Third Time’s the Charm

Despite the resulting lack of amusing material, I am happy to report that yesterday’s journey home to TN was uneventful, if you don’t count the punctured Klarbrunn cans resulting from an over-zealous shoving of a 12-pack under the training wheel of 2nd born’s bike.

On our return trip, I scored the first-shift driving slot. Now normally I eschew this slot on the return trip, because I find it hard to drive while crying, especially when I’m trying to hide it from the kids. But the first shift, in general, is usually the best: you’re fresh, everyone’s in a good mood, and you do not yet suffer from McDonald’s-induced postprandial fatigue.

I had the second shift on the way up, and it kinda sucked. So I decided to risk it and take the first shift. Turned out fine, because I have downgraded from choked-back sobs in my parent’s driveway (Xmas 08), to quiet crying on John Nolen Drive (Memorial Day 09), to a few minutes of chin quivering on the Beltline yesterday. I guess that’s what you call “trending well.” And today: no post-visit funk. And I invited some neighbors over to cook out tomorrow night. These are Good Things.

Now if I would just hang some pictures, this place might start to seem like home.

New Low or Gastronomic Genius?

So since we’ve found ourselves temporarily and ecstatically childless (you know I love ‘em, but how can I miss them if they won’t go away?) last night SH and I pretended to be real grown-ups and went out for drinks and dinner. SH, the party and events planner in the divide-and-conquer system we use in our family, chose The Patterson House for our before-dinner drink.

I went in thinking I would order a Side Car, which many of you know is my adult beverage of choice, as well as a good test of a bartender’s skills. But upon our arrival, our bartender (pictured in the article, btw) sold me on something called Vincent’s Ruin: Bourbon, Elderflower liquor, lemon, and house-made orange bitters.

And what did SH have? I shit you not, a Bacon Old Fashioned. All the flavor of bacon, but without the exhausting work of chewing.  He loved it.

I wonder if there’s a rehab program for people who move away from The South? Because we’re going to have to do some serious detoxification if we move away from our deep-fried, bacon-laden, sweet tea surroundings.

BTW, porcine drinks not withstanding, The Patterson House was awesome. Yet another reason to visit us!

Oy Frickin’ Yoy or why doesn’t God want me to have fun when my kids are away?*

Note to self: whilst on holiday in Madison, never skip exercise class. No good ever comes of that. That was my first mistake on Monday, the day SH and I were set to return home from our bucolic Memorial Day weekend up north.

We left town, sans tax-deductions (they’re spending a week with the grandparents) only a half-hour later than our stated “leave no later than” time. This, for us, counts as success. However, once we left, we didn’t really apply ourselves. Apparently we had not really committed to the idea of leaving, because between “leaving” and actually approaching the outskirts of Madison, we got gas, stopped by two former neighbors’ houses, went back to the kids to drop off a forgotten car seat, shopped at Trader Joes, and got lunch at Ian’s Pizza.  We had to work up to really buying in to the idea that we should leave Madison. I’m not really sure which asshole came up with the idea in the first place.

So we finally approach I 90/39, and traffic sucks. I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but lots of people drive on Memorial Day. And now we have signed up to be members of the group of people who do that. Someone who shall remain nameless comes up with the bright idea to try Hwy 51 instead, to avoid the mess of construction at Rockford. Word to the wise: do not do this.

artist rendition

Somewhere around the Oglesby, Ill exit, I awake to a loud noise coming from our vehicle, and SH pulling over onto the shoulder. We have a flat. We spring into action, and start clearing space to get to the spare, moving cases of contraband two-buck Chuck and bags of possessions from the back of the van to the floor in front of the second row of seats. We are very efficient. The only catch is that it turns out this is not where the spare lives, which we discover when we lift up the roll-down third-row seat and realize there is no frickin’ room for a spare back there.

eee haw!

