Friday, May 14, 2010
Hi, I'm Kay and I'm a Flowerholic...
I am not making fun of people with addictions recovering or not. I am saying that I am one of you. I can not stop buying flowers and plants. I'm sure this seems funny but really it's true. Let me put in perspective the scope of my addiction. I have a yard that is about the size of a postage stamp, granted at the time we bought the house, the realtor boasted that it was one of the largest most regular lots in the neighborhood. To give you an accurate size, I'd say our house and yard take up about the same amount of space as your average McDonald's with parking lot. Not a play park McDonald's, just the plain restaurant with a drive through and enough space to park maybe 2o cars. Do you get it? I can't give you measurements, cause I don't know them and am no good at guesstimating. It's small, it takes us less than an hour to mow the lawn. Our house is about 1900 sq ft. including garage. Now that you have the size in your mind let me tell you I have managed to put in a total of 14 flower beds, 39 pots, 3 fruit trees, 4 rose bushes, and 1 twisted willow tree. And I want more!!! It started innocently enough. We put in a side fence to keep our little dog from running the neighborhood biting people. Our then nasty homeowner's association declared our fence ugly and wanted us to take it down as we were lowering property values in the neighborhood. This is another story. We declined to take down our fence but did agree to plant some things around it to camoflage it. So it began. We bought four pampass grasses, and one climbing rose. In just one short growing season these managed to completely cover the fence. Success! Sadly, our little dog died and we no longer needed the fence. However, since I am an evil, vindictive person I did not want to take the fence down, instead we bought an above ground pool and put it in the fence area. I bought some large and small flower pots and embellished the pool with lovely potted plants. We had our own little pool oasis! Sadly, our pool was destroyed in some 80mph winds. Still I did not feel enough compassion for our homeowner's association to take down the fence. Instead my daughter and I embarked on the most glorious garden ever. With wip in hand we made boyfriend build us five raised garden boxes. We made our own garden dirt and studied many gardening books. In the end we decided on companion planting and container gardening. We spent the next few weeks buying and planting tomatoes, onions, peppers of all kinds, marigolds, zinnias, lavender, parsley, thyme, basil, lemon balm, rosemary, garlic, mint, spearmint, sunflowers, vincas, and creeping jasmine. In the pots we planted mandevilla vine, hybrid geraniums, assorted sedums, hens and chicks, moss roses, a banana tree, coleus, more vincas, some white flower things and some blue flower things. In addition to all of this we encouraged the growth of a wild passion flower vine and planted another rose bush outside the fence area. We kept telling ourselves that when we finished this "side yard" garden we would stop and just enjoy it. We would spend a few early morning hours a few times a week tending it and then be ready to go to the beach for the rest of the day. We moved here after all to worship the beach not to work hard in the yard. Our obsession with the "side yard" garden continued. We even asked for suggestions from friends and family for names for the garden. It was such a special place that we couldn't keep calling it the "side yard" garden. We created art just for the garden, we bought garden stepping stones, made spider webs from beads, used discarded items for garden ornaments and had husband rig up a fancy watering system. We have toyed with calling it many things including, "Where the Wild Things Grow," and "The Pot Field." No name as of yet has been determined. This flurry of activity was not enough for me however. Like the true addict that I am, I realized that I couldn't stop with the side yard. I must improve the existing flower beds and patios. I have added, pruned, dug up, transplanted and gotten more dirt under my finger nails in the last month than most people get in a life time. I think that most people would say enough. It looks nice, it will grow and mature, all good things will come in time. But not me. I look at the garden and see more possibilities. I can not go grocery shopping without stopping in the garden center for more ideas and a flower or two. I work at an actual job two days a week. Between my home and my work are two garden centers. I stop most days on my way home and come home with on average four more plants. I can't stop. I am surrounded by enablers, husband loves flowers. Plus husband has mentality of more is more. If you like peanut butter and are out of peanut butter, you should go to store immediately to buy peanut butter, not one jar, but two, maybe four jars, so that you never run out of peanut butter, when you get down to one jar, maybe two, you buy more peanut butter... Daughter has same addiction as me and encourages co-dependancy. Grandson likes to periodically step on, pick or otherwise destroy flowers, requiring purchase of more flowers to replace them. Next door neighbors have equally beautiful gardens, must keep up with the neighbors. Homeowners association has rules about where you can grow vegetables in your yard, must continue to piss off homowner's association by just skirting inside the rules. So you see, my addiction. I have forgone all sense of sensibility. I have only been to the beach twice this spring. I have not spent any money on cute new summer clothes or shoes. I have not spent any money on grandchildren. I have neglected friends. I haven't bathed my dogs or treated them for fleas yet this spring. My bedroom hasn't been vacuumed in a week. I go to sleep thinking of one more hanging basket. Tonight when I pulled into my driveway, I smiled. My little patch of earth is beautiful. It brings happiness to me and my family. I am going to the beach tomorrow. I am having breakfast and dinner with friends. Who knows, I might even go shopping the next day for the grandbabies.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Mole Wars
I am normally a peace loving, harmony in the universe, live and let live kind of gal. However, I have recently found while in my pursuit of creating a little backyard paradise that some things must die! And Moles are at the top of the list.
