All for cheap beer...

So this morning was hectic.  I was up early, doing school work.  I get to my babysitting gig late, and on the way in to the office stop to have lunch with a friend.  My boss calls me and asks when I'll be back to cover the office.  I was like, since when is that an issue?  We have machines for a reason.  But I got there as soon as I could.  

So I'm sitting at my desk, the phone's ringing off the hook, and one of them is from boss man's girlfriend.

"How's the office?"

"Um, fine."

"Really?  It was broken in to."

Um, huh?  I had no idea.  I did a quick scan of the office - all expensive stuff, i.e. the recording equipment, computers, CD drives, phones, and instruments are in place.  Thom shows me the door - clearly jimmied.  The dead bolt had been ripped out.  Explains why we needed someone at the office.

Their prize?

3 cans of Milwaukee's Best and a Dell laptop from 1987.

Seriously?  Why go to the trouble of breaking and entering for 3 cans of cheap beer and a useless laptop?  I could think of so many other things to do with my time.  Even as a homeless person.  If you're going to break into an office full of expensive equipment, make it count.  

I freakin' love music row.  It reminds me of last summer.  I was in a meeting toward the back of the building and didn't hear someone enter through the main entrance.  My boss finally heard something and we walk back to my office.  A homeless guy is standing in front of my desk.  

Homeless Guy: "Can I sweep your parking lot?"

Boss man: "Well, we have someone that takes care of that.  Thanks, I think you'd better go."

Homeless Guy: "Come on man, can I rake the yard?"

Boss man: "No, we're good thank you."

Homeless guy: "Can I get a drink of water at least?"

Boss man: "Sure."  

We gave him some water and sent him on his way, only to find out later that he'd stolen a couple hundred dollars cash out of my purse (I was a waitress at the time... and carried a ridiculous amount of cash on me.  I learned quick.)

Yeah, I work in the ghetto.

Crossroads? ,

So I spend an inordinate amount of time planning my future.  My mom yells at me for this, because I'm sure it's exhausting.  I have tossed around cities and jobs and general life plans endlessly, praying and thinking and trying to get the next chapter of my life mapped out.

So far, I've looked at NYC, Chicago, Nashville, Raleigh, and Austin as potential destinations. 

Yes, I have even looked into Australia.  (Which is not entirely out of the running, depending on the results of the election in November...)

I've come to the following conclusions:

Chicago: Entirely too cold.  I don't do winter very well. I am not entirely sure I can grasp the concept that people actually function in single digit winter.  I would probably not work from November to April.  Snow on the ground is clearly God giving me permission to stay in bed. 

New York: Falls under the entirely too cold for a southerner category as well.  Not to mention the fact that I would die in the city.  I like to drive and play outside too much.  But B is there. And the job market is better.  

Austin: I know I'd do well in Austin. I'd love it. It's warm, dry, and full of cowboys and live music.  The issue? Proximity to ANYTHING I am familiar with.  Which may not be altogether a bad thing.

Nashville: Still not completely out of the running.  I'm pretty established here.  I have great friends.  It's a good place to live.  Well, at least Williamson County is.  But the job market here is pretty unfortunate, and I just don't think I can play this game forever.

Australia: Aussies are crazy. Although, I'm not entirely opposed to the idea of being a beach bum.  And I might pick up a sweet accent.

Let's face it... I'm going to end up back in NC.  So what the heck does that mean?  What will I do there?  Because once I get my $90,000 piece of paper I will not be waiting tables or changing diapers for strangers. The short story is that I have absolutely no idea what I'll do.  Honestly, I'm not the best at making life plans.  I change my mind daily.  I'm emotional about it, I sometimes let my forthcoming freedom and my curiosity get the best of me.  I get so excited about what I CAN do, and want to do ALL OF IT.  RIGHT NOW.

Basically I try to do God's job, without asking him what His plans are.  

A good friend of mine pointed out tonight that every time I go home, there is something different that seems to pull me back in that direction.  A different opportunity, a different relationship - something new every trip. She's right.  This pull I feel toward home isn't an accident.  

I've got to go where I'm being led.

My Field Trip To Lawrenceburg, TN.

So back in January, I was a clown for a kids birthday party an hour and a half southeast of where I live. Basically, Alabama. So, of course, I underestimate the amount of time it will take me to get there.  I'm in a hurry.  I get pulled over, because that's what happens to me.  We're all aware of my luck with cars.

The cop was definitely not forgiving.  He wrote me up for everything he could find - 4 total citations, with a mandatory court date of March 28.  I was pretty bitter about the idea of driving back out to Lawrenceburg again but I wasn't really in a position to negotiate.

