Nashville mourned today as Gail Kerr was laid to rest. Friend, cut-up, dedicated, certain, and a damn fine journalist… She was this, and she was more.
It’s no surprise that 700 people made their way to her service, comforting Les, Gail’s mom, her sister, the rest of her family. She touched that many, times a million, in her life. She and I used to gripe about the absurd attendance estimates that event organizers made. “Two thousand? (Snort.) I am NOT putting that BS number in the paper.” She’d smile to see a crowd number listed for her service, but we all know this one was accurate.
Those of us not able to be there today were devastated. I, for one, threw everyone out of my Dallas office at 11 a.m., shut my door and leaned back with my eyes closed. I let my mind drift to thoughts of Gail through my years at The Tennessean. Laughs, laments, successes, frustrations, disagreements: a typical, rich mosaic of newsroom life, both in and out of the office. Her MS diagnosis, which she adamantly demanded we virtually ignore, because she didn’t want to “be the story.”
I re-read our last recent emails… Unprintable thoughts about cancer, which had struck us both (we blamed certain editors for that), now colored by my survivor’s guilt. We are the same age. She was funny and eloquent, naming her relapse “Camp Suckyville, the Sequel.” And printable thoughts about life and love — especially her words about the husband she adored, Les. I will share those with him soon, although it’s nothing he — we all — didn’t already know: that she knew, without a doubt, that he hung the moon. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen anyone as certain of their love as those two. She was a writer, a creative — but she used to listen to his songs, and her eyes would glow, and she would say, “Isn’t that incredible, what he can do?” Beauty, sheer beauty.
In the midst of all of the nastiness that cancer brings, she — again, typical Gail — took the time to thank me for helping redirect her column years ago. We wrestled, passionately, for many months about how to best aim her eloquence and fathoms-deep knowledge of Nashville into pieces with powerful heft, united in wanting everyone in Nashville to say, “Did you SEE what Gail wrote today?” She gave me too much credit for that success. It was her gift that did that, her gift alone.
During her service today, tears fell. Not just at Downtown Presbyterian Church, but 700 miles southwest, too. We have 177 mutual friends on Facebook, and I wrapped my mind and heart around each of them, sending my spirit eastward as intently as I could. Catherine, Frank, John, Sandra, Ted, so many more. I figured Michael Cass, another gifted staffer, would cover the service, and I sent him extra juju, because no one wants that assignment. I especially lingered with thoughts of Les and the rest of Gail’s family. I know their pain is bottomless right now, and that only time will ease it.
But I also know that none of us can hope for more than a life well-lived. And that, dear Gail, is exactly what you had. We’ll miss you.
— 30 —
(I swiped this from The Tennessean’s web site. I hope they won’t mind. Photo by George Walker IV.)
It seemed like a good idea at the time. D’s 16-year-old cat died the summer we moved to Texas, and since then it’s been nearly three years of perfectly un-subtle hints about how she really, really, really, really, really wanted a kitten.
I’ve never had a kitten, and heck, they’re cute.
How hard could it possibly be?
“10 Things No One Told Me Before We Got a Kitten”
1. While weighing only 1.8 pounds, kittens come fully armed with 349 ninja knives tucked away at the end of their stubby little legs.
2. Kittens and great white sharks are first cousins. I know this to be true because you know how when a great white starts to chomp on a seal, a whole second set of razor-sharp teeth pops out of its mouth? Cash must have those.
3. Kittens are more inquisitive than the TSA after you make a bad bomb joke. Particular items of interest include light sockets, iPads, bathtubs, priceless Seminole baskets, clothes on hangers, anything with a dangly cord, the handmade ceramic bouncy kite sculpture lovingly carried home from Spain, the DVR, any cardboard box and Chase’s fluffy tail. These items are of much more interest than the 28 little fuzzy catnip mice, feathers on sticks and velvet rattle balls littering our floor.
4. There is a sign written in ink invisible to humans hanging from every small door, including the dishwasher door, the refrigerator door, the pots-and-pans cabinet door, the pantry door and the laundry room door. This sign reads, “Kittens Must Crawl Inside Here Immediately.”
5. To the kitten eye, human legs are indistinguishable from tree trunks and exist not for mobility, but only to be climbed.
6. Kittens can dart at approximately 186,282 miles per second, the speed of light. This allows them to teleport from an upside-down, total unconscious snooze to the middle of a bedroom door jamb just as you slam it closed.
7. Kittens are superheroes who can survive being closed in a bedroom door.
8. Kittens believe the concept of hypothermia to be just a vague, unproven rumor started by the old Columbia Sportswear lady to get rich. They spit upon this concept all the way into the freezer, where they cuddle up to a bag of baby lima beans while using a Boca Burger as a pillow.
9. Kittens like dog food better than kitten food. Dogs like kitten food better than dog food. And dogs definitely like litter-covered kitty poop more than dog food.
10. Dogs can indeed look at you balefully. (Here’s proof: www.youtube.com/watch?v=d7iBaUleO0A) And that whole “I bet Chase will learn to love his new little brother” discussion was a ridiculous pile of rationalizing crap. But he will learn to tolerate him, particularly when he outgrows the attack phase. Can’t we all just get along?
So just when I’m at my (admittedly low) limit of tolerance for being attacked in my own home, what does Cash do? Crawls up on my chest, curls up in a little ball, purrs so loud I can’t hear the TV, licks my face and then falls asleep, his little black-and-silver striped fur ruffling in the breeze from the ceiling fan.
A friend who’s just one small step from being a cat lady told me that these little “mrrrowow”-ing balls of fur and pointy teeth and daggerlike claws are created so cute so we don’t kill them before they reach cathood.
Truer words, never spoken.
And there’s even hope for Big Brother, too:
This post is late. Really late, like “why the hell is she talking about Thanksgiving now” late.
