Is Pennywise a Fashionista?

                It’s October and my friends and neighbors of the heathen variety have begun decorating for their favorite pagan holiday.  I’m kidding, of course, but I always say an extra prayer or two for these particular sinners this time of the year.  Namaste, or whatever.

                Talk of Halloween always leads to talk of fear – what scares people, why, how can (you) scare someone without getting beat up, etc.  I have some very specific but not uncommon fears:  clowns, small dark spaces, white people in large groups, flip flops and jeans.  Wait, that last one is a pet peeve more than a fear, but it’s awful nonetheless.  Other pet peeves include forced small talk in social situations, people who laugh at their own jokes, wasted potential and vegan dishes with the single exception of the Vegan Chocolate Cake from Whole Foods.

                The reason I was thinking of scary things was I noticed the storm drains while walking to my favorite breakfast place in my neighborhood, Chuck’s Coffee Shop.  I am consistently hyper-aware of storm drains ever since I watched Stephen King’s It on VHS in college; it messed me up, y’all.  That was in 1992 and I still cannot walk past a storm drain at night without moving to the middle of the street.  Even in the day time I am loath to walk directly by them, ever alert to the possibility of a clown, balloon or both. 

                It occurred to me that you could scare many people by simply tying a red balloon to a storm drain, not to mention if you placed a clown mask just inside the drain itself.

                I have seen the commercials for the new, updated movie, It.  I have also seen numerous photos of the restyled Pennywise the Clown, sent from my thinking-they-are-funny-but-they-are-not friends.  Of course, he’s terrifying at first glance.  However, one thing caught my eye the last time I quickly scanned the photo before screaming and throwing it across the room.  When I am frightened, I do not freeze in fear.  My first instinct, when scared, is to hit/throw and then run, like if Mike Tyson and Usain Bolt had a child, except pale and out of shape.  Okay, maybe not like Mr. Tyson and Mr. Bolt.  How about if Lord Grantham (from Downton Abbey) and Beverly Leslie (from Will & Grace) had a son?

                What I noticed was Pennywise’s outfit.  It’s an odd mix of styles.  It’s King Louis XIV meets Moulin Rouge meets Gene Simmons (from Kiss) preparing to sit for a portrait by Vermeer.  I mean, who decided mid-calf ruffles and bows would inspire terror?  And wouldn’t a cotton or lace ruff (that fluffy cravat-gone-awry) inhibit you from properly unhinging your jaw like any self-respecting creature intent on killing and/or maiming?  Not to mention, who wears white in the sewer?  Even the proud lineage of wash-n-wear polyester has its stain-resistant limits.

                The ensemble looks very specific, almost as if it were custom-made.  Wouldn’t that be an interesting design consultation?  Did he and the designer argue whether or not three red puff balls down the front of the outfit was more menacing than four?  Was he attempting to use the high waist and peplum as some sort of treatise on the torturous rule of French Royalty or did he simply think something so fashion-forward would frighten the tacky masses?  Suffice it to say, whatever Mr. Pennywise wanted, he got.  You would be forced to say yes to that particular style of dress or have your soul eaten or whatever he does to people, I’ve purposefully forgotten.

                The original Pennywise dressed like Bozo the Clown.  It was frightening in its familiarity underscored with malevolence.  He looked like any other random creepy clown at a circus, birthday party, driving a panel van for kidnapping purposes.  This new couture Pennywise is entirely something else, and I wonder if It’s actually scary.  If your entrance into a room would cause Tim Gunn to question your level of taste, as opposed to, say, flee in fear, you may have miscalculated your 'look'.

                Is Pennywise from the past?  The future?  Are flounces making an unwelcome comeback much like acid washed denim?  I love a turtleneck but I am not prepared to embrace the ruff, lace or otherwise.  And no one can pull off a peplum, y’all.  Seriously, no one.  Maybe Portia DeRossi DeGeneres, but even then I'm unsure.

                I am assuming his ensemble was a risky choice designed to lull his victims into an initial lack of fear so he could kill them more easily.  I don’t know if Pennywise was overthinking it or if I am but it feels like someone was trying too hard and that’s more sad than scary.