So Thursday night I go to prepare for my next adventure to Podunk, Tennessee.  I look at my ticket.  The time at the top says 2:15.  Excited that they gave me a time, I get my paperwork together and go about my business.  Around noon on Friday, I'm walking out the door to my office and look at the ticket again. 2:15 was definitely the citation time.  My court time was at 9am.  I am envisioning a warrant out for my arrest, and call the clerk in a mild panic.

Me: So I'm having a mild panic attack. My court time was 

at 9am and I misread my time on the ticket.

Clerk: Wait, you're the one coming from Nashville, right? (I'd already called for directions)

Me: Yes ma'am, I am.

Clerk:  Well just get on down here, be safe. They'll be in for a while, you'll be okay.

Me: But I'm still in Nashville. I have to drive down there.  There's no warrant out?

Clerk:  You'll be fine. If they call your name and you're not there, they'll come out and I'll tell them you called.

Me: You're sure? I won't be cuffed when I walk in?

Clerk:  No. Just get on down here, you called and let me know, it's okay. 

Me: Okay. I'm on my way.

So on the drive down Rachel calls me, and I'm talking, not entirely sure where I'm going. Next thing I know, I'm like, 15 minutes from the Alabama border.  Deciding to focus on getting there, as I'm already about 4 hours late, I hang up and call the courthouse again.  Apparently Nashville is a foreign land to people in Lawrence County.  No one knew where to tell me to go. So eventually I figure out that I'm 20 miles past my exit, and tune into the Alabama radio stations for the remainder of the drive.  

The closer I get to Lawrence County, the stranger things seem to get. I start seeing an

 abundance of trailers and rusted out, obviously

 immobile cars parked on lawns.  I briefly 

wonder if anyone would notice if I parked my Toyota between them, but realize quickly that would require another means of getting myself back to Nashville.  I did NOT want to be without transportation in this part of the world. ----->

Apparently Lawrence County is Amish country - Tennessee style. (Yes, that's a horse and buggy crossing sign, and that is a meat outlet behind it.) I manage not to kill any horses or people, and keep driving into "town".  There's a Wal-Mart (of course) and about 37 Rik's BBQ gas 

station/restaurants. 

Eventually I make it to the courthouse.  I walk in, now roughly 5 hours late for my appearance, and,  after riding in quite possibly the scariest elevator I've ever encountered, I make it to the

 traffic citation office.  The lady immediately recognizes me as the one that called her a grand

 total of 4 times that day, and she send me back to the judge.  Who is sitting in an office the size

of a closet that she shared with another woman, flipping through folders.  She opens mine up, 

crosses off three out of the 4 violations, and reduces the speeding violation to the minimum.  It took a grand total of 42 seconds, she sends me back out front and I'm done.  Nothing goes on my record, and I've been released from several hundred dollars of fees.  

Sweet.

So I hop back in my car and start to head out again, completely relieved.  This time I spend my drive enjoying the scenery.  Apparently the hot spot was the Kuntry Kitchen, and if I hadn't been alone, I would have insisted on stopping. I made the trek back to Nashville, slightly 

impressed that the Toyota had survived the adventure.

Basically, I should never drive. Period.

One of my finest moments.

So let me preface this by saying that I have been sick for the better part of a week, I am sleep deprived, and stressed out. Not that that excuses this. I just thought I would mention it.

So last night I made the drive from Nashville to Raleigh for the 13725412th time. I rented a car, because as you all know, my vehicle struggles to make it, like, out of the parking space in the morning. So after a slight struggle at the car rental place, I get on the road an hour later than intended. I get a little east of Nashville and stop to gas up.

I open the little superman blue door of the Chevy Cobalt, and my dog springs out from behind my seat and starts running his fool little head off in circles through the gas station parking lot. I am particularly well dressed in my super baggy sweats and a wife beater, and have no choice but to leap out of the car and begin to chase him. Barefoot. After his brush with death, I picked his little butt up and threw him into the back seat, slamming the door quickly. He’s such a jerk.

So after our ridiculous display, I begin the gassing up process. I start it up, and head into the building for some liquid refreshment and a bathroom break. (Yes, I put on my shoes. You’re gross.) In that time span, my mother calls. I am describing the scene I made with my idiot dog, and I hop in the car and pull out of the gas station.