There was a time I could blame the mail carrier for missing birthdays, anniversaries, sorry-your-dog-has-worms and other momentous life events. Now that excuse is a little flimsy, since no one actually uses the mail anymore.
That excuse worked with everyone back then, except my mother that one time I missed her birthday. In the grand scheme of things, missing your mother’s birthday is one step past “oh my god the fiery asteroid is nearly upon us.”
After years of reading me like a cheap paperback, she immediately scoped out my pathetic attempt to throw the U.S. Postal Service under the bus. (Or maybe I was trying to throw them under the stubby little tires of one of those boxy white Jeep-like things they drive.) Whatever I was trying to throw them under, she didn’t buy it. I paid for that screwup for many years.
I did, however, get some measure of revenge on my 40th birthday, when the card from my parents arrived with a cheerful little note written inside: “Hope you have four more years!” Four, 40, whatever. She was mortified. My friends found it hysterical, and have ever since serenaded me upon my birthday with lusty choruses of “Four more years! Four more years!”
That got really funny after I got cancer. My chosen family has a pretty warped sense of humor.
Even now on Facebook, I usually fail in offering deep and meaningful words to my friends and assorted people I don’t remember from grade school. I mean, Facebook makes it so damn easy to send emotional testimonies about the specialness of each person, like “HB2U!” and “Hope it was special!” And I still can’t swing it all the time with any consistency.
Maybe Facebook could make it easier for me. I mean, it can be scary-hard to have to stand over a hot computer, read that complex “Birthdays today” title, then have to actually scroll down with a finger to see all of the names. Today’s equivalent of toting that barge.
Often I’m a day late, or two days late. Or four. Once I was a good two weeks late. Another time I was so late, I offered up a cheery “Happy anniversary!” to a couple currently engaged in a bitter divorce that made “War of the Roses” look like a Disney flick.
Those super-late situations necessitate the marshaling of all of my verbal skills to pour out a heartfelt, combo mea culpa/happy day response. Something with lots of exclamation marks, to show that I really mean it(!), along the lines of, “Hi, ___! Geez, I’m a complete doof who can’t even be counted on to send you good wishes on your birthday! I a scum-sucking friend/acquaintance/frenemy who should be unfriended, excoriated with verbal abuse and then stabbed in the eye with a flaming stick! Anyway, HB2U! Hope it was special!”
Then I add a few of those black, silhouette-y hearts, because in Facebookland, that proves beyond a doubt that I really do love them.
But I really did think of you all on Thanksgiving, and I was really thankful that you read my blog. You know that it helps keep me a tiny bit farther away from the edge of insanity, especially on days when the universe is conspiring to thump me right over that cliff. You stick with me, even when I take canyon-sized gaps away from blogging. I don’t deserve you. But there was method to my madness (in this one instance).
I decided a while back that I really, really need to get off of my ass and finish my novel. You know, write something that might actually help me retire one day. Or even if it doesn’t, will let me drop, “Oh, I’m a novelist” to groups of drunken partygoers while modestly scuffing the floor with my toe.
So fair warning, I’m expecting you to buy my novel, even if it’s a pity purchase and you think it’s dumber than mustard on ice cream. I’ll e-publish, so it’ll be cheap. Start saving now. I’ll even email you an autograph. If you don’t buy one, then I’ll just have to remind you: that’s why you can’t have nice things.
I have a decent start, although you know how my brain works — I keep coming up with ideas for a new one. Maybe I could start a web site offering book ideas for sale, instead of actually writing any of them. Then I could say, “Oh, I’m a novelist suggester” to groups of drunken partygoers while modestly scuffing the floor with my toe. If I mumble on the last word, I could have the best of both worlds.
I figured NaNoWriMo might be just the catalyst I need. But it turned out to be more like a wet fuse on those perfectly good M-80s my siblings and I used to throw at each other.
If you’re not on the creative hip train, NaNoWriMo is sickeningly cutesy shorthand for National Novel Writing Month. You’re supposed to just sit down and write 50,000 words in the month of November. Then, presto, you have a finished novel on Dec. 1.
I’m 49,346 words short. But there’s still one day left!
I blame work and Ryan Seacrest, who really are related in a substantive way, but I won’t bore you with the details. I mean, seriously. Who in the hell picked November for this creative project? A Facebook friend had the right (write?) idea, suggesting that NaMarWriMo or NaFebWriMo would be much less stress-inducing.
I mean, you may end up with a novel with NaNoWriMo, but you’ll be editing it from your hospital bed after they cut you open to cauterize the bleeding ulcer.
Back to Thanksgiving… in no particular order, I am thankful for words. For a loving, kind better half. For finally shutting off relatives who only wish to wound me. For the many members of my chosen family who don’t need to share DNA with me to love me unconditionally. For Chase. For good jobs. For the many opportunities to share our good fortune with the less fortunate. For chemo/radiation/surgery. For health insurance that paid for them. For my camera, which feeds my soul as words do. For laughter. For forgiveness for being late with birthday messages. For you.
So, to every one of you, my heartfelt wish goes out:
Happy Halloween! ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤
(By the way, so sorry for this post being blank last night. WordPress ate my homework. So this is a rewrite. The first one was better.)
A group of new super-cool “thinking” friends is planning a get-together soon, and we were tossing around some ideas for what we should talk about. (Other than which happy hour beverage goes best with chips-and-salsa. That one’s pretty well decided already.)
Our planner is an experienced, steel-in-her-eyes nursing poobah at a kids hospital, used to facing down the most awful moments in life. So it was no surprise when she tossed out this lovely little gem: “Can anyone summarize the recent prosecution of the all-girl band Pussy Riot?”
She was joking. I think. Maybe. Could be.
