Yearbooks, Queso and Middle-aged Teenagers

 

Almost a year ago I traveled to my hometown in East Texas to have lots of queso.  Well, I also went to visit lifelong friends, have a book signing and speak at my old high school, but my main focus was the queso, or in layman’s terms, cheese dip.  You see, queso is not a ‘thing’ in California; it’s not part of the authentic Mexican menus at the restaurants we have in Long Beach or Los Angeles or San Francisco or San Jose or Sacramento or Palm Springs or San Diego. 

Whenever I’ve requested queso, I usually get confused looks.  When I try to clarify that it’s cheese dip or melted cheese, I still get confused looks, although one time they brought me a fajita skillet filled with melted cheese that I had to cut like it was meat and eat it on a tortilla like a taco.  Don’t get me wrong, it was delicious, but I wanted something I could dip my tortilla chip into.  Y’all picking up what I’m throwing down? 

                When I landed at DFW, Terminal A, I made a beeline for Pappasito’s Cantina where they have delicious queso available as early as 9:30 am.  After my craving was sated I Uber-ed to the hotel where I had queso as my lunch (with a brisket taco or seven).  Later that night I had dinner with a friend, and we ate Korean BBQ tacos or some other bougie fusion delight.  After searching for BBQ chicharrons at Whole Foods, Ricky and I called it a night.

                The next morning Juli (½ of the infamous Wood Twins of Red River County) swooped into Dallas proper, flung me into her Buick and we made a beeline for the bustling metropolis of Bogata, TX, population 1,100 (which I find hard to believe, but didn’t feel was my place to say).  After gathering the other ½ (Denise), they asked what I wanted to eat and I asked for Tex Mex, specifically queso.  We drove toward Clarksville and stopped at a tiny, locally owned place and had two different types of queso, yellow and white.  I have returned to the land of my people, y’all.

                Later that night I believe Denise made homemade chicken and dumplings and cornbread and we ate that plus some sock-it-to-me cake and possibly a steak sandwich from Braum’s and maybe a caramel sundae (also from Braum’s) and enough sweet tea to give 36 grown men diabetes.  I don’t know if it’s just men, but when I am on vacation, I have the mindset that I am impervious to the excess weight and gas brought on by such activities. 

Unsurprisingly, the next morning I was in gastric distress.  So much so, that I actually brought it up as a topic at breakfast. Even though Denise and Juli know the real me, I still hold onto the delusion that I am considered fancy by all and sundry and everyone is enamored of me with few exceptions.  I’m not sure what we had for breakfast that morning, but I swear it was tater tots of some sort and possibly leftover queso, which I ate despite how I felt. I didn’t want to be rude to my wonderful hosts.  When I mentioned my ailment, Denise called her venerable mother Dee to ask if she had any medicine for my condition. 

                Not having seen Miss Dee since we moved from Bogata in 1986, I was not surprised that the first thing she mentioned after giving me a hello hug was that it was good to see me and that she had not forgotten that I was responsible for losing Denise’s senior yearbook.  In my defense, I told her I hadn’t lost the yearbook, that my cousin Kendra had lost it, which she had (sorry to throw you under the bus Kendra).  Her response was that it was sent to me and was not returned, therefore it was my responsibility.  Knowing it was true and having always been slightly terrified of Miss Dee, I agreed that her logic was flawless, turned about six kinds of ashamed, apologized again and wished I could have teleported to that restaurant with the two kinds of queso.   I may have a problem, y'all.  

                Of course, Miss Dee being the mother of all mothers, had a remedy and sent Mr. James (her husband) to the rescue of those vacationers who had been eating queso non-stop for three days. When he rang the doorbell at Denise’s house, where we were staying, I opened the door and he handed me a box, stepping back.  I invited him in, but he said, “No, I don’t want to catch whatever y’all have.”

                I laughed and said, “No sir, this is Gas-X, no one is actually sick.”

                He stepped further back and said, “I definitely don’t want none of that” and walked quickly back to his mini-van.  Wise is the one who avoids the turbulence of life, y’all, said the 48 year-old irresponsible teenager.

               Kendra, can you help me out here?

              

Smarter than a Sinner, Y'all

               Two of the truths of my childhood: I was always proud of my intellect and my sister, Shontyl, was never a big fan.  Of me or my intellect.  We moved to Burns Flat, Oklahoma, in 1980 and, for the first time, had a neighborhood full of kids our age.  After a rough start, Shontyl created a “We Hate Our Neighbors” Club as she found them to be less than optimal considering we shared the left side of a duplex with them; our houses joined by a garage.  
                In the style of your typical despot, she installed herself as President, Vice President and all remaining officers.  My brother, Thorn, and I serving as her involuntary henchmen.  We were supposed to enact her nefarious schemes to demonstrate the hatred of the neighbors, but that consisted solely of hanging a sign (that said “We Hate Our Neighbors”) that she made me make as my bubble letters were far superior to hers.  My brother and I played with these same neighbors directly underneath the sign, if you were wondering whether our hearts were truly with The Club.

