Faith and Fried Shrimp

                When I was in 4^th grade, I flirted with the idea of converting to Catholicism.  The main reasons weren’t theological, it was that the Catholics at my school were special and rich.  They were special in that they got to leave class early on Wednesdays to attend a different class called catechism.  They were rich because they got to eat fried shrimp for lunch on Fridays, delivered from The Wagon Wheel, which was close by Delta Christian Academy, the name of the private school in Tallulah, LA.

                DCA (elementary) and Tallulah Academy (junior high and high school) were not affiliated with any denomination which was how Baptists and Catholics and others went to school together.  It appeared if you liked Jesus and could afford tuition, you were good to go.  Now, I don’t remember there being any particularly Jesusy about the curriculum or activities, but the name was descriptive as we were in the Delta, almost on the banks of the Mississippi River.

                Christmas vacation 1979, we moved from Moore, OK to Tallulah, a relatively populous town, about 8 miles from Alsatia, where my mother grew up and her parents, her sisters and their families still lived.  We took renter ship of a large two-story antebellum home behind the Post Office and enrolled in the public elementary school as we were not accustomed to attending private schools, the fact that we had just been students at Moore Christian Academy notwithstanding. 

That reality was unusual as we had always attended public schools.  The faculty at MCA didn’t really know what to do with us.  They were fascinated by our southern accents; on numerous occasions, pulling us out of class into the hallway to ask us to “say something”.  I was only in the 3^rd grade but I thought it was odd behavior.  After our performance at the talent show, I am sure they found us more than odd.  My cousin Kendra and I were fairly mundane in our rendition of “There’s a Hole in My Bucket, Dear Liza”, complete with costumes.  However, my sister recited a poem called “Little Orphan Annie” with an alligator puppet. 

If you’re unfamiliar with this poem, let me assure you it is not about the singing orphan from Broadway.  It was written by James Whitcomb Riley and has lines such as “…and the goblins will getcha if you don’t watch out.”  I wonder if they thought it was a message from Louisiana as most people from elsewhere imagine the entire state to be like New Orleans, all spicy food and voodoo. 

From a weather perspective, northern Louisiana is a bit less humid than New Orleans, but not enough to keep you from feeling like you can grab a handful of air.  From a gustatory perspective, there is a vast difference.  Although delicious and able to induce heart attacks from the abundance of fried things, there isn’t much spice.

Back to education in Tallulah, I had already been disappointed by the level of work in my grade.  I was up to the 13s in multiplication, while my classmates were barely past 5s.  My mother noticed that my sister (5^th grade) has the same spelling textbook as my cousin (2^nd grade at DCA) and it was determined that we would join the local elite at the private school for the following year.

Whenever my classmates left to go to catechism classes, I often wondered what it was.  I wasn’t familiar with the word and it sounded very close to cataclysm, which we had recently heard at church in relation to the impending return of Jesus and Armageddon.  As there was no internet to surf and I wasn’t ready to get into a religious discussion with an adult due to questioning, I assumed they were learning things to help them survive the Rapture.  I had recently been frightened enough to run down to the altar call at church after we watched “Like a Thief in the Night” at Parkview Baptist and give my life to Jesus so I wouldn’t be left behind like that girl who ate chips in the living room instead of listening to the preacher.  She got left behind and had to jump off a bridge and drown so she wouldn’t have to have the mark of the beast on her forehead.  It was terrifying y’all. 

There are those who watch the movie now and laugh at the imagery, like the guy mowing his lawn in cut-off denim shorts and striped knee socks.  But when you saw someone similarly dressed cutting the lawn on your way to the church, it tends to leave an impression.  Maybe these catechism classes were teaching them how to survive in the End Times. 

That was important as I was terrified of the Rapture happening before I got a chance to grow up and have an awesome life as an Architect and possibly have enough money to eat fried shrimp on Fridays. 

People from Nowhere Never Click on Internet Ads...Apparently

Hey, y'all.  I was reviewing the statistics from my blog, trying to figure out how to convince more people to read the darn thing so I can get a book deal and make a little money. There are always more pants to buy and more cinnamon rolls. So far, I've not met their lofty ad click threshold of $10, so they can cut me my first ad revenue check. The 59 of you who have registered to follow this blog, I adore all of you. To quote Miss Tina Turner, you are simply the best. The rest of you lot are on my naughty list and I can assure you I know both Jesus and Santa Claus, so whomever you're most afraid of, I'm telling them all about your unwillingness to make me rich. On an other note, I was looking at the traffic sources for my blog and I noticed a very interesting list of the home countries of fans of my blog.  Here is the Top 10.

1. US

2. Ukraine

3. Russia

4. UK

5. Philippines

6. Indonesia

7. Unknown Region

8. Switzerland

9. Germany

10. Japan

What exactly is going on here?  Other than being spied on by Ukraine and Russia (I assume), where is Unknown Region?  How does The Internets not know where somewhere is? The Internets knows where I park, where I go every other Thursday after work and what exactly I've been wanting to purchase but just haven't. It's creepy but also convenient for The Internets to know everything. So if it doesn't know, what am I to think? Is Unknown Region a proper noun? Is it a place? Is it outer space?  Is it a rift in the space/time continuum? Is this a Doctor Who episode and if so, which Doctor is it?  It had better be 10 or 11; 13, in a pinch.  12 would be okay if he wasn't always so irritable. He's like The Dad when he's tired of waiting for the Meals on Wheels people, except with a guitar.  If we were in the TARDIS together, one of us would have thrown the other one out the door somewhere during the first episode.  Also, why can't River Song be a Doctor?