But never one to shrink from a challenge, I figured I’d give it a whirl… Here goes, in 10 easy steps:
1. Female Russian musicians form punk-rock protest group, decide to call it Pussy Riot. Apparently they have no friends, loved ones or sober acquaintances to tell them that A) Russia isn’t exactly a bastion of democracy where dissent is welcomed B) “Pussy Riot” is a really stupid name and C) punk rock is dead, having expired in 1979.
2. Band performs in weird places, like on top of a bus and on a train-station scaffold, each of which help drown out their screeching, off-key notes. But they really poke the bear when they protest at the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour in Moscow with such quiet and respectful actions as jumping up onto the altar, tossing off a lot of their clothes and putting on funny hats, then bouncing around kicking up their heels and shadow-boxing the air.
3. They film their protest with high-quality cameras that cost at least $5.47 each, then make a lovely and melodic music video called “Holy Mother, Chase Putin Away!” They use bad words and beseech the Virgin Mary to get rid of Russian President Vladimir Putin. The Virgin Mary cannot be reached for comment on her plans.
4. Putin, not known for his jocular, warm sense of humor, has them arrested and charged with “hooliganism.” Media around the world begins to notice, spurred by the fact that uses the word “hooliganism” anymore.
5. While waiting for trial, the band complains they are being treated poorly in jail. This surprises only an old man named Vladimir Ksnrakehnkyelskiz, who lives in the tiny village of Kropotskinkaya, where there is no TV, radio, internet or sunlight.
6. The band claims Putin is orchestrating their prosecution, which brings the possibility of a 7-year jail sentence. Jaws drop in shock across the world at this unbelievable assertion against a man of such great character and high morals.
7. The Russian Orthodox Church, afraid Jesus really might be watching their actions after all, asks the court for clemency for the band.
8. On Aug. 17, the girls are convicted of “hooliganism motivated by religious hatred.” (There’s that word again.) Severe punishment simply must be taken, because hatred cloaked in the name of religion must not be allowed to occur in the civilized world. Or in Russia.
9. Band members are sentenced to two years in prison. Officials claim this is a fair sentence, despite it being more time than given to 97 guys convicted of murder, 524 women convicted of selling their kids into slavery for $13 apiece, and a wolfhound that ate seven children.
10. Two other members of Pussy Riot consult a Ouija board, which makes the electrifying, startling prediction that protesting a maniacal iron-fisted president with weird performance art isn’t exactly the best idea for their future. They flee Russia, ensuring that their erstwhile bandmates will have no ready source of money dropped off at the prison canteen for cigarettes, feminist magazines or political email lists.
Did I miss anything?
It is kind of nice to see someone putting their lives on the line to effect political change, instead of just getting snarky over chicken sandwiches and posting anti-whatever e-cards on Facebook. Especially feminists who take me back to the edgy riot grrrl days of the early ’90s, when bands like Sleater-Kinney and Bikini Kill made you think, made you mad, made you rage against the machine. (Kathleen Hanna, where are you now?? Miss you.)
Or, carbon-dating myself as a dinosaur even further, back to the the earlier days of Siouxsie Sioux or The Runaways.
You go, you (pussy) riotous girls. Rock on.
Seven years ago this week, I had strep throat. It was my first experience with it as an adult, and it seriously kicked my butt. I remember this because I was at home sick, with nothing to do but watch feverishly for two days as Katrina barreled toward New Orleans and the Gulf Coast and many people I love.
This storm just felt bad. Très mal, as we’d say in the bayou. When that thing crystalized into this beautiful-but-awful storm, with a perfectly deadly eye, it shook me to my core. On Sunday, Aug. 28, when it hit Cat 5 status, it was terrifying. I still remember Hurricane Camille, a Cat 5 monster that hit when I was young.
That week was a difficult time, even before the storm. It was also a fresh anniversary of the day we lost one of my nieces, an amazing light, in a car accident. My job was slowly stealing my soul. Then the strep, which kind of feels like someone’s carefully grinding crushed glass into your throat. But I was on the upswing, physically at least, as Katrina approached.
I went in to work on Aug. 29 and told my boss that I needed to go to Louisiana. Even back then, he was already running the newsroom on a shoestring, and editors taking off during a big story isn’t the best thing. Still, he told me I could go — as long as I took vacation time. OK.
I went back home and watched as TV folks talked about New Orleans being “spared.” They sounded disappointed. I get that. As a journalist, you get stoked up for a disaster, then it eases off and it’s kind of a letdown. I mean, you’re happy for the people in the disaster area, but you don’t have anything to cover.
But I also saw where Katrina went ashore. And even though no media talked about the Mississippi Gulf Coast, I knew what had to have happened there. There’s just not much “give” in that area during a direct hurricane hit.
Then came the reports of the levee breaches in New Orleans. It was what we had all feared, forever. Soon, the footage began to roll. People stranded. Bodies floating in the streets. I still remember the Homeland Security guy saying that for some people who didn’t get out of New Orleans, “it was their last night on this earth.”
When D got home from work, I met her at the door. “I have to go,” I said. Being the gift that she is, she simply looked at me for a moment. I’m sure she wanted to say, “Are you crazy?!” But she just nodded, and said, “Let’s get you ready.”
We spent a few hours buying out local stores. Having grown up in Louisiana, I knew what to take. Bug spray. Water. Juice. First aid supplies. Diapers. Non-perishable food. Batteries. Pet food. Big gas cans. We had a huge Sequoia SUV, and we crammed every inch of it. As we loaded up at store after store, people stopped and asked, “Are you going to New Orleans?” When we said yes, they handed us stuff. $100, a handful of crumpled $1 bills, a case of peanut butter crackers they’d just bought.
The next morning, I went to work to pick up a laptop to take with me. Word had gotten out that I was going, and in my office I found a small mound of supplies and cash, dropped off by my coworkers, crusty journalists who emptied their hearts and wallets. We made more room in the Sequoia.