It all started several summers ago...
My mom, who lives next door to me, had a terrible looking lawn. So like any good neighbor she called in the experts who told her that she had two problems, moles and grubs. It seems the moles moved into her yard to eat the grubs that were living under the ground getting fat on her grass roots. At this point our lawn looked just fine, if you consider centipede grass fine. Centipede is the recommended poor man's grass in South Carolina, it doesn't need much water, it's green, and it will choke out most weeds as it is a creeping crawler, hence the name. It also doesn't grow tall, which cuts down on mowing, which makes home owners happy cause it is stinking hot in South Carolina. Anyway, like any eco minded citizen, I agreed with the lawn expert that the best way to take care of the mole problem was to take away their food source, causing them to relocate to "greener" pastures. This did require killing the grubs, I was okay with that because it turns out that most of the grubs are June Bug or Japanese Beetle larvae. I can't see any good purpose in the June Bug or Beetle, all they seem to do is eat my roses and fly at my head. Who needs their nasty little offspring eating the roots of the grass? So we all set about putting some kind of spore in the grass that apparently disrupts the life cycle of the grub, thereby preserving the life of the furry little mammal and encouraging the relocation of said furry little mammal. At this point, I have in my head a picture of a mouse like creature that tunnels under ground to feed and stay safe from predators. I am the champion of the cute little mole, because it's furry, it's can outsmart it's predators and it feeds on the very critter that potentially could destroy our lawns, roses and hair dos. I just want the mole to move so that we don't have unsightly tunnels running every which way in our manicured lawn. I picture the sweet little mole moving across the nearby highway into the acres of lovely field just waiting for her and her little babies.
Fast forward to present day. Now not only does my mom have mole tunnels but the little bastards have moved into my yard. I have had to reset my patio pavers due to the tunnels under the patio causing cave ins, sinkage, and crackage. When I water my carefully planted perennials I have to watch out for sinkholes that threaten to swallow my entire plant. AND, I still have bumper crops of June Bugs, so much for the upside of moles. Oh and one more thing, it turns out that they are hideous looking things with what looks like an octopus hanging off their faces, they have wretchedly long claws, and weird looking eyes rendering them blind in the day light. Still they are one of God's creatures so we try to continue with the relocation program. I came home from work one day to find that my daughter was filling all their holes with water. She had read that if you make them uncomfortable they will relocate. Nope, seems like they enjoyed the bath and invited some of their friends. Next a neighbor told us to try juicy fruit gum as a repellent, nope they sent letters thanking us for our kindness and asking for more.
Finally, we read somewhere that the only effective way to get rid of a mole problem is to kill them. So we set off to the home improvement store to see what mole killing products were available. And this is where we began to realize the mole really is a smart creature. Basically there are only two ways to kill the mole. One involves a poison so toxic that it can not be used anywhere that children or animals might come into contact with it, and it is not to be used anywhere you are growing food because as the little moles move about they may spread the poison to places you don't intend. The only other choice is a guillotine type device that will chop the mole in half, problem is it doesn't distinguish between a mole and a child's hand. Plus how gross would that be, I'm assuming someone would have to clean up after these little death traps!
So for now we are trying an eco-friendly yet terribly painful death for the little varmints. Habenero peppers! You stuff them into the holes, the moles eat them and and commit suicide from the pain of the burning or something like that. Our first round of pepper treatment has been accomplished, so far no thank you notes. And I'm almost afraid to say this but we do seem to have fewer new tunnels each morning. Eat that ugly mole!
