Trite, but True: There's no place like home.

I love going home. Home, home, home. And honestly - I'm one of those jerks that call everything home. When I'm at Disney World and it's hot and tiring, I say let's go home (home=hotel with a pool {because who stays in Florida where there's no pool?}). When it's a long night and I've hit my ceiling - let's go home. Home to my apartment. But home, home? Home-ity, home? That's where my family lives.

It's here I can (and have) shown up with nothing but the clothes on my back to spend the night and go into work the next day looking like not a thing in the world is amiss. It's where my niece coos to me "Aunt Megan, braid my hair?" and I oblige in honor of the service. Where I can chip the polish off my nails and not worry about cuticles. Where I can hear coyotes howl and see turkeys strut and admire the grazing deer and watch frogs plop fatly into ponds. Where I can pull books off shelves and read familiar words. Where I see my brother and sister-in-law kiss when they think no one is looking. Where stories are told - new ones with zest and vigor; old ones with added and embellished details to make the lore more enticing. Where the yard and gardens are kept with such loving, tender and beautiful care, and where I can, know and will grab food from bushes, heavy branches and vines. Where I liken the admonishments of my aunties to the wisdom of my saintly mother, and chalk the witticisms of my uncles into my father's body of knowledge of humor. Where family gathers, inviting their friends - who often shy away at first, until they understand they are all welcome in the bumble of life that is here. Where old friends visit when in town, knowing ceremony isn't stood upon and coming in with a "hello!" and not a formal knock on the door. Where my nephew and I pretend we're performers in a Cirque du Soleil routine and rehearse our act. Where I can drink the only coffee in the world I drink of a morning and eat a breakfast I don't pull out of my office drawer and heat with water in the microwave. Where the only fight is with my father about who gets to fill out the Jumble puzzle on the newsprint in the newspaper. Where my mother often says "let me scratch your back" and my father often says "I cleaned some ducks for you to take when you go." Where I can fall asleep on the living room floor after a big meal while everyone is still milling about. Where it's bedtime and I have to braid my own hair in Laura Ingalls Wilder pigtails because you know I forgot my own hair ties and my fat hair can't all fit in just one of the niece's little girl hair ties.

My only hope is that I offer something to the foray too.

I could do this all night. But I gotta go now. I'm home now. Home-ity home. Can't spend any more time not being here.

It's Wednesday, Ya'll!

Time for What the Hell Wednesday! As per usual, you crazy Knoxville kids have me either crying laughing with your antics or scratching my head in wonderment. Usually both.

pray a little harder next time, mantis! you are an ex-mantis, now! the mantis formerly known as "praying." evidently this little dude's praying was more along the lines of "studying for finals"  because he is squished and dead.

i reiterate - i have no idea who's leaving this shit on the stairs, BUT HERE'S A CLUE: whoever it is, their drink of choice is hurricane! i'm not sure what that actually is, but i have found bottles of it on multiple occasions on various and sundry steps. i'm guessing it's some sort of delightful  malt-based beverage. hold on, i'mma google it. ok i'm sorry i did that because now i'm hung over by just looking at those pictures and reading those reviews. beer advocate even gave it a poor rating. i need an alka-seltzer now please...

these ashtrays are outside of my building and someone repeatedly is pushing them over. WHY. a friend noted that i must not understand much about "testosterone" and "alcohol-fueled adrenaline" and "guys like to knock shit over when they're drunk" but whoever did this was vaguely remorseful because he obviously tried to put the sand BACK IN the ashtray which only reiterates the fact that he was indeed drunk because only someone besotted would touch nasty ashtray sand. this is not helping my hurricane-induced hangover, ya'll. 

Never change, Knoxville. Never change. You're delightfully weird. And I like that about you.