But, returning to the less concerning locales, Switzerland is about as posh as they come. Well done me.  I wonder if I should go there for a book signing?  I've been to UK but am always looking for an excuse to go back. I've also heard Berlin is amazing, so maybe I'll plan a whole Western Europe trip to meet my people; all my loveable Pennies? Loafers? Almosters? What do you call yourselves? Do you call yourselves anything? If not, why not? We are headed to the Philippines for our honeymoon later this year. Maybe those fans in Indonesia can meet us there? I don't want to go to two hot places in one year. Plus, Indonesia doesn't have Bangus Embutido or Chicken Pastel. Manila does, so it's Manila for the win. I guess it doesn't matter where you are, I really appreciate your support. Please forward my blog posts to your friends. But not this one, it's not that funny. Send them a good one. And for those who are reading the blog from the Unknown Region, let me know where you are, if you can. Or at least send me a picture of your location's flag or an example of your clothing or your favorite food, as long as it's not spicy. Please and thank you.

Define 'Extra'

          This past week, I received a text message from my sister of a dump truck with it's bed in the 'up' position, like it was actively dumping it's load.  I was wondering what purpose there was to sharing this with me, when I noticed there were power lines running across the windshield and a utility truck sitting in the road to the immediate right.
          Apparently, the driver of this truck was unaware his bucket (?) was still up when he drove through the bustling metropolis of Vega, Texas, taking with him most of the power lines and the one red light.  Yes, they just have the one.  And it's not a real red light; it just flashes letting you know there is a Dairy Queen and a Subway nearby, I guess.  I'm not sure why they even have it other than Vega is a town on Route 66, which was a big deal back in the day but hasn't really been relevant since the 1980s, somewhat like Steely Dan, Care Bears or Larry King.
          Consequently, the power was knocked out to the entire town, and by that I mean, the 25 houses and two churches, of which one is inhabited by The Dad.  Of course, I'm not talking about the church because he hasn't been to one of those since I bribed him with pancakes back in 2012 when he lived with me.  It was Presbyterian.  They weren't having a potluck lunch.  He has not returned.
          When my sister got to her house, she found The Dad sitting on the front porch, sweating like a field hand (because it's Texas and it's 138 degrees in the shade until sometime nearer Halloween) but smiling.  Knowing he had missed his lunch because the restaurant that makes the meals for Meals on Wheels had lost power and hesitant to engage with a hungry Dad, she said, "Whatcha doin' on the porch?"
          The Dad said, "Oh, some poor fella knocked out the power so I came outside.  I can't read in the dark."
          Still thinking he hadn't eaten she asked, "What did you eat for lunch?"
          He said, "That's the best part.  I got two lunches!"
          She questioned, "What do you mean, two lunches?"
          Looking at her like she was 'slow', he said, "Just what I said.  The Sheriff came by with a lunch and then the Meals on Wheels lady came by with lunch.   So I got two lunches today."
          She said, "Did you ask why they brought you two lunches?"
          He stared at her and said, "Why would I do that?  If somebody hands you food, you take it.  I don't care why they brought it."
          She called her friend Jaylie and found out that when the power went out and the restaurant that makes the lunches for Meals on Wheels and the prisoners at the county jail couldn't cook, the Sheriff drove to the next town and bought BBQ for the prisoners.  Because he knew the Meals on Wheels wouldn't have any food, he also bought food for their customers and delivered it.  Of course, he knew who got Meals on Wheels and who didn't as there are about 24 people in Vega, y'all.  For real.
          Meanwhile, the restaurant found that it had enough provisions to make sandwiches, with fruit and chips and, not knowing that the Sheriff was delivering food, completed their normal delivery route.  It was brought to their attention, not by The Dad, that the Sheriff had already brought meals, so The Dad got an extra lunch.
          My sister, thinking that he still had some of the food, said, "Well, good.  Since you have the extra lunch, I can eat that for supper and I won't have to cook."
          The Dad said, "I don't have any extra food.  What are you talking about?"
          She said, "The extra lunch.  I'll eat it for supper."
          The Dad stared at her and said, "They brought me two lunches so I ate two lunches.  It's what you do when somebody delivers lunch.  You eat it at lunch."
          She stared and said, "But they gave you two."
          He said, "I know.  I ate both of 'em.  For lunch."
         She laughed and said, "Well, you must be full."
         He patted his belly and said, "Yep.  It was a good lunch."
         She sat down in the chair beside him and after a few minutes he turned to her and asked, "What's for supper?"