                The one neighbor that Shontyl actually liked was a girl named Angie, who was in my grade at Will Rogers Elementary School, at the bottom of the hill where we lived, in former military base housing.  Like Shontyl, Angie had red hair and exhibited one of Shontyl’s key criterion: thinking Shontyl was amazing.  Because Angie’s Dad was divorced and worked with my Dad, Angie stayed with us on a consistent basis as rig welders had punishing work hours, often working up to 16 hours a day, sometimes six days a week.  Angie fit right in to our family and many people thought she was our sister, which we did little to refute.

                One day in sixth grade, I came home and made the announcement that I had been designated as Gifted and Talented (GT) by the school after having taken an IQ test several weeks prior.  My best friend (Noble), one of our “hated” neighbors (Mickey), his best friend (Jamie), the girl I liked (Jennifer) and someone else I’m forgetting (Joanna, maybe?) were told that we were special and would be traveling several afternoons each week to take classes with the gifted eighth and ninth grade students.  I was thrilled.  My sister, who was in eighth grade, was not.

                When I attended the first class, one of my sister’s best friends (Tina) who was in the class, questioned the teacher about why I was there.  I was appalled.  No one had ever questioned my intellect, at least not to my face.  The teacher told everyone that this was an experiment and that we would just have to get used to being in class with people who weren’t in our same grade.  As most GT kids are people pleasers, Tina and I obeyed the teacher immediately.

                However, right after the class, Tina came up to me and asked how I had gotten into the GT class.  I told her that I had taken an IQ test and had always been a straight-A student.  She then revealed that my sister had told her that I had failed 4^th Grade and was held back and that was why I was in the same grade as my sister Angie even though we weren’t twins.

                Failed?  Failed!  I had never failed anything in my life, not even the Presidential Fitness Tests although I’m sure I barely squeaked by.  I was appalled, aghast, sickened.  I was flummoxed, bewildered, nonplussed. I was myriad other words that GT kids use.  I was also furious that my good academic name had been maligned and by my own sibling, like something out of the War of the Roses.

                At the end of the day, when we were released to go home, I practically flew up the hill, righteous indignation pushing me forward like a strong wind at my back.  I burst into the kitchen and with the level of drama I truly believed was warranted, yelled, “J’Accuse!” and pointed to my sister. 

                My mother, quite naturally, wanted to know why I was mad and when I had learned French.

                I replied, “She (gesturing with my finger until my mother lowered it with her finger) told her friends that I failed 4^th grade and was held back!”

                Turning to my sister, Mother asked, “Why would you do that?”

                “Well, they asked how Angie and Dusty were in the same grade since they weren’t twins.  What was I supposed to say?”

                “You could have told them Angie isn’t your sister.”

                “But I like her.  I should be allowed to pick my siblings.”

                My Mother sighed and said, “Shontyl, we have gone over this so many times.  And just like I told you when you asked if we could return him to the hospital when we brought Dusty home, you don’t get to pick your family.  They are who they are.”

                “I know.  It’s so unfair.  He’s stupid.”

                Aghast, I yelled, “I am NOT stupid!”

                “Yes, you are!”

                My mother interrupted and said, “Shontyl Catherine, your brother is not stupid, and you know it.  You may not like him, but we all know he is smart.  Leave him alone.”

                “Yes!  I’m GIFTED! So there!” and I stuck my tongue out at her, which my Mother corrected with a snap of her fingers. “Tell her she has to tell everyone that I didn’t fail, that I’m not stupid and that I’m GIFTED!  Tell her, Mother!”

                Turning to me Mother said, “Settle down Dustin Terryll. I’m handling this.”  Turning to Shontyl, Mother said, “Who did you tell that your brother failed?”

               “Just a few people.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know.  Um, Tina and Rhonda and Tanya and Michelle and everybody in my grade and everybody in Sunday School.  And maybe the lady at the grocery store.”

                I was incredulous.  “What?! And they believed you?”

                "Whatever!”

                My mother said, “Shontyl, you will tell the truth to everyone you told.  You will do it this week and I don’t want to hear another word about you thinking Dusty is stupid.”

                “I still don’t like him.”

                “You don’t have to like him, that’s between you and Jesus, but you can’t tell lies.”

                I yelled, “Yes!  Jesus doesn’t like lies!  Sinner!”

                After dodging both Shontyl’s fist and her foot, with my newly acquired karate skills, I sat for quite some time wondering why she didn’t think I was amazing. 

I’m still at a loss, y’all.

He Won't Bite

The Joint Commission on Accreditation of Healthcare Organizations has arrived at my facility for their triennial visit.  Happily, for the first time in my 20-year career, I don’t have any programs under my leadership that are part of this inspection/review.  