All the way down, I drove alongside power trucks and rescue vehicles. Listening to the radio, it quickly became clear that anarchy was ruling and chaos was king. I arrived in Southern Mississippi well before the official response had kicked in. (That was nothing special, of course, given how slow that happened.) I stopped at the newspaper in Hattiesburg, where I’d cut my teeth as a journalist many years before. I ran into an old friend and former colleague whom I hadn’t seen or talked to in 20 years. He took one look at my face and my SUV, and offered up his spare room. His street was littered with downed trees, but he opened his home and his heart immediately.
I caught some shuteye. The next morning, I drank a warm Dr. Pepper and ate a cold Pop-Tart. Then I headed south. Into the abyss, into devastation. Trees snapped like toothpicks. God, it was hot. No power, no A/C, no ice. Families sitting on the ground in parking lots of stores, shell-shocked and hungry. Once I stopped to clear debris off of a road, and my shoes got stuck to the asphalt. The pine trees were so torn apart, sap had run into the streets like glue. It was so horrible, but it smelled so good, like fresh pine always does.
I made it to the coast. No checkpoints, no cops, no military. Nothing but desolation, piles of debris, and the worst smell you can imagine. I parked near the coast, put on my gloves and started moving debris, looking for survivors. I didn’t find any. I found parts of people who didn’t make it, and item after item from Life Before: baby dolls, photos, a karate trophy, half of a mounted marlin. I’ve never been so hot, so dirty. The air was oily and thick, the stench something from the inner circle of hell. Decomposing body parts and animals, rotting food, the rainbow sheen of oil and gas on standing water, all baking together in a hot soup. I saw a small dog, a bone poking out of the back leg he was dragging. He was mad with pain and fear and thirst. I tried to catch him, but he disappeared into a pile of debris that would only be moved by cranes.
Occasionally people would come up, asking if I’d seen so-and-so. Some would help for a minute, then shamble off, going back to looking for their loved ones. After a few hours, a crew of cops came up and took over. I went back to my car. I looked in the mirror, and saw that my tears had cut lines of clean down my filthy face.
I drove about three blocks away from the Gulf, right next to a huge boat that had been tossed inland and left stranded. I saw a couple of pickups there, handing out clothes to small groups of survivors. As far as you could see, homes were just piles of rubble and ruin and splinters. What items survived were covered in mud and filth. It seemed like the right place to stop and begin emptying the truck. It only took about an hour. There was no pushing or grabbing or shoving, just stunned people lining up quietly and taking whatever you handed them. When my supplies were gone, those who went without just slowly turned away and went in search of help somewhere else.
I have only felt so helpless two other times in my life, when facing the unexpected deaths of two young family members. But I was angry, too, along with the rest of the world. How did this happen, here, to us?
I found a nearby Red Cross shelter and went to work on the medical crew cleaning and dressing wounds, taking medical histories, anything and everything. People making their way to the shelter had fled with nothing, not even their medicine — diabetics, the mentally ill, even cancer patients. They were covered in cuts and scrapes, almost all infected, and terrible bruises and oozing bug bites. One man had a broken arm, which he’d lived with for three days. They had lost everything and had nowhere to go.
The shelter was in a horse arena, too, and there were fleas. Miserable. Cots lined the walkways, and it was bloody hot — no A/C there, either. One afternoon another volunteer and I were walking through the cots, and we looked over to see a 50-something man molesting a young pre-teen relative. Right there in the open.
The shelter, while providing a valuable service, was a heartbreaking, soul-wrenching place. We did what we could, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough.
On my trip home, I stopped to eat at a Piccadilly cafeteria in Jackson, Miss. It was clean, brightly lit, full of people laughing as they ate their comfort food. I sat down to my plate, and lasted less than a minute before I had a big-faced-cry PTSD meltdown in the middle of the dining room. The juxtaposition between that dining room, and what was happening just two hours away, consumed me. I fled, black-eyed peas untouched.
Katrina changed me, along with hundreds of thousands of others. I didn’t lose my home, or my life. But I lost a little part of my soul. I gained something, too: a desire for a different life. I had spent more than 20 years being a journalist, remaining distanced from my community in the pursuit of objectivity. I loved it… but after Katrina, I could no longer do that. It is an important role that journalists play, and I applaud them. It was no longer a role I could play, however. I turned instead to the world of non-profit health care, which feels so right to me and where I know I have made a difference in some people’s lives.
As Isaac approaches, I believe we hold close the lessons learned from Katrina. We are better prepared today; this societal breakdown will not happen again. I have healed from those days of horror. I knew another hurricane would come, of course, marching inexorably toward Mississippi’s Gulf Coast and New Orleans.
Now that it has, I realize that I have healed… but I have not forgotten. The smells, the sadness, the pain, the anger, the helplessness — while 7 years old now, those feelings are as sharp and fresh as fine cheese. They are a sick, gnawing ache in my gut, burning brighter with every minute spent watching The Weather Channel.
We are ready for Isaac, and we will outlast its fury, no matter how strong he is. (Personally, I hope he fizzles out like a wet sparkler, and then we can dance and toast his demise.) But we must not forget what brought us to this day, just seven short years ago, and how it changed us.
So, this grand adventure of chucking the suburban life and becoming urban dwellers has just one downside: Downsizing.
For 20 years, I’ve lived in a house, where I could spread out and tuck things away safely in hidey-holes where I’d remember where I put them (only that never really worked that well, truth be told). Now we’ve condensed ourselves into a space that’s approximately one-third the size of our last house.
Now, one-third is a lovely little number, in theory. Who doesn’t like to get a third of something, like a pie? Or a massive lottery jackpot? All those cute little round, bouncy numbers, .3333333. Looks kinda like a string of hearts. Or fish lips.