Sprint Made Me Fat

          Recently, I have been searching for a new cell phone carrier.  I currently have Sprint and they are the absolute worst.  I have used AT&T and they are pricey and the rest of them are just about the same I can tell you.  I haven't been happy with cell service since AT&T bought Cingular in 20whatever.  Cingular used to be great.  I had cell reception with Cingular in the bathroom of my sister's house in the Hill Country of Texas, when she had to drive down the road a half-mile just to talk on her cell phone.  Seriously.
          The reason I am on the search is that Sprint's service is laughably bad.  I live in Long Beach, CA, a city of 500,000 people, in Los Angeles County which is the 2nd most populous place in America, y'all.  I am not in the boonies.  I am straight up in the city limits.  Seal Beach, CA is a fancy little town about 27 inches from Long Beach, literally starting at the order of Orange County.
           Whenever I am in Seal Beach bargain shopping at the Home Goods or Marshall's or simply trying to buy groceries and sundries at Target or Ralph's, which is their version of Piggly Wiggly, I am unable to make diet-conscious decisions because the cell reception is nil and I cannot access my Weight Watcher app, which shows me what foods I should and should not be eating.  I take my phone and use the camera as a scanner on the bar code and it gives me the info to make good choices, like knowing that the Whole Wheat Ritz Crackers are the least number of WW points, which makes sense because they are the least delicious.
           However, when I am standing in the parking lot of a shopping center in the city limits of Orange County, I get no signal.  Based on my cell reception, you would think I was in a cavern, in a canyon, excavating for a mine with Clementine's Daddy; she of "Oh My Darlin'..." fame song.  Google it, youngsters.
          And I'm not talking about a weak signal, you know the one that messes with you, making you slowly move, twisting your body into weirder and more painful positions, while its showing one bar , then two bars, then one bar, then four bars, then one bar again, leaving you all twisted like a Cirque du Soleil dancer, who got stuck mid-performance.  I'm talking about no signal.  Where it literally shows on your phone, where the little bars should be, the statement "No Signal".
          How is that even possible?  I mean, Sprint is a nationwide company, with many customers.  Am I the only one with No Service in LA County?  I can sell you an overpriced phone and offer you no signal using the cooking utensils in my kitchen.  And I would do it for much less money.
          Plus, it's Sprint's fault that I'm fat, which is ironic because sprint is something that my old kick boxing coah used to try to make me do until I whooped him down during my last class.  And by whooped him down I mean, I lay on the floor, cried a little and then cancelled my gym membership.            And I need my WW app, y'all.  When I can't access my little 'getting skinny' app at the store, I end up buying things like Doritos and Oreos and Pumpkin Cream Cheese.  Are these things fattening?  Are they WW approved?  Who knows?  Well, my WW app knows, but I can't access it, so now I'm fat. All because of Sprint.
          So, I'm looking for advice on the best cell service to help me lose weight.  But only from the skinny people.  And by skinny, I mean, skinnier than me.
          Bless y'all.  Bless all y'all.    

Unfortunately They Charge Per Pound

          Ben and I are planning our honeymoon to the Philippines in November and we began the search for airline tickets.  Having no frame of reference for traveling in Southeast Asia, I had announced that I was flying Business Class at the minimum because I was not about to fly Coach for the 15-17 hours it takes to get from Los Angeles to Manila.  The exchange rate from pesos (Philippine currency) to dollars is 51:1, so at first I thought the prices were in pesos.  When I realized they were in dollars I was nonplussed, to say the least.  I won't tell you the price, but suffice it to say, that the cost of two round trip tickets would get you an acre of land in central Illinois or a 2010 Toyota Corolla, with high mileage.
         After drinking 64 oz. of Diet Snapple Peach Iced Tea, to get over my shock and dismay, I decided to check the price for Fed-Ex to mail us in the same, or if less expensive, separate boxes.  Unfortunately, they charge per pound, unlike those "If I Fits, It Ships" boxes from the Post Office.  Ben's box would have been very inexpensive as he is about as big as a minute.  On the other hand, the cost for my ample body (almost as many minutes as in that song from 'Rent') was on par with a Coach ticket and, although I do not relish the experience, I would rather be the one who decides how to abuse my body, as opposed to the unfulfilled, and therefore angry, shipping conglomerate employee.
         So, we are flying Coach with the tacky masses; meaning both poorly attired as well as sticky from Lord only knows what.  Therefore, I must invest in some sort of chemical combination to help me sleep the fourteen and a half hours it will take to fly non-stop from CA to Manila.  Anybody have suggestions for non-alcoholic, non-illegal, non-prescription methods to sleep while traveling?  Seems like my only options might be a combination of Melatonin, despair and/or airline snacks.  Can a Stroopwaffle act as a sedative?
         And like the Right Reverend Robert Tilton would say, Pray, send money or both.  Blessed be, y'all.

Like David and Goliath except with Quarters

               In the 1980s, there were times when I was poor.  To be fair, I was always poor, what with child labor laws in the America.  My parents were sometimes poor and sometimes well off, depending on the quirks of the oil business.  Regardless of our financial situation I was always taught to help people in a way that would minimize their embarrassment, should it come to that.

                I was in 7^th grade and as an active member of the Bogata Baptist Church Youth Group, I was all about Jesus-related Baptist activities, like eating and I loved, LOVed, LOVED to go on trips to eat somewhere besides the fellowship hall at the church or the Tip Top, which was the one restaurant in Bogata.  I rarely got to eat anywhere other than Waynette’s Kitchen, where you ate what the chef prepared because she was my Mom and wasn't having any backtalk, but the best food was that found in other cities, mostly because it required travel.  To my ‘have only lived in the boonies self” anywhere else was preferable to here, no matter where ‘here’ was located.  And curiosity was my primary motivator as my need to go everywhere overrode the fact that I was prone to carsickness when I wasn’t driving.  And at age 12, I wasn’t driving…on the highway.  Driving a hay truck in the fields was just something you did as long as you were old enough to reach the gas and clutch; whatever age that was.  For me, it had been 11; 9 for my extraordinarily tall cousin Jody.  

                This Sunday night trip was to a nearby larger town called Clarksville.  We were going to the Pizza Something (Inn, Hut, Shack, Lean-to, I don’t remember), and were to be chaperoned by our new Youth Minister and his wife.  I will not give their real names as they may still live in America and I don’t want to shame them with this true story, so let’s call them Stretch Armstrong and Ursula, based on the fact that he was, at the very least 6’ 12”, and she was as hateful as he was tall.  Imagine Ursula the Sea Witch except skinnier, with bangs and the ability to play the piano.  We felt certain her heart was black as the visible roots of her dyed kinda-sorta auburn hair, regardless of her husband’s calling to the ministry.  These folks were new to Bogata and I am unsure what his qualifications were but as far as we could tell, “enjoying spending time with teens” did not seem to be one of them.  We didn't really like them, but when you are a hungry, bored teenager, you will go eat pizza with anyone, up to and including John Wayne Gacy, I can assure you.