I spent 14 years of my career in Prosthetic and Sensory Aids, which is a department somewhat like a pharmacy but for home medical equipment, like artificial limbs, hospital beds, wheelchairs and computers.  We also provide services such as home oxygen, which requires periodic visits to veterans’ homes to ensure that they were receiving the proper equipment, it was working as it should and the customer service from the contract provider.

When I moved to New England in 2007, it was to take over the management of Prosthetics at the eight VA medical centers in the six most northeastern states.  In 2008, we hired a new manager (Rick) at the VA in Manchester, New Hampshire.  As he was new to Prosthetics, I would meet with him each week to train him on the different aspects of his service.  As I am a hands-on trainer, my method would consist of having him observe me, having me observe him and then fine-tuning everything before signing off on the training.  My oversight is full-service, y'all.

As any mailman, UPS driver or Mormon missionary will tell you, the biggest danger in unknown homes is the dog, not the potentially crazy homeowner.  Through trial and error over several years, I learned that dogs can be dangerous and their owners, delusional.  My advice was always to ask the homeowner to put their animal (dog, cat, emu) in a closed room prior to entering their home for the very quick and efficient visit.  The plan was never to be in the home more than 10 minutes.

On the first training trip for Rick, we arrived at one of those charming cottages scattered throughout picaresque New England.  We rang the doorbell and unleashed the unholy barks of what could only be described as either a pack of wolves or one angry mutt with a karaoke microphone.  He/She/It was loud, people.  L.O.U.D. 

When the elderly veteran’s wife appeared, she opened the wooden door but left the screen door shut to my great pleasure.  I introduced Rick and myself and told her why we were there and then asked, ever so politely, if she could put her dog(s) in another room while we made our very quick equipment check.  She responded, “Oh, he won’t bite.”

I smiled and said, “I’m sure he won’t, but we would feel safer if you would.”

She smiled a blank smile and said, “Oh, he won’t bite.” 

I smiled, again, and said, “If you could put him in another room, that would be appreciated.”

From behind her, her husband said, “Just put him in the other room!”

“Thank you,” I said to the disembodied voice in the background.  I placed my hand on the screen door handle to keep her from opening it up, just in case Cujo (my name for him) wanted to say hello.

Still smiling, she repeated, “He won’t bite.”

By this time Cujo had made it to the door and was jumping against the screen door, barking furiously.  I backed away from the door, Rick having already, wisely or cowardly, walked to the safety of the car.  I kept my hand on the screen door handle and said, louder (which I’m sure didn’t help to keep Cujo calm), “Can you please put your dog away, ma’am?”

Again, she said, “Oh, he won’t bite.” 

I decided to abort our attempted visit and turned to run to the car.  Well, I don’t think what I attempted was actually running, but let’s just say it was.  As my hand left the screen door handle, Cujo made his move and hurled himself out the door and immediately ran toward me.  Rick jumped into the car, while I turned to defend myself.  Cujo leapt up and bit me on the stomach, through my coat, sweater and undershirt.  I screamed, “Call off your dog!”

She replied, “Oh, he won’t bite.”

“Lady, he is literally biting me right now,” I yelled while bashing Cujo on the face and snout and ears and whatever else I could make contact with to get him off me and keep him from ruining my sweater.  As someone who, at the time, wore a majestic size 5X, it was increasingly difficult to find cute clothes in that gargantuan size.  I needed to keep what I had.  I was yelling and beating Cujo with all the strength I could muster, which admittedly was not enough.  He either enjoyed trying maim me or got his teeth caught in the lovely wool of my Ralph Lauren cable-knit sweater in Cranberry, but he was not letting go.

I screamed again, “Get him off me!”

She repeated, “Oh, he won’t bite.”

I finally landed the right combination of yelling, hitting, running in a circle and praying and Cujo released me and fled down the street like a prison escapee. 

I stared at Rick, then the lady, turned to watch Cujo as he disappeared in to the distance and could not form words that were proper, government-sanctioned or even remotely Evangelistic or Jesus-approved, so I just sort of waved at the house and got into the car.

As I shut the door, I heard her ask, “Did you get what you needed?”

“Yeah…Sure…Aaaah,” I mumbled giving her a thumbs-up, knowing deep in my heart of hearts I wanted to share a decidedly different digit.

I turned to Rick as I started the car and said, “Just so you know.  That isn’t the worst home visit experience I’ve had, although it’s in the top five.  At least this one didn’t break the skin.  I should write Ralph Lauren and let him know his sweaters can stand up to dog attacks.  Maybe I’ll be in a commercial.”

                Rick retired not long after.

                I haven’t missed Prosthetics for even 10 minutes, y’all.  True story.

