Florabama 2010 Summer 3, Trip 1
Every time I go to the Florabama, the people I find there who crack me up. There are always weirdo freaks who come out at night and provide free entertainment for the crowd. In fact, last year, one of those weirdo freaks was my own sister….Tonight, was my first trip of the season, and I looked forward to the evening’s festivities. Little did I know that this night would even surpass the escapades I experienced in summer’s past.
I will try to tell this story in a way that brings it to life. I will give it my best shot; but words cannot adequately express the things we experienced that night. My friend Tanya says: “There are no words to describe”. When Tanya Hibbard has no words; trust me, there are none!!
Picture it: Nine women taking on the floorbama on a weeknight in early summer! We look like the Israelites marching around the wall of Jericho! We had two DDs, two SUVs and the rest of the night to find trouble! Our army found a comfortable perch at a front-side picnic table, outside, under the big tent where the live bands play music late into the night. We had just come from The Hangout where we had watched this girl dance so badly that boys from the crowd were being paid money to try to keep up with her unique and indecipherable rhythm. Here at the FB, her twin was stealing the show on the dance floor. Tanya called her “Freebird”, a perfect codeword to describe her behavior. That girl was high as a run-away kite. She had her arms pointed straight out, flying around like a bald eagle on crack or a very, very bad helicopter pilot; I’m not sure which. We didn’t even have to be drinking to enjoy her performance.
Just about the time that “Freebird” landed from her flight, a new weirdo came out of nowhere to take her place. This portion of the story is where I really struggle to find adequate vocabulary. This female, probably in her early to mid-twenties, strutted to the very center of the dance floor. She had her…uhm…female friend in tow. At first glance, she reminded me of the drop dead diva. Long black hair, lots of confidence, loud, obnoxious. She wore a sundress. First of all, it ought to be illegal for that print to be used to make a SUNDRESS in a size that large. It was some sort of leopard print (aka big ole’ polka dots). Secondly, if the print itself is not illegal, wearing that print in a sundress two sizes too small must surely be illegal!
The two of them danced the night away, completely oblivious to the crowd, gathering around them. They weren’t even doing anything socially inappropriate; it was just the sheer oblivion that they shared as they danced. It was sorta like seeing a woman on the beach wearing a bikini, when her body screams to be covered with a moo-moo. Ya’ll know what I’m talking about! Often times, I sit back and watch these types with intense jealously. I’ve always thought I had plenty of confidence, but I couldn’t tote a bikini on a beach regardless of how much liquor I had ingested beforehand. Some things just cross right over confidence and slide into bad taste! Anyway, Drop Dead Diva and company continued their two-woman ho-down and hoards of patrons at the Florabama began to gather around and watch. Remember when you were in jr high school and a fight was brewing? Remember how people began to gather around the “fighters”, like buzzards to a fresh road-kill. That’s how you knew it was coming? Well, it was kind of like that, but the crowd around these girls didn’t grow quite that fast.
Tanya made a comment that cracked me up. She does that, frequently. She turned and said, “Have you ever seen something so completely disgusting that you don’t want to look. You don’t WANT to look, but you just can’t look away?” If you had been there, you would have understood completely. I couldn’t have said it better myself. Those massive gallon –sized balloobas moved and swayed inside that pitiful strained little sundress, much like a beach house might sway from the tidal waves of a Category 5. Know what I’m sayin’? We all knew that catastrophe was near, but no one could predict the time it would take to get there or the manner in which it would reveal itself.
Eventually, Tanya couldn’t take it any more and had to walk away. She took a couple of girls with her, but I am not real sure where they went. Bless their hearts – they missed the best part. The band began to play a song with a beat much too heavy and fast for dancing. Diva thought that the best option was to jump up and down in one spot like a headbanger on stage. AS many of you already know, when I get scared, real scared, my hand goes to my chest like Fred Sanford having the big one. When Diva began to jump rope without a rope, my hand went to my chest and I stated…just for the record….”Wardrobe malfunction on the dancefloor”. If everyone around me had not been in their own state of shock, they would have heard me mutter: “Awww…naawwww!”
She continued to headbang, completely unaware that one of her “gallons” had erupted like Mt. St. Helens spewing out of the straining seams of that little sundress. Bless her heart. By this time, I was standing, my hand still on my chest, walking backwards in large awkward steps and waving my free hand toward the sky (just like Fred Sanford, now that I think of it). All I could say was awww…naawwww. There were no words. None.
Kristy and Tanya returned to the table. They had missed the most impressive performance of the evening…or so we thought. How could we know that the third weirdo freak was about to join the party? Just as I turned my head to the left, I saw – yet another 20-something fly from one picnic table top to another. That leap would have been bizarre enough, but she wasn’t finished. Anna Nicole jumped up and grabbed the top of the pole – yes – the one that holds the large tent to the FloraBama!! She proceeds to execute a very, very bad pole dance. As she descends to the bottom of this pole, she apparently forgets the need to put her feet in a downward facing position. Lands butt-down feet up in a 50 gallon trashcan strategically placed at the bottom of the pole. Picture it…the little starlet wanna-be, giving her first live pole dancing performance and must have help to pull herself out of the trashcan! Again, I detect no display or remorse or embarrassment. These people have guts. I want to know where to get some.
For the record, the story is true and correct and was personally witnessed in a state of complete sobriety. I have witnesses.
The social mixer I created with the pace-maker salesman from Mississippi, immediately following these stellar performances, deserves a blog of his own. The memory of that night will continue there.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
Trauma: Life in the POB
It’s Friday, June 4, 2010. It’s been raining and dreary, but today, the sun came to see me. I opted out on the treadmill this morning, but if I could go back and change the course of the day, I would definitely do the treadmill.
Around lunchtime, my two favorite kids, P and Izzy B, came by for a swim before heading over to spend the weekend with friends. Iz could hardly wait to get to that big water slide, but she stood patiently while the rest of us got ready to go. As soon as we arrived on the pool deck, she and I went straight to the slide. I have been down that slide a hundred times with no catastrophes; I’ve even done half of those slides holding a little one in front of me. How could I have known that today would be different?
The first go-around went off without a hitch. We landed safely at the bottom, and Iz said, “Let’s do it again, Gigi.” We climbed the stairs for the second slide. Iz often makes the rules and loves to give directions to everyone around her, so she instructed me to go first, then turn around to catch her. It sounded like a reasonable plan to me, so I jumped on and took off round and round the water slide. Sadly, while making that second turn, something went horribly wrong. I got turned around, sliding backwards on my stomach. Ordinarily, this would be no big deal, but because I was so close to the end of the slide, I had no time to get myself turned back around on my boo-tocks, facing forward. It’s is not a comfortable ride for an old woman going down a slide backwards, and not being able to brace for the point of impact…know what I’m sayin’?
I hit the water with a powerful force. Then, I hit the pool floor with my left knee cap. That wouldn’t have caused a problem, except that the “place” on the pool floor was a metal dome-shaped grate, positioned to suck the water out of the pool and back through the filter system.
My first thought…well, I can’t divulge my first thought because it is a very ugly string of explicatives. My second thought was to inhale deeply and holler: Ouch!. Unfortunately, that didn’t work out too well, either. So much water went up my nose, I think an ounce or two landed just inside my right frontal lobe! When I finally did reach air, I could hardly move, but I knew I needed to get out of the water. Fast.
I had no idea that I was missing the skin that covered my knee cap. My only concern was the burnin’ pain I felt underneath that missing skin. I got to the side of the pool, and thought to myself: “How in the hell am I going to get all the way over to my pool chair?” Brother Dan came over to find that the blood flow had started with a vengeance, so he went to the front desk to ask for a first-aid kit. I hobbled to my pool chair, bleeding like a banshee – everyone looking at me with disgust and asking: “Are you alright?”
I mean, I know folks were trying to be nice, but what were they thinking? I’m limping. I have blood pouring down my leg like a prop on a horror film, and folks ask me if I am alright? WTF….of course, I’m not alright. If I was alright, I’d be climbing the stairs with Iz for another go on the water slide!
It wasn’t long before little worker men came crawling out of the woodworks. Again, not so much out of genuine concern for me, but out of worry that I would seek legal retribution for pain and suffering. First, the little medic appeared with a first-aid kit that doubled as a fishing tackle box. I swear, my dad had one just like it when I was a kid.
Just moments before, my friend Amy had told me not to worry about sanitizing the wound, because I had just come from the chlorinated water. I just needed to get it dried and covered with antibiotic ointment. She’s a doctor – a large animal doctor – but still, I trusted her far more than the pool man who had put on his medic badge for the occasion.
He slipped on his plastic gloves to look real professional, and even managed to make that loud pop against his wrist, as he slipped on that second glove. A regular surgeon!
He mumbled something about peroxide and my eyes got as big around as one of Amy’s large animal patients!! Visions of liquid bandaid (from last summer) just about blurred my vision.
I said: “Look man, I just got out of that chlorine water. I don’t need disinfectant right now. I need you to help me dry this off, stop the bleeding, and put antibiotic ointment on it.” The pool man with a medic badge replied: “Yeah. We treat this water every, single day.”…..I knew he was a pool man!!
Anyway, my instruction sounded rather impressive, didn’t it? Thanks, Amy
Next, came the maintenance man. First of all, he told me that the same thing had happened to another last week. I thought medic badge was going to punch his three remaining teeth, right out o’ his mouth! Then, maintenance man asked me ten dozen questions. (Like he thought he was being subtle.) Eventually, I grew tired of it.
“Look man, there isn’t a drop of blood in your pool. Not a drop. It may be all over your pool deck and all over this lounge chair, but you won’t find any in the water. I know because I got my fat ass out of that pool too fast to bleed in your water.” He didn’t ask any more questions. A little while later, I saw him on the far side of the pool. He had his little test kit. I suppose he was checking for contaminated water.
Next up came the Brett Robinson Realty Manager. You know the one who’s wearing khaki pants and a dress shirt on the pool deck. The one who rarely comes outside unless he’s trying to do damage control? Well, Mr. Damage Control came to see me, too. Maintenance man had just tested my patience, so DC was at a definite disadvantage. We exchanged nicey-nicies, and he told me to call him if I needed anything at all. I mumbled under my breath “uh-huh” with the exact same conviction I had the day in 92 when Clinton told the American public that he didn’t inhale.
Medic man fixed me right up and even put an ice pack on it for me. I only thought about boppin’ him once when he pressed down too hard with that wad of gauze. I’m so scared that this little injury is going to slow down my beach activities. It’ll be a while before I can put on my dancin’ shoes again…not to mention that wooden slat floor in the lighthouse. Ugh!!!
Around lunchtime, my two favorite kids, P and Izzy B, came by for a swim before heading over to spend the weekend with friends. Iz could hardly wait to get to that big water slide, but she stood patiently while the rest of us got ready to go. As soon as we arrived on the pool deck, she and I went straight to the slide. I have been down that slide a hundred times with no catastrophes; I’ve even done half of those slides holding a little one in front of me. How could I have known that today would be different?
The first go-around went off without a hitch. We landed safely at the bottom, and Iz said, “Let’s do it again, Gigi.” We climbed the stairs for the second slide. Iz often makes the rules and loves to give directions to everyone around her, so she instructed me to go first, then turn around to catch her. It sounded like a reasonable plan to me, so I jumped on and took off round and round the water slide. Sadly, while making that second turn, something went horribly wrong. I got turned around, sliding backwards on my stomach. Ordinarily, this would be no big deal, but because I was so close to the end of the slide, I had no time to get myself turned back around on my boo-tocks, facing forward. It’s is not a comfortable ride for an old woman going down a slide backwards, and not being able to brace for the point of impact…know what I’m sayin’?
I hit the water with a powerful force. Then, I hit the pool floor with my left knee cap. That wouldn’t have caused a problem, except that the “place” on the pool floor was a metal dome-shaped grate, positioned to suck the water out of the pool and back through the filter system.
My first thought…well, I can’t divulge my first thought because it is a very ugly string of explicatives. My second thought was to inhale deeply and holler: Ouch!. Unfortunately, that didn’t work out too well, either. So much water went up my nose, I think an ounce or two landed just inside my right frontal lobe! When I finally did reach air, I could hardly move, but I knew I needed to get out of the water. Fast.
I had no idea that I was missing the skin that covered my knee cap. My only concern was the burnin’ pain I felt underneath that missing skin. I got to the side of the pool, and thought to myself: “How in the hell am I going to get all the way over to my pool chair?” Brother Dan came over to find that the blood flow had started with a vengeance, so he went to the front desk to ask for a first-aid kit. I hobbled to my pool chair, bleeding like a banshee – everyone looking at me with disgust and asking: “Are you alright?”
I mean, I know folks were trying to be nice, but what were they thinking? I’m limping. I have blood pouring down my leg like a prop on a horror film, and folks ask me if I am alright? WTF….of course, I’m not alright. If I was alright, I’d be climbing the stairs with Iz for another go on the water slide!
It wasn’t long before little worker men came crawling out of the woodworks. Again, not so much out of genuine concern for me, but out of worry that I would seek legal retribution for pain and suffering. First, the little medic appeared with a first-aid kit that doubled as a fishing tackle box. I swear, my dad had one just like it when I was a kid.
Just moments before, my friend Amy had told me not to worry about sanitizing the wound, because I had just come from the chlorinated water. I just needed to get it dried and covered with antibiotic ointment. She’s a doctor – a large animal doctor – but still, I trusted her far more than the pool man who had put on his medic badge for the occasion.
He slipped on his plastic gloves to look real professional, and even managed to make that loud pop against his wrist, as he slipped on that second glove. A regular surgeon!
He mumbled something about peroxide and my eyes got as big around as one of Amy’s large animal patients!! Visions of liquid bandaid (from last summer) just about blurred my vision.
I said: “Look man, I just got out of that chlorine water. I don’t need disinfectant right now. I need you to help me dry this off, stop the bleeding, and put antibiotic ointment on it.” The pool man with a medic badge replied: “Yeah. We treat this water every, single day.”…..I knew he was a pool man!!