In normal people news, I recently paid an emergency visit to the maternity ward at St. Mary's hospital (to visit a friend - HAHAHA nice fake out, Ms. Venable!) While I was there, friend Kristi gave me the low down on her pregnancy and shared her fears and a few tears with me while her dead-to-the-world husband sacked out in the corner (he never even moved, poor thing). She was understandably upset and seemed to be fixated on not having gotten a pedicure in before the impending delivery "because she was going to be looking at her feet a lot over the next 48 hours," so I painted her nails and told her stories about adventures in dating to distract her, even for a few minutes. I consider the distraction a success because at the end of the pedicure and twenty minutes into horror stories she looked me in the eyes and said in earnest: "I wouldn't trade places with you for a million dollars." And I looked back at her, with a baby in her belly and hooked to every machine known to mankind, and said just as earnestly: "Me either." And then I don't know how we didn't wake up her poor husband because we both cracked up and we are loud on a good day.

And now, at last, with mama and baby safely through delivery, introducing:

RJ! welcome to the world, baby boy! may you have your daddy's good looks, your mama's sense of style and both of their skills as writers. (grammar is important, rj!)

Lastly, for those of you who have texted, called and/or visited to express your concern about/desire to ogle the mushrooms in my water closet, thank you. The harvest is now reaped and the fields sown with salt. And yes, I am a little sad about it.

i'm adding former mushroom farmer to my resume

UPDATED so this is now LASTLY, I was reading an article from NPR about additions to the Oxford dictionary when I came across a new entry. I am either offended because a new word accepted into their vernacular is MY WORD, that I MADE UP and I WANT CREDIT FOR or I went viral and didn't notice. Or... most likely I read it somewhere and just started using it. BUT DAMMIT I KNOW I HAD A RATIONALE and everything! I USED to say WHEEE all the time, but with the snake skin shed of old life I didn't want my go-to exclamation to be something from my past, so I DELIBERATELY changed it to:

squee. i had to force myself to stop saying 'whee' and insert 'squee!' instead.

If "can't-icle" and "blurgh" surface next year, I'm gonna be really pissy. Humph.

Over and out.

If life were a Harry Potter novel, my father would be my Patronus.

Actual whispered conversation with my father and me yesterday in church:

Me: what do you think this word means? (giggling, pointing at the word "canticle" in the hymnal) Do you think it means what I think it means?

Dipsey: I think it means eunuch. (giggling) They have canticles. Like CAN'T-icles, get it?

Incredibly perky and bright-eyed church lady out loud to congregation: Let's all bless the lord in song, shall we? We will all sing verses 1, 3, 4 and 5.

Dipsey: She just canticle'ed verse 2.

Me: (snorting)

Mama: (gives us her chipmunk glare. {she very rarely glares, but when she does, she looks like she's trying to make a chipmunk face, to the point where we just all refer to the glare as "the chipmunk."})

A few moments of singing, sitting down....

Dipsey: what's that on your wrist?

Me: a hair tie.

Dipsey: Oh. Why's it not in your hair?

Me: I forgot a sweater for church.

Dipsey: Oh. What's that got to do with anything?

Me: I wore a strapless dress. I look naked to everyone sitting behind us. It doesn't make sense, but I feel like the hair kind of camouflages it and makes me look like I'm not naked.

Dipsey: actually, does makes sense.

Mama: (chipmunk)

A few more minutes and time for another hymn....

Incredibly perky and bright-eyed church lady: And now let's all sing hymn 776, verses 1, 3, 4, 5 and 6.

Dipsey: She canticle'ed verse 2 again! What's she got against second verses?

Mama: Honestly, can't you two pass notes in church like everyone else?

After the church exchange and then reading the Dipper's article in the paper today, I'm reminded all over again that genetics are a real thing. Much like my ability to see things that most people miss completely, Dipsey and I both take the time to notice the crazy weird shit (and usually miss the obvious, but I digress). I am blessed with my mother's feet, great ankles and calves, but my thinker is all from Dipsey. He, much like I do, am amazed by a lot that goes on in the world and think that stories are happening all the time. When he's asked how he can keep coming up with ideas week in and week out he replies "I cannot make this stuff up." That, and he's given me a healthy appreciation that pretty much anything is worth it if you can get a good story out of it. (Actually, his quote is "Well, if we don't all catch the crabs it'll be worth it for the stories," but that is another story for another time.)