Southern Baptist Side-eye: A Christmas Tale

Opening the passenger door of the maroon Jeep Cherokee, I yelled, “Hey Sissy!” to my sister.  She laughed and yelled back, “Hey Spencer!  Welcome back to the boonies!”  We are visiting Amarillo, Texas, for Christmas. Amarillo is a town I never lived in and it is so far north in Texas, that if states were actual squares, it would be considered part of Oklahoma.  However, do not say that to any of the residents of this part of the state. To say no les gusta, Oklahoma, would be an understatement. 

My sister moved here from East Texas when her daughter (Bailey) married a rancher (Rowel) who manages 50,000 acres just outside Channing, northwest of Amarillo. Since my mother died, I have considered wherever my sister lives to be “home”, as in I’ll be home for Christmas.  Of course, Amarillo isn’t really the boonies; it’s an actual town of almost 200,000, mostly cowboys.  My sister resides in a teeny-tiny town of about 900, situated about 30 miles west of Amarillo.  I joke that it’s about 15 feet from New Mexico, but it’s so close you can see the border as there isn’t much to block your view, the occasional six-foot tall tumbleweed notwithstanding.

                My husband (Tam) and I took the redeye from Los Angeles and we are more than ready to have breakfast at Cracker Barrel, something we don’t have in Southern California.  Sissy had promised queso, grits, iced tea, queso, shopping, then more queso and finally, buttermilk pie followed by just a bit more queso.  For me, home (Texas) is for visiting, eating and shopping, in that order, and the visiting had already commenced.

                Although I grew up in the South and spent several extremely influential years (ages 12-16) in East Texas, I haven’t lived in these parts for almost 20 years, so to say I am “from here” is inaccurate.  However, I would confidently say that I know these people and how and why they think and act as they do.  Tam does not and is somewhat apprehensive, although he visited the first time a year ago. 

Watching the news and hearing people talk about The South, he is concerned about racism as he is from the Philippines.  I have explained to him that Texas isn’t truly a Southern state, but that he shouldn’t worry.  Most small-town Texans don’t have a frame of reference for recognizing the ethnic gradations of Southeast Asia.  They recognize Black, White and Brown.  “If they notice that you’re dark-complexioned, they’ll think you’re Hispanic and other than possibly expecting you to clean something, they won’t give you a second look.” 

As we ate, Sissy reminded us that her little church (First, and only, Baptist) was having their Christmas Service tomorrow and that Victoria, her best friend and the preacher’s wife, was hoping we would attend.  I had assumed this would be the case and had planned our wardrobe appropriately.  I would avoid wearing my brightly colored chinos; not need to frighten the villagers.   Once we exhausted ourselves shopping, laughing and eating everything we can’t get in LA, including introducing Ben to the wonder that is a Fried Twinkie, we headed to Vega and crashed at Sissy’s new house, a scant half-mile from the Dairy Queen.

The next morning, after a breakfast of sausage biscuits (with mine dipped in cane syrup), we started getting dressed.  I had brought an argyle turtleneck in a very heterosexual navy, gray and winter white, with coordinated winter white chinos and grey suede loafers.  It was the least gay cold-weather ensemble I owned, purchased specifically for this trip. I didn’t want to startle the townsfolk at Jesus’ early birthday party.  While I was chatting with Sissy, Tam walked in and asked, “Which sweater, orange or pink?”

I turned to look and said, “I’m thinking orange is less gay than pink, but bright colors are always suspect.  What do you think, Sissy?”

“Oh, orange is fine.  No one is going to say anything.”

“True,” I said.  “Plus, you look great in orange.  And there is only one other person in America who looks good in orange and I feel pretty sure that Lupita Nyong’o won’t be at First Baptist.”

We piled into the Cherokee and made our way literally one mile down the street, traversing the entirety of the commerce in Vega, including the aforementioned Dairy Queen, Dollar General and Allsup’s gas station and deli.  We wheeled into the parking almost knocking down a woman with weather-defying hair, carrying a cake plate.  Bailey rolled down her window and said, “So sorry, Miss Vonda, I didn’t see you there!”  Miss Vonda laughed and said, “The Lord’s protecting me and this cake.  Don’t you worry.” 

We crossed the parking lot and Bailey’s cell phone rang.  She answered and as she talked, she rolled her eyes and said, “Well hurry up.  We’re going inside.”

Turning to me she said, “Bailey and Rowel and the girls are gonna be late.  They just left their house and it’s a 20-minute drive.”

Matching her eye roll, I said, “Good lord.  I thought Bailey was always on time, like me or Mother.”

“She’s a little slower these days, since she had Macy.  Don’t forget Olivia is just three and Rowel can only help with getting Olivia dressed in her gown for bedtime.  It’s one and done. Actual clothes with the hairbows and the leotards and the shoes are not his cup of tea.  Saddling a horse?  Sure.  Dressing a wiggly toddler, not so much. 

“Come on, I see Dakota’s Mom walking in the front door and she wanted to meet you.  She was sick last year when y’all were here.  She loves your books.”