I vaguely recall some people honking… I assumed they were honking at someone else… why would they be honking at ME? So I hop on the interstate and go about my business. I make it roughly 40 miles, before a car pulls up beside me and honks repeatedly and flashes their lights, waving two sets of arms out the window. This time I notice. I see them pointing in the general direction of my gas cap, and was like, oh, I must have left my gas cap off. Let me stop and close it. I make a graceful exit to the side of the highway, and a semi exits the highway along with me. I walk around the side of my car, and there is the nozzle for the gas pump, still attached to five feet of hose and a large metal connecting piece that had been trailing behind me leaving sparks for the past half an hour. I stare in disbelief for a moment while the driver of the rig approached me. He’d been trying to get my attention for the entire time, and was checking to make sure I was okay. I assured him that I was fine, just pretty severely deficient in the brains department. He left.

After the initial “I am the most retarded person in the world, what do I do now?” thoughts, I managed to regain a clear thought process: Call the highway patrol. The conversation went something like this:

Me: “Hi. I got gas roughly half an hour ago, and forgot to take the pump out of my car.”
Dispatcher: “Yes, we have had about 29 calls about you.”
Me: “Oh yeah? Well, what do I do?”
Dispatcher: “Pull over and wait for an officer. We’ll send someone to meet you.”
Me: “Okay. Just anywhere?”
Dispatcher: “Yes ma’am. Which exit are you at?”
Me: “Exit 280.”
Dispatcher: “Pull off there and wait.”
Me: “Like, on the off ramp?”
Dispatcher: “Yes ma’am.”
Me: “Really?”
Dispatcher: “Yes ma’am.”
Me: “Fine. Thanks.”

A couple minutes later, a cop pulls up behind me. I open my door. Dog makes a run for it. This time, I catch him mid-jump and toss him up onto my hip, holding him like a small child. Barefoot again. In sweats so large I could fit three of me in them. On the off ramp. At 9pm. Because I stole part of a gas pump. I wait for him to approach me.

Cute cop: “Evenin’”
Me: “Um, hi.”
Cute cop: “So you still got the hose?”
Me: “Yessir, I do.” I pop the trunk, where the hose lay coiled. We stared at it for a minute. I think it’s a safe bet that he’d never driven off with a gas pump attached to his car.
Cute cop: “Well, I reckon they want their nozzle back.”
Me: “Right now?”
Cute cop: “Well yes ma’am. I think that would be the right thing to do.”
Me: “Yessir. I don’t know where I took it from.”
Cute cop: “Do you have a receipt?”
Me: “No sir.” I still had the freakin’ pump attached to my car. I most definitely did not acquire a receipt in that transaction.
Cute cop: “Do you remember the exit?”
Me: “No sir.”
Cute cop: “Town?”
Me: “No sir.”
Cute cop: “Anything?”
Me: “Um well I think it was east of Mt. Juliet. And I smelled BBQ.”
Cute cop: “That’s (so-and-so’s). Watertown, exit 238.”
Me: “Okay. So what happens?”
Cute cop: “Well, I reckon they’ll just be glad that you’re not hurt and they got their pump back. There’s not too much damage to the nozzle. No harm no foul, right?”
Me: (blank stare)
Cute cop: “Well, they’ll be waitin’ for you.”

I returned the nozzle. To the gas station where I’d already run around barefoot in my pajamas after a very fast orange dog then driven off still attached to their gas pump. They didn’t want any money. There was no damage to the rental car. Just my ego.

"No really, the kitchen is on fire..."

Sunday night.  The roomies and I are home hanging out.  D has decided to play a game.  

D: "Hey you wanna play Clue?"

Me:  "Yeah sure."

M: (from the kitchen) "The kitchen is on fire.  No really, it's on fire."

I head over there to analyze the situation.  Sure enough, there are flames shooting out from under the burner.  I grab a wet towel and start beating it.

M: "Do we have a fire extinguisher??"

Me :"I would assume so. Get the extinguisher!"

D is actually together and runs outside to get the extinguisher.  At this point, both alarms have gone off, the dogs are stressed out, and Zeke is barooing in the hallway.  I take the extinguisher from D and rip the pin out, ready to open it up on the stove.  I realize that it's dying down, delay for a second, and blow out the last little flicker of fire.

The alarms have not stopped.  D pulls the first one off the ceiling and rips out the battery, silencing it.  The other one has not shut up, and none of us can get it off the ceiling.  Finally, someone manages to get it down and silence it.  

Suddenly it's quiet.  The window has been opened to rid the apartment of smoke and the smell of burning cookware.

M: "Now that's teamwork girls."

Then we played Clue.

You Know You're A Redneck When...

So, this year for Christmas, we decided to buy a real tree. We bought a pretty standard 5 ft tree, which stayed up through about the second week of January. At that point, it was time to take down the tree. I boxed up all the ornaments, the lights, etc... and was left with a naked pine tree in my living room. So, naturally, I set it on the porch to "deal with it later".