Anyway, my instruction sounded rather impressive, didn’t it? Thanks, Amy
Next, came the maintenance man. First of all, he told me that the same thing had happened to another last week. I thought medic badge was going to punch his three remaining teeth, right out o’ his mouth! Then, maintenance man asked me ten dozen questions. (Like he thought he was being subtle.) Eventually, I grew tired of it.
“Look man, there isn’t a drop of blood in your pool. Not a drop. It may be all over your pool deck and all over this lounge chair, but you won’t find any in the water. I know because I got my fat ass out of that pool too fast to bleed in your water.” He didn’t ask any more questions. A little while later, I saw him on the far side of the pool. He had his little test kit. I suppose he was checking for contaminated water.
Next up came the Brett Robinson Realty Manager. You know the one who’s wearing khaki pants and a dress shirt on the pool deck. The one who rarely comes outside unless he’s trying to do damage control? Well, Mr. Damage Control came to see me, too. Maintenance man had just tested my patience, so DC was at a definite disadvantage. We exchanged nicey-nicies, and he told me to call him if I needed anything at all. I mumbled under my breath “uh-huh” with the exact same conviction I had the day in 92 when Clinton told the American public that he didn’t inhale.
Medic man fixed me right up and even put an ice pack on it for me. I only thought about boppin’ him once when he pressed down too hard with that wad of gauze. I’m so scared that this little injury is going to slow down my beach activities. It’ll be a while before I can put on my dancin’ shoes again…not to mention that wooden slat floor in the lighthouse. Ugh!!!
Thursday, June 3, 2010
This Is A Test Of The Pledging Cougar's Club
June 3, 2010
It is my first full day in town. I had to go to class last night, so I was rather late coming in. I talked to the incredible hunk on the way down. He sounded so pitiful that I almost felt sorry for him. He called to tell me that he had fallen and broken his foot. (Although I did express my sincere regret for his misfortune, I can't help but admit my delight. He won't be able to do very much tomcattin' around with a big ole' plaster cast and boot; now, will he?) I said all the right things in the right places and wished him well. He ended the conversation by telling me: "Make 'em wear a condom". It was a calculated statement meant to fish out my intentions. Bless his heart, he is having a real hard time figuring out that I am too smart for his bologna. I thought quickly, swallowed my first reaction, and just as I hung up the phone, I said: "oh, don't worry. I have a box in my luggage." Just as the phone went dead, I heard a voice on the other end saying...."a booxxx...."
I got up this morning and hit the treadmill and that blasted stairmaster. I tried to use the sauna, but I couldn't figure out how to make the cals burn. With visions of last summer's medical disaster, I decided to play it safe. The sauna would have to wait. Just as I made it back to the room to change clothes for a day of lazy riverin', the biggest storm came up, thundering and lightening popping all around. AS we stood around watching the light show, we noticed seadoos out in the distance. I remember someone saying out loud that those idiots should return to shore immediately. (That will become important later)
I was worried about the oilslick getting to the snow crab legs before I could eat my fill so I gorged myself for lunch, today. Now that I think aobut it, snow crab comes from Alaska so the oil spill shouldn't have any affect on the price...oh, I digress.
We came home and changed into our swimsuits - as quickly as nine women can change into anything - then we headed down to the lazy river for an afternoon of fun in the sun.
I noticed those boys as soon as I arrived, but for some reason, I couldn't seem to find the nerve to approach them as easily as I have done in years past. Cindy's sister, Stephanie, is my kind of girl...almost. She sat on her lounge chair and oogled those boys most of the afternoon. In fact, at one point, while she was trying to adjust her towel, she said: "oowww....let me sit my fat butt down before they see how big it is."
I have never struggled with nerve when it comes to doing audacious things, but I was struggling. Maybe, it was being single in the middle of all these married women. Perhaps, that is what put a kink in my stride. Anyway, I sat in my chair and told myself all the reasons why I should get up and go introduce myself to the boys.
Eventually, I did it. However, I used my posse as a pick up line. I approached the three of them and asked them if they would help me win a bet. I convinced them that all the girls across the pool deck had dared me to come over and get the scoop. (Nothing could be farther from the truth. In fact, I think it took the girls quite a while to notice that I was missing in action.
Two of them were brothers from New Orleans. The third, Cole, was a friend who also worked with the brothers. They were all fisherman for a seafood company in town. Business was slow - as we can all imagine - so they decided to make the best of the down time with a trip to the beach.
I asked all sorts of questions, but the most depressing answer was the one that they told me that they would be leaving the next morning. Why do I always meet the coolest folks the night before they are scheduled to leave??
Anyway, I turned around to find Cindy coming up behind me with my cell phone. She haded it and told me that it was ringing. Personally, I think that she just wanted a closer look because one of those brothers was most fine, with a strategically placed tattoo right between his shoulder blades...sorry. I digress, again.
I did have a text message. It was from Kristy. It said: "mama said it's time to feed the baby." I looked back at Cindy, who could barely stand up straight from laughter, but I was too deeply involved in getting to know my new friends to be distracted.
During the course of conversation, I learned that they had two seadoos here. They also told me that they had ridden them this morning. After a couple of additional quesions, I learned that those were the idiots out on the bay during a rather impressive lightening storm. Suddenly, the boys on the seadoos didn't seem so idiotic; they seemed dangerous, like bad boys. mmmmm....
I returned to my posse with my chest all swollen like a girl with a fresh boob job. The girls were asking questions faster than I could answer. Here was only response: Girls, I have secured our entertainment for the evening, if anyone is interested. :)
It is my first full day in town. I had to go to class last night, so I was rather late coming in. I talked to the incredible hunk on the way down. He sounded so pitiful that I almost felt sorry for him. He called to tell me that he had fallen and broken his foot. (Although I did express my sincere regret for his misfortune, I can't help but admit my delight. He won't be able to do very much tomcattin' around with a big ole' plaster cast and boot; now, will he?) I said all the right things in the right places and wished him well. He ended the conversation by telling me: "Make 'em wear a condom". It was a calculated statement meant to fish out my intentions. Bless his heart, he is having a real hard time figuring out that I am too smart for his bologna. I thought quickly, swallowed my first reaction, and just as I hung up the phone, I said: "oh, don't worry. I have a box in my luggage." Just as the phone went dead, I heard a voice on the other end saying...."a booxxx...."
I got up this morning and hit the treadmill and that blasted stairmaster. I tried to use the sauna, but I couldn't figure out how to make the cals burn. With visions of last summer's medical disaster, I decided to play it safe. The sauna would have to wait. Just as I made it back to the room to change clothes for a day of lazy riverin', the biggest storm came up, thundering and lightening popping all around. AS we stood around watching the light show, we noticed seadoos out in the distance. I remember someone saying out loud that those idiots should return to shore immediately. (That will become important later)
I was worried about the oilslick getting to the snow crab legs before I could eat my fill so I gorged myself for lunch, today. Now that I think aobut it, snow crab comes from Alaska so the oil spill shouldn't have any affect on the price...oh, I digress.
We came home and changed into our swimsuits - as quickly as nine women can change into anything - then we headed down to the lazy river for an afternoon of fun in the sun.
I noticed those boys as soon as I arrived, but for some reason, I couldn't seem to find the nerve to approach them as easily as I have done in years past. Cindy's sister, Stephanie, is my kind of girl...almost. She sat on her lounge chair and oogled those boys most of the afternoon. In fact, at one point, while she was trying to adjust her towel, she said: "oowww....let me sit my fat butt down before they see how big it is."
I have never struggled with nerve when it comes to doing audacious things, but I was struggling. Maybe, it was being single in the middle of all these married women. Perhaps, that is what put a kink in my stride. Anyway, I sat in my chair and told myself all the reasons why I should get up and go introduce myself to the boys.
Eventually, I did it. However, I used my posse as a pick up line. I approached the three of them and asked them if they would help me win a bet. I convinced them that all the girls across the pool deck had dared me to come over and get the scoop. (Nothing could be farther from the truth. In fact, I think it took the girls quite a while to notice that I was missing in action.
Two of them were brothers from New Orleans. The third, Cole, was a friend who also worked with the brothers. They were all fisherman for a seafood company in town. Business was slow - as we can all imagine - so they decided to make the best of the down time with a trip to the beach.
I asked all sorts of questions, but the most depressing answer was the one that they told me that they would be leaving the next morning. Why do I always meet the coolest folks the night before they are scheduled to leave??
Anyway, I turned around to find Cindy coming up behind me with my cell phone. She haded it and told me that it was ringing. Personally, I think that she just wanted a closer look because one of those brothers was most fine, with a strategically placed tattoo right between his shoulder blades...sorry. I digress, again.
I did have a text message. It was from Kristy. It said: "mama said it's time to feed the baby." I looked back at Cindy, who could barely stand up straight from laughter, but I was too deeply involved in getting to know my new friends to be distracted.
During the course of conversation, I learned that they had two seadoos here. They also told me that they had ridden them this morning. After a couple of additional quesions, I learned that those were the idiots out on the bay during a rather impressive lightening storm. Suddenly, the boys on the seadoos didn't seem so idiotic; they seemed dangerous, like bad boys. mmmmm....
I returned to my posse with my chest all swollen like a girl with a fresh boob job. The girls were asking questions faster than I could answer. Here was only response: Girls, I have secured our entertainment for the evening, if anyone is interested. :)
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Wild Horses In Comer, Alabama
The saga in Comer continues.... Spring and I had just left the Day and Night Grocery and returned to the Springhill Plantation House to start a bridal shoot. Spring found Phil, the groundskeeper, and asked permission to shoot photos inside the pasture that contained about five horses. At the time, they were grazing - far far away. Phil gave his permission, but I could tell something was a little fishy. I chalked it up to Spring weird ideas about wedding pictures. It is strange to take wedding photos in a horse pasture, right? Spring does those kind of crazy things, though. However, in the end, her pictures look like a Ralph Lauren ad - Alabama style!
The bride-to-be came out in her beautiful gown, ready to take pictures. I was the poorly-paid help. My job was to fix the girl's dress and train, as well as hold the white sheet that Spring uses to put on the ground when she is ready for the bride to sit down in the middle of a ragweed bed for a picture.
The deal was this: Spring got to stand in the yard, clear of the horses and the pasture. The bride and I were to enter the pasture through the gate and prepare for pictures. No problem, right??
I am not particularly comfortable with large animals, but i am not scared of them, either...I didn't think??
Mallory, bride of the hour, stood with her back to the horses. I fixed her train and her dress and backed away, facing her. Spring was taking pictures like mad. Those horses that had been far, far away were now running toward us full speed ahead....crazed maniacs. Phil's reaction to picture-taking in the pasture was becoming much more clear! This fiasco happened within seconds, but it felt like hours. Mallory could not see what was happening...she was standing there: calm, poised, smiling for the camera. I was facing toward her, eye-to-eye with a herd of wild horses! They were not slowing down! I had to think fast: what to do...what to do???
I was holding a sheet. I could swat it at them and maybe that would keep them away from me. That is what I would do: swat my flimsy little white sheet at the wild horses running toward us. I am sure that my eyes grew bigger and bigger and the distance between me and these large beasts grew smaller and smaller. I couldn't stand it any more. I fanned out the sheet and nervously tried to shew them away. Despite my best effort to look calm and in control, I looked more like a first time bull fighter in Pamplona, Spain. Only my cape was white instead of red.
Spring yelled, "NO!!!"
I had no idea that this attempt to ward off unwanted beasts would create such a stir. Those suckers did stop dead in their tracks less than six feet from me and the bride. Mission Accomplished! However, they stopped just long enough to rare up on their hind legs....looked like Tonto with Zorro on his back before racing off to catch the bad guys!
I 'bout wet my pants! Mallory still stood, smiling for the camera. Her safety did briefly cross my mind, but my own desire to escape the madness far surpassed any desire to help her get out of that pasture alive. The only thing that separated me from safety was a small wooden fence. The fence posts were positioned about eight feet apart, and the two rails were pieces of 2 X 6 that had been nailed to each post. The bottom rail laid about two and a half feet from the ground. Bless Mallory's heart in her pretty white dress....she would have to fend for herself. I was diving under that fence!
Few have ever witnessed me move with such speed. When I finally decided that I had to go, I took off like a bolt of lightning! I slid underneath that two and a half foot opening in one fluid motion.....almost! Only one problem with that plan. An live electric wire ran along the bottom of the wood railing, and my fat ass was too big to clear the space without scrapping across the bottom. That juice hit me and knocked me face down in the dirt. I mean face down! I hardly even felt it...had to keep moving....must escape the beasts. I did the GI JOE crawl, using my elbows to pull myself to safety. I couldn't feel the bottom half of my body at the time.
The most unbelievable part of the story...Spring has these magnificient pictures of a bride in a pasture with horses reared up on their hind legs behind her. Ain't nobody got wedding pictures like that! And just think....it was all because of me.....too bad Spring can't actually use those pictures because Mallory has her mouth wide open, holding her ribs, laughing at me! How many times does your photography assistant bite the dust because of the electric fence during a wedding shoot?
Comer was an interesting little town. I met lots of cool folks. I have a burn mark on my left butt cheek, but its a memory, right??
The bride-to-be came out in her beautiful gown, ready to take pictures. I was the poorly-paid help. My job was to fix the girl's dress and train, as well as hold the white sheet that Spring uses to put on the ground when she is ready for the bride to sit down in the middle of a ragweed bed for a picture.
The deal was this: Spring got to stand in the yard, clear of the horses and the pasture. The bride and I were to enter the pasture through the gate and prepare for pictures. No problem, right??
I am not particularly comfortable with large animals, but i am not scared of them, either...I didn't think??
Mallory, bride of the hour, stood with her back to the horses. I fixed her train and her dress and backed away, facing her. Spring was taking pictures like mad. Those horses that had been far, far away were now running toward us full speed ahead....crazed maniacs. Phil's reaction to picture-taking in the pasture was becoming much more clear! This fiasco happened within seconds, but it felt like hours. Mallory could not see what was happening...she was standing there: calm, poised, smiling for the camera. I was facing toward her, eye-to-eye with a herd of wild horses! They were not slowing down! I had to think fast: what to do...what to do???