“Oh yeah, I see her.”

“How do you know which one is her?  Y’all never met.”

“Well, that woman right there looks exactly like Dakota, but older.  That’s some strong DNA.”

We slipped into the sanctuary and sat on the next to the back row, on the end by the back door.  I always have an escape route; I don’t trust America.  We were right in front of Dakota’s mother and as I didn’t see anyone’s coat or Bible saving their spot, we appeared to be in the clear.

Victoria came over to say Hi, with her three kids (Nehemiah, Ariel and Noah).  She gave me a hug and said, “Why are y’all sittin’ so far back?”  Hugging her right back I said, “Once a Baptist, always a Baptist.”  Preacher’s wives have to sit on one of the first two rows as they are theoretically interested in what their spouse if preaching.  The wife of the Chairman of the Deacons sits on the next row back.  These are just the rules in a Southern Baptist Church. 

We turned around and said hello to Mom of Dakota (Marjorie).  Sissy said, “Hi, Miss Marjorie, this is my brother Spencer.”  Turning to Tam, she said, “And this is my…Tam.  Our Tam.”  She looked panicked as she almost said, “Brother-in-Law”.  I laughed and said, “Yes!  Our Tam is just the best” and gave him what I thought was a manly punch on the arm. 

We hadn’t discussed how to introduce Tam and we didn’t realize it until Sissy was in the middle of the introduction.  I know that we should have just been honest but there is no need to bring up all that stuff when we are only at their church for an hour every year.  You never know if people are open-minded or not, so I don’t feel the need to poke the bear, as it were.  However, I noticed Marjorie look at my wedding band and look at Tam’s matching wedding band and give herself that knowing nod and us a sweet smile.  No flies on her.

We sat down, and I saw, out of the corner of my eye, what I thought was my mother.  I knew it wasn’t her as she died almost 19 years ago, but the woman looked so much like her that my breath caught in my chest. 

I turned to Sissy and said, “That woman looks just like Mother!”

“I know,” Sissy said.  “The first Sunday we were here, I hugged her before I could stop myself.  She was so flattered when I told her why, so she hugs me every Sunday.”

“I totally want to hug her, too.”

“Right?” Sissy said as she called her over.
                “Miss Libby, this is my brother Spencer, from California.  I just love your sparkly sweater.”

“Well thank you, sweetie.  I find that the older I get, the more glitter I need,” Miss Libby said, laughing.  “Turning to me, she said, “Do you want to give me a hug, darlin’?”  I really did and so I did.

Tam didn’t understand what had just happened and when I was trying to explain, he said, “Don’t most people simply say hello to someone they only just met?”

Sissy and I laughed.  I said, “If they’re not Baptists.” 

Once we sat down and the service started, we were treated to a Christmas song or twelve. I swear, I think everyone at the church besides Sissy, Tam and I either sang a song or played the piano.  Sitting between me and Sissy were Olivia (they had finally arrived with Olivia interrupting the preacher by yelling, “Hey GiGi!” as soon as they saw us) and Victoria’s daughter, Noah and their kiddie accoutrement, consisting of toys, books, snacks and other Sunday School debris. 

Once we sat down, they had passed out candles for the Candlelight Ceremony that would end the service.  Unfortunately, in a rookie move, I laid mine down with all the kid stuff, so when the lights were turned off, I had to go on a treasure hunt, just to be able to participate.  Church is like the movies, so I didn’t want to turn on my phone, so I started picking through the things on the bench and lifting them up to the little light coming from the narthex behind me.  It took me a few minutes to sort through a water bottle, coloring book, candy cane, toy horse, a second toy horse, the rider of the first toy horse according to Noah, a children’s Bible and finally my candle.

Right when they started lighting the candles, I remembered a service when I was in high school where one of the kids accidentally caught her hair on fire with her candle and my mother hurdled over two pews like she was Gail Devers in the Olympics, to put out the hair-fire.  As soon as she did that, all the kids handed their candles to their parents. 

For some strange reason I got the giggles and before I could stop myself, I let out one quick snort.  Although it was dark, I could feel Bailey cut her eyes in a very judgmental way, just like a Mom.  Nothing says “Happy Birthday, Jesus” like candlelight, stifled giggles and a dash of Southern Baptist side-eye.

Happy New Year, y’all.

It's a Year End Round-up, Y'all!