Out comes the Users Manual, which reveals that the spare lives under the car near the rear passenger door. And how does one get it out? By releasing a cable which is accessed from a knob located–you guessed it–on the floor in front of the second row seats. Back goes the wine and bags of crap to the back of the van, to join the pillows, dirty laundry, random shoes, some artwork, and about three cases worth of beer already there, but this time not quite as neatly placed. By the end of our tire-changing ordeal, the car looks like it has been packed by hillbilly crackheads or crackhead hillbillys, I’m not sure which. The 30-year-old upright vacuum we had shoved back there was like the sparkler on top of the crap sundae (or “Crapacopia” as SH coined it). But I digress.

After that, I put myself in charge of discreetly and studiously reading the manual and passing along important tidbits I find there. Since only one person can really apply themselves to the physical tire changing process, I realize that there is a real risk of my participation being perceived as pesky and salt in the wound. So periodically I read something from the manual in a tone that I hope approximates sharing Home Depot sale information from the Sunday paper over the breakfast table, a la: “Hmm…I guess the lug nuts can become stripped if they are over-tightened. Apparently that is a dangerous situation and could cause great bodily harm or death. Interesting!”

Apparently my technique works, because although many an F-bomb is dropped, none of them seems to be flying in my direction. The tire gets changed (note to self: even though the directions tell you to, our van does not have wheel covers, so don’t waste time trying to pry off something you think looks like one). The spare gets put on, and…it is dangerously low on air. Not surprising because, as you might imagine, we had done what I guess you would call “minimal” maintenance on it in the five years we have owned the vehicle, seeing as we had only recently discovered where it lived.

Some good news: while it was quite windy (this is foreshadowing) it was not raining, it was still light out, traffic was moderate, and we were not too far past the Oglesby exit, which turned out to be a good thing because we ended up backing up the quarter mile or so to it in order to get to a gas station to fill the spare. I do not think we helped out north/south relations by doing this in a vehicle with TN plates, but that is neither here nor there.

So, we fill the spare, and SH decides to buy a soda, at which point he realizes his wallet is gone. Yes, gone. Even though this is only the second time in the last 15 years he has done this, now I feel like he is making a habit of it. After some reflection, we determine that it must have fallen out of his pocket while he was changing the tire. Since we backed up the highway to get to the air pump, handily enough mile marker 53, the scene of our incident, is conveniently located on our way to Bloomington (50 mi south), the nearest place we can hopefully get a new tire now that it is 6pm on Memorial Day.

Off we go, hazards flashing, down the shoulder of I39 to find the wallet. We make it about 100 yards and get pulled over (overer? We’re already on the shoulder) by one of Oglesby’s finest. Fortunately, he is very nice, as well as distracted by another call he gets while talking to us, and simply wishes us luck on our search. Which is good because it turns out SH does not have his drivers license.

nice 'do

To our delight, we find SH’s wallet, although when I see it in the distance, it is more removed from mile marker 53 than I expected (more foreshadowing). But I gleefully jump out of the car to pick it up. I open it and find it is completely empty. YHGTBFKM. For a moment we are baffled, because we’re thinking someone cleaned it out, but how on earth would someone notice it on the side of the road? And within 20 minutes of SH losing it? We’ve been keeping our shit together pretty darn well up to this point, but at this moment, SH gets dangerously close to cracking, pulling his hair like Kramer and exclaiming “This is a fucking NIGHTMARE!”

Then it catches my eye, about six feet away…one of SH’s credit cards. Then 10 feet past that, his driver’s license. And we realize: the wind had blown the contents of the wallet all over into the knee-high grass at the side of the road. So, like searching for a lost golf ball after a great drive—but with the added adrenaline rush of the periodic semi barreling by at 70mph and the specter of having to cancel our credit cards while also losing almost all our cash—SH and I criss-cross the shoulder, picking cards and 20’s out of the grass. Unbelievably, we think we found everything, even the Ian’s Pizza buy-9-get-your 10th slice free card.

The rest of the trip is relatively uneventful. Driving 50 mph (the recommended speed limit on the spare, breezily announced by moi: “‘Speed should not exceed 50 mph on spare. Driving too fast can be hazardous.’ Who knew?”) with the hazards on through central Illinois gives us a unique opportunity to really observe the mind-numbing flatness. Make sure you’ve taken away all passengers’ shoelaces if you ever attempt this.