I was holding a sheet. I could swat it at them and maybe that would keep them away from me. That is what I would do: swat my flimsy little white sheet at the wild horses running toward us. I am sure that my eyes grew bigger and bigger and the distance between me and these large beasts grew smaller and smaller. I couldn't stand it any more. I fanned out the sheet and nervously tried to shew them away. Despite my best effort to look calm and in control, I looked more like a first time bull fighter in Pamplona, Spain. Only my cape was white instead of red.
Spring yelled, "NO!!!"
I had no idea that this attempt to ward off unwanted beasts would create such a stir. Those suckers did stop dead in their tracks less than six feet from me and the bride. Mission Accomplished! However, they stopped just long enough to rare up on their hind legs....looked like Tonto with Zorro on his back before racing off to catch the bad guys!
I 'bout wet my pants! Mallory still stood, smiling for the camera. Her safety did briefly cross my mind, but my own desire to escape the madness far surpassed any desire to help her get out of that pasture alive. The only thing that separated me from safety was a small wooden fence. The fence posts were positioned about eight feet apart, and the two rails were pieces of 2 X 6 that had been nailed to each post. The bottom rail laid about two and a half feet from the ground. Bless Mallory's heart in her pretty white dress....she would have to fend for herself. I was diving under that fence!
Few have ever witnessed me move with such speed. When I finally decided that I had to go, I took off like a bolt of lightning! I slid underneath that two and a half foot opening in one fluid motion.....almost! Only one problem with that plan. An live electric wire ran along the bottom of the wood railing, and my fat ass was too big to clear the space without scrapping across the bottom. That juice hit me and knocked me face down in the dirt. I mean face down! I hardly even felt it...had to keep moving....must escape the beasts. I did the GI JOE crawl, using my elbows to pull myself to safety. I couldn't feel the bottom half of my body at the time.
The most unbelievable part of the story...Spring has these magnificient pictures of a bride in a pasture with horses reared up on their hind legs behind her. Ain't nobody got wedding pictures like that! And just think....it was all because of me.....too bad Spring can't actually use those pictures because Mallory has her mouth wide open, holding her ribs, laughing at me! How many times does your photography assistant bite the dust because of the electric fence during a wedding shoot?
Comer was an interesting little town. I met lots of cool folks. I have a burn mark on my left butt cheek, but its a memory, right??
Spring And I Meet Bicycle in Comer
My dear friend, and partner in crime, Spring Bruner, owns a photography studio in downtown Prattville. She was scheduled to do a bridal shoot at an old plantation home just outside Eufala, Alabama, and asked me to tag along. I often accompany her on these escapades because the two of us together can find all kinds of trouble.
We left town just before 3 oclock, and made our way down state. Soon, I began to casually look for a convenient store to buy something to drink. After another 30 miles, I began to get a little concerned. We were traveling deeper and deeper into no man's land, and I needed a Mountain Dew. With Spring's help, we eventually spotted "The Day and Night Grocery" - check out the picture on my page. It looked like an old abandoned building, so we kept riding. Eventually, we arrived at Springhill Plantation House in Comer, Alabama. It was spectacular: a beautiful place for a wedding.
The two of us got out of the truck and walked around the grounds. Spring was looking at different places to take pictures, and I was snooping around the house, trying to find an open door and a restroom! I did stumble on to the groundskeeper and asked about how to get to the closest convenient store.
Phil, the groundskeeper said, "It's only about 500 yards up the road. The Comers run that store."
"The Day and Night Grocery?"
"Yea...you know it?"
"That place is open for business?"
Phil looked at his watch. "Sure. This time a day, it'll be packed."
I had serious doubts about that! Spring and I had just passed this establishment thirty minutes ago. I didn't look like it had welcomed a customer in thirty years.
She and I loaded into the truck and drove up the road. Phil was right. That place was packed...must have been 4 or 5 big trucks in the dirt yard surrounding the store. I walked inside, found the Pepsi cooler, the kind that sits horizonally and slides open from the top. I grabbed my Mountain Dew and headed for the food aisles. Wire racks held several different grocery items. The concrete floor even looked weathered by age. I looked and looked through the racks of food, but couldn't find candy bars anywhere. Finally, i gave up and went to the counter to pay for my drink. The counter was one of those old timey waist-high gun cabinets with the glass plate front, and the sliding glass doors in the back. All the chocolate candy was in there! I asked for a Kit Kat and plopped my drink on the counter top. The lady behind the counter asked me, "You aren't from Comer, are you?" I thought this was the coolest little mom and pop shop I had ever seen, but when she recognized me as an outsider....that just took the cake. I was sure 'nough in the country.
Spring was standing beside me, and often comes to my aide when we are together. She knows that I am prone to say anything, and balances my sarcasm with kindness. She jumped in,"We aren't from Comer, but we do live in the country."
That lady...I later learned her name was Rosalind Comer, ancestor to the Comers who founded the town....looked at me with suspicion. "Where do YOU live?"
I mean, there were two of us standing there. Why did she want to know where I lived? I answered her with pride: "Slapout".
This man who looked like Methusela's brother sat on a little stool beside the door. When I answered Rosalind, that little man came to life!
"I know Slapout. I was the janitor at the high school there in 1967." (My mother graduated from the same high school in 1967, but I was too shocked by his sudden excitement to make the connection at the time.) "There was a little grocery store there and when people would come in to buy their groceries, the owner would always tell them that he was slap out of that."
I told the man that the store was called the Boy's store because a band of brothers owned and operated it. I also explained to him how I lived about a mile down 111 from that very store.
The Comers and Spring listened to the little old man and me carry on about landmarks and funny things for several minutes. I don't know which of us had more fun. Them listening to us, or me and the old man comparing stories. Imagine it: I had left my little home town of Slapout (also known as west Egypt), traveled south for an hour and a half (to some place better known as south Egypt), found Methusela's brother, and discovered that he knew exactly where I lived...knew as much about my home town as I did!
On a whim, I decided to have my picture taken with Methusela so that everyone back home would believe that I ran into this man way down in BFE. I had my picture taken with the Comers too because the town was named after them. I never pass up an opportunity to schmooze with celebrities!
When we left the building and returned to the plantation, I thanked Phil for pointing us toward the Mountain Dew. I began to tell my story and he cut me short...
"I see you met Bicycle."
"Bicycle? The man's name is Bicycle?" I looked at Spring. This story just kept getting better. Folks back home were not gonna believe it!
"Well, I don't guess his real name is Bicycle, but that is what everyone calls him because he rides up and down these county roads all day on that rickety old bike of his. He hangs out at the Day and Night this time of day to visit with the town's folks."
"You've got to be kidding me. Bicycle? Sounds like Radio, that guy on the movie who pushes his grocery buggy around town."
This world could not get any smaller until....
I return home to Slapout and call my mom to tell her the story of Comer's grocery and Bicycle. I am at the point in the story where I say: "I was a janitor at the high school in 1967." My mom interrupts my story.
"Bicycle?"
OMG...how did she know...OMG...she went to school here in 1967....
"You KNOW BICYCLE!" the pitch in my voice roused the dogs across the street. I mean, how bizarre is this story???
"I remember him. Is he still alive? It's been forty years and he was old back then...used to ride all over the place on his bicycle...had no teeth."
"Well, mom, apparently he still rides around on county roads. He has just moved to the other side of Egypt to do it. He does, however, wear dentures now."
To all my readers: I know this story is hard to believe....I know it is! Think about it, though. How could I make it all up?
We left town just before 3 oclock, and made our way down state. Soon, I began to casually look for a convenient store to buy something to drink. After another 30 miles, I began to get a little concerned. We were traveling deeper and deeper into no man's land, and I needed a Mountain Dew. With Spring's help, we eventually spotted "The Day and Night Grocery" - check out the picture on my page. It looked like an old abandoned building, so we kept riding. Eventually, we arrived at Springhill Plantation House in Comer, Alabama. It was spectacular: a beautiful place for a wedding.
The two of us got out of the truck and walked around the grounds. Spring was looking at different places to take pictures, and I was snooping around the house, trying to find an open door and a restroom! I did stumble on to the groundskeeper and asked about how to get to the closest convenient store.
Phil, the groundskeeper said, "It's only about 500 yards up the road. The Comers run that store."
"The Day and Night Grocery?"
"Yea...you know it?"
"That place is open for business?"
Phil looked at his watch. "Sure. This time a day, it'll be packed."
I had serious doubts about that! Spring and I had just passed this establishment thirty minutes ago. I didn't look like it had welcomed a customer in thirty years.
She and I loaded into the truck and drove up the road. Phil was right. That place was packed...must have been 4 or 5 big trucks in the dirt yard surrounding the store. I walked inside, found the Pepsi cooler, the kind that sits horizonally and slides open from the top. I grabbed my Mountain Dew and headed for the food aisles. Wire racks held several different grocery items. The concrete floor even looked weathered by age. I looked and looked through the racks of food, but couldn't find candy bars anywhere. Finally, i gave up and went to the counter to pay for my drink. The counter was one of those old timey waist-high gun cabinets with the glass plate front, and the sliding glass doors in the back. All the chocolate candy was in there! I asked for a Kit Kat and plopped my drink on the counter top. The lady behind the counter asked me, "You aren't from Comer, are you?" I thought this was the coolest little mom and pop shop I had ever seen, but when she recognized me as an outsider....that just took the cake. I was sure 'nough in the country.
Spring was standing beside me, and often comes to my aide when we are together. She knows that I am prone to say anything, and balances my sarcasm with kindness. She jumped in,"We aren't from Comer, but we do live in the country."
That lady...I later learned her name was Rosalind Comer, ancestor to the Comers who founded the town....looked at me with suspicion. "Where do YOU live?"
I mean, there were two of us standing there. Why did she want to know where I lived? I answered her with pride: "Slapout".
This man who looked like Methusela's brother sat on a little stool beside the door. When I answered Rosalind, that little man came to life!
"I know Slapout. I was the janitor at the high school there in 1967." (My mother graduated from the same high school in 1967, but I was too shocked by his sudden excitement to make the connection at the time.) "There was a little grocery store there and when people would come in to buy their groceries, the owner would always tell them that he was slap out of that."
I told the man that the store was called the Boy's store because a band of brothers owned and operated it. I also explained to him how I lived about a mile down 111 from that very store.
The Comers and Spring listened to the little old man and me carry on about landmarks and funny things for several minutes. I don't know which of us had more fun. Them listening to us, or me and the old man comparing stories. Imagine it: I had left my little home town of Slapout (also known as west Egypt), traveled south for an hour and a half (to some place better known as south Egypt), found Methusela's brother, and discovered that he knew exactly where I lived...knew as much about my home town as I did!
On a whim, I decided to have my picture taken with Methusela so that everyone back home would believe that I ran into this man way down in BFE. I had my picture taken with the Comers too because the town was named after them. I never pass up an opportunity to schmooze with celebrities!
When we left the building and returned to the plantation, I thanked Phil for pointing us toward the Mountain Dew. I began to tell my story and he cut me short...
"I see you met Bicycle."
"Bicycle? The man's name is Bicycle?" I looked at Spring. This story just kept getting better. Folks back home were not gonna believe it!
"Well, I don't guess his real name is Bicycle, but that is what everyone calls him because he rides up and down these county roads all day on that rickety old bike of his. He hangs out at the Day and Night this time of day to visit with the town's folks."
"You've got to be kidding me. Bicycle? Sounds like Radio, that guy on the movie who pushes his grocery buggy around town."
This world could not get any smaller until....
I return home to Slapout and call my mom to tell her the story of Comer's grocery and Bicycle. I am at the point in the story where I say: "I was a janitor at the high school in 1967." My mom interrupts my story.
"Bicycle?"
OMG...how did she know...OMG...she went to school here in 1967....
"You KNOW BICYCLE!" the pitch in my voice roused the dogs across the street. I mean, how bizarre is this story???
"I remember him. Is he still alive? It's been forty years and he was old back then...used to ride all over the place on his bicycle...had no teeth."
"Well, mom, apparently he still rides around on county roads. He has just moved to the other side of Egypt to do it. He does, however, wear dentures now."
To all my readers: I know this story is hard to believe....I know it is! Think about it, though. How could I make it all up?
Wedding In Comer
Yesterday, I returned to Comer to help my friend, Spring, photograph the wedding of Mallory and Chris. I first met Mallory just a couple of weeks ago when Spring took her bridal portraits. That was the same day that I posted two previous blogs about wild horses and my new friend Bicycle.
When we arrived at the Sprinhill Plantation, all the girls in the wedding party were down at the lodge. The guys were up at the main house, listening to the Alabama game. Pictures started off without a hitch down at the logde. There was this one moment when one of the bridesmaids called me "ma'am". My God...she has probably already graduated from college, calling me ma'am. It was a painful and sobering reminder that I will turn 36 years old in four short weeks!
My job was easy at first...run here, there, and yonder fetching things for Spring and gathering up crews of folks for the next picture. It was a beautiful day...still rather hot for October, but truthfully, we couldn't have asked for better weather. The distance between the lodge and the main house was about the length of two football fields. Not really that big of a deal, unless you were wearing high heeled, sling back shoes, like me.
While I was working with Spring, I felt like a relative of Forrest Gump. I ran everywhere that I went because I felt like whatever I was fetching was of immediate importance. Again, running was a good thing, unless you were wearing hig-heeled, sling-back shoes, like me.
Just before the ceremony began, I was asked to go back down to the lodge (time number four!) to retreive the lights and umbrella for further pictures. Also, I was supposed to find an outliet for the plug to the back light. Spring wanted to take picture down at the barn and up at the house too. The service began at 6PM and light was leaving us quickly.