          It's the time of year for everyone, from Entertainment Weekly to Garden & Gun magazine, to recap their year.  We get lists of the Best and Worst in innumerable categories and I thought to myself, "Who am I to be different from other writers?"  So I give you my Top Events of 2018.
         1.  January - Ben and I celebrated the one-year anniversary of our first date.  If you had told me even at the beginning of 2017 that I would meet the man of my dreams, I would have thought you were still hung over from your post-New Year's revelry, yet here we are.  Yay me!
        2.  February - As we were not going to be together on Half-Price Candy Eve (otherwise known as Valentine's Day), Ben and I decided to celebrate the weekend before, returning to our favorite fancy restaurant, Parkers' Lighthouse.  After delicious seafood, he proposed; an event that was so far from what I had ever thought possible, I was caught completely off-guard and rendered, literally, speechless.  So speechless that while I cried a little bit and hugged him and proceeded to Google what hand you wear an engagement ring on if you are a dude, I forgot to say "YES!" leaving him momentarily concerned.
          3.  March - Being as conservative as me, Ben shared that he didn't want to move in together until were actually married.  Never one to dismiss people's values, we got married almost immediately, on March 12, at the courthouse.  Our "honeymoon" (if you want to call it that, and we most certainly do not) was a trip back to my alma mater in Mississippi for my 25th college reunion, where I also had a book signing and reading for Almost Odis, which had just been published the last day in December.  I am halfway to being a Golden Girl, which is what MUW calls the graduates who have reached their 50th reunion year.  I feel sure there are many who would say I am already a Golden Girl, most likely Dorothy.  I was able to take Ben to Louisiana (we flew into New Orleans) and Alabama (we literally drove past the state line, took a photo and immediately returned to MS).
          4.  April - This month was focused on talking.  I spoke at the TORCH (Texas Organization for Rural Clinics and Hospitals) State Conference on "How to Build a Dynamic Leadership Team" and had an impromptu book signing in the lobby of the hotel.  I also returned to the boons of my youth and spoke to the senior class of Rivercrest High School (accidentally cursing while imparting my wisdom) and held a successful book reading and signing at the Community Center, followed by an even more successful potluck lunch and gossip/reminiscing session that lasted until late in the evening and included fans from as far away as Omaha (Texas, that is).  I also had a book signing at the Barnes & Noble in Long Beach where I sold 30 books and the staff agreed to keep my title on the shelf for the foreseeable future, ensuring I felt all successful and whatnot.  However, to keep it all in balance, I sold exactly one copy of Almost Odis at Vroman's Bookstore in Pasadena.
          5.  June - We moved into a new, larger apartment and The Sister visited for her annual trek out to the West Coast to laugh, sleep, float in the pool and eat Nick's Butter Cake.  After explaining what frolicking was, Ben and Shontyl frolicked all up and down the beach at Laguna Beach, while PawPaw Dusty observed from a surprisingly comfortable bench in the shade.
          6.  July - traveled to Greece, via Boston for BFF Christopher's Birthday on Mykonos Island, the nightclub of the Greek Isles.  We stayed in a lovely villa with bad plumbing so we couldn't flush paper products down the toilet and had to keep them in a lovely can next to the toilet.  I traveled thousands of miles and spent thousands of dollars to relive my childhood in a hunting cabin, except with beaches and Eurotrash.  We did have delicious food, though.
          7.  September - I started my new job at the VA Long Beach.  My dream job that I wasn't even aware was a job until it was created.  I am the Chief Experience Officer, which pretty much means, if VA Long Beach was a college, I am the Dean of Students.  I am finally putting both my degrees to good use, which is wonderful considering I've been paying graduate school student loans for 20 years, so far.  Yay me!
         8.  October - Ben and I celebrated our birthdays by attending an album launch party in LA with my good friend/actor/musician John Kapelos, he of 'Breakfast Club', 'Seinfeld' and 'The Shape of Water' fame.  We got hob-nob with all sorts of actors and producers and singers.  It was a veritable who's who of 80s and 90s character actors, like Bad Billy Pratt from 'Overboard'.  We also ate red velvet churros for the first time.  Our church also moved into its new building at Westminster Mall, so every Sunday I know worship between JC Penney and Victoria's Secret, which is fitting, I suppose.
         9.  November - I took Ben to meet the rest of the family in Ohio, where my brother and his family reside (Dayton) with The Dad.  The visit went well and The Dad was as charming as he could be, only farting and blaming Ben twice.  Lots of red meat and visits to Cracker Barrel were enjoyed.
        10.  December - We returned to the Panhandle of Texas (Amarillo) for our annual Christmas jaunt to the boonies, staying with my niece Payton and her lovely cowboy hubby, Colten.  It was our first chance to meet my newest Great Niece, Acey Elizabeth, and spend time with her slightly older sibling, Slade Catherine, along with my sister.  Ben showed he was the baby whisperer and I demonstrated that I was still the uncle who buys things so as to not have to change diapers or rock children to sleep.  We enjoyed delicious home-cooked meals and dangerous amounts of queso, sweet tea and sopapilla cheesecake and introduced Ben to the wonder that is Fried Twinkies and Payton's heart-stopping 4-cheese macaroni and cheese.  We were the envy of our fellow passengers on the flight home when our in-flight snacks were leftover Ribeye steak and Chicken & Dressing.  You can take the redneck out of the boonies...
          2018 was a fantastic year and I can't wait to see what 2019 brings.  I hope to finish my next book some time in 2019, so keep your eyes peeled for an announcement.  While you are waiting, you should read either A Gone Pecan or Almost Odis.  You can find both on Amazon or AuthorHouse or contact me for an autographed copy of Almost Odis.
          Happy New Year, y'all!
       