In other news, I saw this on my way to work today and although I should have included it in the signs, signs, signs post as an update but I am lazy and lunch is almost over so here:

it makes me sing every time i see it.

Lastly, friend Cathy had such a good time on the Ocoee rafting that she's going again RIGHT NOW sans Groupon and everything. So when she picked up my waterproof camera for the trip I very gingerly said "Um, hey. Please be careful today. Try real hard to not fall out of the boat. A couple of people were hurt over the weekend."

BECAUSE "HURT" IS CODE FOR "DEAD" AMIRIGHT?

I may be a bad friend for not sitting on her foot with my arms and legs wrapped around her leg and making her stay here. Or at least telling her "hurt" is code for "dead" and what do we remember about the Ocoee, kids? It is not Disney World. Just like bears and dolphins and snakes are untamed animals and that anything with a mouth can BITE and depending on how big and pointy the teeth are the results can vary wildly. Although... now I'm thinking... the resulting story would be proportional to the size of the teeth, but if a lot of pain and the possibility of bleeding out is involved I think it's probably NOT worth it. Unless it's someone else's blood, then maybe. If it's someone mean who I don't like then definitely yes.

Ya'll, I can't-icle. I just can't-icle. Over and out.

And Ms. Venable wins the day

Actual conversation with a clerk at the DMV:

Clerk: How can I help you?

Me: Hi there. I'm here to renew and change the name on my driver's license, please.

Clerk: Oh you got married! Congratulations!

Me: Actually - ha - no, I got divorced.

Clerk: OH! Well, congratulations, honey.

Me: Thank you.

Clerk: I got divorced once. MEN. Honey, I could write a BOOK.

Me: I could be your editor.

Clerk: Well, we got a lot to update here then. It says here on your old drivers license you weigh 130 pounds, and I know that can't be right. How much you weigh?

Me: Actually - ha - I weigh a 140 pounds now.

Clerk: (mouth agape)

Me: I have big bones.

Clerk: (typing furiously) Honey, you just lost five pounds.

Me: Oh, thank you!

Clerk: OK go stand over there and I'll take your picture. (snap) Oh honey, you are gonna looooove this picture! And sign here, here and here. This'll update your voter registration. One stop shopping! Makes it easy. I'da taken my maiden name back in a heartbeat if I didn't have a little girl. He didn't understand that either. He's like, I don't GET why you don't change your name back. MEN. Ok, MS. VENABLE, you're all set, honey. Anything else I can do for you?

Me: A high five would be great.

Clerk: Up top.

Winning.

In other news, it's time for What the Hell Wednesday. And no it's not a repeat of last week.

Skipping down the street running errands today, I took a moment to dash into my apartment office and meet the new front desk lady, Rachel. She was the one I had to call last week and explain about the bathroom mushroom and I wanted to pop in and meet her and explain that I really truly am not a crazy person, or a gross dirty person, just a simple lady who has a small mushroom issue in her water closet. Because I had to call her again this morning to tell her the mushrooms are growing again. Evidently, I'm a very good mushroom farmer, because I have a bumper crop. Which is ironic because I kill most plants (just ask Mama. I once killed a whole tree.)

I walk in and am patiently waiting to be noticed and I overheard:

Rachel: Hey, Ronny, that lady from 207 called again. The mushrooms are back.

Me: That's me! I came down in person to show you that I'm really not a crazy person or a gross dirty person. I'm so sorry! In other news, my garbage disposal is also broken.

Rachel: It is? Did you put a spoon down it?

Me: No. I looked. (I lied. I mean I checked AFTER it conked out, but not before. Tee hee! Pants on Fire!)

Rachel: What about a screw?

Me: A screw?

Rachel: Yeah I found one in a disposal once and so now I always ask.

Me: Good thinking, but no.

Rachel: So about these mushrooms... What are you doing in there?