I ran down to the lodge and got the stuff. I looked like a dissheveled crazy woman trying to balance all that stuff in two hands. Let me recall all the things I held while running in heels the distance of two football fields: a spot light, a tripod with two cords attached, one cord with a tiny silver attachment on the end that connected to the camera, (Spring had given me special instructions to hold it in my hand so that it wouldn't slide off), a 100 foot extension cord, my sweater to use when the sun went down, a photography umbrella, a tube of lipstick that the bride had given me an hour earlier, and a slip of scratch paper from the groom's mom that had a list of all the pictures that she wanted to have taken at the ceremony. Unfortunately for me, I had worn a dress with no pockets. Yes, just take a moment...picture this.
I get back up to the house, fifty feet of cord dragging behind me. I had made two stops on the way back up to check for electrical outlets. I stop to talk with the caterer when I hear the music playing. Gosh! I am late. I am always late. It matters not how carefully I plan, I am gonna be late. I expressed my disgust to the caterer and she convince me to walk on around to the front of the house. I did. I had to find Spring, make eye contact with her so that she knew I was there with the light. There were so many people around that I couldn't find her for a while. Remember, I am still carrying all these random things. I find Spring across the yard. She sees me. She mouths something to me, but all I can make out is "behind the tree". I assumed that she wanted me to stand behind the tree. At the time, it made sense to me because I did look like a bag lady holding every one of her worldly possessions all at one time.
Once the ceremony was underway, I inched out from behind the tree. Perhaps, it did look much like I was playing hide and seek with an invisible "seeker", but I wanted to see, too! The preacher, bless his heart, looked like Billy Graham, but he literally sang the words of his message. "Farrriends anda neeighborrs, ona bbehafff of K-riss-topher anda Mall-o-ree...we well-come you here-ra tanighhht" There were gnats flying around my face, my armload was getting a bit heavy, I could smell chicken wings, and then it happened. I saw him, and he was beautiful. In order to really understand this term, I must explain my own personal description of men in general: (Do not laugh at me! All women everywhere know that there is a univeral code that used amoung us to describe men)
"aun-ah": a southern ..more like two small grunts strung together)that is a contraction for no-way. As my darling grandmother used to say, "That man aint ever gonna win a beauty prize."
"cute": this man is definitely not ugly, but he is probably not the kind of man who turns heads on the street. He may or may not have a fun personality, but if he does, it may, in fact, raise him up a knotch on the description guide.
"sexy": this is a term that can be used on a man who falls into any one of the categories. Physical attractive and sexiness are two different things. A man can be ugly, but still carry himself in a way, and interact with others in a way, that shows confidence...sexiness.
"hot": a man who is clearly handsome,so good-looking that he will turn heads on the street; however, in my experience, these guys often know they are good looking and a small amount of time with them sends a woman running for the hills.
"beautiful": this man has a bit of everything. He has one or more physical features that make him stand out in a crowd. He is sexy, AND he is alot of fun.
Now that everyone understands my terminology, I can forge on with my story.
We had to photograph the entire wedding party together and take pictures of the new husband and wife. I had found an outlet for the electric cord, but when i went to plug the stupid thing in the wall, I realized that it was not a three-pronged hole. I didn't think to count the holes in the outlet on my way back from the lodge! We were losing light...fast. Had to find three holes...had to find three holes fast.
Spring, who is always grace under pressure, found an outlet that would work. I could never do her job. I can take the pictures, I can see them in my head and envision how they should look, but i couldn't handle the pressure of 11 bridesmaids, 11 groomsmen, a husband and wife, and their two families. Oh dear god...I would be a nervous wreck.
After I had moved that stinkin' light and the 100 foot cord about 15 times, we finally settled in for the evening on the dance floor. Four kegs and eight cases of wine were flowing freely. Mr. Beautiful was already on the dance floor with a beer in-hand. He was dancing next to this really pretty blonde girl, who had been standing next to him during the ceremony. I figured that he was with her, but I could still watch him from the shadows, couldn't I?
At one point, I was up on the back porch, where I met my new friend, Viola. Viola was a waiter and she loved to dance. At the age of fifty-one, she showed me how to get down "low". If I remember correctly, I had finished my third glass of wine. All my friends out there who know me well, also know my personal mantra. Regardless of the type of alcohol, "Three is too many".
I was sitting in a chair on the side of the dance floor. Spring was beside me. We were watching all of these people have so much fun. Actually, we were just waiting until the bride and groom left, so that Spring could take pictures of that. I saw Mr. B walking toward me. He was alone. I motioned for him to come to me. He bent down beside me and I whispered into his ear, "you are beautiful". As I spoke to him, my hands just got a mind of their own. I truly didn't mean to slide my hand across his jaw line and down his neck, but i couldn't help myself. I mean, it was simply my humanitarian responsiblity to let the man know that he was beautiful. It didn't matter that he was there with somebody else.
Later, Spring told me that she dropped her face into her hands when she saw my hand on his face. She thought: oh, no, I just wanna take my pictures and go home, now I am gonna have to help my friend who is sure to get in a fight over this.
Surprise! No fights. He stood back up,held out his hand, and asked me to dance.Because Viola had taught me to get down low, I had no problems with this man. It was the kind of dancing that would have been much better suited in a different place and position...know what i'm sayin??
I learned that the pretty girl was his cousin and she had ridden with him to the wedding. I learned that he was 24, played football at Troy, lived on lake martin and had a job in Montgomery.
While we danced, I kept my composure and my hormones in check, even though the wine kept me from being able to stand completely upright. The only problem was my hands. I had no control. None. My right hand was in his and my left hand was on his shoulder blade, but soon, they began to wander...sort of like a blind man uses his sense of touch to see! At one point, I had my eyes closed, enjoying the music, and my imaginary "view". Mr. B said, "Don't go to sleep on me, now." Honey...he had no idea, but sleep was the last thing on my mind. I mean, I couldn't stand up straight, and he had to be really careful when he twirled me around and back again,(that really brought on the dizziness), but beside those tiny little barriers, I was good to go.
Then, it happened. I know you have been there. In your mind, you are cool, poised, and collected, but your physical body is saying and doing things that it really shouldn't be doing. You have somehow convinced yourself that you have everything it takes to handle any situation. I know you've been there...don't lie to me!
The music stopped and Mr B asked me to go to his truck with him to get a beer out of the cooler. At this point, I felt it best to have a conversation with myself. "Awwww shit! Whatcha gonna now big girl...been talking smack, been gettin ya freak on the dance floor...now whatcha gonna do?"
I think I said out loud the next thing that the little voice inside my head asked of me. "Are you gonna kiss me?"
He responded, "I hope so."
The conversation with myself continues: "You know this man has been drinking. You know that there are 101 places on this plantation to get busy if the need arises (no pun intended). You know that if you go to that truck, you will start something that you can not finish without regret. OK..you can't do it. You won't do it."
I looked at Mr. B and said:"You do realize that if I go to that truck with you that a kiss is all you'll get."
"whatever you say, ma'am." He too called me ma'am, but this time there was something sexy about it.
He took my hand and led me off the dance floor and into the dark night. He had his arm slung casually around my shoulder, and I held on to his waist. We hadn't even made it halfway to the truck. He stopped in the middle of the old dirt road, grabbed me up sort of like that sexy Frenchman in the movie Unfaithful, and he kissed me like he wanted me - to hell with all the people who were watching.
For several moments, I couldn't remember my name. I did well, though. I mentally counted to ten. When i got to ten, I pushed away from him. Seriously, I'd had too much wine, and that was the only way that I figured I could keep from ending up in the back of that pick up truck.
It worked beautifully. We continued to dance for the rest of the evening. I even got kisses periodically, although, I had to practice restraint while we were on the dance floor.
He put my number in his phone. He will probably be straining to remember how it got there very soon. However, for one short evening, he showed me a good time, and me feel like a college girl again. He kissed really good, too. I mean...one of the best ever.
When we arrived at the Sprinhill Plantation, all the girls in the wedding party were down at the lodge. The guys were up at the main house, listening to the Alabama game. Pictures started off without a hitch down at the logde. There was this one moment when one of the bridesmaids called me "ma'am". My God...she has probably already graduated from college, calling me ma'am. It was a painful and sobering reminder that I will turn 36 years old in four short weeks!
My job was easy at first...run here, there, and yonder fetching things for Spring and gathering up crews of folks for the next picture. It was a beautiful day...still rather hot for October, but truthfully, we couldn't have asked for better weather. The distance between the lodge and the main house was about the length of two football fields. Not really that big of a deal, unless you were wearing high heeled, sling back shoes, like me.
While I was working with Spring, I felt like a relative of Forrest Gump. I ran everywhere that I went because I felt like whatever I was fetching was of immediate importance. Again, running was a good thing, unless you were wearing hig-heeled, sling-back shoes, like me.
Just before the ceremony began, I was asked to go back down to the lodge (time number four!) to retreive the lights and umbrella for further pictures. Also, I was supposed to find an outliet for the plug to the back light. Spring wanted to take picture down at the barn and up at the house too. The service began at 6PM and light was leaving us quickly.
I ran down to the lodge and got the stuff. I looked like a dissheveled crazy woman trying to balance all that stuff in two hands. Let me recall all the things I held while running in heels the distance of two football fields: a spot light, a tripod with two cords attached, one cord with a tiny silver attachment on the end that connected to the camera, (Spring had given me special instructions to hold it in my hand so that it wouldn't slide off), a 100 foot extension cord, my sweater to use when the sun went down, a photography umbrella, a tube of lipstick that the bride had given me an hour earlier, and a slip of scratch paper from the groom's mom that had a list of all the pictures that she wanted to have taken at the ceremony. Unfortunately for me, I had worn a dress with no pockets. Yes, just take a moment...picture this.
I get back up to the house, fifty feet of cord dragging behind me. I had made two stops on the way back up to check for electrical outlets. I stop to talk with the caterer when I hear the music playing. Gosh! I am late. I am always late. It matters not how carefully I plan, I am gonna be late. I expressed my disgust to the caterer and she convince me to walk on around to the front of the house. I did. I had to find Spring, make eye contact with her so that she knew I was there with the light. There were so many people around that I couldn't find her for a while. Remember, I am still carrying all these random things. I find Spring across the yard. She sees me. She mouths something to me, but all I can make out is "behind the tree". I assumed that she wanted me to stand behind the tree. At the time, it made sense to me because I did look like a bag lady holding every one of her worldly possessions all at one time.
Once the ceremony was underway, I inched out from behind the tree. Perhaps, it did look much like I was playing hide and seek with an invisible "seeker", but I wanted to see, too! The preacher, bless his heart, looked like Billy Graham, but he literally sang the words of his message. "Farrriends anda neeighborrs, ona bbehafff of K-riss-topher anda Mall-o-ree...we well-come you here-ra tanighhht" There were gnats flying around my face, my armload was getting a bit heavy, I could smell chicken wings, and then it happened. I saw him, and he was beautiful. In order to really understand this term, I must explain my own personal description of men in general: (Do not laugh at me! All women everywhere know that there is a univeral code that used amoung us to describe men)
"aun-ah": a southern ..more like two small grunts strung together)that is a contraction for no-way. As my darling grandmother used to say, "That man aint ever gonna win a beauty prize."
"cute": this man is definitely not ugly, but he is probably not the kind of man who turns heads on the street. He may or may not have a fun personality, but if he does, it may, in fact, raise him up a knotch on the description guide.
"sexy": this is a term that can be used on a man who falls into any one of the categories. Physical attractive and sexiness are two different things. A man can be ugly, but still carry himself in a way, and interact with others in a way, that shows confidence...sexiness.
"hot": a man who is clearly handsome,so good-looking that he will turn heads on the street; however, in my experience, these guys often know they are good looking and a small amount of time with them sends a woman running for the hills.
"beautiful": this man has a bit of everything. He has one or more physical features that make him stand out in a crowd. He is sexy, AND he is alot of fun.
Now that everyone understands my terminology, I can forge on with my story.
We had to photograph the entire wedding party together and take pictures of the new husband and wife. I had found an outlet for the electric cord, but when i went to plug the stupid thing in the wall, I realized that it was not a three-pronged hole. I didn't think to count the holes in the outlet on my way back from the lodge! We were losing light...fast. Had to find three holes...had to find three holes fast.
Spring, who is always grace under pressure, found an outlet that would work. I could never do her job. I can take the pictures, I can see them in my head and envision how they should look, but i couldn't handle the pressure of 11 bridesmaids, 11 groomsmen, a husband and wife, and their two families. Oh dear god...I would be a nervous wreck.
After I had moved that stinkin' light and the 100 foot cord about 15 times, we finally settled in for the evening on the dance floor. Four kegs and eight cases of wine were flowing freely. Mr. Beautiful was already on the dance floor with a beer in-hand. He was dancing next to this really pretty blonde girl, who had been standing next to him during the ceremony. I figured that he was with her, but I could still watch him from the shadows, couldn't I?
At one point, I was up on the back porch, where I met my new friend, Viola. Viola was a waiter and she loved to dance. At the age of fifty-one, she showed me how to get down "low". If I remember correctly, I had finished my third glass of wine. All my friends out there who know me well, also know my personal mantra. Regardless of the type of alcohol, "Three is too many".
I was sitting in a chair on the side of the dance floor. Spring was beside me. We were watching all of these people have so much fun. Actually, we were just waiting until the bride and groom left, so that Spring could take pictures of that. I saw Mr. B walking toward me. He was alone. I motioned for him to come to me. He bent down beside me and I whispered into his ear, "you are beautiful". As I spoke to him, my hands just got a mind of their own. I truly didn't mean to slide my hand across his jaw line and down his neck, but i couldn't help myself. I mean, it was simply my humanitarian responsiblity to let the man know that he was beautiful. It didn't matter that he was there with somebody else.
Later, Spring told me that she dropped her face into her hands when she saw my hand on his face. She thought: oh, no, I just wanna take my pictures and go home, now I am gonna have to help my friend who is sure to get in a fight over this.
Surprise! No fights. He stood back up,held out his hand, and asked me to dance.Because Viola had taught me to get down low, I had no problems with this man. It was the kind of dancing that would have been much better suited in a different place and position...know what i'm sayin??