                I have a dim recollection of who it was, but someone was new to our church or visiting a relative but there was a stranger amongst us, and we effectively kidnapped them to come with us to eat pizza.  Southern Baptist teens filled to the brim with a potent combo of Southern Hospitality, The Love of Jesus, and leftover Sunday School Kool-Aid, will completely ignored any protestations of no money or other excuses.  We made sure we were entertaining angels all up and through Red River County, y’all.  Believe that. 

                We piled into the van with Stretch and Ursula and away we went.  It was a fun time.  We laughed and talked and ate pizza, without a care in the world.  It was the 80s in the middle of nowhere, about 26 miles from the buckle of the Bible Belt, what was there to worry about?  Once the pizza was gone and the bill arrived, we began the lengthy chore of divvying up who owed what.  It came to something like $3 per person.  It was at that time, our new Friend in Jesus, piped up to say that they did not have any money.  I mean, $3 is not much, but when you have $0, it might as well be $100.  Between us we came up with an extra $1, but having no frame of reference for how to pray extra money into existence, we did what teenagers do and went to the adults to fix the problem. 

                It was decided that I would approach Stretch, not Ursula, and explain that our friend had no money and we needed an additional $2 to cover the bill.  Expecting the Jesus (and Deacon) approved Christian Chaperone to smile and say, “No problem”, I was surprised and, frankly appalled, when Stretch looked irritated and said, “Fine, but you have to pay me back when we get to your house.”  I said, “Me?  It’s for Super Jesus Friend #1, not me.  I have my $3.”  He replied, icily, “Well you’re the one borrowing the money, so you have to pay it back.”  I was stunned into silence and went back to the group and said we had the money we needed.

                When we returned to the van and made our way home, I became more and more irritated.  I shared the story of what happened with The Twins (Carolyn and Sharon) who agreed that I had every right to be appalled and asked me what I planned to do about it.  I didn’t have a plan.  All I knew was I was 13 kinds of irritated.  Also, poor (see beginning of story).  I hoped I had enough change in my room at home.  It’s hard to take the high road when you’re broke, y’all.

                As my family lived the farthest in the boonies, we came to my house first on the way back to the church.  I got out and told Stretch to wait and I would retrieve the money from my parents.  That was a lie, but I needed him to stay so I could have the dramatic moment I was anticipating.  If he wanted to act inappropriately, I was ready and willing to match him pettiness for pettiness.  Keep in mind I am 12 and he is…well, I don’t know the age, but he was grown, y’all.   And tall.  That has to add at least 5 years to your age, right?  Let’s just say he was older than 12.  Old enough to be married.

               I went to my bedroom, not explaining what I was doing to my parents and retrieved the $2 in change from my piggy bank which was actually an inlaid wooden box with a horse and carriage motif that I had picked out at an estate sale when I was in 5^th grade in Oklahoma because that is how I have always rolled, people.  I was bougie before bougie was bougie, y’all. 

                My indignation increased with every step and my corduroy-clad thighs smoked as they rubbed together during my brisk walk of superiority.  I marched right back to the van and threw the tainted coins into Stretch’s lap, not caring if he was injured.  I sauntered back into my house and closed the door and immediately explained to my parents what happened.  My mother was appalled at both me and Stretch; luckily more at Stretch than me as I only had to suffer through one “Dustin Terryll, I didn’t raise you to act like that!”  The Dad thought it was funny. 

                To this day I am unsure of the repercussions, but what I do know is that I did not get in trouble at home or church and no one mentioned the event at any point, other than those who bore witness and even then only when no adults were around.   Just like David vs. Goliath, it was a win for the (metaphorical) little guy with Jesus on his side.

                Amen and Amen, y’all.

The Dad Said What?

          The Dad seems happy to be in The Boonies again.  He just had a minor outpatient procedure and I called my sister to find out how he was feeling.  When she said, "Well, he's been griping that the doctors don't know what they're doing" I knew he was feeling good.  When he feels bad he doesn't talk.  When he is telling somebody all about themselves, he is rarin' to go.
       
            I have been keeping notes, of late, of some of the things The Dad says when we have our weekend talk or when he calls me 72 times per day when he needs me to do something for him and he imagines I am paid to sit at work, waiting for him to call, because heaven help me if I don't answer on the first ring.  Here is a transcript of the last voicemail he left me.
         "Ah ha, yes!  This is the proud...pa...uh...pa...whatever...to the...uh...well, shit, I don't know what I was gonna say.  I was just gonna ask you a question.  Call me back.  Bye."
          When I did return his call, he told me, "That dog you bought me (for Father's Day, as an attempt to ease the loss of Lulu) is broken.  There's somethin' wrong with it."
          "What did it do?" I asked.
          "It won't go to the bathroom when I tell it to."  
          "Well maybe it didn't have to go."
          "It needs to sh!t when I tell it to."
          "Um...okay."

           Another call was about my sister.  He said, "Does your sister think I have lace on my panties?"  I said, "That's a lot of weird words strung together there, Pater."
           He said, 'Well she must think I do because she bought me some soap that smells like lavender."
           I was impressed he could discern 'lavender' as a scent.  I said, "Well you sure are fancy to know it was lavender."
         "It said 'lavender' on the wrapper, dumb butt."
         I said, "And here I thought you were getting fancy on me."

          This past weekend, he said, "You know I'm gonna die soon."
          I said, "Probably.  You are really old.  However, why are you thinking that today?"
          "Well, the doctor said if my stent didn't work, I might have to have open heart surgery."
          I said, "I thought the stent worked?  Aren't you already home from the hospital?"
          He said, "Yeah, but what if it doesn't work?"
          "But it did."
          "Yeah.  I guess so."
          I said, "Look, you've outlived anyone's expectations.  Seriously, you should have died long ago.  You've survived 8 heart attacks, what you call a mini-stroke, chronic diabetes and you've been overweight since the late 70s.  And, you smoked 4 packs a day for 60 years. Winston's.  Unfiltered.  Every day above ground is a gift, Old Man."
          He said, "Well, I guess you're right, JD.  I'm gonna hang up now.  My ear is startin' to sweat and I'm all outta talkin'.  Love you, Butt Wipe.  Bye."  