Wonky Moles, Ninja Turtles and Shame

           The rate at which people I’ve just met are asking me to disrobe is alarming.  I made an appointment with a Dermatologist for the annual mole patrol.  I arrived at the appointed time and location and was ushered into a room and introduced to the Nurse Practitioner, Nurse Lady (not her real name), who summarily asked me to undress and then began pointing at my body and commenting on what she found less than desirable. This I did not need at 8:15 in the blessed morning. Keep in mind this was before I had me daily iced tea from Dunkily Donuts.

            If I’m being honest there are many wonky things about my body but this particular wonkiness could be related to cancer so I allowed the inspection to continue.  Did you know there are ABCs to mole/spot inspection?  There are and it’s cool in a medically nerdy sort of way.  A is for asymmetry – if your spots or moles form a complete circle without lots of meandering lines, you’re probably good to go.  B is for border – if there are visible borders, it’s a good thing.  C is for color – if the entire spot is one continuous color that’s good.  If it’s not, you’d better have a doctor check it out.  Ombre is only good on fabrics and hair, y’all.  You heard it here first.

            Unfortunately we must return to my partially nude body.  Unlike a turtle, I prefer to be on my back if required to be in the prone position.  Admittedly my ninja skills are subpar, but what I do have I would like to employ and you cannot do this when lying on your stomach.  There I lay, face down, clad only in boxer briefs being scrutinized by my new friend (trying to go through my shtick about where I'm from which is required each time I meet someone new and I open my mouth and a magnolia falls out).  But this scrutiny I can manage until I hear a brand new voice.  And I am introduced to Nursing Assistant Lady while my old and dear friend of 15 minutes, Nurse Lady, pulls down the waistband of my underwear to ask the new girl her opinion of a somewhat wonky dot on my top left butt cheek. 

            Since I cannot see or interact with either of these ladies due to my position, I attempt to insert myself in the conversation by stating, “Of course it’s wonky.  I don’t buy my freckles and moles at Brooks Brothers. If I did they’d be plaid or at least paisley.”  I hold for laughter and there is none.  I have never done stand-up but I feel fairly certain failing to elicit a giggle while mostly nude, face-down on an exam table in a dermatologist’s office about three blocks from the bad part of town would be considered bombing.

            The next thing I hear is one of the voices say, “What was that, Mr. Thompson?  We stepped out of the room.”  What?  Not only did they leave me unattended with a partially exposed butt check, they didn’t even close the door leaving my nakedness visible to all and sundry in the outer office?  And what did they see on my cheek to cause them to whisper in the hallway like one of the downstairs people on Downton Abbey?

At first I was nervous, then I was appalled, then I was sad for those who sneaked a peek as my derriere is not worthy of discussion or viewing.  Semi-public nudity is not the direction I have been trying to take in my life.  My family is not a naked family and I am not a naked person in any context other than a shower and only then because not exposing your skin to the water will get you less than desirable outcomes.  Also, when I showered in my underwear after a football game in 7^th grade, I was so mercilessly mocked by my teammates, it caused deep psychological harm, y’all. 

We must return to the nudity once again to bring this story home.  In my haste to right the many, many wrong(s) of this visit, I attempted to flip over onto my back to at least let the paper napkin of a gown cover me.  As I was doing so, Nurse Lady attempted to flip me back over onto my stomach as she needed to relieve me of three wonky moles to be sure they were not cancerous.  The misunderstanding of who exactly was in charge of my body movement resulted in a pulling of something in my hip region, causing admittedly limited pain, but pain nonetheless.  The unforeseen consequence is this injury is preventing me from attending the yoga/Pilates/rolling on the floor with fat people class this Saturday. 

What can I do?  Nurse Lady’s parting instructions were to avoid strenuous activities for at least two weeks.  Her exact words were, “If you don’t hear from me in two weeks, it means the tests came back benign.”  But I can read between the lines.  I do work in healthcare, y'all.

Would you give fake sugar to the Dowager Countess?

                Having just survived the holidays and trying to decide if MLK is enough of a reason to break out the haystacks once more, I realized that sugar is all around us and is an integral part of what makes a Southerner Southern as opposed to merely from the South.  Our tea is sweet, our belles are sweet (at least as far as you know) and our desserts are diabetes-inducingly sweet.  We even coat our criticisms with a sugary, ‘Bless their hearts’ when we meant what we said but needed the recipient to still feel as if the Junior League wasn’t suddenly out of reach.