It all started several summers ago...
My mom, who lives next door to me, had a terrible looking lawn. So like any good neighbor she called in the experts who told her that she had two problems, moles and grubs. It seems the moles moved into her yard to eat the grubs that were living under the ground getting fat on her grass roots. At this point our lawn looked just fine, if you consider centipede grass fine. Centipede is the recommended poor man's grass in South Carolina, it doesn't need much water, it's green, and it will choke out most weeds as it is a creeping crawler, hence the name. It also doesn't grow tall, which cuts down on mowing, which makes home owners happy cause it is stinking hot in South Carolina. Anyway, like any eco minded citizen, I agreed with the lawn expert that the best way to take care of the mole problem was to take away their food source, causing them to relocate to "greener" pastures. This did require killing the grubs, I was okay with that because it turns out that most of the grubs are June Bug or Japanese Beetle larvae. I can't see any good purpose in the June Bug or Beetle, all they seem to do is eat my roses and fly at my head. Who needs their nasty little offspring eating the roots of the grass? So we all set about putting some kind of spore in the grass that apparently disrupts the life cycle of the grub, thereby preserving the life of the furry little mammal and encouraging the relocation of said furry little mammal. At this point, I have in my head a picture of a mouse like creature that tunnels under ground to feed and stay safe from predators. I am the champion of the cute little mole, because it's furry, it's can outsmart it's predators and it feeds on the very critter that potentially could destroy our lawns, roses and hair dos. I just want the mole to move so that we don't have unsightly tunnels running every which way in our manicured lawn. I picture the sweet little mole moving across the nearby highway into the acres of lovely field just waiting for her and her little babies.
Fast forward to present day. Now not only does my mom have mole tunnels but the little bastards have moved into my yard. I have had to reset my patio pavers due to the tunnels under the patio causing cave ins, sinkage, and crackage. When I water my carefully planted perennials I have to watch out for sinkholes that threaten to swallow my entire plant. AND, I still have bumper crops of June Bugs, so much for the upside of moles. Oh and one more thing, it turns out that they are hideous looking things with what looks like an octopus hanging off their faces, they have wretchedly long claws, and weird looking eyes rendering them blind in the day light. Still they are one of God's creatures so we try to continue with the relocation program. I came home from work one day to find that my daughter was filling all their holes with water. She had read that if you make them uncomfortable they will relocate. Nope, seems like they enjoyed the bath and invited some of their friends. Next a neighbor told us to try juicy fruit gum as a repellent, nope they sent letters thanking us for our kindness and asking for more.
Finally, we read somewhere that the only effective way to get rid of a mole problem is to kill them. So we set off to the home improvement store to see what mole killing products were available. And this is where we began to realize the mole really is a smart creature. Basically there are only two ways to kill the mole. One involves a poison so toxic that it can not be used anywhere that children or animals might come into contact with it, and it is not to be used anywhere you are growing food because as the little moles move about they may spread the poison to places you don't intend. The only other choice is a guillotine type device that will chop the mole in half, problem is it doesn't distinguish between a mole and a child's hand. Plus how gross would that be, I'm assuming someone would have to clean up after these little death traps!
So for now we are trying an eco-friendly yet terribly painful death for the little varmints. Habenero peppers! You stuff them into the holes, the moles eat them and and commit suicide from the pain of the burning or something like that. Our first round of pepper treatment has been accomplished, so far no thank you notes. And I'm almost afraid to say this but we do seem to have fewer new tunnels each morning. Eat that ugly mole!
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Looking for Home
Yesterday my #3 daughter, her boyfriend and I went looking for a place for them to call their first home. Since boyfriend moved down here from Michigan he has been living in our garage. It doesn't get more countrified than that. It is actually a nice garage but there is no heat or air conditioning. He has managed during the winter with space heaters, but he does not want to spend anymore hot hours out there than he has to. This is a big motivator, I hope, and the mercury is rising daily. We hit 85 yesterday. It snowed in Michigan yesterday. HA HA. But I digress.