          I mean, what do you say to that?

So, I Married a Polyglot

               I married a polyglot.  My husband did not.   Ben is fluent in Tagalog (the national language of the Philippines), Cebuano (the dialect from his island) and English. He speaks passable, Arabic and Spanish.  I can speak English, enough American Sign Language to be considered a mildly communicative introvert and Spanish, but only to the extent that I can order food, ask for the bathroom and admire your statues, should you have any.

                I feel I need to learn Tagalog (pronounced Tuh-gah-log, not Tag-a-log Like I thought), if for no other reason than I want to understand my husband’s heritage.  Also, I want to be able to at least carry on a conversation with his family in their native tongue.  To do otherwise is arrogant and I am not trying to be that American, y’all.  

                Ben has been a patient teacher trying to help my Southern mouth wrap around the syllables and pronunciations of this unfamiliar language.  There are nasal tones and a lot of use of the back portion of the tongue on the roof of the mouth, which is difficult.  I’ve been practicing but there are times it feels like I’m making fun of Asian people because the words sound incorrect to my English ears.  At the same time, I am introducing Ben to some of the more relaxed vernacular of America, especially the South.

                There have been times where we’ve discussed the limitations of languages and how difficult it must be to a non-native speaker to learn English as there are so many quirky rules.  He feels Tagalog is a complete language, but I disagree.  There have been a number of times where Tagalog has been found lacking in its ability to translate all the phrases that pop out of my mouth on a frequent basis.  I have decided to share with you the Top Ten Phrases That Cannot be Translated in Tagalog.

1.       “That heifer needs to get somebody to fix this closet door!” Referring to our landlord.

2.       “All right, sister friend, you need to learn how to merge or get out of my way!” Referring to the ridiculous woman in front of us on The 405.  This was said with the window rolled up because I am not about to get shot, y’all.

3.       “That big donkey is 17 kinds of stupid!” Referring to so many people.

4.       “Do what now?”   The way I sometimes ask for clarification.

5.       “Your Mama didn’t raise you right!”  Referring, again, to so many people.

6.       “They are workin’ my last nerve, for real!”  See above.

7.       “My cousin is straight runnin’ crazy!”  You know who you are.

8.       “I’m-a pray for you, heathen!”  Often said with (self) righteous condemnation, like a good Evangelical.

9.       “Today put a whoopin’ on me like I stole money from it!”  Said at the end of a particularly rough day.

10.   “My bad, girl!”  Said more often than I care to admit, referring to both men and women.

You see, there are limits to Tagalog.  To be fair there are limits to English as well, since Redneck is not a recognized language, even though I speak it fluently.  We’ll keep working at it until we get it right.

Lyon lang ang sinasabi ko ngayon, y’all.  For real.

Notes on Marriage: Year One

              I have been married for a little over a year.  As I’ve reflected on Year One, I must say that I’ve learned so many of the oft hidden nuances of love and marriage with my best friend who likes to smooch.  One of those nuances is the feeling you get when you’ve demonstrated your love for your spouse, and they have no idea that you did, so they don’t quite understand your look of quiet satisfaction in the knowledge that you are a ‘giver’ and possibly ‘love them more’ than they love you.  It’s a selfless kind of smug superiority.  Allow me to explain. 

                Saturday morning my delightful husband woke up early and walked to our favorite local bakery and bought me a ham and cheese croissant, literally the same size as my face, which we all know is substantial.  It’s one of my favorite breakfasts.  I cut the croissant in half, deciding to save the rest for him to enjoy post-swim, as he immediately left for the gym to get his daily exercise.

                I was content with my portion and savoring each bite and drinking the Army-strong coffee, made perfectly sweet with enough cream and fake sugar to make my liver gently weep.  After a half-hour, I glanced at the remaining croissant and it beckoned.  No, I thought, I’m saving that for Ben.  He will enjoy it and be touched by my generosity and I will be the best husband in all the land.  But like James Bond taught us, Never Say Never.

                I held fast for about 15 minutes.  I swear to you, the croissant made an overt gesture, willing me to finish it.  I struggled to stay seated and attempted to look away, grabbing my Smithsonian magazine in a desperate attempt to find the cover article “Man on the Moon” more interesting than noshing on the remaining French delicacy.  I held myself in check for about 30 seconds and then, without a shred of self-control or shame, I enjoyed the other half of the croissant, assuaging my guilt by reminding myself that Ben is focused on his physique much more than I and probably wouldn’t want to eat the croissant anyway.  It worked.  Guilt was gone, y’all, and the croissant was devoured.

                When Ben came home, after more than an hour of swimming, looking all fit and trim, he was completely unaware that I had planned on saving him some of the croissant but hadn’t.  He asked for, and I made him, oatmeal with blueberries, which he consumed happily and heartily.  I sat across from him, self-satisfied and smiling, basking in the knowledge that I had literally (almost) sacrificed for him. I’m a good person, y’all.  Truly.

Baptists and their Beverages

                I spent my childhood smack dab in the middle of the Fundagelical paradise known as The Deep South (LA, MS, TX), specifically within the confines of the Southern Baptist Church.  Southern Baptists set themselves apart from other Fundagelicals in many ways, but the most interesting and least understood is their view on beverages, especially those consumed on the grounds of the church.