But while D did a heroic job of selling stuff on craigslist, we are still trying to ensure that all of the important things make it into our 1,250-square-foot apartment. Things like artwork. Beds. Clothes, and things in which to put them. Books. (We have Nooks, but while they’re lovely little marvels of space efficiency, I still must hold an actual published tome now and then or else my brain melts.) A stereo.
That’s the easy stuff.
What’s really fun is finding a home for things you’re not really sure why you have anyway:
– Six pairs of scissors? Did I dream once of starting a fourth career as a hairdresser? Or maybe a scrapbooker?
– Four sets of salt & pepper shakers. Trying not to even use salt anymore, so what the heck?
– T-shirts. Oh lord, the T-shirts. I have this thing for logo’ed T-shirts. Can give ’em up. I have all of my Vandy employee tees. Concert tees featuring singers who either haven’t been alive for years, or are living in a ranch house in an L.A. suburb waiting to reappear on a bad reality show. A bunch of tie-dyed tees from parties, rafting trips, etc., events where going back to the ’60s sounds like much fun. I think they multiply in the closet when I’m at work. I’m going to put in a nanny-cam so I can keep an eye on them. Catching randy T-shirts getting frisky with each other might make a great viral YouTube video.
The biggest difficulty was the kitchen. I love my kitchen stuff, and I had a big kitchen in the last place. Gadgets, tools, trinkets, free shot glasses emblazoned with the name of a middling liquor brand, 47 rolls of paper towels. Little glass parfait cups I’ve never used but simply had to have one Vicodin-hazed day after my last surgery. (I swear, I WILL one day layer them carefully with fruit and whipped cream and lighter-than-air cake to make a delightful, yet healthy, dessert.)
But those who know me well realize I’m a tiny bit OCD-ish. Tiny as in Mt. Everest, the Burj Dubai, the Shapley Super Cluster, the Donghai Bridge. I’m that person who puts up garage pegboard so I can hang my tools and outline them, like tiny little murder victims. So this challenge is actually fun for me in many ways.
So my stacking and collapsing and reorganizing of the apartment kitchen went pretty well. I only had to undo/redo one thing — after seriously underestimating the number of pots and pans I could live with, I ended up having to swap the cookware cabinet with the Tupperware cabinet. Sigh.
There’s actually a lot of storage space in the apartment. Much of it, unfortunately, is approximately 10 feet high. I am not 10 feet high. In fact, I am merely half that high. So the storing of little-used items requires me to get a phone book, put it on top of a stepstool, balance that on top of Chase’s crate, add two pillows, then stand on the pile and leap up, simultaneously hurling the item toward the shelf.
Somehow, in my head, this exercise will result in the item sliding smoothly into place, fully squared away and facing forward in a perfect row. However, what inevitably happens is that the item bounces sideways, flips upside-down, knocks over three cans of Scrubbing Bubbles and then flings itself down onto my nose. This in turn causes me to plunge off of the carefully constructed pillows/crate/stepstool/phone book tower, landing in a small heap of person from which issues all sorts of colorful words. And then the Scrubbing Bubbles all domino right down behind the dryer, which is somehow wedged under the hot water heater, because the Marquis de Sade designed this apartment’s laundry room.
Devoted readers will remember that we bought our last house simply because of the master closet, which was the size of Jupiter’s third moon. We solved the “less space” issue in the apartment by getting rid of a ton of clothes. I really, really was a struggle to give up that silk, green-and-purple-checked, button-front shirt with the cap sleeves that I last wore in 1997, when it was in style and I weighed 30 pounds less. But D made me.
Goodwill in Carrollton is now adding a new wing just to house the stuff we dropped off. We even sacrificed a dozen pool towels, 10 duffel bags, five lamps, eight jars of mismatched screws and bolts, and a pair of scrubs with bleach stains on the front that kinda looked like Jesus if you squinted.
So, all told, we did pretty well in the “simplify” world, and it feels great. Now I know why those Marines say that all the time.
We feel lighter, less weighed down by stuff. We helped a lot of people by giving away our stuff. We go shopping now and don’t want to buy anything. Our footprint on the world is smaller.
There may have been one or two things we just couldn’t part with, but couldn’t find a home for in our Uptown world. Like that green-and-maroon afghan my mom made that no longer matches anything we own. And my grandfather’s old tools. And 37 boxes of “Father Christmas” dishes I’ve hauled all over the nation.
So is it really cheating if we might, perhaps, somehow, accidentally have rented a tiny little storage shed?
I have finally been released from U.R. Tookwyet blogger’s prison, after serving my full sentence for blog neglect and reckless endangerment of the English language.
I got no time off for good behavior, which won’t surprise any of you.
So, I’m back to the written world. I believe my neglect started when D began wondering why I wasn’t writing things that might make us rich, instead of this string of bloviation that merely amuses me. But I found that when I stopped playing on here, my creativity dried up in that area, too. Lucky you.
Besides, there hasn’t been all that much going on in our lives since last August. Kinda boring. Just a few little things, like moving D’s mom back to Tennessee, selling her house, selling our house, selling a bunch o’ crap, moving to an apartment in downtown Dallas, visiting family in Chicago, crazy holi-daze at Children’s Medical Center, buying two new cars and going to Vegas for a wedding.
D’s mom just never got her groove on here in Texas. “Hated it” wouldn’t be too strong of a description. She’s much happier now. Because her house was in a good school district, it sold quickly, which is a good thing, It took two moves to get all of her stuff back to Tennessee, and more than a few curses, given that we had just moved all of that stuff here a year earlier. But did I mention that she’s much happier now?
Our move was much more fun. We realized after last year’s Welcome to Hell Sizzlepalooza that the absolute last thing we wanted was a house and pool to keep up when the devil was dancing at 187 degrees for three months straight.
I think it was when our shingles melted that we gave up. Or it might have been when the bricks spontaneously combusted and wafted away in clouds of amber ash. Can’t remember.