To continue, we are bursting at the seams in our little house. We have been saving furniture for several years knowing that # 3 daughter will move out soon. Our living room looks like a furniture warehouse and daily I pray that the ceiling doesn't cave in from the weight of the stuff stored in the attic. So while I will miss #3 daughter and boyfriend, I am looking forward to reclaiming some space. Also we have come dangerously close to some of the scenarios one might find on the Jerry Springer Show. Picture this: boyfriend on couch playing on line poker all day, while everyone else is out working or doing work around the house. boyfriend bringing in an arm load of dishes from the garage just as we are finishing up cleaning the kitchen. It's really not as bad as all that thank goodness. He has been working and actively looking for bigger and better employment. He has also proved useful when I need really large deep holes dug in our yard which consists of the hardest clay God ever made. Most holes require the use of a pick ax. I have enjoyed many a glass of ice tea, sitting on the screen porch in the shade while watching boyfriend carve out another hole for one of my new rose bushes, plum trees, and even a dead dog once. Actually I didn't enjoy the dead dog, that was very sad, but still it required a very deep hole in a very, very hard piece of earth. Still digressing.
Back to the home search. We started with a little house just north of us in a little intracoastal waterway town. The house definitely had potential and was very charming. It was built almost 50 years ago, closer to the ocean but sometime during it's history the owners moved the entire house inland about 6 miles. Strange. The lovely things were original hardwood floors, tongue and grove pine paneling throughout, a large open and bright kitchen all nestled in the midst of sun blocking live oak branches. The house could be a cool oasis from the hot summer sun, OR it could be a death trap , with a roof that needed to be replaced yesterday, windows that would not close all the way, dead roaches sprinkled here and there and a toilet that when flushed screams, jumps, and finally settles into a gurgle for about 15 minutes. I don't think so!
We moved on to the next house, just one block over from the death trap charmer. Ah, this had more potential. I was only able to walk around the outside of the house as we did not have a key yet. boyfriend and #3 daughter seemed more excited about this one. Here we had a cozy covered front porch, a large yard with trees, a solid looking roof and newer windows, complete with storm windows for protection from the forces of hurricanes. Peeking inside confirmed more hardwood floors and tongue and groove pine walls, quaint. Downside, not sure the owners would be interested in renting and some work would be required on the outside at least, unless you are one of those Carraba's style people and don't mind a pine tree or six growing out of your rain gutters. #3 daughter and boyfriend got to go back later with the realtor and some keys to see the inside of the house. I was full of high hopes. But when they got home and described the interior I couldn't feel any excitement from them. Nothing I could put my finger on, just a feeling really. After some sly but probing questions, I felt that I might be on to something. It seems there was no place for a dining room table. OMG!!! Really? These are people who are in love with the idea of renting an older, charming, off the beaten path type of house, they even have dreams of owning an older farm house on some acreage with maybe a dilapidated barn or two. Huh.
So we spent the evening on line looking at rental adds. Back to the drawing board and the garage for them I guess. They say home is where the heart is. My heart is definitely here, I love them and all the chaos a house filled with 6 people can bring. So while I am excited for them to find their Shangrila and to reclaim my space, I also don't mind a little more time with my baby under my sagging but happy ceiling.
To continue, we are bursting at the seams in our little house. We have been saving furniture for several years knowing that # 3 daughter will move out soon. Our living room looks like a furniture warehouse and daily I pray that the ceiling doesn't cave in from the weight of the stuff stored in the attic. So while I will miss #3 daughter and boyfriend, I am looking forward to reclaiming some space. Also we have come dangerously close to some of the scenarios one might find on the Jerry Springer Show. Picture this: boyfriend on couch playing on line poker all day, while everyone else is out working or doing work around the house. boyfriend bringing in an arm load of dishes from the garage just as we are finishing up cleaning the kitchen. It's really not as bad as all that thank goodness. He has been working and actively looking for bigger and better employment. He has also proved useful when I need really large deep holes dug in our yard which consists of the hardest clay God ever made. Most holes require the use of a pick ax. I have enjoyed many a glass of ice tea, sitting on the screen porch in the shade while watching boyfriend carve out another hole for one of my new rose bushes, plum trees, and even a dead dog once. Actually I didn't enjoy the dead dog, that was very sad, but still it required a very deep hole in a very, very hard piece of earth. Still digressing.