                The reason I bring this up is I have been fake sugaring all sorts of things of late and today, I am loath to admit, I sugared my chili.  Now, before you get all judgmental, bear with me.  I merely added 3 individual Splenda packets to a pot of chili that contained 2.5 pounds of hamburger.  It’s not like I was trying to make a red meat soufflé; I was simply trying to recreate this amazing chili I had as an appetizer at dinner last night.  It was some of the best I’ve had (Willow Pizza in San Jose, check it out) and had a slight sweetness that was just divine.

                So I bought the ingredients for chili and was trying to figure out how to make it sweet.  I add grape jelly to my baked beans and they are loved by all and sundry.  But I thought that wouldn’t be quite the flavor profile I was seeking. 

                It is a known fact that Clara Herrington of Tylertown, MS makes the best tuna salad in all the land.  And I’m not kidding.  As someone who used to weigh 422 pounds, I know great food.  As someone who lost 220 of those pounds (yes, I’m bragging) you should trust my tastes.  Why, you ask?  Well, I’ll tell you.  I have great taste in clothes; as I write this I am wearing fuchsia chinos and a navy cardigan with navy suede wingtips and a matching belt, and my most recent fortune cookie fortune stated, “You are admired for your impeccable tastes”.  So there you go.

                Now, I have never been known for violent tendencies other than scathing remarks about tacky people, but I can assure you that if you were to stand betwixt me and Ms. Clara’s tuna salad, fisticuffs would ensue.  I am not proud of that reality; I am simply being honest.

                A couple of years ago, I was visiting Mississippi on a tiny book tour (buy my book A Gone Pecan online) and had an offering to stay at the Herrington Clan’s house on the Bogue Chitto River.  As I was taught to do, I politely declined at first (we are very British) but when they upped the ante to include, not only Ms. Clara’s tuna salad, but Ms. Clara herself, I would have been a fool not to accept.  I love me some Herringtons, do you hear me?

                Now, I realize that having just admitted to spending the night alone with Ms. Clara is tantamount to a scandal is the not-otherwise-occupied minds of Tylertownians, unless you think about it for, I don’t know, say, 4 or 5 seconds and you realize the players in the story are Ms. Clara and me.  I think Andy Griffith’s Aunt Bea was more scandalous than the sainted Ms. Clara.  Well, sainted if Baptists had saints, whose designations I assume would be somehow tied to popularity of casserole recipes or number of prayer circles started.

                I said all that to say this, her secret ingredient is sugar.  I apologize if that was meant to be a secret, but Sharon told me at the river one time so it’s her fault, Miss Clara.

                Now I know that sugar is bad for you.  We all know that it will one day take my Daddy’s feet.  Fear not, however, as I have been using fake sugar for quite some time. Sweet ‘n’ Low (the pink one) is the first I tried and used to be the only one.  It reminds me of old ladies and/or Tab.  I switched to Equal (the blue one) when Cher started advertising it in the 90s, I think.  My Daddy and I had been using that for our morning coffee until recently.  A friend, who is a nurse, told me some story about Equal having the same effect on your organs as formaldehyde or somesuch.  I don’t know if this is an urban myth but I switched to Splenda (the yellow one) as I was told by this same friend that at least Splenda was real sugar that had been altered to be bereft of, well, sugar.  I assume it was some chemical engineering process but I like to think it was magic like in Harry Potter.

                And speaking of Harry Potter, my Daddy and I have been enjoying Downton Abbey, which he calls Down Town Abbey, then wonders aloud (each week) why they’re in the country, not the city.  He can’t remember who is who so there’s a lot of questioning throughout the show, which requires the use of close captioning.  Not so much for him, but for me. 

I am adept at understanding English accents, idioms and slang, being an unabashed Anglophile.  He, on the other hand, being a citizen of Ala-Miss-La-Tex, doesn’t even understand me half of the time, much less someone British.  Watching with him is not unlike sitting beside a child with ADD and no Ritalin.  Who’s that?  Why’s she wearing that?  Boy, that one sure is ugly.  She’d make a haint take a thorn thicket!  Why’d they pick an ugly girl?  Why do you need a house that big?  Would you like a house that big?  I wouldn’t.  I like log cabins.  I want a Harley.  Why don’t you let me eat candy bars?  Did you bring me a Coke Zero from town?  You know I lost 2 more pounds.  Why’re you lookin’ at me like that? 

