trees
I encourage you to try a different route yourself once in awhile. You may break from a mundane commute.
#6) it gives me a chance to unwind & enjoy the scenery after work, especially beautiful this time of year. I see something different every day.
***disclaimer***
This particular trek is not for the faint of heart in the best of conditions, due to narrow, winding roads. It is not to be attempted in sleet or snow.
Here’s something else I’ve noticed. The road names on Boyds Creek: Golden Harvest…Boyds Creek Meadows…Rippling Waters. Those are features long gone with the addition of these subdivisions. I guess it’s good they used it for the namesake. Maybe someday people will wonder what it looked like before the yuppies took over.