I learned that the pretty girl was his cousin and she had ridden with him to the wedding. I learned that he was 24, played football at Troy, lived on lake martin and had a job in Montgomery.
While we danced, I kept my composure and my hormones in check, even though the wine kept me from being able to stand completely upright. The only problem was my hands. I had no control. None. My right hand was in his and my left hand was on his shoulder blade, but soon, they began to wander...sort of like a blind man uses his sense of touch to see! At one point, I had my eyes closed, enjoying the music, and my imaginary "view". Mr. B said, "Don't go to sleep on me, now." Honey...he had no idea, but sleep was the last thing on my mind. I mean, I couldn't stand up straight, and he had to be really careful when he twirled me around and back again,(that really brought on the dizziness), but beside those tiny little barriers, I was good to go.
Then, it happened. I know you have been there. In your mind, you are cool, poised, and collected, but your physical body is saying and doing things that it really shouldn't be doing. You have somehow convinced yourself that you have everything it takes to handle any situation. I know you've been there...don't lie to me!
The music stopped and Mr B asked me to go to his truck with him to get a beer out of the cooler. At this point, I felt it best to have a conversation with myself. "Awwww shit! Whatcha gonna now big girl...been talking smack, been gettin ya freak on the dance floor...now whatcha gonna do?"
I think I said out loud the next thing that the little voice inside my head asked of me. "Are you gonna kiss me?"
He responded, "I hope so."
The conversation with myself continues: "You know this man has been drinking. You know that there are 101 places on this plantation to get busy if the need arises (no pun intended). You know that if you go to that truck, you will start something that you can not finish without regret. OK..you can't do it. You won't do it."
I looked at Mr. B and said:"You do realize that if I go to that truck with you that a kiss is all you'll get."
"whatever you say, ma'am." He too called me ma'am, but this time there was something sexy about it.
He took my hand and led me off the dance floor and into the dark night. He had his arm slung casually around my shoulder, and I held on to his waist. We hadn't even made it halfway to the truck. He stopped in the middle of the old dirt road, grabbed me up sort of like that sexy Frenchman in the movie Unfaithful, and he kissed me like he wanted me - to hell with all the people who were watching.
For several moments, I couldn't remember my name. I did well, though. I mentally counted to ten. When i got to ten, I pushed away from him. Seriously, I'd had too much wine, and that was the only way that I figured I could keep from ending up in the back of that pick up truck.
It worked beautifully. We continued to dance for the rest of the evening. I even got kisses periodically, although, I had to practice restraint while we were on the dance floor.
He put my number in his phone. He will probably be straining to remember how it got there very soon. However, for one short evening, he showed me a good time, and me feel like a college girl again. He kissed really good, too. I mean...one of the best ever.
Father Forgive Me...For I have Sinned
Have you ever done something so terrible, so completely despicable that you feel your only redemption is an exercism? That is how I have felt today. In fact, for the first time ever, I wish that I was Catholic.
Today, I would beat people down to get to the head of the line at the coffessional. I realize that this behavior is inappropriate, but I will ask forgiveness for all the necessary assaults on fellow Catholics immediately following the cardinal sin for which I must confess: Forgive me Father for I have sinned.
In order to completely understand the following explanation, it is best to view a previous blog entitled, "Wedding In Comer". I was so proud to have gotten the attention of a much younger man. However, life, as it tuns out, has an interesting way of snatching the pride right out of me.
Mr. B...the blue eyes and blonde hair get me every time. I do solemnly sware to seek out only dark-haired dark-eyed males from this day forward. He did send a text message last weekend. Do not let this communication surprise you; it is easily explicible. He had not yet regained his sobriety. I did not respond and I did not hear from him all week. Until....
Yesterday, I was getting a pedicure. Sitting in the wiggle chair, trying to relax. My phone rings. It's Spring. Whenever I get in trouble, she is always a part of the story, isn't she? When I answer the phone, there is no hello, no how are you...the first words are, "You are dead meat. I'm gonna kill you." I have heard her say those words to me so many times through the years, that it doesn't really have the desired affect anymore. I barely even react.
"What?"
"you were the topic of conversation at the meet-n-greet during church this morning."
I am still lost, but I am trying to hang on. Like me, Spring often speaks in jumbled, fragmented sentences and it is left to the listener to string the pieces of the puzzle together in order to find its meaning. I heard words like deacon... called me over to him...meet and greet...business partner...40 year old woman....
I completely honed in on the 40 year old woman. I don't think I heard much else after that. I couldn't believe someone thought I was 40 years old. (I hope that man is one of those folks standing in front me in line at the confessional this afternoon. I will beat him down and leave him off of my forgiveness list.)
After 100 questions, I finally put together the following story. Before reading it, consider this question. How would you feel knowing that folks who do not know you were talking about you at both a high school football game and a sunday church service?
Spring goes to the First Baptist Church. During the meet-n-greet, a deacon at her church called her over to chat. He said, "I heard about your business partner at the wedding last weekend."
"I don't have a business partner."
"I'm talking about that forty something woman with you at the wedding in Comer."
"That's Ginger. She is not my business partner; she is a friend who went with me to help out. She is 35!"
"Sounds like she had a good time."
"We all had a good time. What are you insinuating?"
"I heard from so-and-so at the ballgame friday night that she was getting busy with the quarter back from Lakeside High School, and even went behind the barn with him for a while."
Yes, friends. You did not read the previous sentence incorrectly. Take a minute....let that sink in.
"She did walk to his truck with him but they weren't gone but just a minute."
Bless Spring's heart....she is forever defending my honor and my actions. I love her.
I had Mr. B's phone number from the text that he sent last weekend. I sent a text: got an interesting phone call. It seems you lied to me about your age.
Do you know what the little book-bag toten' kid said?
"Just by a few years. What about the phone call? "
OMG....i felt like one of those sleezy, skaggy old men that dateline interviews on "To Catch A Predator". You know the ones I'm talking about. I can just hear all of ya. "how could you not know?"
Well, let me tell you. The kid is big and tall, and has a full beard. Besides, he lied. He even gave a birthday that equaled the age that he had given me. Even though I'd had a bit too much wine, I could still add! He had practiced that line before. I sware, I thought that he was in his late 20's. I had only two clues that he was younger than that, but they did not register at the time. First of all, he called me ma'am. At the time it was sexy...now it's sick. Plus, he was fascinated with job: a school teacher. Shit...little did I know that he was carrying his own bookbag less than six months ago!
That child is living proof that there is some kind of super-hormone injected into chicken fingers these days. He looked like a man....I promise. He did not act like a teenager. He did not look like a teenager. He did not kiss me like a teenager.
The surest sign that a woman is getting old....the inability to decipher a person's age within the range of at least one decade!!!
Forgive me Father for I have sinned....
Today, I would beat people down to get to the head of the line at the coffessional. I realize that this behavior is inappropriate, but I will ask forgiveness for all the necessary assaults on fellow Catholics immediately following the cardinal sin for which I must confess: Forgive me Father for I have sinned.
In order to completely understand the following explanation, it is best to view a previous blog entitled, "Wedding In Comer". I was so proud to have gotten the attention of a much younger man. However, life, as it tuns out, has an interesting way of snatching the pride right out of me.
Mr. B...the blue eyes and blonde hair get me every time. I do solemnly sware to seek out only dark-haired dark-eyed males from this day forward. He did send a text message last weekend. Do not let this communication surprise you; it is easily explicible. He had not yet regained his sobriety. I did not respond and I did not hear from him all week. Until....
Yesterday, I was getting a pedicure. Sitting in the wiggle chair, trying to relax. My phone rings. It's Spring. Whenever I get in trouble, she is always a part of the story, isn't she? When I answer the phone, there is no hello, no how are you...the first words are, "You are dead meat. I'm gonna kill you." I have heard her say those words to me so many times through the years, that it doesn't really have the desired affect anymore. I barely even react.
"What?"
"you were the topic of conversation at the meet-n-greet during church this morning."
I am still lost, but I am trying to hang on. Like me, Spring often speaks in jumbled, fragmented sentences and it is left to the listener to string the pieces of the puzzle together in order to find its meaning. I heard words like deacon... called me over to him...meet and greet...business partner...40 year old woman....
I completely honed in on the 40 year old woman. I don't think I heard much else after that. I couldn't believe someone thought I was 40 years old. (I hope that man is one of those folks standing in front me in line at the confessional this afternoon. I will beat him down and leave him off of my forgiveness list.)
After 100 questions, I finally put together the following story. Before reading it, consider this question. How would you feel knowing that folks who do not know you were talking about you at both a high school football game and a sunday church service?
Spring goes to the First Baptist Church. During the meet-n-greet, a deacon at her church called her over to chat. He said, "I heard about your business partner at the wedding last weekend."
"I don't have a business partner."
"I'm talking about that forty something woman with you at the wedding in Comer."
"That's Ginger. She is not my business partner; she is a friend who went with me to help out. She is 35!"
"Sounds like she had a good time."
"We all had a good time. What are you insinuating?"
"I heard from so-and-so at the ballgame friday night that she was getting busy with the quarter back from Lakeside High School, and even went behind the barn with him for a while."
Yes, friends. You did not read the previous sentence incorrectly. Take a minute....let that sink in.
"She did walk to his truck with him but they weren't gone but just a minute."
Bless Spring's heart....she is forever defending my honor and my actions. I love her.
I had Mr. B's phone number from the text that he sent last weekend. I sent a text: got an interesting phone call. It seems you lied to me about your age.
Do you know what the little book-bag toten' kid said?
"Just by a few years. What about the phone call? "
OMG....i felt like one of those sleezy, skaggy old men that dateline interviews on "To Catch A Predator". You know the ones I'm talking about. I can just hear all of ya. "how could you not know?"
Well, let me tell you. The kid is big and tall, and has a full beard. Besides, he lied. He even gave a birthday that equaled the age that he had given me. Even though I'd had a bit too much wine, I could still add! He had practiced that line before. I sware, I thought that he was in his late 20's. I had only two clues that he was younger than that, but they did not register at the time. First of all, he called me ma'am. At the time it was sexy...now it's sick. Plus, he was fascinated with job: a school teacher. Shit...little did I know that he was carrying his own bookbag less than six months ago!
That child is living proof that there is some kind of super-hormone injected into chicken fingers these days. He looked like a man....I promise. He did not act like a teenager. He did not look like a teenager. He did not kiss me like a teenager.
The surest sign that a woman is getting old....the inability to decipher a person's age within the range of at least one decade!!!
Forgive me Father for I have sinned....
Bunco Goes Awry...Again
I first played Bunco with this group just over a month ago. I barely knew any of them, even though I had worked at their school for an entire year. Before coming to their school, when I was a teacher, I was sorta fun to hang out with and I spent much time playing jokes and laughing with my colleagues. Now, I am always so crazy busy with this "absolutely wonderful job" that I am unable to visit and build relationships. When I was invited to play, I was excited about seeing these folks away from the office so that I could be my usual self.
The deal was this: bring food, bring alcohol, bring ten dollars, play a game that you have never played before, get to know your co-workers. It sounded simple enough.
When I arrived at Amanda's house, I really had no idea what to expect...I mean I kinda had to feel these people out in order to determine just how much of my usual self would be appropriate. I walked onto the back deck. The air was heavily polluted and intoxicating beverages sat everywhere. I quickly surmised that my usual self would fit in just fine.
I have always enjoyed margaritas. Always. I know exactly how much I can drink before I must lie down for a bit of a nap. I have this amount scientifically calculated, and once it is reached I must lie down. It doesn't matter where. It doesn't matter what. I must lie down. This condition has one unique characteristic. While lying down, I must have my eyes closed. I cannot open them for any reason; however, I am still totally lucid and can hear all that is being said around me. I simply can't participate in the conversation for a while. That's all.
When I am drinking out of a blue Solo cup, I am able to remain upright because I know exactly when to stop. On this night, I had no solo cup. I had a smaller stirophome cup. I should have paid closer attention.
Bunco is played in 24 rounds. At the end of each round, as I changed partners, I would go to the kitchen and refill my little cup. After the 12th round, we took a break to further pollute the air. I went outside and sat in a double seated patio glider.
Just then, I realized that the limit had been surpassed. Had to lie down. Lie down immediately. This patio furniture was not really designed for people to lie on it, but like I said...it doesn't matter where. Incriminating pictures exist of me as I lie in this glider. I was wearing sunglasses in the pitch-black dark. Can't explain that.
Amanda came to my aid. She helped me into the bedroom for the remainder of my nap. I remember seeing a beautiful white bedspread and lots of pillows. I remember thinking: "Oh, Amanda, I can't take a nap on this bed. The cover and the pillows are white. I have make up on my face. I have grocery store feet, and I am covered with that yucky air pollution." I know I thought these things, but I don't think I was able to verbalize them at the time. Further, more incriminating pictures exist from this period of time. Perhaps, they are being held as leverage for future blackmail attempts.
I forfeited my ten dollars. I never returned to the Bunco table. My first game, and I was unable to go the distance...all because of a tiny little stirophome cup!
Tonight, I was determined to do better. I left the half-gallon at home. I poured my drink into a WHS squeeze bottle. I had determined that if it didn't fit in that bottle, I wasn't going to drink it. Drank out of a blue Solo cup,too. Bet my new Bunco partners didn't even notice that.
Since I am still new to the game, I don't quite understand all the rules. We were in the 5th round. I rolled three fives. My partner Jan raised both of her hands in air - sort of like that "pump it up" motion - and screamed, WooHoo! I couldn't figure why all that was necessary. Then, she told me that I "Bunco-ed". I looked at the dice and make a totally logical inference. Roll three of a kind and you Bunco. Sounds reasonable, right?
I rolled again. I got three sixes. So, as had been recently demonstrated by Jan, I raise both hands in the air and scream, WooHoo! Jan and Kim look at me like I am nuts! Im thinkin' to myself...I might wanna tone down the excitement next time. I rolled again. I was smokin! I rolled three fours! Again, just as I had been shown, I raise my hands and scream: WooHoo!