Back to the home search. We started with a little house just north of us in a little intracoastal waterway town. The house definitely had potential and was very charming. It was built almost 50 years ago, closer to the ocean but sometime during it's history the owners moved the entire house inland about 6 miles. Strange. The lovely things were original hardwood floors, tongue and grove pine paneling throughout, a large open and bright kitchen all nestled in the midst of sun blocking live oak branches. The house could be a cool oasis from the hot summer sun, OR it could be a death trap , with a roof that needed to be replaced yesterday, windows that would not close all the way, dead roaches sprinkled here and there and a toilet that when flushed screams, jumps, and finally settles into a gurgle for about 15 minutes. I don't think so!
We moved on to the next house, just one block over from the death trap charmer. Ah, this had more potential. I was only able to walk around the outside of the house as we did not have a key yet. boyfriend and #3 daughter seemed more excited about this one. Here we had a cozy covered front porch, a large yard with trees, a solid looking roof and newer windows, complete with storm windows for protection from the forces of hurricanes. Peeking inside confirmed more hardwood floors and tongue and groove pine walls, quaint. Downside, not sure the owners would be interested in renting and some work would be required on the outside at least, unless you are one of those Carraba's style people and don't mind a pine tree or six growing out of your rain gutters. #3 daughter and boyfriend got to go back later with the realtor and some keys to see the inside of the house. I was full of high hopes. But when they got home and described the interior I couldn't feel any excitement from them. Nothing I could put my finger on, just a feeling really. After some sly but probing questions, I felt that I might be on to something. It seems there was no place for a dining room table. OMG!!! Really? These are people who are in love with the idea of renting an older, charming, off the beaten path type of house, they even have dreams of owning an older farm house on some acreage with maybe a dilapidated barn or two. Huh.
So we spent the evening on line looking at rental adds. Back to the drawing board and the garage for them I guess. They say home is where the heart is. My heart is definitely here, I love them and all the chaos a house filled with 6 people can bring. So while I am excited for them to find their Shangrila and to reclaim my space, I also don't mind a little more time with my baby under my sagging but happy ceiling.
Monday, April 12, 2010
I'monna Cutchew (translation: I'm going to cut you)
Today's "fresh air" is something that could only happen in the south...I think.
My boss gave me a serrated blade, jack knife today. It was a first for me, maybe this happens more than I think, but in my nearly 50 years I have never once heard anyone say those words. "Hey guess what? My boss gave me a jack knife today." Nope doesn't ring a bell. This is how I came to be the recipient of such a gift.
Last week while performing routine patient care I had the misfortune of having a man threaten me and my co-worker. The man was raised in an area of New York City where nightmares come from. The man, who I will refer to from now on as "CHArLIE" (Crazy, Harlem, Asshole, Living now In Eastern NC), spent the first half of our encounter regaling us with stories of his sordid past in the streets of Harlem. These stories involved some well known mobsters, gang land rivalries, beat downs, and at least one bayonet. It's very hard to be polite when someone thinks gruesome tales meant to shock are appropriate fodder for small talk. I just don't know the correct professional response to " I once ran a man through with my bayonet for raping my friend's sister. He didn't die, but I sure taught him a lesson." I mean, "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, that's the worst flippin' story I ever heard, shut the hell up with the street justice shit," hardly seems professional. So I tried, "Oh my goodness, that's awful, I don't think I can stand hearing about such tragedy. Tell me about your recent illness." My hope was that CHArLIE would dig down and find the same "gallantry" he showed in protecting his friend's sister to protect my delicate sensibilities. My hopes were dashed. I will however protect my readers and not refer to any of the other macabre mayhem. We did finally get back on track and begin to explain the reason for his visit to the hospital and what our next steps would be. At some point during our explanation CHArLIE got nervous. He did not like some of the things required in order to improve his health and quality of life. My co-worker, also a transplanted northerner tried to go 'good ole boy' and cajole CHArLIE with off jokes comparing our treatments to a nagging house wife, something to the effect of "you can't live with it, you can't live without it." This quickly deteriorated into the aforementioned threat, CHArLIE told us "I'mma cut yew." I was ready to bolt, my co-worker still clinging to his 'good ole boy' routine jokingly said, "Hey now, I don't need to frisk you do I?" To which CHArLIE responded, "You think I'm kiddin? Try me." At this point we backed down and told him he only needed to do those things with which he was comfortable, what we were describing was optimal therapy but he was certainly free to choose his own quality of life and we were just here to support him in his efforts, blah, blah, blah. CHArLIE left and I hope I never have to see him again, call me hyper-sensitive, but there was just something about the way he said, "I'mma cut yew."