But given my neck issues caused by a car wreck last year, most of the upkeep fell to D. And given that she works very hard in the daytime at her job, she has less than zero interest in spending her evenings and weekends repairing stuff, painting, pulling super-aggressive Texas weeds out of the air-conditioner vents, scrubbing a pool that is too hot to swim in, watering the foundation so the house doesn’t tumble down the hill, that kind of thing.
Besides, it was crazy for two people to rattle around in a 3,400-square-foot house. It seemed like a good idea when we bought it, because we loved the house and it was close to D’s lab. But we haven’t had as much company as we thought. And we figured we could find better places to spend the $600 to $850 we laid out each month on the power bill.
After years in the suburbs, we felt the itch to be urban dwellers, too. I work near downtown Dallas, and hated driving away from all of the fun nightlife places and shiny neon buildings each night. Our suburb, while really nice, wasn’t conducive to bonding with neighbors. Everyone had an eight-foot fence, driveways are off of alleys in the back, that kind of thing.
So we put the house on the market, and D became a craigslist whirlwind. Over the course of a couple of months, she sold a few things: a couch. A loveseat. Our end tables and coffee table. Our eight-person formal dining room set. My Harley helmet and jacket. My office desk (from the home office, not the hospital. The hospital would frown on that). Our barbecue grill. Our upstairs stereo system.
Pretty much, if it wasn’t bolted down, she snapped photos and had it up on craigslist. And she took any close offers.
One day I came home and someone was there to pick up me and Chase. She had agreed to $20 for me and $3,456,123 for him. Had to put my foot down on that one.
Soon our house looked like we’d moved out. I felt particularly spiffy sitting on the empty living room floor on a blanket, watching a little TV propped up on a cardboard box.
We listed the house after Thanksgiving, which is a slow time of year for house sales. But once we decided to go, we were en fuego. Packing, selling, looking for a new home. We picked a midrise apartment building just 4 miles from the hospital, in a hip, happenin’ place called Uptown. It’s where young, thin, rich, freshly minted SMU graduates choose to live and park their BMWs until they get married and move to Preston Hollow.
Yeah, we’re not sure why they let us in, either.
But we’re within walking distance of 3,491 restaurants, a movie theater, hundreds of bars and acres of parks. We can throw a baseball to Turtle Creek, a stunningly gorgeous chunk of land that seriously you would never expect to find in the heart of Dallas. It’s like a winding oasis, full of huge trees, turtles, ducks, swans and an occasional beer can or condom wrapper. (So far, no actual condoms. Thanks heavens for small favors.)
We took a walk the other day with Chase and wandered by Troy Aikman’s house. It’s for sale. We didn’t look at it, being freshly enamored of apartment life. It had nothing to do with the $24 million price tag. Really.
We hadn’t been there long when one of Texas’ patented, apocalyptic summer thunderstorms rolled through. It sounded like our apartment had been tossed into a huge metal blender with big volcanic rocks and set on “liquefy.” About halfway through, I looked at D and yelled over the roar, “HEY, GUESS WHAT?? WE DON’T OWN THIS ROOF!” Then we laughed maniacally.
We also don’t own the dishwasher, or the frig, or the range. The other day, I was roasting veggies for dinner, and the oven caught on fire. Not the veggies, the actual oven. Big roiling coils of smoke, pungent melted-wire smell, the whole shebang. I called down to the office and they sent a guy up, who after a close examination uttered the opinion that the oven had caught on fire. The next morning, they brought up a brand-new one and popped it in. It was fabulous. I didn’t have to spend hours comparing, researching and buying a new one, then obsessing about whether I got the right one. D really likes that last part.
The best part, though, is having a kicky little Billy Joel song running through our heads 24/7: “Uptownnn giiiirls….”
Sometime next week, we’ll set a record here in Dallas: the longest consecutive streak of days over 100 degrees.
It’s been 35 days. In a row. Over 100 degrees. There’s no relief in sight predicted for the next 10 days, meaning we’ll almost certainly surpass the record of 42 straight days. And not just barely. We’re talking 106, 107.
I realize it’s been hot everywhere. Nashville saw 102 degrees last week, and that’s quite toasty. And it’s Texas, it’s supposed to be hot. I get it.
But seriously, we’re taking the Hottest. Streak. EVER.
It’s the perfect new addition to our year and a half of “you’re kidding” moments since our move to Dallas.
This is something else. Day after day after day. You walk outside, and it’s like walking into a huge oven. In the shade, it’s merely oppressive. In the direct sun, it’s annihilating. Any little breeze only feels like someone’s blasting you with a giant blow dryer set on high.
On short trips — say, less than 150 miles — your car never cools off. It’s just a small mobile sauna.
Previous blogs have mentioned my splendid unhappiness with the state of our poor low-profile car tires, three of which we’d already shredded on the rough Dallas roads. Now they’ve simply given up. If they had little rubber hands, they’d toss them against their little rubber foreheads, swooning and crying out, “I simply can’t take it anymore,” just before they melted into small puddles of rubber gunk. We had to replace two more today, because they get so hot that when they hit these ridiculous bumps in the road, they just kind of fall apart.
If you’re keeping score, that’s five tires — on the same car — in 14 months.
The roads are exploding, too, because the concrete’s expanding too much. Over the course of a day, a large hole will appear in the highway, surrounded by piles of small concrete debris. This used to happen in Louisiana when I was a kid occasionally, but it’s pretty common here these days.
It would be cool to actually see one of those explosions, though. Boom! Concrete a’flyin.’
Our electric bill last month was $520. $520?? Holy crap. I’m beginning to regret paying that extra rate for wind power. Saving the earth’s kind of expensive. The state’s power grid is bordering on collapse again, with rolling blackouts possible. (That was SO much fun back in September, when it was so bloody cold that the Super Bowl almost got cancelled. I can only imagine what it’ll be like with no A/C.)