       

Gap Year on a Greyhound Bus

               I recently read several memoirs referencing someone’s Gap Year, an event more common in Europe than the US, but also typically available only to those college graduates from families of wealth or stature.  During their Gap Year most students gain life experiences, often through internships, volunteering in a service program, learning a new language or indulging in artistic pursuits.

                Anyone who knows me knows that I am not a member of a wealthy family, and while I am seventeen kinds of fancy now, I most certainly wasn’t when I graduated from college in 1993 and returned to the bustling metropolis of Tylertown, Mississippi.  My triumphant return to the boons of my youth (having moved 5 whole hours away from my family in an effort to live “somewhere else”) found me clad in pleated shorts with a braided belt and Birkenstocks, and rocking a goatee, do you hear me? 

I don’t know if I was delusional, scared, forgetful or simply unaware that one is supposed to find a job before one receives one’s diploma from one’s college, but I returned to the Cream Pitcher of Mississippi armed solely with a very expensive piece of parchment, bereft of position. Unsure what my next step would be, I received a fortuitous invitation from my college bestie (John Allen) to travel out of the country to visit his family at their lodge on the shores of Lake Kakagi, or Crow Lake if you don’t care about the Native American way of life or language, which is rude.  Allen’s Crow Lake Lodge is located just outside the charming Nestor Falls, Ontario, Canada.

When I presented the plan to my parents, The Dad looked at me like I looked at him that Christmas he gave me a rifle instead of an argyle sweater.  My mother asked how much I thought it would cost to fly.  Unsure, we researched it and after a few calculations, she informed me that our family was wealthy enough to offer a Gap Fortnight via Greyhound Bus.

Surprised and excited we could afford anything, I proudly boarded that majestic transporter of common folk, in McComb, Mississippi and arrived only a short 36 hours later in Duluth, Minnesota, where John’s brother lived.  From there it was a short drive to Ontario.  This was, of course, way back in the day when all you needed to cross into this outpost of Great Britain was a valid driver’s license.    

I boarded the bus, full of excitement, which turned to wonder, which turned to confusion as to why the floor was sticky and why it smelled like urine.  I perused the faces and outfits of my fellow passengers and found none to my liking, taking a seat by myself, filling the adjacent seat with my travel accoutrement.  The driver told me I had to share my seat with someone.  I informed him that he should fill the bus around me and if, at that time, there was a need for someone to sit in the adjoining seat, I would gladly let them.

After a bus change in Memphis there was a 4-hour layover in Chicago, where the sweet lady who ran the lunch counter let me sit behind it with her because, “[you] don’t look like you belong here, hon”.  I concurred and ate my complimentary pie and coffee with 24 inches of Formica countertop between me and the unwashed masses.  What?  I’m not being a snob, I promise you I smelled ‘armpit’ and ‘butt crack’ and ‘cigarette smoke’ in equal measure. 

After we re-boarded, I spent the trip to our next bus change in Madison, Wisconsin, steadfastly avoiding eye contact with the elderly gentleman across the aisle whose left hand remained down the front of his pants, while his right hand shoveled Funyuns into his gaping maw.  Okay, that was somewhat snobbish.  Mea culpa. 

Suffice it to say, I arrived in the sparkling city of Duluth (Germanic Midwesterners are tidy, y’all; no litter and no grafitti!), and was met with a banner unfurled welcoming me to the Great North.   After a quick stay in Duluth we headed north to Ontario where I spent the next two weeks doing my version of outdoor activities like:

·         Pretending to enjoy catching, cleaning and cooking fish; actually enjoying eating it;

·         Popping a wheelie in a canoe because I weighed at least 100 pounds more than my passenger (cabin boy Stephen; his paddle didn’t even touch the water, he was so far in the air);

·         Being pushed off a 60-foot cliff into water so clear you could actually see me struggling not to drown;

·         Inadvertently shoplifting a braided leather bracelet on our one trip into town, because I got so excited that trendy accessories actually fit my meaty wrist; and 

·         Being too fat and/or uncoordinated enough to water ski for the first time.  It didn’t even work with me trying to start from a sitting position on the end of the dock. 

John returned me from my successful Gap Fortnight via a non-stop road trip from Ontario, Canada to New Orleans in a gold Ford Tempo with a cat, cooler full of baloney sandwiches and Mello Yello, ketchup-flavored chips (popular in Ontario) and enough No-Doz to keep 67 college students awake for finals.  I don’t remember much from that road trip except that we either experienced or hallucinated a tornado in Missouri and drove so fast past the St. Louis Arch that, to this day, I am uncertain if I saw it.