The spare tire gets us the 50 miles to Bloomington, where the nice folks at Sears Automotive get us all set, with five minutes to spare before closing time, and we enjoy a lovely dinner a the Eastland Mall food court. At 8pm, we head out, only 5 short hours behind schedule, and not quite 1/3 of the way home. We are ecstatic.

So this weekend we set a new PR for speed on the trip. Unfortunately, like getting a high score in golf, this is not a Good Thing. Fueled by candy bars, truck stop coffee, egg McMuffins, and a two hour nap in a truck stop parking lot, we roll into our driveway at 6am, 18 short hours after leaving Madison. And now SH needs to get ready for work.

It looks like our first night home alone will be spent eating carry out and falling asleep while trying to finally finish watching In Bruges. But as SH said yesterday, providing perspective in his signature way: it beats getting killed in a war. Happy Memorial Day.

* The last time the kids were gone for a week, within 15 minutes of their departure I gave myself a low and a high ankle sprain while taking out the recycling.

Polite People Go Far vs. Well-Behaved Women Rarely Make History

Hey! Thanks for checking back in! I haven’t fallen off the face of the earth, just teetering on the brink. Here’s step one in getting back in the swing of things.
—————————–
I made a friend. I know she’s a friend because I can move beyond small talk with her, she offered to help me with a massive landscaping project we have going on, and she still calls to see if I want to go for a run, even after witnessing me spit and dry heave. Did I mention she is moving out of state as soon as the school year is over? (Which for us is May 21st. I know, WTF?) Yes, I’ve made other friends, but this one is my favorite TN friend to date. Sigh.

So my new friend who is leaving me gave me a catalog for Montessori – related products. (See why I like her?) I ran across a book called How to Raise an Amazing Child. Because of my frugal nature, I always think borrowing from the library first, rather than buying from Borders.

Our library is a beautiful new building (I think it’s about five years old) that is, unfortunately, a little light on books. I miss my old library, even if the librarians were a little cranky. I can tolerate smile-free service if I can get the yoga DVD I want.

So I looked for How to Raise an Amazing Child in the Williamson County Library system, and not surprisingly, it was not in the catalog. But you know what was? How to Raise a Lady. Hmmm…kinda grabbed my attention. So I read on: Subtitle: A Civilized Guide To Helping Your Daughter Through Her Uncivilized Childhood. Bwoop bwoop, danger Will Robinson. The Amazon description confirmed my suspicions: “How to Raise a Lady is an invaluable resource for parents who hope their little girls will grow up to be the kind of women who know which fork to use, how to treat others, and will generally make their parents proud.” And the author is from…Nashville. Oy.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all about the Southern hospitality and nice manners. I’m picking up tips for myself all the time. But sometimes these things have unintended consequences, like women being concerned with forks and serving others rather than say, self-actualization.

So what about you? Which idea do you subscribe to? The phrase I heard recently from a neighbor, when I complimented him on his kids’ manners: “We tell our kids: Polite People Go Far”? Or the oft-seen in Madison bumper sticker: “Well-Behaved Women Rarely Make History”? Or can they coexist peacefully in the same person?

Huzzah!

whoo hoo!

See that? It’s a van. In my garage. Six short months after moving in, I can now fit a van in my garage. I am very pleased. To those of you who note that the passenger doors are completely inaccessible I say: Why must you rain on my parade?

I was highly motivated to clear a spot for my van under shelter.  Last summer (i.e. until mid-October) I’d break into a sweat every time I’d get in the car, and the kids would burn themselves with the metal parts of the seatbelts.  No more! At least until the return trip from wherever we go.

Side note related to transportation: I have now biked every month since we’ve been here, except January. I take that back: I don’t think I biked in August—I hadn’t unburied my bike from the moving rubble yet. And it was too damn hot. But biking in February? In capris and a long-sleeved shirt? I can live with that!