We’re doing our part. We’ve shut off the upstairs and turned the air up to 90 up there. We’re not doing laundry or using the dishwasher until late at night. (Good thing I can’t sleep.) We’ve cut back the hours our pool pump runs.
We’ve shut all of the blinds, closing them upward, which keeps the most heat out. It’s kind of like living in a giant clamshell. I try not to use any more lights than necessary, although I’m not as fond of that lately since I slammed my foot into the side of the couch the other day in our tomblike living room.
By my reckoning, utilizing my extensive math skills, I believe these measures will help our light bill plummet next month to approximately $519.
I burned my hand on our mailbox the other day. I put my right hand on the brick as I leaned over to check it. I quickly realized that sizzling sound wasn’t a good thing, so I jerked my hand off. Unfortunately, I did this at the same time that I reached with my left hand to pull open the little metal door. That door, facing kind of westerly, had attained the same temperature as the surface of the sun.
So I ended up yanking both hands off the mailbox. This would have been the best thing to do, if I hadn’t been leaning over to reach it in the first place.
I kind of tumbled right off the curb and into the street. Seems my brain has been fried a bit by the heat. I’m sure my neighbor would have rushed to my aid, if he hadn’t been left slack-jawed and red-faced in his yard by the massive exertion of looking at his watch. It’s just too hot to do crazy stuff like that.
The pool is so hot, it feels kind of like you’re in a soup pot, slowly being simmered to be served with some nice wheat crackers. Or maybe like you’re the marshmallow bobbing in a steaming cup of cocoa. I dropped one of those long, skinny, brightly colored frozen popsicle thingies in the pool tonight, where it promptly sank. In the 4 seconds it took me to dive down and get it, it melted. The whole thing! Completely vaporized the entire ice tube, leaving just a squishy bag of bright blue sugar water.
The spray nozzle on our hose melted. Its DNA is now completely merged with the metal end of the hose, forming a congealed mess that sprays only in 359-degree circle.
A local TV station went around with a digital thermometer gun the other day, shooting metal stuff to see how how it got. Playground equipment: 165 degrees. Now that’ll make for some loud little kiddie shrieks.
I met a really nice young teenager at the hospital this week. He was practicing football on Monday, no pads or helmet, just in a T-shirt and shorts. He collapsed with a heat stroke. When EMTs got to him, his body temp was over 108 degrees. He was in our ICU for four days, and is really lucky to be alive. It’s really dangerous out there. I worry about people with no A/C or money to run it, especially elderly folks or people with little babies.
We wait until late at night to walk Chase, and it’s still too damn hot to go more than a block. It was 100 degrees at 11:15 p.m. last night. I moved the hose around the side of the house, and almost passed out. Your head starts pounding and everything starts looking like a photo negative.
The heat’s been joined by the worst drought in Texas history, too. More than 90 percent of the state is in the two highest levels of drought warnings. Since May 24, we’ve only had rain once. I’ve only seen seven clouds since then.
I remember the May 24 date, because that’s the night I watched a tornado come roaring across the top of our house. I sat with Chase in the closet, wearing my wakeboard helmet and tweeting non-stop, warning my still-journalist friends that my last words had better make the wire. “Woman tweets as she’s blown away by tornado!”
That’s the same storm that brought the huge hailballs that apparently destroyed our roof. Yes, we’ll be getting a new one soon, after finding out from our insurance company that we are smack-dab in the middle of a “catastrophic damage zone.” That didn’t sound like somewhere good to be, so we had several roofers come by. I knew it wasn’t going to be good news when their eyes lit up like Augustus Gloop seeing the Fudge Room for the first time.
Sure enough, those rocket-like hailballs have riddled our roof, gutters and awning canopy with hole after hole after hole. I guess it’s a good thing we haven’t had any rain in nearly three months, come to think of it.
I thought that high power bills and hot soupy pools and staying alive by avoiding heat stroke were all we had to worry about with the blazing Texas sun. At least, I did until I had dinner recently with some old friends from my previous stint in Dallas, back in 1990. It was a lovely evening, until one of them mentioned that she was worried about her house foundation.
Yes, it turns out that during extreme droughts in Texas, the clay in the ground contracts. This can cause your house foundation to crack, a very costly proposition to fix. And one thing I had never thought to worry about. Until now. Yay.
Sure enough, I came home and examined every inch of the house. We have lawn sprinklers and landscaping around the house, so we’re probably OK. But there are still gaps of 1-2 inches between the dirt and the edge of the house, and even along both sides of the bottom of our fence.
This, of course, has just given my tiny little OCD-addled brain something else upon which to fixate. This worry usually manifests itself about 1 a.m., when I can’t sleep and every tiny noise becomes the ominous creaking of the house fixing to fall down about my ears. This usually prompts me to get up, go outside and haul the hose around until I’ve watered the foundation of the house. I usually end up soaking wet, covered in mud and dusted with half-inch pieces of grass that cling to my legs like bright green knee socks.
One night I didn’t realize until I’d finished that I wasn’t wearing any shorts, just a T-shirt. I’m only hoping my neighbors don’t have insomnia.
Seriously… why do people live where you have to water your house??
Texas, you are indeed a state of extremes. Extreme storms, extreme cold, extreme heat, extreme drought. Not to mention extremely whiny blogs, too.
Here in sizzling Big D, the Great Dallas Restaurants hunt continues. We’ve been so busy lately, with stuff like graduations, vacations and surgeries, that we haven’t been cooking much at home.
Oh, and there’s the little fact that it’s now been over 100 degrees for 24 straight days now. At night it’s much better, dropped to a positively bone-chilling 91 or so.