                Baptists don’t drink alcohol at home, so why would they defile the sanctity of the church by drinking actual wine during the Lord’s Supper, which is what we call Communion.  It’s the main reason Baptists think Catholics are headed straight to hell.  That and their worship of Mary, Jesus’ Mama.  The Baptist interpretation of verses found in the Bible when referring to wine, is that it is often called new wine, which to them means unfermented grapes which is grape juice.  Ah, grape juice.  The nectar of the god, or rather, God.  I know, what you’re going to say.  What about the wine at that wedding in Cana?  To that they will say, it was also grape juice.  If you press any further, they will call a prayer circle about the condition of your soul. 

                Baptists think Mormons are in a cult and that is unacceptable.  However, Baptists do insist on the children “drinking the Kool-Aid”.  The way it is not cult-like is the fact that the Kool-Aid is served in Children’s Church or Vacation Bible School or other moments when children should be seen and not heard.  Of course, the recipe does nothing to encourage enjoyment or fun as the recipe seems to be nine parts water, one part Kool-Aid mix, one part prayer and one more part water, just in case.  Red Kool-Aid, which is a flavor by the way, was something precious, akin to Frankincense and/or Myrrh.  How else would you explain the all-encompassing need to water it down to a shade of red that more closely resembles the color of your white underwear after it’s been washed and dried with a new red t-shirt because you can’t be bothered to listen to your mother when she gives you specific laundry instructions, Dustin Terryll. 

                The most important water, Baptistry Water, plays a very important part in baptism, the full immersion kind.  The best way to describe the baptistry in a Baptist church is to imagine there is a hot tub behind a curtain directly behind the choir loft which is directly behind the altar where the preacher preaches and the unclean become ‘washed in the blood’.  Right above the hot tub may be a simple cross.  There will not be a carving of Jesus hanging on that cross, because that reeks of Catholicism and we are having none of that all up and through here, do you hear me?   Back to the water: the best way to ensure you are well and truly saved is a full immersion baptism, like John did for Jesus in the Bible, y’all.  Real Christians don’t get sprinkled with water like those uppity Presbyterians.  You must be held under the water for a minute or two, so you can let your old spirit die there in the watery depths like the victims of a shark or jellyfish (if you’re allergic).  Only then can you say that you are saved.  Sprinkles are for cupcakes, heathen. 

                According to Dolly Parton, sweet tea is the house wine of the South.  While we don’t necessarily like that language, sweet tea is everywhere, especially during the dinners-on-the-grounds that happen every month where there are five Sundays as well as Easter and Mother’s Day.  It was all a part of the tradition that allowed you to discuss the various sins of the other Baptists, who happened to sit at a different table than you.  If you fell into a discussion of the strength (or lack) of their walk or their level of maturity as a Christian and what, specifically, they need to do to atone themselves in your…I mean, Jesus’s eyes, it wasn’t gossip; it was fellowship. 

                Finally, there is a particular beverage, served at Baptist weddings, that only exists in space and time next to a cake, several bowls of Jordan Almonds and nowhere near anything resembling food.  Baptist Wedding Punch is delicious and helps you identify the female members of the wedding party.  Any young lady who is wearing a dress the same color as the punch is a bridesmaid.  The recipe consists of your choice of the three flavors of sherbet available at the Piggly Wiggly (orange, lime or raspberry) mixed with Sprite or any off-brand lemon-lime soda.  Ginger Ale comes from Canada and we are not having any of that Yankee nonsense.    

Obviously, this limits your color schemes to variations on pastels.  If you are looking for colors outside that narrow list, your heart is not right with God.  Yellow means you are a hippy and worthy of scorn.  Brown means you are tacky and is proof you weren’t ‘raised right’.  Black means you are trying to be fancy like an Episcopalian and they worship Queen Elizabeth II or some other gobbledygook and you need to sit down and listen while grown folks tell you all about yourself.  If you are planning red dresses for your bridesmaids, you are a harlot.  And not like that heroine/wayward soul Rahab, who helped the Israelites capture Jericho.  You’re like Jezebel right before she was torn asunder by dogs, much like your marriage will be torn asunder by Satan himself. 

Now that you understand a little more about the Baptist section of the Fundagelical Buffet, you can loosen up that Bible Belt, grab your choice of the aforementioned beverages and get to fellowshipping with your brethren and sistren about all the poor souls who are not as sanctified or enlightened.  But don’t enjoy yourself too much.  Church is about anguish and laying (figuratively) prostrate on the altar, waiting to receive atonement.  If you want to have fun, go be a Methodist.  They may smile and clap without repercussion, but we all know where they’re spending eternity.  That’s right, smack dab in the Lake of Fire, y’all.  And no beverage, Baptist or otherwise, will quench your eternal thirst.  Nothing but the (figurative) blood, brought to you by Welch’s. 

Can I get an Amen?

The Dad Makes a New Friend...Sorta

              When Shontyl arrived at school the Monday after The Dad’s arrival, she told everyone, including the excitable Amy, that he was firmly ensconced in her guest bedroom, his enormous recliner wedged beside the bed he will most assuredly not use.  Amy clapped her hands like a back-up singer in a Pentecostal gospel band and said, “I can’t wait to take him out to eat!”

               

                A few days later, Amy told Shontyl that she had stopped by her house when she saw The Dad’s truck in the driveway.  “I thought it would be a great time to stop by and say ‘Hey’ to Odis.  I feel like I know him, from reading the book.”

                The conversation as reported by Amy:

               

                When she arrived, The Dad was sitting on the front porch.  The Dad looked at her, saying nothing.  “Hi!” she said, “I’m Amy.  I work with Shontyl at the Boy’s Ranch.  I wanted to come by and introduce myself.”

                The Dad said, “Who the hell are you?”

                Amy laughed and said, “Oh, you’re so funny.  I loved the book about you.”

                The Dad continued to sit quietly, staring.

                Amy said, “I’d love to take you out to eat sometime so we can talk.  I’ll bet you have lots of stories!”