After that, they finally had to tell me...I was excited about nothing really. Hell, right this minute, I couldn't tell you how many points you gain by "bunco-ing". I just know you're supposed to squeal real loud.
I am kicking boo-tay until the 22nd round. Jan started playing with herself and got 62 points in one round. Still, I am only behind four points. I never recover. Don't be sad, though. I did win money for the highest number of buncos. If I could have put little stars on my tally sheet every time I rolled three of a kind, I woulda had lots more.
I had some cash and one check for 10 dollars. Kim wanted me to go ahead and put my name on the check so that it wouldn't be blank, but I had no pen. I promised to be real careful and deposit immediately. On the way home, I stopped by the Chevron to get a Mountain Dew. The cashier was toward the back mopping the floor. How many times have you walked into gas station and the cashier was mopping? I don't know that I have ever seen it.
My cash and check were folded up in my pocket. As I walked toward the end of the candy aisle toward the pay counter, I stuck my hand in my pocket to get my monies. My ring got stuck on something inside my pocket. I jerked my hand and it did come out of the pocket along with my monies. Unfortunately, the money continued to fly through the air, land on the floor, and slide underneath this wire rack at the head of the aisle - the one that held the golden flake crackers.
Kim's nameless check had disappeared under the cheese cracker holder! I had to get it.
I really didn't think it a big deal at first. Then it became apparent that I was going to have to get down on my hands and knees to reach this money. I won that money! I wasn't leaving the gas station with out it. The floor was wet. Being on a gas station floor is disgusting enough, but can you imagine a wet gas station floor?
I stuck my hand underneath the edge as far as I could reach. I had to be real careful because the bills had come unfolded and separated, so if I didn't go slowly, I would leave some of the bills behind. I was almost there. Mere inches to go. Unbeknownst to me, the cashier, along with her wet mop, had come to stand right behind me. Lord knows how long she'd been back there or what she must have been thinking. She said,"Ma'am can I help you with something?"
Well, it scared the mess out of me...bad. I jumped. When somebody scares me, my hands instinctively go to my chest. Sort of like Fred Sanford does when he is having the big one. Usually, this behavior causes no harm, but my hand was underneath a wire rack. The next two seconds still play in my head on super slo-mo. Yanking my hand to my chest has greatly disturbed the balance of the golden flake rack.
I sat upright on the front of my legs so that now, I am wet from my knees to my toes. I am not paying attention to the cracker holder. i have turned to the cashier who is shoving a mop handle over my head! She did prevent the wire rack from falling on my head, but she was unable to stop the fall of many boxes of assorted crackers onto the wet floor. I spent the next few minutes cleaning up my mess and wishing so badly that I had just gone straight home.
I paid for my Dew and went to my car with a death-grip on a ten dollar, no-name check.
The deal was this: bring food, bring alcohol, bring ten dollars, play a game that you have never played before, get to know your co-workers. It sounded simple enough.
When I arrived at Amanda's house, I really had no idea what to expect...I mean I kinda had to feel these people out in order to determine just how much of my usual self would be appropriate. I walked onto the back deck. The air was heavily polluted and intoxicating beverages sat everywhere. I quickly surmised that my usual self would fit in just fine.
I have always enjoyed margaritas. Always. I know exactly how much I can drink before I must lie down for a bit of a nap. I have this amount scientifically calculated, and once it is reached I must lie down. It doesn't matter where. It doesn't matter what. I must lie down. This condition has one unique characteristic. While lying down, I must have my eyes closed. I cannot open them for any reason; however, I am still totally lucid and can hear all that is being said around me. I simply can't participate in the conversation for a while. That's all.
When I am drinking out of a blue Solo cup, I am able to remain upright because I know exactly when to stop. On this night, I had no solo cup. I had a smaller stirophome cup. I should have paid closer attention.
Bunco is played in 24 rounds. At the end of each round, as I changed partners, I would go to the kitchen and refill my little cup. After the 12th round, we took a break to further pollute the air. I went outside and sat in a double seated patio glider.
Just then, I realized that the limit had been surpassed. Had to lie down. Lie down immediately. This patio furniture was not really designed for people to lie on it, but like I said...it doesn't matter where. Incriminating pictures exist of me as I lie in this glider. I was wearing sunglasses in the pitch-black dark. Can't explain that.
Amanda came to my aid. She helped me into the bedroom for the remainder of my nap. I remember seeing a beautiful white bedspread and lots of pillows. I remember thinking: "Oh, Amanda, I can't take a nap on this bed. The cover and the pillows are white. I have make up on my face. I have grocery store feet, and I am covered with that yucky air pollution." I know I thought these things, but I don't think I was able to verbalize them at the time. Further, more incriminating pictures exist from this period of time. Perhaps, they are being held as leverage for future blackmail attempts.
I forfeited my ten dollars. I never returned to the Bunco table. My first game, and I was unable to go the distance...all because of a tiny little stirophome cup!
Tonight, I was determined to do better. I left the half-gallon at home. I poured my drink into a WHS squeeze bottle. I had determined that if it didn't fit in that bottle, I wasn't going to drink it. Drank out of a blue Solo cup,too. Bet my new Bunco partners didn't even notice that.
Since I am still new to the game, I don't quite understand all the rules. We were in the 5th round. I rolled three fives. My partner Jan raised both of her hands in air - sort of like that "pump it up" motion - and screamed, WooHoo! I couldn't figure why all that was necessary. Then, she told me that I "Bunco-ed". I looked at the dice and make a totally logical inference. Roll three of a kind and you Bunco. Sounds reasonable, right?
I rolled again. I got three sixes. So, as had been recently demonstrated by Jan, I raise both hands in the air and scream, WooHoo! Jan and Kim look at me like I am nuts! Im thinkin' to myself...I might wanna tone down the excitement next time. I rolled again. I was smokin! I rolled three fours! Again, just as I had been shown, I raise my hands and scream: WooHoo!
After that, they finally had to tell me...I was excited about nothing really. Hell, right this minute, I couldn't tell you how many points you gain by "bunco-ing". I just know you're supposed to squeal real loud.
I am kicking boo-tay until the 22nd round. Jan started playing with herself and got 62 points in one round. Still, I am only behind four points. I never recover. Don't be sad, though. I did win money for the highest number of buncos. If I could have put little stars on my tally sheet every time I rolled three of a kind, I woulda had lots more.
I had some cash and one check for 10 dollars. Kim wanted me to go ahead and put my name on the check so that it wouldn't be blank, but I had no pen. I promised to be real careful and deposit immediately. On the way home, I stopped by the Chevron to get a Mountain Dew. The cashier was toward the back mopping the floor. How many times have you walked into gas station and the cashier was mopping? I don't know that I have ever seen it.
My cash and check were folded up in my pocket. As I walked toward the end of the candy aisle toward the pay counter, I stuck my hand in my pocket to get my monies. My ring got stuck on something inside my pocket. I jerked my hand and it did come out of the pocket along with my monies. Unfortunately, the money continued to fly through the air, land on the floor, and slide underneath this wire rack at the head of the aisle - the one that held the golden flake crackers.
Kim's nameless check had disappeared under the cheese cracker holder! I had to get it.
I really didn't think it a big deal at first. Then it became apparent that I was going to have to get down on my hands and knees to reach this money. I won that money! I wasn't leaving the gas station with out it. The floor was wet. Being on a gas station floor is disgusting enough, but can you imagine a wet gas station floor?
I stuck my hand underneath the edge as far as I could reach. I had to be real careful because the bills had come unfolded and separated, so if I didn't go slowly, I would leave some of the bills behind. I was almost there. Mere inches to go. Unbeknownst to me, the cashier, along with her wet mop, had come to stand right behind me. Lord knows how long she'd been back there or what she must have been thinking. She said,"Ma'am can I help you with something?"
Well, it scared the mess out of me...bad. I jumped. When somebody scares me, my hands instinctively go to my chest. Sort of like Fred Sanford does when he is having the big one. Usually, this behavior causes no harm, but my hand was underneath a wire rack. The next two seconds still play in my head on super slo-mo. Yanking my hand to my chest has greatly disturbed the balance of the golden flake rack.
I sat upright on the front of my legs so that now, I am wet from my knees to my toes. I am not paying attention to the cracker holder. i have turned to the cashier who is shoving a mop handle over my head! She did prevent the wire rack from falling on my head, but she was unable to stop the fall of many boxes of assorted crackers onto the wet floor. I spent the next few minutes cleaning up my mess and wishing so badly that I had just gone straight home.
I paid for my Dew and went to my car with a death-grip on a ten dollar, no-name check.
The ABCs of Speed Dating
I have conquered my fears and returned from yet another excellent adventure. Tonight, it was speed dating at the Mellow Mushroom in Prattville. I talked a friend of mine into this shenanigan with me, which helped me out a lot. Plus, just before I left, another friend stopped by the house and wanted to go along. She is married, but wanted to watch from a distance. I called her my "posse of one!" Her job was to sit at a nearby table and give me the thumbs up or thumbs down on potential dates.
She has the cool car – a brand new Mazda RX7. Because this was a special occasion, she let me drive it into town. She said, "Girl, you can't be going on a speed date in a 10-year-old Honda Accord!" I thought I was the shiznit, baby! We stopped by to pick up Lisa and forged on. When I pulled into the parking spot, I realized that I had not eaten all day. This was not a good plan. Why do I always realize bad decisions far too late to correct them? I debated about whether or not to go get a pack of crackers or something, but I figured these guys needed to know the REAL me.
Lisa and I stood in line to register. As any woman would, I took a quick gaze around the room. Absolutely, nothing interesting. Not even a possibly interesting. I stayed in line determined to see this thing through to the very end. The in-charge lady gave us our instructions and pointed out the bar ahead with appetizers. Man….I wanted to EAT, screw the appetizers. When we walked to the bar, I couldn't figure out how to eat these little finger foods without looking like a head of cattle grazing in the pasture. I made myself walk away, mentally promising to stop at McDonalds on the way home.
I tried to mingle as best I could. There were plenty of men around. One was no more than five feet tall; one had more facial piercing than I could count and another had proudly collected his high school diploma just last week. (Contrary to public opinion, I do prefer men who have entered their second decade of life!)
The event was called to order. I had been assigned to table six. I sat there for the next two hours as these men rotated over to me in six minute intervals. I can not begin to explain all the details of this journey, but I can point out the highlights.
First was Aaron, a state employee who wanted to go to school to be a nurse because – as he put it – he was a giving, caring, kind, considerate, loving, sincere, caring, loving, kind, considerate kind of person. I don't remember much more about him, other than, his palms were sweaty when I shook his hand. YUK!
There was Jay, a former Mormon from Idaho who had disgraced his parents and turned into an Agnostic because he didn't want to wear a shirt and tie, while riding bicycles down the road in the summer for the next two years. Instead, he moved to Alabama as a senior in high school, got his GED, and became a roofer. The economy has gotten bad so he took a part time job at the Mellow Mushroom and hopes to go into management shortly. However, he may need to consider removing some of the piercings in order to be taken seriously.
I remember Ben, a morphine rep from Montgomery. Lisa talked about him on the way home, but while he was at my table, I couldn't figure out whether he was selling the drugs or doing the drugs…know what Im sayin"?
Angus came next. He was born and raised in Eclectic, Alabama. Yes, his name is Angus. Are you picturing this big burly rough neck kind of fella? Stop that picture right now, because it is painfully inaccurate. Ironically enough, with this man's name and birthplace, I had every reason to run far, far way. I like him best and we had the in depth thoughtful conversation of the evening. Angus and Ginger sittin' in a tree…..God bless both our parents. What were they thinking when they named us? Perhaps, mine were thinking of a porn star popular in the 70s, his were thinking of the beef eaters!
Then, it happened. Brian came to my table. I had spoken briefly to Brian before the event began. He had told me that he had two shots prior to coming inside. I figured it was just to calm his nerves. By the time ole Brian got to my table, he was completely hammered. I asked him the same question that I had asked all the others: "Tell me something about yourself"
He gave me a Sarah Palin answer! He totally avoided my question and started talking about something else. He said, "You are hot. How old are you?" When I told him, he replied "Hell, you are really hot." (As if age in addition to attractiveness kicks a woman up on the hot-notch??) I tried to get through the conversation with as much decorum as possible, but he was making it difficult. He was growing louder with each answer. When we discovered that we were both Scorpios with the same birthday, I thought he would fall out of his chair. He didn't believe me and made me pull out my driver's license.
He used the f-word a really lot. I am not a stuffy person. There is a time and a place when I love to hear the f-word. A public restaurant does not qualify. This man successfully verbalized the f word approximately 33 times in a six minute span. That takes talent. Don't' you agree?
Here's what took the cake and caused people around to stop their dates and turn in our direction. Remember, I am simply trying to complete my six minutes and keep this man from embarrassing me or himself any further than absolutely necessary…I asked him one simple question: "What would like to do just for fun?" His answer left me speechless. I couldn't even look him in the eye. I have never had a man get my goat in casual conversation. He said, "Right now, I want to fuck you."
All conversation stopped. You could have heard a f-ing pen drop. (See, just the memory of it has me talking badly) I had several pairs of eyes looking in my direction. OMG. Two minutes…two minutes left…what can I ask than will not evoke a sexually laced answer?
Interestingly enough, I did get the most interesting piece of advice from this drunk. He told to check that I was interested in every single person listed on my date card. If I did this, when the exchange emails came back to me, I would know exactly who was interested in me. I didn't have to respond to the email, I would just get the scoop on how well I scored on the night. Looking back, this should have been a sign that he had done this speed dating thing before!
I did just that. I checked every single man I "dated". It will be interesting to know how many of them were also interested in me. There were lots of interesting conversations, and I am so glad that I got the chance to meet new people – both men and women. I am a woman who will try anything once. Speed dating is one of those rare things in my life that I will NEVER try a second time.