I’m beginning to seriously consider that we may have slid sideways off of Texas and straight into the Ninth Circle of Hell. Or that some giant is sitting way, way above us with a big magnifying glass, focusing an intergalactic sun ray onto the Dallas area until our edges curl and a wisp of smoke shimmies up from the city.
I mean, our electric bill we got Friday started with a “5.” Unfortunately, I don’t mean $50, either. So while I have some notes on some recent restaurants, I don’t expect to have many more for a while, because we’ll be splitting a cornflake or two for dinner throughout the month of August.
One place to definitely take off the list: Nate’s Seafood & Steakhouse, in Addison. What a huge bummer, too. We’d been saving it since the move, because we’d heard from a couple of people that it was good, authentic Cajun food. Let me just say, that is not the case. If you are unfamiliar with good Cajun food and have dined at Nate’s, you must get up right now, run to the phone, call them and demand an apology. And your money back. Then delete it from your GPS and block it from your iPhone maps app.
It’s pretty tough to screw up boiled crawfish. Really. You season the water with a lot of pungent spices, toss in the corn, potatoes and mudbugs, boil everything for a bit, then you dump it all out on a big pile of brown paper and commence eating.
Or you can do it Nate’s way, where you drop a few crawfish, corn and potatoes half-heartedly into plain water, then wave them languidly at a nearby can of Old Bay as you take them out of the pot.
While you’re waiting for them to grow stone-cold so they can be served, you can roll a few little odd-sized balls of cornmeal into the deep fryer, where they will immediately congeal into small greasy marbles that are somehow gummy on the inside, despite the extra-thick, over-browned shell. When these are served, sitting in a tin tray of melted butter, everyone at your table can laugh gaily, pretending to be eating hush puppies and wondering, “What the hell are these balls of ick on which I’m wasting my calories?”
Seriously, a good hush puppy is a thing of beauty — light and corny on the inside, with a thin brown crust just crunchy enough to parlez-vous perfectly with the hint of green onion and sweetness in the meal. They aren’t greasy, because if the oil’s just the right temperature, the hush puppy won’t absorb it. And who in their right mind would pop them into a standing pool of butter? It’s one thing to smear some butter onto a hot pup that you’ve just broken in half, but another thing entirely to drown one that way.
Nate’s hush puppies weren’t things of beauty. Neither were the broiled shrimp, five tiny little overcooked half-moons, again with dry seasoning dumped on top. And the red beans and rice…. ohhh, the red beans and rice. They really made me heartsick.
What a disappointment. For Cajun, I’ll take Fish City Grill any day, or even Dodie’s, with its overdependence on all things fried and its rather forced swamp bonhomie. For seafood, we’re going to stick with one of the others I’ve already raved about.
There are so many great restaurants here, I find myself getting ticked off when we waste a dinner slot on something that’s just not worth the time or money.
Just wait ’til I open my restaurant. Harrrummph.
Although we’ve sworn off chain restaurants because of those great local choices here, we did slip recently. We were both tired and not in the mood to explore, so we just said to hell with it, and stopped at Romano’s for a bowl of something pasta-y. Again, not so hard to do serviceably well.
They didn’t get the memo. Clumpy, hard pasta with tasteless sauce. The service would have had to improve to become half-hearted. Serves us right for eating at a chain, I guess. With that lackluster experience in hand, we set off one night to a new pizza place, Ciao’s. It promised to be real Chicago stuffed pizza, the kind we know and love from Giordano’s. We couldn’t wait! Our friends from Chicago were going to be so surprised next time they visited!
The first bad sign was that we were the only people in the place. We’d called ahead to get them started, since a real stuffed pizza takes 45 minutes or so to bake. The pizza came out right after we got there. For a second, it actually looked like a Chicago stuffed pizza. It was an inch or so thick, with lovely browned cheese on top.
Wait? Cheese on top? That should be sauce on top… Uh, oh.
It turns out they had to put cheese on top because it it was the only thing forming a seal to keep the pink-colored water — their idea of sauce — from running out of the pizza. The minute we cut a piece, it was as a levee had burst. The soupy sauce-like stuff poured right out of the pizza in a tidal wave.
The cheese on top used as spackling was a giveaway, but confirmation that this had been an ongoing problem came when we realized they had placed the pizza on top of a big, puffy piece of cardboard. Underneath. To sop up the pink-water flood, obviously. Of course, chemistry being what it is and all, these two elements quickly combined to create a thick, pasty, pink paper-dough mass on the plate. I swear it was alive.
It was horrible. The Supreme Court would step in if this “pizza” were served in prisons. It was so bad that D — not even me! — filled out the comment card. She did it sweetly, kindly, gently and good-heartededly, of course, because that’s how she’s wired. But she did say something about it being the worst pizza she’d ever had, and that she’d really recommend that they find another line of work.
I would have added some choice comments — and warned them that the wrath of my blog was about to be visited upon them — if I’d been able to stand up. But despite my eating only one “slice” of the concoction, I immediately got really, really sick. Like, I almost didn’t make it home before someone dropped an M80 into my stomach. I haven’t been that nauseated since chemo, no lie. It was B-A-D. I threw up my liver and a kidney, I think.
A week or so later, we drove by again, and I was quite happy to see that it was closed. Sayonaro to Ciao’s. Thank goodness. I still have nightmares about the end of that evening. Shudder.
I did find a lovely little spot called Alma, though, thanks to some old friends who I’d worked with back at the Dallas Times Herald. Maybe it was just seeing a couple of funny, smart and incredibly witty peeps again after many years, but it was a wonderful evening. Alma has a signature green frothy drink with creme de coconut and a serrano pepper. Yowza! Loved it. And there’s this creamed corn in little corn-husk bowls, made with crema and lime and cheese and chile powder. Mmmmmm.
So on it goes, the search for perfection among Dallas’ gazillion restaurants… Or at least it will go on after we re-mortgage the house and pay the light bill…