Me: Making LSD? (Seriously, I read Go Ask Alice at a tender young age and never fooled around with that shit. I'm not sure if that was an appropriate reference or not, but it made Rachel laugh. And laughing is always good.)

In any event, I give you, my latest harvest of mushrooms:

taken at 7:30 last night

10:30 last night

and this morning. these are some fast workers, ya'll. not wasting any time. 

I'll let you know how the de-shrooming goes. Hopefully as smoothly as the de-Smithing went.

Lastly, I leave you with this. Photo of me and Mama courtesy of Lucy at lunch today.

i think we were boring her. whatever she takes photos of, she takes a hundred photos of, and there are twelve shots of me and mama's feet on my phone right now. i like to give the children my phone and then go through it and laugh at what all they took photos of. and to make sure they didn't accidentally email something untoward.

Ms. Venable says over and out.

Here's to you, Megan Smith

A few days ago, I had a morning. And when a well-timed call came from Boston came through I cried and whined about my lost life in a moment of pity. Then I had to cut the call and run to work and do things and when my return call came he noted I sounded much better. I laughed. And told him now I wasn't less upset... I was now only in public. I'd rather die than make a scene. And it got me thinking; I know when to let the crazy out and when to cage it in.

Strange seque, but bear with me - Shedding a name feels fake. It's pretend. Changing a name does NOT change who you are, stupids. Whatever name you know me by I answer to in a crowd. (PS my favorite name is PJ). Pretending I was something or some word is not who I am. I am not a new human because I have a new name.

So. What I do is not for the masses (yes Internet I know I'm talking to you STUPID) but it is for dumb ole me. This is a raw, visceral, ugly, hateful, miserable, awful thing I had to do. And I hate it. When I could still say "hello, I'm Megan Smith," and not "hello, I'm Megan divorced-from-Tommy-so-not-Smith-anymore-now-I'm-Venable" it felt safe. I wish I wish I still could. Honest honest.

I really am sad about not being Mrs. Smith anymore. I'm sorry. I tried real real real real hard to stay the same.

So. I realize this doesn't change Jack or shit to anyone but me. But, Mrs. Smith, you gotta go. But thank you. For what it's worth, thank you. I would like to retire you with grace, and instead it feels like I just shed a snake skin. I'm sorry. That is not what I wanted.

$200 and a court date later we will see what Ms. Venable has to offer.

Jury's out.

But now it's public. I wear divorce on my sleeve the way no other man ever will have to. The ubiquitous changing of the name (suck it assholes).

Looks like I made a scene after all. I'd rather die. But Ms. Venable may not. Now we're in public. *holds head high*

Move-in day on campus

I loved college. Move in day is today on campus and it is bumping like crazy. It got me thinking about my own move in day and I searched and searched and finally found this pic of me going to college for my freshman year. 

I have a Lady and the Tramp poster y'all. And I still sleep with my hair up and love that I saw that nightie and went MAN I loved that nightie wonder what happened to it.

And everything I learned in those four years didn't come out of a classroom, but it was my four years and I own it. That and I was Miss Brick House 1996 so that happened and Mama and Dipsey have never been more proud.

Welcome to campus, class of 2017.

Signs, signs, signs....

Signs are important ya'll. They tell us where to go. They point us in the right direction. They certainly serve a purpose. So when you make a sign, it should be thoughtful and carefully planned out. And as I pointed out several months ago, a sign can take you out of a funk and make your day all over with sunshine and rainbows and unicorns. There is no time for foolishness. So help a gal out with a little something and explain the signs below to me. Because these just make absolutely no sense whatsoever. Or are just stupid.

i don't think one can logically use the words "live" and "killed" in the same breath. these are incongruous elements.

tell me why this is a sign? who does this help? because if the child cannot hear you it does not make sense to think you could drive quieter or louder to get his/her attention and since the one ton machine you're operating is likely already in motion so it's not as if you can.... i dunno WAVE to get attention when you go by - the CAR IS IN MOTION. and i have a feeling the child knows he is deaf and is likely to be on the lookout; why do we need this sign? and it's been there for a really long time - when this kid grows up is he gonna take this sign with him? because i'm pretty sure that's against the law to take down road signs. ok i googled it. nothing definitive, but i did learn how to actually take down a road sign. maybe i'll print that and laminate it and tape it to this sign so if this kid moves he'll have directions on how to get his sign so he can pack it. you're welcome, deaf child/possible adult.