She has the cool car – a brand new Mazda RX7. Because this was a special occasion, she let me drive it into town. She said, "Girl, you can't be going on a speed date in a 10-year-old Honda Accord!" I thought I was the shiznit, baby! We stopped by to pick up Lisa and forged on. When I pulled into the parking spot, I realized that I had not eaten all day. This was not a good plan. Why do I always realize bad decisions far too late to correct them? I debated about whether or not to go get a pack of crackers or something, but I figured these guys needed to know the REAL me.
Lisa and I stood in line to register. As any woman would, I took a quick gaze around the room. Absolutely, nothing interesting. Not even a possibly interesting. I stayed in line determined to see this thing through to the very end. The in-charge lady gave us our instructions and pointed out the bar ahead with appetizers. Man….I wanted to EAT, screw the appetizers. When we walked to the bar, I couldn't figure out how to eat these little finger foods without looking like a head of cattle grazing in the pasture. I made myself walk away, mentally promising to stop at McDonalds on the way home.
I tried to mingle as best I could. There were plenty of men around. One was no more than five feet tall; one had more facial piercing than I could count and another had proudly collected his high school diploma just last week. (Contrary to public opinion, I do prefer men who have entered their second decade of life!)
The event was called to order. I had been assigned to table six. I sat there for the next two hours as these men rotated over to me in six minute intervals. I can not begin to explain all the details of this journey, but I can point out the highlights.
First was Aaron, a state employee who wanted to go to school to be a nurse because – as he put it – he was a giving, caring, kind, considerate, loving, sincere, caring, loving, kind, considerate kind of person. I don't remember much more about him, other than, his palms were sweaty when I shook his hand. YUK!
There was Jay, a former Mormon from Idaho who had disgraced his parents and turned into an Agnostic because he didn't want to wear a shirt and tie, while riding bicycles down the road in the summer for the next two years. Instead, he moved to Alabama as a senior in high school, got his GED, and became a roofer. The economy has gotten bad so he took a part time job at the Mellow Mushroom and hopes to go into management shortly. However, he may need to consider removing some of the piercings in order to be taken seriously.
I remember Ben, a morphine rep from Montgomery. Lisa talked about him on the way home, but while he was at my table, I couldn't figure out whether he was selling the drugs or doing the drugs…know what Im sayin"?
Angus came next. He was born and raised in Eclectic, Alabama. Yes, his name is Angus. Are you picturing this big burly rough neck kind of fella? Stop that picture right now, because it is painfully inaccurate. Ironically enough, with this man's name and birthplace, I had every reason to run far, far way. I like him best and we had the in depth thoughtful conversation of the evening. Angus and Ginger sittin' in a tree…..God bless both our parents. What were they thinking when they named us? Perhaps, mine were thinking of a porn star popular in the 70s, his were thinking of the beef eaters!
Then, it happened. Brian came to my table. I had spoken briefly to Brian before the event began. He had told me that he had two shots prior to coming inside. I figured it was just to calm his nerves. By the time ole Brian got to my table, he was completely hammered. I asked him the same question that I had asked all the others: "Tell me something about yourself"
He gave me a Sarah Palin answer! He totally avoided my question and started talking about something else. He said, "You are hot. How old are you?" When I told him, he replied "Hell, you are really hot." (As if age in addition to attractiveness kicks a woman up on the hot-notch??) I tried to get through the conversation with as much decorum as possible, but he was making it difficult. He was growing louder with each answer. When we discovered that we were both Scorpios with the same birthday, I thought he would fall out of his chair. He didn't believe me and made me pull out my driver's license.
He used the f-word a really lot. I am not a stuffy person. There is a time and a place when I love to hear the f-word. A public restaurant does not qualify. This man successfully verbalized the f word approximately 33 times in a six minute span. That takes talent. Don't' you agree?
Here's what took the cake and caused people around to stop their dates and turn in our direction. Remember, I am simply trying to complete my six minutes and keep this man from embarrassing me or himself any further than absolutely necessary…I asked him one simple question: "What would like to do just for fun?" His answer left me speechless. I couldn't even look him in the eye. I have never had a man get my goat in casual conversation. He said, "Right now, I want to fuck you."
All conversation stopped. You could have heard a f-ing pen drop. (See, just the memory of it has me talking badly) I had several pairs of eyes looking in my direction. OMG. Two minutes…two minutes left…what can I ask than will not evoke a sexually laced answer?
Interestingly enough, I did get the most interesting piece of advice from this drunk. He told to check that I was interested in every single person listed on my date card. If I did this, when the exchange emails came back to me, I would know exactly who was interested in me. I didn't have to respond to the email, I would just get the scoop on how well I scored on the night. Looking back, this should have been a sign that he had done this speed dating thing before!
I did just that. I checked every single man I "dated". It will be interesting to know how many of them were also interested in me. There were lots of interesting conversations, and I am so glad that I got the chance to meet new people – both men and women. I am a woman who will try anything once. Speed dating is one of those rare things in my life that I will NEVER try a second time.
National Lampoon Beach Vacation
Since leaving home at the age of 17, I have taken vacations with my family many, many times. Most of these trips remind me of the movie, National Lampoon Vacation. The summer 2008 beach trip was no exception; in fact, it was probably the most entertaining family vacation to date.
In July, I rode down to Perdido Key with my parents, my sister, and her four year old son, Brody. The whole gang was invited, but scheduling conflicts kept my brothers and their families from going along with us. This was my last full week of summer vacation, and I figured that I could squeeze in one more visit to the coast. Dad had rented a condo right on the water, and even though I had never stayed in this particular city before, I was looking forward to it.
The drive down was most uneventful, for the most part. My dear old dad drives like a Indy 500 racer, blissfully ignorant of his tendency to nauseate everyone on board with his abrupt stops and starts. Vivian and I were trying to play gin rummy in the backseat, but the card stack slid off into the floorboard so many times that we finally gave up. By the time we had stopped at the Super Wal-Mart (a ritual stop en route to the beach), I had grown quite weary and wanted nothing more than the ground underneath my feet, the sound of the waves in the distance, and a long drag off of a cigarette.
Some big Nascar race was coming on TV that evening and my dad was hell-bent on getting to the condo, unpacking his things, and settling in for the evening by the time the race began. Fine by me. I convinced him to take Brody and mom up to the room and chill. Vivian and I would find a luggage cart, unpack the Tahoe, and bring everything up to the room. This rationale actually meant chain smoke until our blood pressure spiked so high that we got dizzy from the rush.
Vivian and I snagged a cart from the lobby, rode the elevator down to the underground parking deck and proceeded to unload. Just as we were piling the last of the stuff on the cart, the fire alarm began to wail. Viv looked at me kinda nervous, but I blew it off. I was certain some kid had pulled the alarm as a prank. We finished up, rolled the heavy cart over to the elevator and pressed the up button. When the big metal doors slid open, an elderly woman walked out and told us not to get on the elevator because of the fire. (Yes, she had just exited the elevator during the fire alarm, herself.) Vivian looked at me with this expression of panic, yelled “My baby”, and took off running toward the stair case. The little old lady walked to her car, and I was all alone in this dark, spooky parking deck balancing two hundred pounds of swimsuits, sand buckets, and grocery bags on a luggage cart! Even though the doors to the elevator had not reopened, I was still convinced there was no fire. I had to wheel my cart up and out of this parking deck. I had no other options. It was 350 degrees and I don’t like the dark. I did fine until I had to push that big heavy sucker up the ramp to reach ground level.
As soon as I reached daylight, I saw them. Firetrucks. Lots of them. Huge yellow hoses lying across the ground level parking lot. Lots of them. I couldn’t get to the covered porch at the lobby because of the stupid hose pipes lying around every which way. I was blocking traffic from entering the underground deck – not that anyone would choose to park with all the sirens, lights and chaos ongoing at the moment. I pushed my cart toward the street and used the bicycle lane of Perdido Beach Blvd. to bypass the firetrucks and get to the lobby with the hordes of other condo residents. On my trip down bicycle lane, I saw a fireman. Usually, I am able to resist the temptation to verbalize those stupid, random thoughts that enter my mind from time to time, but I was unsuccessful on this particular occasion.
The fireman was straightening a hose pipe, and I ask him: “Is there a fire?” As soon as the words were out, I wished so badly that I could take them back. The guy was a good sport, though. He just pointed toward the building, and said, “look”. Water was gushing from the 15 floor, and I could see the smoke from the beach side balcony. I talked to fireman for just a minute and learned that everyone on the 12th floor and higher had been evacuated.
Since I had learned the hard way not to verbalize thoughts, I did NOT say this out loud. I figured that I would be able to get in the elevator and get to my room unscathed, since we were staying on the 10th floor. Forging on down ....P B Blvd....., I saw his name on the back of his jacket. Vowell. I thought that was a funny name for a fireman, but I digress..
Then, I waged war with the crowd of folks anxiously waiting to get back to their vacation. I could have weaseled through the crowd pretty easily by myself, but this stinkin’ cart was really putting a hitch in my get-along! Finally, I make it to the elevator, push the up button and wait. I sneak inside like a burglar, nervous that somebody might call me out or try to stop me. The doors close and I am safely inside. The elevator starts to move. I am home free!! Then there is a big jolt and the elevator doors open. I am on the ground floor exactly where I started, but this time four firemen were standing there looking at me. One said, “Ma’am, you are going to have to exit the elevator”. Guess which one? Yep. The same one…..Vowell. I was mortified. This man must think that I am a raving lunatic. First, I am the blond pushing a luggage cart down a fourlane highway in 100 degree heat, then I ask a fireman if there is a fire AS he is unrolling his hose, now, I am in the elevator in a hotel where I know there is a fire. Lunatic...raving lunatic!
I sat on the curb outside the condo with my hand wrapped around the pole of that blasted luggage cart for the next three hours. I saw the ABC fireman several times throughout the evening. One time, I could have sworn we made eye contact but there were all the flashing lights around, so I could have been mistaken. He was the one who announced to the few remaining tenants that we could return to our rooms. (Most folks had simply gotten into their vehicles and left to go eat dinner.) Ordinarily, after the crowd had thinned out a bit, I would have talked to him because he was awfully good-lookin. I am not scared to call it like I see it. This time, though, I couldn’t find the courage. I had asked him if there was a fire as he was unrolling the fire hose. THEN, I had entered an elevator during an alarm and HE caught me red-handed. I just couldn’t do it.
I finally made it inside where my family was kicked back enjoying the races. I was so pissed. I had simply wanted a cigarette and had gotten trapped outside for hours!! I grabbed a piece of key lime pie (my favorite) and walked out onto the street side balcony to watch the clean up festivities. They looked like little ants down there walking all around and over each other, rolling up their stuff. I saw him; he was looking up. He waved. I was sure that someone must have been standing on the balcony directly above me. Surely, he wasn’t waving at me.
The next morning our crew was walking through the lobby on the way to the beach. The man behind the desk called me over to him. He asked if I was on the 10th floor. He asked if I had been trapped in the parking lot during the fire the night before. He asked if I had been wearing a blue skirt and an orange shirt. When I answered yes to these questions, he explained that a fireman had asked about me, but the desk clerk had no way of finding my name or room number.
I am infamous for my approach to men, but the one time that I should have been audacious, I chickened out. Ahhh….just another day in the life.
In July, I rode down to Perdido Key with my parents, my sister, and her four year old son, Brody. The whole gang was invited, but scheduling conflicts kept my brothers and their families from going along with us. This was my last full week of summer vacation, and I figured that I could squeeze in one more visit to the coast. Dad had rented a condo right on the water, and even though I had never stayed in this particular city before, I was looking forward to it.
The drive down was most uneventful, for the most part. My dear old dad drives like a Indy 500 racer, blissfully ignorant of his tendency to nauseate everyone on board with his abrupt stops and starts. Vivian and I were trying to play gin rummy in the backseat, but the card stack slid off into the floorboard so many times that we finally gave up. By the time we had stopped at the Super Wal-Mart (a ritual stop en route to the beach), I had grown quite weary and wanted nothing more than the ground underneath my feet, the sound of the waves in the distance, and a long drag off of a cigarette.
Some big Nascar race was coming on TV that evening and my dad was hell-bent on getting to the condo, unpacking his things, and settling in for the evening by the time the race began. Fine by me. I convinced him to take Brody and mom up to the room and chill. Vivian and I would find a luggage cart, unpack the Tahoe, and bring everything up to the room. This rationale actually meant chain smoke until our blood pressure spiked so high that we got dizzy from the rush.
Vivian and I snagged a cart from the lobby, rode the elevator down to the underground parking deck and proceeded to unload. Just as we were piling the last of the stuff on the cart, the fire alarm began to wail. Viv looked at me kinda nervous, but I blew it off. I was certain some kid had pulled the alarm as a prank. We finished up, rolled the heavy cart over to the elevator and pressed the up button. When the big metal doors slid open, an elderly woman walked out and told us not to get on the elevator because of the fire. (Yes, she had just exited the elevator during the fire alarm, herself.) Vivian looked at me with this expression of panic, yelled “My baby”, and took off running toward the stair case. The little old lady walked to her car, and I was all alone in this dark, spooky parking deck balancing two hundred pounds of swimsuits, sand buckets, and grocery bags on a luggage cart! Even though the doors to the elevator had not reopened, I was still convinced there was no fire. I had to wheel my cart up and out of this parking deck. I had no other options. It was 350 degrees and I don’t like the dark. I did fine until I had to push that big heavy sucker up the ramp to reach ground level.
As soon as I reached daylight, I saw them. Firetrucks. Lots of them. Huge yellow hoses lying across the ground level parking lot. Lots of them. I couldn’t get to the covered porch at the lobby because of the stupid hose pipes lying around every which way. I was blocking traffic from entering the underground deck – not that anyone would choose to park with all the sirens, lights and chaos ongoing at the moment. I pushed my cart toward the street and used the bicycle lane of Perdido Beach Blvd. to bypass the firetrucks and get to the lobby with the hordes of other condo residents. On my trip down bicycle lane, I saw a fireman. Usually, I am able to resist the temptation to verbalize those stupid, random thoughts that enter my mind from time to time, but I was unsuccessful on this particular occasion.