                We were watching TV this past weekend as I do only when he complains I don’t spend time with him as his activities consist of sleeping, eating and crocheting while watching TV.  I had found a Harry Potter movie and we were both enjoying it when he suddenly said, “Hey!  There’s that old lady from Downtown Abbey!”

                I responded that it was, in fact, the Dowager Countess and although she is a two-time Oscar winner (1969 Best Actress for the Prime of Miss Jean Brodie and 1978 Best Supporting Actress for California Suite in which she played an Oscar nominee on her way to the ceremony) she is best known to the Millenials, which apparently includes 71 year-old rednecks, as Professor McGonagall.

                This set him off on another tangent:  Boy she looks terrible, don’t she?  What year was that movie made?  Can you look it up on your little computer?  I wonder how old she is?  How old is Ziva from NCIS?  I know Abbie is older than she looks.  You know she’s from Loozeeana? You find out the year yet?  What’s takin’ you so long?  How old is Abbie?  Who’s that old man?  Can I grow my beard and tie a ribbon in it?  Why d’ya always make that face?  Is it time to eat yet?  I’m hungry.  I sure would like a chocolate shake this big.  Where you goin’?

                I just realized that it is almost 6 pm and time for Downton Abbey out here on the West Coast.  I will bid you adieu and head to the TV viewing room.  I must prepare myself to read my new favorite TV show because Daddy is wide awake and while over-medicating a crazy old man isn’t actually illegal, it borders on rude and being British, I’d rather someone think I were poor than rude.

                Happy New Year, y’all!

Are you called a butler if you don't get paid?

               My sister, niece and niece’s boyfriend were here for vacation last week.  My Daddy couldn’t fit it into his busy schedule to accompany us on our trip south, so we had to make it to LA and back bereft of the stimulating conversation that he would surely have provided.  He wasn’t far from our minds however, when on our trip back, we noticed the most wonderful sight in the world.  It was a walmart.com delivery truck.  The wording on the side said that they delivered groceries to your home.  Have more beautiful words ever been spoken?  If I could just go online and click all the things I (read my father) need from The Wal-Mart I would never have to have my passport stamped Little Guatemala again.  It’s not that I mind being around those for whom Spanish is their only language, it’s more the crowded street market feel of the whole experience that does not meet my expectations for a fun-filled Saturday morning.  If I were a betting man I would give you ridiculous odds that there are in fact live goats and chickens tethered in the regions of the store into which I fear to tread, notably the “Home and Garden” and “Sporting Goods” sections.  Several years ago I found, to my dismay that the H&G section was more garden than home, so I have not returned. 

                As the parent of exactly zero real children (lest we not forget the imaginary Kinley) I keep forgetting that a vacation with a teenaged girl is not so much a family outing as it is a trip with her highness and the three wait staff who cater to her every whim.  Now I personally have no memory of my parents ever asking me what I wanted to do, however this new generation (the dreaded Millenials) don’t wait for an opinion to be requested, they offer theirs up with greater frequency than a Kardashian plans a new reality show or a marriage.  Typically, growing up, we didn’t so much take a vacation than spend the summer at my Grandparent’s farm or after my grandfather’s death, my aunt and uncle’s ranch of sorts.  All I remember is spending every summer surrounded by the flora and fauna typically found in East Texas which included cows and poison ivy based on the disasters that befell me each sojourn.  I guess I should also include horses as I have spent more than 8 seconds on one.  I won’t regale you with specifics.  Suffice it to say that I haven’t willingly gotten back on the horse since.  Note I said willingly.  I have been on a horse since although it was not by choice.  Again, not sure if it’s this new generation or not but I don’t remember ever, not even once, being asked would you like to (insert horrifying proposition here).  Things as random as “camp out on an abandoned flatbed trailer and sleep directly on poison ivy because you hadn’t begun the studying cub scout guide for indigenous plant life” or “ride in the Grand Entry of a rodeo even though you have squat experience and if horses can sense fear, yours is aware of the terror-filled youth in ill-fitting denim sitting in a quasi-sidesaddle position as one foot got stuck in the wrong stirrup and the chubbiness of the legs and agility of the youth did not allow for proper or speedy correction”.  Granted they didn’t go into that much detail, I’m assuming, because no one in Texas would have imagined someone could do those things outside of a 1930s screwball comedy starring Myrna Loy or Rosalind Russell.  At least they had the excuse of being snooty society types from “the Manor” whereas I was not a society type unless you count 4-H as a society.  You’ll notice I declined to discuss the manor from whence I came.  You’ll notice the declination is still in effect.  I thank you for your cooperation.