                The Dad said, “I don’t know you.  I’m not goin’ nowhere with you.”

                Amy laughed and said, “You’re so funny, Odis!  I’ll see you soon.  We’ll plan a dinner at Rooster’s (a local restaurant)!”

                The Dad said, “What the hell?”

                Shontyl was perplexed.  The Dad had said nothing about this interaction.  When she got home that night, she asked him, “Did my friend Amy come by and talk to you?”

                The Dad said, “Is that her name?  Yeah, some woman came by the other day.  She called me Odis.  She was real nice.  She said she wanted to buy me dinner.  Is Rooster’s good?  When are we goin’?”

                He’s an enigma, y’all, wrapped in bacon, sittin’ on the front porch, dreaming of gravy.

I Think I Know What Kind of Kool-Aid I Drink

               The Dad has never been big fan of religion, other than the potluck lunches at whatever Baptist Church we attended.  Trust me when I tell you that every tiny town in the South has at least one, if not multiple options for Southern Baptists, be they Primitive, Friendship or First.  I don’t think he could tell you about any of the denominational peculiarities as he doesn’t follow dogma, much less pageantry; however, the one Baptisty thing he has always adhered to is not drinking alocohol.

                The Dad hasn’t touched a drop of any kind of drink since he and my mother started dating in 1963.  That substantial belly of his is not from beer, dear friends, it is from fried chicken, steak, taters, chocolate ice cream, pork rinds, and the occasional chicken gizzard.  What does this particular redneck drink, you may be thinking?   Well, the answer is (sugar free) Kool-Aid.  There is no other liquid in his diet.  When I told him he should be drinking more water, he asked me, “What do you think Kool-Aid is, JD?  It’s made outta water.  Didn’t they teach you that in college?”

                Suffice it to say, I told my sister she would need to have a ready supply on hand because, to his mind, having only one unopened container is the same as having no container and he will get all wound up until he has the requisite amount.  And when he gets his mind on something, he will not let it go.  He’s like a racoon with a shiny penny, y’all; like a televangelist with a dollar.

                 I spoke to my sister this past weekend and she shared that he had gotten “on her last nerve” on Saturday when she headed into town to run some errands.  Town is Amarillo, Texas, as the only place to buy things in Vega (where she lives) is Dollar General, a fancy boutique and two truck stops.  The Dad asked her to get more Kool-Aid as he only had one container left and he was afraid he would run out.  “Don’t forget,” he said when she left. 

                On the 30-minute drive to Amarillo, The Dad called her to tell her “don’t forget the Kool-Aid”.  She assured him she wouldn’t forget. Less than five minutes after she hung up, he called her again and asked, “Did you just call me?” When she said, “No, I just hung up with you,” he said, “Oh.  Ok.  Well, since you’re on the phone, don’t forget the Kool-Aid.  I like Hawaiian Punch or Grape.”  She replied, “Yes, I know.  It’s on my list.  I won’t forget.”  He hung up.  As a side note, who on earth likes grape Kool-Aid?  It the worst flavor; by far, the worst Jolly Rancher as well. 

                He called her two more times while she was running her errands.  After she had gone to The Wal-Mart and gotten all her items, including both Grape and Fruit Punch flavored Kool-Aid, she was headed home when he called again.  “Sissy,” he said, “Did you get the Kool-Aid?”  She had reached her limit and decided to mess with him, so she said, “Dammit, I forgot.”   He bellowed, “What?  How did you forget it?  You went to The Wal-Mart just to get my Hawaiian Punch Kool-Aid!”

                She said, “Oh, calm down, I got your Kool-Aid, but just so you know, It’s not Hawaiian Punch, it’s Fruit Punch.” 

                “I think I know what kind of Kool-Aid I drink.  It’s Hawaiian Punch.”

                “Hawaiian Punch is a different brand.  You drink Fruit Punch Kool-Aid.”

                Enunciating, like he does when he’s irritated, he said, “I.  Drink.  Hawaiian. Punch.  Kool.  Aid.”

                Always one to help people manage their expectations, she said, “I’m gonna give you a Hawaiian Punch, if you don’t stop bothering me.  I’ll be there in a minute.”

                He very wisely hung up.  He's all about survival, y’all.  True story.

Gladys Kravitz, Lemon Soap and Cast Iron Skillets

              Just as I suspected, The Dad, indeed, informed Shontyl (The Sister) that her cast-iron skillet, or black skillet as it is often referred to in the South, was too small for whatever beast he wanted to roast in the oven along with ‘taters and gravy’.  So off to the skillet store she went.   They have those in Texas, do they not?

                I told her to expect The Dad to be ‘all up in her business’ as he is nosier than a next-door neighbor from a 60s sitcom; like Gladys Kravitz, with more facial hair but about the same level of annoyance for things he finds to be strange, which could be something as mundane as hummus, which he truly in his heart believes is something I invented to be "fancy".

                When we talked later in the week, she told me The Dad had been peppering her with questions about her personal life, anticipated frequency of trips to The Dairy Queen and state of her wardrobe and hairstyle.  When The Dad lived with me, I discovered that the way he looks at the world is frozen in place from around 1989, when he got hurt offshore and was forced to retire.  It took him about a year to ‘remember’ that I was a real adult with a job, home and ability to function independently.  She said they had, that very morning, an odd conversation.

                The Dad, “Why is your hair so straight?”

                Shontyl, “I use a flat iron to straighten it.”

                The Dad, “I like it curlier.  When did you start straightening it?”

                Shontyl, “It’s been years.  You’ve seen it straight, at least every year at Christmas.”

                Incredulous, The Dad said, “Do you think I just fell off the turnip truck?  I remember you had curly hair not too long ago.”

                Shontyl said, “Oh, good lord, Daddy, the last time I curled my hair, I think, was at my wedding.  In 1989.”