the first time i saw this sign i was all like aw hellz yeah, this dumpster RULES!!! but then saw there were literal rules below it and thought my my... how very bossy and presumptuous of this dumpster to be telling me what to do. you are a dumpster! i don't have to listen to you! i put my trash in and you swallow!! evidently not. this dumpster means business. it don't take no crap from NO ONE. 

and of course, from boston - home of the cautious senior. 

This is less of a sign and more of a photo of a text message, but I thought it was hilarious and it makes me laugh every time I look at it, so enjoy:

daddy's really really really technologically challenged.

In other news, the other morning I was returning to town after Waffle House with friend Philippa when we stopped at a red light before getting on the interstate. When the traffic began to move, the doors to the truck flew open while the truck continued to speed up the on ramp in oblivion. Items in the back of the truck began to shift as the truck flew down I-40 and if you don't think I didn't follow that mother trucker and shriek "FALL OUT BOOTS!! FALL OUT FALL OUT!!!!!" while Philippa took pictures then you would be mistaken.

it was like spiderman boots or something. or they were made of anti-matter. it defied gravity that these boots did not go sailing out the back of this truck. 

Lastly, I'm going to expand my What the Hell is on the Stairs segment into a "What the Hell Wednesday" piece.

Now, I'm a pretty neat person. I clean with some regularity, I always fold the laundry and put it away when it's washed, I empty the dishwasher, I vacuum - whatever. You get the picture. But, you know how sometimes you'll go say, into the kitchen and think "HOLY SHIT. Who has been smashing open ketchup packets with hammers on the refrigerator? Because it's going to take a chisel and a Super Soaker of Clorox to get all that dried up mess off."

I had such a moment this morning. In today's What the Hell Wednesday:

there is a mushroom growing in my bathroom wall, kids. i could not have made this happen if i had tried with spores and mold or flakes or whatever the hell it is you need to make mushrooms grow. 

I didn't know what to do with it exactly, so I just left it. Do I pick it? Can I eat it? SHOULD I eat it because it is there? Should I call maintenance? Actually, I'm going to do that. (Note: in going to Google my building for the phone number I accidentally Googled "google." Does that happen much?) Oh thank God. The girl at the office has a sense of humor. I think that was totally her first mushroom emergency. And for me. Maintenance deployed.

And with that, What the Hell Wednesday is off with a bang. I'm outta here.

Over and out.

Fake post to psyche you out...

The latest installment of "What the Hell is on the Stairs" couldn't wait for a real post so I'll just cut to the chase:

a fricking bar-b-que. who the hell is paying for all this meat?!!!

Over and out.

I have the palate of a 9-year-old

Yesterday at trivia, Sharon and my adorable physicists kicked off a story the two had experienced with this whopper of an intro:

"So a couple of Halloweens ago we heard about this haunted house that also had a food challenge element in it. It was supposed to be super gross, but if you got through three rounds you win a pot of money. The down side is you have to pay to get in and if you throw up or leave the room your forfeit. And no one can come in and watch you do it, if you want someone to watch, they have to pay too. And it was the two of us paying to do the challenge, and the friend who drove us paid to just come in and watch and it was so gross that he was the first one to puke and he didn't even eat anything."

Color me intrigued. By the end of the story I was myself, in fact, about to throw up. But there's no way I was missing out on that tale.

It was with this story still fresh on my mind that I dashed out today for my very very very favorite lunch of champions: McDonalds. And it was when I was sitting down to eat my Big Mac thinking "Yum yum yum! I love you! My Big Mac! All for my own!" that it occurred to me that I really feel bad for people who don't like McDonalds. It's cheap and easily accessible. True, it's a half a day's worth of calories, but whatever! Plan accordingly and it's fiiiiiiine. Of course, there's always going to be the haters hating on the Big Mac but Poo on You Whineypants with your talk about science-ey nutrition and stuff. More Big Macs for me!