The fireman was straightening a hose pipe, and I ask him: “Is there a fire?” As soon as the words were out, I wished so badly that I could take them back. The guy was a good sport, though. He just pointed toward the building, and said, “look”. Water was gushing from the 15 floor, and I could see the smoke from the beach side balcony. I talked to fireman for just a minute and learned that everyone on the 12th floor and higher had been evacuated.
Since I had learned the hard way not to verbalize thoughts, I did NOT say this out loud. I figured that I would be able to get in the elevator and get to my room unscathed, since we were staying on the 10th floor. Forging on down ....P B Blvd....., I saw his name on the back of his jacket. Vowell. I thought that was a funny name for a fireman, but I digress..
Then, I waged war with the crowd of folks anxiously waiting to get back to their vacation. I could have weaseled through the crowd pretty easily by myself, but this stinkin’ cart was really putting a hitch in my get-along! Finally, I make it to the elevator, push the up button and wait. I sneak inside like a burglar, nervous that somebody might call me out or try to stop me. The doors close and I am safely inside. The elevator starts to move. I am home free!! Then there is a big jolt and the elevator doors open. I am on the ground floor exactly where I started, but this time four firemen were standing there looking at me. One said, “Ma’am, you are going to have to exit the elevator”. Guess which one? Yep. The same one…..Vowell. I was mortified. This man must think that I am a raving lunatic. First, I am the blond pushing a luggage cart down a fourlane highway in 100 degree heat, then I ask a fireman if there is a fire AS he is unrolling his hose, now, I am in the elevator in a hotel where I know there is a fire. Lunatic...raving lunatic!
I sat on the curb outside the condo with my hand wrapped around the pole of that blasted luggage cart for the next three hours. I saw the ABC fireman several times throughout the evening. One time, I could have sworn we made eye contact but there were all the flashing lights around, so I could have been mistaken. He was the one who announced to the few remaining tenants that we could return to our rooms. (Most folks had simply gotten into their vehicles and left to go eat dinner.) Ordinarily, after the crowd had thinned out a bit, I would have talked to him because he was awfully good-lookin. I am not scared to call it like I see it. This time, though, I couldn’t find the courage. I had asked him if there was a fire as he was unrolling the fire hose. THEN, I had entered an elevator during an alarm and HE caught me red-handed. I just couldn’t do it.
I finally made it inside where my family was kicked back enjoying the races. I was so pissed. I had simply wanted a cigarette and had gotten trapped outside for hours!! I grabbed a piece of key lime pie (my favorite) and walked out onto the street side balcony to watch the clean up festivities. They looked like little ants down there walking all around and over each other, rolling up their stuff. I saw him; he was looking up. He waved. I was sure that someone must have been standing on the balcony directly above me. Surely, he wasn’t waving at me.
The next morning our crew was walking through the lobby on the way to the beach. The man behind the desk called me over to him. He asked if I was on the 10th floor. He asked if I had been trapped in the parking lot during the fire the night before. He asked if I had been wearing a blue skirt and an orange shirt. When I answered yes to these questions, he explained that a fireman had asked about me, but the desk clerk had no way of finding my name or room number.
I am infamous for my approach to men, but the one time that I should have been audacious, I chickened out. Ahhh….just another day in the life.
A City Girl In Slapout
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
I was born and raised in a rural area, but I have never been one of those girls who likes spiders, roaches, and other various rodents. I can tolerate a spider, as long as it keeps a respectable distance. I cannot, however, tolerate a roach. When I stumble across a roach, someone in the house must produce a dead one in order for my heartrate to decrease and my blood pressure to return to within normal limits. This drama does not even begin to describe my behavior at the sight of a mouse. My panic stricken antics are best compared to those of in-patients at the state mental hospital.
This being said, I have been very blessed. I have lived in the city since going away to college, and – believe it or not – have rarely ever laid eyes on any of these god-awful little critters.
Then,I moved to Slapout. Since I live right in the middle of what used to be a big ole’ cotton field, and just yards away from the lake, I pay that darlin' Mr. Fuller a king’s ransom to keep my home critter free. He comes every month, and climbs into the attic to check for evidence. He has not found any yet (or at least that is what he tells me). I know he's lying to me, but that's why I love him so....
It was Sunday afternoon, the day God appointed for rest and relaxation. I had eaten lunch with my parents and gone over to my brother’s house down the road to play the Wii with his kids. I came home late in the afternoon, grabbed the keys out of the ignition, my cell phone from the passenger seat, and walked around the front of my car as I always do. I stopped dead in my tracks. I was looking eye ball to eye ball with a field rat the size of ancient dinosaurs from millions of years ago! He was sitting in my door stoop!
There was no moment of pondering over the situation…I acted immediately. I stood stone-still and called my brother on my cell phone! A reasonable solution to my problem, don’t you think? He could just come right over and kill the thing for me. Problem solved. Dan didn’t agree, and could not have been less concerned about my dilemma! He suggested a broom. However, this beast was standing between me and the door to my house. How was I suppose to get to a broom? If I had gone into the house using the patio door, it would have required me to take eyes off of the beast, and that wasn’t happenin…know what I am sayin?
I turned off the phone, frustrated by the lack of assistance offered by brother, Dan. I continued my stare-down and began to talk to the mighty beast. Thinking back, I am not really sure what I intended to accomplish with this vocal prelude, but it seemed like a pretty good idea at the time. I gathered all the courage I could muster and took one step toward the black beast. He took off running down the side of the carport, around the corner to the patio, and stopped in the door stoop of the patio door. Shew!!
I raced to the carport door, unlocked the door with fumbling, shaking fingers, ran to the laundry and got a broom because that is what Dan told me to do. Next, I ran to the window to make sure that the beast was still sitting at the patio door. There, with only a 6 X 6 glass window separating us, I saw him tucking his big nose under the patio door. He was looking for a way into my house! aww...no...that black disease-infested critter is not gettin' one nose hair inside my house...aint gonna happen.
I looked at the broom… a lot of good that thing was gonna do me. I wasn’t about to get close enough to the beast to hit it with a broom, and besides, I was shaking so badly that my aim would be off!
The moment of truth had come. I had about ten seconds to think of Plan B. I raced to the door underneath the kitchen sink. What could I find? Dawn detergent was out….Clorox wipes would help me either. Wasp and hornet spray?? Perhaps. It did have a fogger nozzle on it so that I could hit from 15 feet away. That idea sounded appealing. The bottle was almost full. I decided that I would just keep spraying him until he was poisoned, or the bottle was empty, whichever came first. I did have the broom for back up. I ran back to the window to check on him one more time. Still there.
I took a deep breath because the battle horn was sounding! I walked outside across the carport and onto the deck. I was out in the open; the little bastard couldn’t get to me if he wanted to. My blood-curling screams should have brought neighbors running to my backyard from every single direction. I will have you know that no one…not one single soul…came to see what all the screaming was about. I sprayed that sorry joker with the hornet spray, doused him good. He ran back and forth trying to outrun it, but I was in complete control. Every once in a while, he would stop running, sit up on his hind legs and lick his front legs. I was thinking: “Go on ahead, you dirty little critter. Lick yourself, graveyard dead.”
As long as he was sitting still, I was calm and quiet. When he started acting crazy and running around, I sprayed him with my wasp/hornet fogger, while simultaneously screaming like a victim in a horror movie. These ear-piercing screams often lasted close to a minute, and came again and again as I fought the beast.
As any soldier in battle, I lost all track of time. I knew that only a small portion of my hornet spray remained. The beast was losing the battle. He now appeared to be paralyzed on his right side and suffered what looked like little mini-seizures. Despite his massive size, I convinced myself that he was past the point of no return. I allowed him to wobble across the carport and out into the empty field behind the house.
As he staggered across the yard, I spoke to him like a formidable opponent: “Go back to where you came from and let all of your friends lick the rest of that poison off of you." "Then, tell ‘em all to stay away from here.This is MY house.”
I turned back around to the patio. I make no analogies; my patio looked like a battlefield,for real. Every piece of patio furniture had been overturned. My ash tray was dumped over and all of its contents spilled everywhere. Streams of hornet spray covered walls, windows and doors. The fumes would have affected anyone without the massive amount of adrenaline that I was experiencing at the time. I picked up the phone and called my brother. “The beast is dead.”
I learned that more than 40 minutes had passed since I first called to solicit his help. It mattered not how much time I had spent, only that I could go to bed that night and know that the beast had no intentions of returning to my door stoop. I cleaned up the mess, picked up my furniture, washed the walls and windows, and returned to the safety of my home, feeling much like David must have felt the day he killed Goliath with a slingshot. Who says a city girl can’t make in Slapout.
I was born and raised in a rural area, but I have never been one of those girls who likes spiders, roaches, and other various rodents. I can tolerate a spider, as long as it keeps a respectable distance. I cannot, however, tolerate a roach. When I stumble across a roach, someone in the house must produce a dead one in order for my heartrate to decrease and my blood pressure to return to within normal limits. This drama does not even begin to describe my behavior at the sight of a mouse. My panic stricken antics are best compared to those of in-patients at the state mental hospital.
This being said, I have been very blessed. I have lived in the city since going away to college, and – believe it or not – have rarely ever laid eyes on any of these god-awful little critters.
Then,I moved to Slapout. Since I live right in the middle of what used to be a big ole’ cotton field, and just yards away from the lake, I pay that darlin' Mr. Fuller a king’s ransom to keep my home critter free. He comes every month, and climbs into the attic to check for evidence. He has not found any yet (or at least that is what he tells me). I know he's lying to me, but that's why I love him so....
It was Sunday afternoon, the day God appointed for rest and relaxation. I had eaten lunch with my parents and gone over to my brother’s house down the road to play the Wii with his kids. I came home late in the afternoon, grabbed the keys out of the ignition, my cell phone from the passenger seat, and walked around the front of my car as I always do. I stopped dead in my tracks. I was looking eye ball to eye ball with a field rat the size of ancient dinosaurs from millions of years ago! He was sitting in my door stoop!
There was no moment of pondering over the situation…I acted immediately. I stood stone-still and called my brother on my cell phone! A reasonable solution to my problem, don’t you think? He could just come right over and kill the thing for me. Problem solved. Dan didn’t agree, and could not have been less concerned about my dilemma! He suggested a broom. However, this beast was standing between me and the door to my house. How was I suppose to get to a broom? If I had gone into the house using the patio door, it would have required me to take eyes off of the beast, and that wasn’t happenin…know what I am sayin?
I turned off the phone, frustrated by the lack of assistance offered by brother, Dan. I continued my stare-down and began to talk to the mighty beast. Thinking back, I am not really sure what I intended to accomplish with this vocal prelude, but it seemed like a pretty good idea at the time. I gathered all the courage I could muster and took one step toward the black beast. He took off running down the side of the carport, around the corner to the patio, and stopped in the door stoop of the patio door. Shew!!
I raced to the carport door, unlocked the door with fumbling, shaking fingers, ran to the laundry and got a broom because that is what Dan told me to do. Next, I ran to the window to make sure that the beast was still sitting at the patio door. There, with only a 6 X 6 glass window separating us, I saw him tucking his big nose under the patio door. He was looking for a way into my house! aww...no...that black disease-infested critter is not gettin' one nose hair inside my house...aint gonna happen.
I looked at the broom… a lot of good that thing was gonna do me. I wasn’t about to get close enough to the beast to hit it with a broom, and besides, I was shaking so badly that my aim would be off!
The moment of truth had come. I had about ten seconds to think of Plan B. I raced to the door underneath the kitchen sink. What could I find? Dawn detergent was out….Clorox wipes would help me either. Wasp and hornet spray?? Perhaps. It did have a fogger nozzle on it so that I could hit from 15 feet away. That idea sounded appealing. The bottle was almost full. I decided that I would just keep spraying him until he was poisoned, or the bottle was empty, whichever came first. I did have the broom for back up. I ran back to the window to check on him one more time. Still there.
I took a deep breath because the battle horn was sounding! I walked outside across the carport and onto the deck. I was out in the open; the little bastard couldn’t get to me if he wanted to. My blood-curling screams should have brought neighbors running to my backyard from every single direction. I will have you know that no one…not one single soul…came to see what all the screaming was about. I sprayed that sorry joker with the hornet spray, doused him good. He ran back and forth trying to outrun it, but I was in complete control. Every once in a while, he would stop running, sit up on his hind legs and lick his front legs. I was thinking: “Go on ahead, you dirty little critter. Lick yourself, graveyard dead.”
As long as he was sitting still, I was calm and quiet. When he started acting crazy and running around, I sprayed him with my wasp/hornet fogger, while simultaneously screaming like a victim in a horror movie. These ear-piercing screams often lasted close to a minute, and came again and again as I fought the beast.
As any soldier in battle, I lost all track of time. I knew that only a small portion of my hornet spray remained. The beast was losing the battle. He now appeared to be paralyzed on his right side and suffered what looked like little mini-seizures. Despite his massive size, I convinced myself that he was past the point of no return. I allowed him to wobble across the carport and out into the empty field behind the house.
As he staggered across the yard, I spoke to him like a formidable opponent: “Go back to where you came from and let all of your friends lick the rest of that poison off of you." "Then, tell ‘em all to stay away from here.This is MY house.”
I turned back around to the patio. I make no analogies; my patio looked like a battlefield,for real. Every piece of patio furniture had been overturned. My ash tray was dumped over and all of its contents spilled everywhere. Streams of hornet spray covered walls, windows and doors. The fumes would have affected anyone without the massive amount of adrenaline that I was experiencing at the time. I picked up the phone and called my brother. “The beast is dead.”
I learned that more than 40 minutes had passed since I first called to solicit his help. It mattered not how much time I had spent, only that I could go to bed that night and know that the beast had no intentions of returning to my door stoop. I cleaned up the mess, picked up my furniture, washed the walls and windows, and returned to the safety of my home, feeling much like David must have felt the day he killed Goliath with a slingshot. Who says a city girl can’t make in Slapout.
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