Long story short, it was an out of sight, out of mind situation. Fast forward to last week. M goes down to pick up a package, and the lady at the office states the obvious "We're really gonna need you guys to take care of that tree." Mind you, it has been roughly a month. The tree has started turning brown, and has sufficiently dried out, only giving me ideas of bon fires and roasting marshmallows. So there it sits, waiting for a mode of transportation to a fire pit so we can burn it up.

We toss around ideas of how to make the tree go away. None of us have a truck, or devices to secure it to the roof of a car. So, we wait another week. The other day I came home to this note on the door:

Dear Residents:

Please remove the tree from your patio immediately. Per your lease agreement, balconies and patios shall be kept neat and clean at all times. No rugs, towels, laundry, clothing, or other items (read: trees) shall be hung or draped (or stood in a tree stand...) on railings or other portions of balconies or patios.

We ask that you conform to this policy to make our community a safe and attractive one for the enjoyment of all residents.

Thank you for your prompt attention to this situation.

Sincerely,
Assistant Community Director

In short, get the freaking tree off your porch, you rednecks. You live in one of the wealthiest counties in the country and you make us look bad. Point taken, Assistant Community Director. Michelle has at this point taken hold of the situation and enlisted her boyfriend's help. He arrives with two ropes and I provide a blanket to preserve the paint on the roof of his car (which he shuns). He tosses a dried out, brown pine tree onto the roof of his car, and secures the ropes to the inside of the car, effectively securing the doors shut as well. We ride to the convenience center, which is roughly 4 miles away, through one lane underpasses and all. The tree, meanwhile, is sliding down the back windshield, at an angle that ensures the tree is vertical on top of the car.

We finally arrive, and M and I are nothing short of amazed that the tree has managed to stay attached. The old man manning the entrance to the convenience center gave us dirty looks. Of course he did. Three 20-somethings with New York tags are hauling a very dead tree, vertically on top of their car. M goes to open her door, realizing that Shawn has fastened her into the car with a rope. Shawn rolls the window down, crawls out of it, and unfastens the tree. Mission accomplished. All is well with the world.

Or at least, our patio is free of Christmas trees.

Second Civil War?

It has nothing to do with slavery. Obviously if slavery were the issue, both Georgia and Tennessee would want many slaves, forever. Instead, the Georgia legislature is considering a resolution to annex an extra mile on its border with Tennessee. The proposal has elicited “tongue-in-cheek saber rattling from Tennessee lawmakers,” who enjoy war. But leave fun to the liberals; this thing has some serious consequences: “If the border is redrawn, the new state line would fall across Nickajack Reservoir. That would allow parched Georgians to tap into the waters of the dammed Tennessee River.” If Georgia can’t annex part of Tennessee, everyone in Georgia will die.

As far as old people on the border are concerned, the bill is very much screwing over old people on the border:

[Tennessee resident Joel J.] Kyle, 69, said he has no desire to be annexed by Georgia, which he gladly departed because of its taxes, and hopes the idea is “just a pipe dream.” “If it ever came to that, I would probably move,” he said. “I’ve got seven acres here, and we’re set up pretty well, but I wouldn’t ever want to be in the state of Georgia again, to be honest with you.”
Amen. Who would want to live in Georgia? Isn’t that the state where they used to send England’s prisoners? And the tax fairies… Christ, the tax fairies!

Also, Tennesseeans can deal. It’s not their land anyway. Jesus gave this mile, and all its Jesus Water, to the Georgians many, many years ago. Like 200 years ago, when he was a carpenter’s apprentice:

The resolution, which has passed early hurdles but has not received final passage, claims that the boundary was erroneously surveyed in 1818 and that Georgia has never accepted it. The resolution calls for the creation of a “Georgia-Tennessee Boundary Line Commission” that would perform joint surveys and change the line to the “definite and true” boundary line: exactly following the 35th parallel. “We’re not talking about sucking it dry,” said Rep. Harry Geisinger, a Republican who sponsored the resolution in the Georgia House. “We’re talking about augmenting some water needs, and as you know, the Tennessee has got plenty of water in it.”
Legislators in Tennessee, however, are taking the issue of their land very seriously:

State Sen. Andy Berke, a Chattanooga Democrat, took the Senate floor and jokingly proposed a winner-take-all wrestling match or football game.

Banging on cars... for Rachel.

I usually hate Carrie Underwood when she's onstage, but I'm not gonna lie, the Before He Cheats performance from the Grammy's is pretty freakin' cool.

Iraq Withdrawal Date: 12,008.

Wait, we don't care? For real?

Tina Turner.

This made my morning.



PS, she's 68.