It was at this particular moment that I really started to think about the food I like and I came up with: my palate has not developed beyond a 9-year-old's. I still like Taco Bell. Hell yes I ate that Dorito Taco. I made a special trip for it! Krystals? You KNOW I can take care of some Chili Cheese Pups. Pizza Hut? Sign me up for a stuffed crust, please. In fact, I went to the doctor for a physical recently and discovered that my vitamin levels are all over the place because since moving out on my own my diet primarily consists of cheese and carbs. (I ordered the Big Mac today instead of two cheeseburgers because of the lettuce. See what I did there? Lettuce is a vegetable! It's practically health food! I'm sure those vitamin levels will be right as rain in no time.)

But back to being a 9-year-old. Sour cream is gross. Cream cheese is slimy and nasty. Mayonaise makes me want to vomit. And I WILL go ape shit on you if I order something in a restaurant and it comes out with mayo - the last time this happened, I slammed my sandwich down in anger and stomped my feet. Yes. I threw a temper tantrum.

And don't even get me started on texture issues. I can't stand food that feels weird in my mouth I CANNOT. (confession time!) I have never straight up eaten a single bite of cottage cheese because the though of putting a CURD in my mouth is horrifying.

Capers? Yuck. Blue cheese? Shudder. Feta cheese? Have we met? And the odd thing is, people keep trying! How can you possibly not love sushi, Megan? It is delicious! (and tastes like ass. IT IS UNCOOKED MEAT. They warn you about that shit in second grade.)

At the end of the day, all I can say is I am who I am. And dammit, I really love a Big Mac.

More bucket list fodder...

First, may I just give a play-by-play on how my train of thought went this morning?

Running late for work, what to wear, out to dinner with the fam after work then trivia, might not be able to get back to change, supervisors out of office, no need to be fancy but fancy enough for dinner out and trivia tonight and walking a lot so no heels, dress with the pom poms good, flip flops ok, grab purse, what's that bag - oh emergency bikini bag, no need/time to re-pack right now - oh wait, dinner at Lakeside Tavern, better be safe than miss out on lake, re-pack quickly and out the door.

So. If anyone wants company out on Loudon tonight, just give me a jingle.

In other news, I swung by friend and co-worker Cathy's cube a few weeks ago and found her bucket list lying there on it. Two items were listed, white water rafting and skydiving. I have a terrible fear of airplanes and I understand how gravity works but planes are still kind of a mystery to me. I love white water rafting but told Cathy she was on her own in the skydiving department, but if she wanted to go white water rafting I'd be more than delighted to arrange a trip for us down the Ocoee. Because no one ever get hurt white water rafting while skydiving I'm sure has a higher fatality rate. Hold on. I'mma check that. Ok I Googled it. Nothing definative, but I did find a quote that I'm just going to blanket apply here: Danger is a relative concept. So there.

cathy (hot queso pantalones), sharon (zen baby d) and me, the ubiquitous pants on fire. because i NEVER stretch the truth. even when the embellishment would make a story just THAT MUCH BETTER.

We arrived and were waiting for the tour to start and Sharon made the off hand comment, "Oh look. A tire swing." To which I responded: "WHERE? Bye."

cathy pushed and i spun in a circle until i was dizzy and got off and walked funny for a few minutes. good times.

We loaded up the bus and headed on toward adventure.

i prefer to have my adventures unlimited, thank you.

Along the way, we passed this by the side of the Ocoee:

remember that waiver? that you don't read but just sign because nothing bad ever happens white water rafting because there's guides and they'll take care of you and it's really just pretty much like Disney World where when something goes wrong they just turn off the ocoee and come get you and whisk you away to safety and maybe give you a bandaid and aspirin? that waiver? THIS is why you sign it.