                He just stared at her, feeling confident that she was wrong.  This came as no surprise to me, y’all.  I’ve met him before; I am familiar with his work.

                However, she surprised me when the conversation segued to telling me that he had used her fancy, locally-made lemon soap from the one little over-priced boutique in their town, “even though I bought him that giant bar of soap from The Dollar General.” 

                I said, “Well maybe he wanted to be fancy.  I don’t believe all my bougie-ness came from Mother.  I mean, there so much bougie-ness; it has to be from both parents, right?”

                “But he told me he didn’t like the smell of all that lemon-scented lotion you sent me.”  At first, I was as confused as she, but then I remembered how inscrutable he can be.  And he is the master of plausible deniability.  This was a tactic he used with my food that he swore he didn’t like or said was weird, so when it disappeared, he could swear it wasn’t him because “(I) don’t even like that stuff.” 

                I shared the concept with her and told her she needed to hide her fancy things somewhere The Dad couldn’t find or reach.  To be honest, that would be any location more than 6 inches from his outstretched arm, as he cannot bend over, reach up or walk very far.  As long as she doesn’t place the lotion in his hand and then walk away, she should be good to go.   My parting advice was, “Just in case, though, pretend that janky soap you bought him at the Dollar General is fancy.  He’ll be more than happy to use it.”

                She said, “Well, he can keep that lemon soap he already used.  I’m sure not gonna use it after him.  Lord only knows the stories that little bar could tell.”

                Indeed, dear sister.  So many stories, and none fit to ponder or share, y’all.

The Dad is on The Move, Y'all

                The Dad is on the move again, people.  I would have warned those in the states between Ohio and Texas, but he left without much notification, barreling through the Polar Vortex, daring Mother Nature to try and stop him while he made the 16 ½ hour journey only stopping for food and gas.  This time he’s headed to the Texas panhandle to live with my sister and I needed to give her the benefit of my experience with her new roommate.  There is a very particular process for the care and feeding of the Redneck Man.

                When tackling a project of this scope, there are categories of likes and dislikes that are surprisingly specific for a man who will literally take a bite of anything you place in his hand and has been known to wear the same pair of pants for seven days.

                SMELL- He can smell bacon cooking 26 miles away, but cannot smell himself at any point in the say, regardless of level of ripeness.  You need Febreze.  Lots of it.  When you think you've bought more than you should, buy more.  When it gets to the point that people are pointing and laughing at your buggy in The Wal-Mart, buy two more bottles, just in case.  Her GoFundMe website should be up later this week.  I am not kidding.  Fortunately, he has no problem with anyone spraying his chair and, truly, being sprayed himself, unless the scent is Green Apple or Watermelon. 

                FURNITURE – He comes complete with the largest recliner manufactured in America today, a La-Z-Boy.  It will smell, regardless of covering.  His Old Man Smell will penetrate leather, y’all.  He also comes with a power wheelchair, a very fancy reading lamp, a TV and a special chair for Lulu, his Boston Terrier, to sleep in.  I informed the sainted Shontyl that she needs to decide where the chair will be located as that room will then become his bedroom as he sleeps in his recliner and only in his recliner.  Just like his European forefathers, when he plants his chair (instead of a flag) that is where he shall reside, henceforth and forevermore.  

                KITCHEN IMPLEMENTS – He will require a coffee pot; he doesn’t care if it’s fancy or not.  It simply must be able to brew his Folger’s Country Roast every morning.  He will also require a cast iron skillet.  It must be larger than the one you already have.  Regardless of the size of your skillet, it will be too small.  One roughly the size and shape of Oklahoma should suffice.

                FOOD – Fortunately, he will eat anything you put in front of him unless it is spinach, salmon or hummus, which he pronounces as ‘hoo-muss’ and truly believes that is a foodstuff that I invented in my efforts to be fancy.  He will require an extensive amount of red meat or pork, which is plentiful in Texas.  He prefers his steak rare.  Really rare.  And I quote, "Just cut the horns off and knock the 'moo' out."

                TOWN – He prefers a place that is almost not a town.  Somewhere small enough to where people often say, "Is that a real place?"  The boonies is where he wants to be.  He truly loves it when there is an end to a town and then several miles of nothing before the next town starts.  He disliked the Bay Area of California because “town never stopped.”  He was over-joyed to hear that there is just the one main street in Vega, on which sits my sister’s house, a Dairy Queen, a library and a truck stop.  There is a Baptist Church across the street from the Dairy Queen.  Odds are he will not venture there unless they have a potluck on Easter Sunday and even then he'd prefer a to-go plate.

                DOCTOR – He requires a doctor for his myriad ailments and prescriptions.  Fortunately, there is a VA Medical Center in Amarillo, less than 30 minutes down the road.  I may need to give them a heads-up that he’s coming.  They need to prepare.  I informed my sister that she would need to go with him to his first appointment to meet his Primary Care Team and let them know he is an unashamed liar who will only occasionally follow his Dr’s orders because, and I quote, “what do they know?”

                FAMILY –He doesn’t want to see everybody every day, but he wants you close by.  He doesn’t want to go anywhere with you, but he wants to be invited.  He doesn’t want to babysit, but he wants to see the great granddaughters; he now has two.   He is happiest in the boonies with kids and dogs and the occasional cow. 

                It’s going to be interesting to see how this goes.  When he lived with me, it was like Frasier.  Living with my sister will be more like if Uncle Jesse from The Dukes of Hazzard moved in with...well, the closest I can come up with would be Katie Otto from American Housewife.  

              I promise to keep you informed after gathering the pertinent info from my Saturday calls with Shontyl and the Sunday calls with The Dad.

              Somebody should throw up a prayer, or two.  Seriously.