Preschool Fender Bender

I was recently an eye-witness to a four-year-old backing her Barbie Cadillac SUV into her mom’s Mercedes SUV. I have to say that’s a new one for me. Fortunately there were no injuries. Except to my sense of…well, I don’t know. Propriety? I’m still getting used to the obvious signs of affluence around here. I’m the kinda gal that likes to drive a car that costs less than what I paid for four years of college.

Super Bowl Party, Tennessee Style

Our family was invited to a Super Bowl party. We arrived to a typical scene…kids running around, a crock pot full of chili, a big screen TV. There were four families in attendance, including the host family. Our host asked us what we’d like to drink, and SH and I each accepted the offer of a beer. The host opened the fridge, and inside was a grand total of six beers. Six! For eight adults! And here’s the craziest part: there was still beer in the fridge when we left to go home!

So there were some familiar elements missing from this Super Bowl party scene. There was no deafening clatter of glass as bottles were thrown into the recycling. No beer bottle cozies. No one showed a toddler the label on their beer bottle and then sent him to the fridge to “beer me.” I suppose I knew one could watch the Super Bowl under these circumstances, but I thought only fundamental Christians and recovering alcoholics did.

And you know what? I felt great when I woke up this morning. Who knew?

I think we’re getting used to this place

I’ve noticed a few changes lately that I think are signs we’re starting to accept that we now live in TN (some are positive, others maybe not so much).

(+) Reduction in alcohol consumption. SH and I regularly have been setting new PRs in consumption since the beginning of last year, when we first got the offer to move here. (It really is an effective stress reducer.) Anyone who came to our first “clear out the liquor cabinet” pre-move party in Madison witnessed this firsthand. Surprisingly, we have maintained a high level of consumption. However, the TN sin taxes and lack of Two-Buck Chuck (archaic TN liquor laws prohibit the sale of wine in grocery stores) mean we are quickly burning through our no-state-income-tax windfall. Not to mention the damage to evening-time productivity. Anyhoo, last week I noticed once or twice that we had leftover wine after opening a bottle for dinner. I see this as a trend.

(-) Fewer touristy excursions. Things that have fallen off: trips to Leipers Fork  and Nashville, new restaurant discoveries. In our defense, we were doing some landscaping last month (yes, you can landscape in December down here. I don’t necessarily recommend it – we’ve spent more than enough time digging and mulching in darkness — but it IS possible) so that took up a bit of time.

One exception recently was a return trip back from Loveless Café. Even though it’s in Nashville, the path from our house to Loveless makes you think country, not city. In fact, a large part of the trip is on the Natchez Trace parkway. The first time we went, we thought either we were lost or the GPS was taking us into the woods to kill us. Anyway, on the way back I had some time, and I took a road that went up into the hills and had an appealing name “Waller Holler” (Holler is abbreviated “Hol” on street signs, in case you were wondering). The road did exactly what I was hoping: it wound up into the hills, and since the trees are finally leafless, I had good views of the properties. I was doing ok with not really knowing where I was or where I was going until I came across two of the sorriest shacks you’ve ever seen…they were caricatures of shacks. It was at this moment I decided to look at my gas gauge, only to notice the low fuel light was on. That put a little damper on my adventurous spirit. But I lived to tell the tale.

(+) I often know where I’m going, with a corresponding reduction in f-bombs dropped while driving.

(+) We are no longer finding previously undiscovered banks of light switches in our house. This was a regular occurrence the first few weeks we lived here.

(+) SH is no longer kvetching about the number of stairs (16) between the first and second floors.

(+) If we’re upstairs when the phone rings, we don’t even try to get to the phone before the answering machine kicks in.

All we need now are TN license plates and a local pediatrician. Once we have those, will there be anything left to keep us from calling ourselves Tennesseans?

Toto, we’re not in Wisconsin anymore

Headline in the “Southern Cooking” column of today’s The Tennessean:

“Topic of hog killing stirs up nostalgia”

‘Nuff said.

I Googled someone, is that wrong?

I googled someone I just met. Is that wrong? It feels a little, well, unseemly. But if someone took the time to google me, I think I’d be flattered. Right? Maybe?

 

Come to think of it, I’d better go check what they’d find…