As a runner, I have to say - that's a somewhat sexy-pants sport. Literally. I have some very cute running outfits, and even though running is slobbery and sweaty, I think that most runners look pretty tight when practicing the art of the daily grind. Rafting? Notsomuch. Very unsexy gear. Very mildewey. Very smelly. Life-saving? Yes. Necessary? Evidentally. But when Sharon asked why I was redoing my hair into a side pony tail before putting on my helmet, I told her it was so people would know that I was a girl. Cathy agreed and redid her 'do too.

the side pony tail really ties the whole outfit together.

Cathy did GREAT. She even didn't bat an eye when Sharon and I insisted that she take the front seat.

ready to paddle forth

Great weather, great company, great trip. Wonderful time had by all. And Cathy can tick this one off her bucket list!

jumping in for a dip in the doldrums. sharon, cutie-pie guide lauren and cathy on the ocoee.

love love love this pic. east tennessee gal's version of toes in the water, ass in the sand.

After the trip, we got cleaned up and headed out to the Dam Diner and Deli for some well-earned grub. Dam it. And yes, we did not stop saying this the whole meal.

two thumbs up on the dam hot plate

Choice phrases include:

"Where's the dam driveway?"

"Is that a dam parking spot? No! It's a dam compact car! This dam place is crowded!"

"They better have a dam Sprite or I'm not staying."

"NO WAY, DAM IT. If they have no dam Sprite we are making you sprite out of soda water, sugar, lemons and limes and calling it dam homemade Sprite."

"It is dam hot out here. This place better have some dam A/C because I'm tired of dam nature for the day."

"Ooooooh, this dam okra is delicious!"

"Dam skippy it is."

Ad nauseum. You get the picture. In any event, good times. Great to alive and living somewhere I can trot out and hour away and have such a great experience.

And can I also add, please scroll back up and take a look at me in the Dam Diner picture and take note of that dress? Just humor me for a second and do it. Go on, I'll wait riiiiight here. (Introspective soliloquy commencing forthwith. If you're not down with it, scroll to the next graph. I won't judge, promise.) Saturday morning I ran a race, bopped over all sweaty and gross to the hospital to visit a friend (yea you're home, Kristi!), zipped to the apartment with only enough time to blow off the stink real quick, out for a picnic, quick nap, woke up late, grabbed emergency bikini bag out of the car, ran out to the lake, off the lake at dark, home for a second to run one more time through a shower, threw on a dress, out to dinner late so when I hit the pillow I just pulled off the dress and slept in the slip I had on underneath, woke Sunday morning to a "want brunch?" text, tossed on the dress off the floor and headed to brunch, then home lickety split to pack for rafting, then rafting all afternoon, showered at the outfitters and put the whole mess of clothes from the day before back on one more time because in my spare time I cannot be bothered with niceties like clean clothes or makeup or hair. I have said this once, and I'll say it again: I am a hedonistic machine. I cannot and do not and will not stop. I visited Hawaii years ago with BFF Heather once, and I think we bathed more often with sandy bars of mushy soap in those beach shower-off areas than we ever did at her apartment, and the three or four showers we did take there left a huge ring around the tub, because we didn't stop going the whole time we were there. I remember thinking at the time that was how I wanted to live - contstantly going from one activity to the next, never stopping always moving. I used to think those weekends like I just had were few and far between so enjoy the lightening... but dam(n). They are crowding in closer and closer together and I think I like it? But if I don't settle down soon I think I may forget how to read books and crossstitch and sew clothes. Oh well. For now, I'm keeping it. It'll be fall soon and cold weather will force me back indoors and then football season will start BUT WHATEVER.

Oh and wait - last little bit of introspective soliloquy (quick I swear. And funny.) Although since being single my bathroom stays blessedly clean without having to try, I always thought the stinky laundry hamper was smelly boy. Ooops. I guess not. Maybe I should re-think that whole "clean clothes" thing.

In other news, I totally showed up the Lizzard and Josh with my adventures in eating.

lizz is all "oooh, look at me with my itty bitty baby tentacle that's so lovely and tasty and mouthwateringly delicous!"