At this point you may be thinking "oh, I see it's a joke, her boss gave her knife as a joke, in case she ever has to see CHArLIE or any of his "people" again." That would be wrong. What happened next, I believe is so southern that it channelled the irony of "steel magnolias." After CHArLIE left, we went to tell our boss about our experience. Instead of the outrage on our behalf I was expecting her to respond with, she quietly reached under her desk, grabbed her purse and pulled out a switch blade. As she pushed the mechanism that springs the blade into it's working position she said, in the most genteel manner (think Dixie Carter), "Y'all should've come and got me. I would have shown him my little partner and said right back to him, 'you ain't gonna cut me, cause I'monna cutchew first, so sit back a take your medicine like a man or quit wasting my time sir.'" So many things about this are worthy of my admiration. I love the way she said 'I'monna cutchew,' it was dripping sweet tea but had little cold ice cubes of truth floating in it. I would put money on 'I'monna cutchew' over "I'mma cut yew' any day of the week. The other thing that I admire is that she ended it all with 'sir,' respectful and professional yet conveying the straighten up and fly right admonishment only a mother can get away with when dealing with a man like CHArLIE. I said none of this to her of course, I think these things in retrospect only. Instead I said, "You carry a switch blade in your purse?" She said, "You don't? Honey, how long you been living in the south? I thought you said your people was from here? Surely, they got knives in their pocket books?" I know that to the untrained reader the previous dialogue may make my boss seem ignorant, but in truth it's quite the opposite. She is very intelligent and can put together a sentence in a professional way with the best of them, she was just using her comfortable talk with me. It's the way we all talk when with our 'people,' no matter where you are from. So now you probably see the end of the story...When I got to work today, my boss came and found me. She said she had something special for me. She handed me a serrated blade, jack knife, "Welcome home, you are now one of us with a partner in your pocket book. Now put that in your lab coat pocket and get back to work darlin." I am currently practicing "I'monna cutchew" and opening and closing my knife without loosing a finger.
My boss gave me a serrated blade, jack knife today. It was a first for me, maybe this happens more than I think, but in my nearly 50 years I have never once heard anyone say those words. "Hey guess what? My boss gave me a jack knife today." Nope doesn't ring a bell. This is how I came to be the recipient of such a gift.
Last week while performing routine patient care I had the misfortune of having a man threaten me and my co-worker. The man was raised in an area of New York City where nightmares come from. The man, who I will refer to from now on as "CHArLIE" (Crazy, Harlem, Asshole, Living now In Eastern NC), spent the first half of our encounter regaling us with stories of his sordid past in the streets of Harlem. These stories involved some well known mobsters, gang land rivalries, beat downs, and at least one bayonet. It's very hard to be polite when someone thinks gruesome tales meant to shock are appropriate fodder for small talk. I just don't know the correct professional response to " I once ran a man through with my bayonet for raping my friend's sister. He didn't die, but I sure taught him a lesson." I mean, "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, that's the worst flippin' story I ever heard, shut the hell up with the street justice shit," hardly seems professional. So I tried, "Oh my goodness, that's awful, I don't think I can stand hearing about such tragedy. Tell me about your recent illness." My hope was that CHArLIE would dig down and find the same "gallantry" he showed in protecting his friend's sister to protect my delicate sensibilities. My hopes were dashed. I will however protect my readers and not refer to any of the other macabre mayhem. We did finally get back on track and begin to explain the reason for his visit to the hospital and what our next steps would be. At some point during our explanation CHArLIE got nervous. He did not like some of the things required in order to improve his health and quality of life. My co-worker, also a transplanted northerner tried to go 'good ole boy' and cajole CHArLIE with off jokes comparing our treatments to a nagging house wife, something to the effect of "you can't live with it, you can't live without it." This quickly deteriorated into the aforementioned threat, CHArLIE told us "I'mma cut yew." I was ready to bolt, my co-worker still clinging to his 'good ole boy' routine jokingly said, "Hey now, I don't need to frisk you do I?" To which CHArLIE responded, "You think I'm kiddin? Try me." At this point we backed down and told him he only needed to do those things with which he was comfortable, what we were describing was optimal therapy but he was certainly free to choose his own quality of life and we were just here to support him in his efforts, blah, blah, blah. CHArLIE left and I hope I never have to see him again, call me hyper-sensitive, but there was just something about the way he said, "I'mma cut yew."