If the measure of success of an experience is that you learned something, I can say this was a successful Gap Fortnight.  If nothing else, it drove me to graduate school to ensure a future with enough money to fly wherever I needed to go, resulting in the bougie wonder you know and love.

Carpe Experientia, y’all!

Define "High Maintenance", please

                Everyone who knows me knows that although I appear high maintenance, I am, indeed, not high maintenance.  Other than my sense of style, sarcastic wit and penchant for saying “okaaaay, gurl!” or “Look here, sister friend” more often than is typically warranted, I am not stereotypically gay, the people who invented High Maintenance, regardless what those Reality TV wives would like to believe.  And by sterotypically, I mean, I don’t have a beauty regimen, y’all.  I take a shower with shower gel and get my haircuts at Great Clips.  I know, I know, it’s a chain and like a royal on the outs with their family, I abhor, and try to avoid, chains.  But I have my reasons, mostly because I was tired of spending $60-75 for a mediocre haircut at a salon, when I can go to Great Clips, get the same mediocre haircut for $16 and then spend the remaining money on colored chinos, Starbucks iced tea or cinnamon rolls. 

                The universe and my circle of friends have conspired to turn me high maintenance, as to remove the cognitive dissonance they experience when I end up being all down-to-earth and stuff.  Until I moved to Southern California, I had never imagined a scenario where I would have a manicure or pedicure.  I could cut my own fingernails and the less anyone sees or touches my janky old-man feet, the better off we will all be.  

                My friend, let’s call her Curly Sue, is an avid fan of the mani-pedi experience.  When I good-naturedly mocked her beauty routine, she reminded me that I promised to always try something first before I pass judgment.  I agreed and went with her to Bliss Spa on Broadway (in Long Beach).  As the young lady (named Ivy) was soaking my feet, she asked if I wanted to add ‘callus removal’ to my treatment that day.  I replied, “That’s a thing?  Well, Ivy, you best get to gettin’ on these big ol’ yeti feet of mine, girl!” And she did, and I was hooked, do you hear me?  Now Curly Sue and I do mani/pedis followed by Thai food once a month and don’t you even think about asking me to reschedule or postpone.  I will turn seven shades of irritated, y’all, like a Dance Mom whose untalented daughter got cut from the drag queen’s dance troupe.  I binged a lot of reality TV the day after Thanksgiving, y'all.  

                I have also never included moisturizing in my bedtime rituals.  Previously I would simply brush my teeth, read my Bible (yes, I'm a better Christian than you), take my medicine and go to sleep.  Due to observing Ben’s regimen (lotions, moisturizers, occasionally calisthenics) I have changed my routine, but only adding lotion to my legs and arms, so my skin will retain its youthful glow, its color a familiar milky white with touches of pink and purple, not unlike one of those mother-of-pearl vases you bought your MeeMaw at the Dollar General.  I also use linen spray on my sheets and pillow because, well, I’m not an animal.

                Even though I know deep in their heart of hearts, my friends and acquaintances, understand that I am very low-key and easy-to-please, at Thanksgiving we played a game (the unimaginatively named The Voting Game) wherein everyone votes anonymously for whichever player best fits the descriptor on the card.  I was voted several things that were very flattering (Most Likely to have been voted Prom King (which I wasn’t, but my brother was) and Most Likely to be Read About in Your Grandchildren’s History Book (which would be cool and possible if all my Facebook friends would buy a copy of my second book, he said with exaggerated side-eye).  However, I was also voted Most Likely to have a Complicated Order at Starbucks.  With this title, I take umbrage.

                While I spend an inordinate amount of money at Starbucks, I think my order is fairly mundane.  It’s simply a Venti Black Iced Tea with 3 Splenda and No Water (the No Cane Sugar is unspoken and understood by the baristas, y’all).  How is that complicated?  I know Ben orders a Cappuccino with no other specifics other than size (always Grande), but if we’re comparing the world to him, everyone is high maintenance.  Other than his overly complex moisturizing/lotioning routine and his insistence on exercising every day, he is one of the least complicated people I’ve ever met.  You should have to compare me to someone like Leslie Jordan or Crispin Glover or Wallis Warfield Simpson, Duchess of Windsor.  Measured against those people, I’m like Saint Whoever (Catholics, help me out here), but with cuter outfits.

                Alas, I know that you have to compare me to “regular people”, like those voluntarily taking public transportation or shopping at The Wal-Mart, and so I will appear to be High Maintenance, my 27 pairs of colored chinos and 21 sweaters (even though I live in Southern California) notwithstanding.   So, I will accept the title thrust upon me; being named, well, The Most, I suppose.  Now that we’ve uncovered by heretofore hidden Most-ness, I'm not inclined to even finish...