                After we trailed behind Payton and her long-suffering boyfriend Chad, paying and offering trivia as we went (one of the costs of Uncle Dusty’s financial support is the required interest (feigned or otherwise) in whatever manner of infotainment tidbit decides to present itself to all gathered.  Sometimes Uncle Dusty himself is surprised by the (admittedly) fascinating anecdotes), we made our way ever northward from Anaheim to LA to Santa Monica and finally back to Menlo Park our home base where we returned to the reality that whenever left to his own devices, my father will attempt to batter and fry the entirety of the contents of my home.  There was a thick layer of country wafting through the air.  For the uninitiated, country is a euphemism for grease, smoke and flour; the least health conscious Yankee Candle scent ever.

                Such is the vacation for this year.  Now, I am familiar with the idea of a stay-cation where you’re just off work but stay near or at home.  But I’m not sure what to call what my family did.  Was it a poor-cation?  Country-cation?  Not to be confused with countrification which is what my Daddy is trying to do to me.  Whatever you called it we would travel to a relative’s home and like houseguests in Downton Abbey days, we’d stay at least a fortnight, if not a fortnight squared.  Sleeping 8 kids to a pallet in the living room floor.  Trying to stay quiet lest you be beaten into submission; stifling giggles that were persistent only because we weren’t supposed to giggle; never rooted in anything actually humorous. 

Payton has never known the joys of floor sleeping, her vacations always involve an upgraded suite at a Marriott as my guv’ment job affords travel point accumulation at a rate far above my income level, y’all.  Left to my own dollars spent, I would be platinum only at Motel 6 or at the very least Super 8, who probably base their levels of appreciation for patrons on something like lunch meats.  If that were true, I’d like to think I’d be black forest ham, hand sliced in the deli.  Truth be told I’m so cheap when it comes to spending on myself I’d probably be clearance priced hogshead cheese.

                We trailed behind Her Highness who, like other members of the royal family, does not carry cash.  Although she has more purses, bags both messenger and hobo and wristlets than a shoplifting ingénue, she never seems to carry anything on her person that would cause her to have access to necessities such as sunglasses, lip balm, snacks.  Her mother is there for that with her giant bag.  We’re like a double Butler system sponsored by Coach.  We’ve butled (?) throughout many ports of call, New Orleans, Colorado, LA, San Francisco, Hawaii, and New England.  She has stated the desire to go to Minneapolis and the Mall of America, but I feel that I, or at the very least, my wallet wouldn’t survive that particular destination, intrepid though I may seem.

                Trying to be the host with the most and attempting to cater to all whims, both ridiculous and carb-heavy, I juggled all house guests (including permanent ones) like the over-caffeinated clown we saw at Pier 39 on the Bay.  Remember that I hate clowns?  Well I really, really hated this one and not just because he thought that his seersucker pants were “ridiculous”.  It was almost enough to keep me from enjoying the bag of mini donuts that I had to myself for approximately 3.2 seconds before it was descended upon my Her Highness, who had become hungered as apparently posing for a caricature is hard work, y’all.  She shared my pilfered treats with Chad who was ravenous as I suppose mooning over a 6’ tall 25 year-old looking but 16 year-old acting young lady is also hard work.  Kids these days don’t know a thing about real work, said my inner old lady. 

                Of course, there are those in the Boomer generation who reside in my home who feel they should be rewarded for waking up and mass producing afghans at a rate that is the envy of the Japanese auto industry with a chocolate shake ‘this big’, moving his hands about three feet apart.  So, I guess it’s not a Millenial thing; it’s a thing for people who are used to being waited on hand and foot.  And that’s where this lovely Wal-Mart idea will come into play.  I can give my Daddy his heart’s desire, well, those desires that reside within The Mart which, truth be told, covers everything on his list except Harley Davidson motorcycles.  And I never have to leave the comfort of my home.  Now I just have to convince them yarn is a foodstuff.