At this point you may be thinking "oh, I see it's a joke, her boss gave her knife as a joke, in case she ever has to see CHArLIE or any of his "people" again." That would be wrong. What happened next, I believe is so southern that it channelled the irony of "steel magnolias." After CHArLIE left, we went to tell our boss about our experience. Instead of the outrage on our behalf I was expecting her to respond with, she quietly reached under her desk, grabbed her purse and pulled out a switch blade. As she pushed the mechanism that springs the blade into it's working position she said, in the most genteel manner (think Dixie Carter), "Y'all should've come and got me. I would have shown him my little partner and said right back to him, 'you ain't gonna cut me, cause I'monna cutchew first, so sit back a take your medicine like a man or quit wasting my time sir.'" So many things about this are worthy of my admiration. I love the way she said 'I'monna cutchew,' it was dripping sweet tea but had little cold ice cubes of truth floating in it. I would put money on 'I'monna cutchew' over "I'mma cut yew' any day of the week. The other thing that I admire is that she ended it all with 'sir,' respectful and professional yet conveying the straighten up and fly right admonishment only a mother can get away with when dealing with a man like CHArLIE. I said none of this to her of course, I think these things in retrospect only. Instead I said, "You carry a switch blade in your purse?" She said, "You don't? Honey, how long you been living in the south? I thought you said your people was from here? Surely, they got knives in their pocket books?" I know that to the untrained reader the previous dialogue may make my boss seem ignorant, but in truth it's quite the opposite. She is very intelligent and can put together a sentence in a professional way with the best of them, she was just using her comfortable talk with me. It's the way we all talk when with our 'people,' no matter where you are from. So now you probably see the end of the story...When I got to work today, my boss came and found me. She said she had something special for me. She handed me a serrated blade, jack knife, "Welcome home, you are now one of us with a partner in your pocket book. Now put that in your lab coat pocket and get back to work darlin." I am currently practicing "I'monna cutchew" and opening and closing my knife without loosing a finger.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
I didn't win?!?!
I recently entered a short story contest. This was a first for me. My writing career started with a steamy romance written in High School, which to my embarassement my mother found. I find I am still embarassed by this, how does Jude DeVeroux do it? I was so traumatized by that experience that I stuck to letter writing for the next 10 years. Several recipients of my letters saved them and these letters have found their way back to me over the years. It's funny to read them and I will post some of them on this blog in the future.
Back to the short story contest. After moving to South Carolina 4 years ago, I started a book about my experiences with moving and the culture shock that greeted us in a small southern town. It was the first time in a long time that I let my family read something I had written other than letters of course. Well, they liked it. They gave me suggestions for making it longer, for what tense to use and other general comments. I got excited, maybe I could be a writer. I daydreamed about the talk shows I would go on after my first best seller. I thought about the bio that would be inside the cover of my books. I vowed to loose weight so that my publicity photo would show a youthful almost 50 year old. I thought about who I would thank and most importantly how the dedication would read. I eventually came back to reality and realized that I had no idea how or what I needed to really write a book that people outside of those who know and love me would want to read. So I entered the short story contest, just to see what would happen. I edited one of the chapters from my "book." It was called Boobs and Dixie Cups. Of course, I will blog this later too. I am sad to report I didn't win, I didn't even get a thanks for entering letter. So for now I will confine my efforts to this blog and see what you all think.
Back to the short story contest. After moving to South Carolina 4 years ago, I started a book about my experiences with moving and the culture shock that greeted us in a small southern town. It was the first time in a long time that I let my family read something I had written other than letters of course. Well, they liked it. They gave me suggestions for making it longer, for what tense to use and other general comments. I got excited, maybe I could be a writer. I daydreamed about the talk shows I would go on after my first best seller. I thought about the bio that would be inside the cover of my books. I vowed to loose weight so that my publicity photo would show a youthful almost 50 year old. I thought about who I would thank and most importantly how the dedication would read. I eventually came back to reality and realized that I had no idea how or what I needed to really write a book that people outside of those who know and love me would want to read. So I entered the short story contest, just to see what would happen. I edited one of the chapters from my "book." It was called Boobs and Dixie Cups. Of course, I will blog this later too. I am sad to report I didn't win, I didn't even get a thanks for entering letter. So for now I will confine my efforts to this blog and see what you all think.
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