IN YOUR FACE

And lastly, I leave you with today's installment of "What the Hell is on the Stairs Today?"

a pair of socks, a pair of shorts, and poop. naturally.

Over and out.

My blood runs cold...

Dear Universe,

I get it. You're providing me what I need. For everything I've lost in the last year, I've gained something in return. I appreciate it tremendously, and selfishly ask that you keep it coming.

And Universe, I love that I'm making new friends, I really, really do. When I had a terrible day last week I am so grateful that I had a new friend to call and tag along on errands with, just so I wounldn't have to be alone. (Mama and the Dipper are never allowed to leave the country without me EVER AGAIN, BTW.) But I also really, really, REALLY love that old friends are showing back up to offer support. And when the fit hit the shan several months ago, my long-suffering homeroom buddy from high school, Josh (Velazquez, Venable - you do the math) started calling on occasion to check in with me.

tee hee! us back in the day.

Eventually, he invited me up to Boston where he lives to visit with him and his wife, Lizz. And eventually, I said I would go. And one day three weeks ago, I thought "you know... fuckit. I'm going." And I up and bought a plane ticket. And IM'ed Lizz to tell her to expect a houseguest in a few weeks. And I held my breath and hoped for the best, and she responded with one word that won my heart immediately.

She said, "Finally!"

the lizzard and me outside josh's bar in east cambridge

 

Josh's bar is named for Lizz, and he calls the ladies that work at the bar Lizzbians. He named me honorary Lizzbian for the trip because I proudly represented the state of TN all over Boston like a boss. 

 

no i am NOT captain america, bostonian!

 

Some years ago, Josh inherited a stack of Playboys from the 60's and 70's. Also, he likes to decoupage.

JOSH. actually, i love it.

I spent three days with Josh and Lizz, and we had a more fun eating our way through Boston. Actually, I had fun until they realized what a squeamish picky eater I am and then THEY had even more fun trying to find things for me to eat that would really push my envelope.

and i know there's bound to be a fool or three out there that will think but i LOVE octopus, but oh my god you are wrong and not right at all and i insist you stop whatever it is you're doing at this moment and run out and get tested because something is terribly terribly awry with your mouth. and yes i ate some. and by some i mean a bite. but i swallowed it all, and not even whole like a raw oyster - i chewed and chewed and chewed some more.

and here we have a nice tall glass of eyeballs. new rule: things that you chew should never come up a straw. there's a reason we own soup spoons. LEARN TO USE THEM.

when a drink stares back at you, you know you're in trouble. this gives a whole new meaning to the term "googly eyes."

Dinner one night was at an Ethiopian restaurant. I had never had it before - Knoxville is shockingly devoid of Ethiopian restaurants.

this "mesob"/"table" and i have a lot in common

oddly enough, they thought the lack of forks would be the weird-out factor at this meal. guys. two words: FRIED CHICKEN. ain't no forks at popeye's either. just sporks.

And of course, no trip to Boston would be complete without some learney stuff thrown in there for good measure.

founding father henry winkler and me

people are more welcoming when you're kind to the natives. me kissing a redcoat.

touring is tiring so i take a cat nap

A few things I learned on my trip: number one, birds don't like me. Lizz and Josh have a pet bird and it chased me around their apartment for three days straight. And that mother fucker talks too. I kept having to yell, "Lizz, come get Picaso! He's chasing me again!" when Picaso would come after me very sweetly saying "Come here! Where are you going?" It reminded me of the weekend I spent at Moonshadow getting ready for Amanda's wedding. No cool, fowl. Not cool.

Other lessons learned:

you really gotta watch out for those seniors.

there is absolutely no crowd surfing, moshing or stage diving.

I made it home safe and sound to Knoxville, and a day after I got back, they sent me this:

ya'll. i'm so flattered. smooches all around!

Thank you, thank you. You made me feel loved.

Lastly, I give you today's installment of "What The Hell Is On The Stairs?"

toothpicks! of course.

Over and out.