Here, there, everywhere

I feel like I have been all over the Southeast this December.

I started the month in Birmingham, doing HIV testing. I love my volunteer life. It started with personal health workshops, and when I quit being a graduate student, I got trained to do HIV testing so that I could stay involved with the 1917 Clinic. I totally understand people not wanting to do this, and every time I do a test, I am anxious about the result, but everything has always worked out well. What has been really difficult for me is the counseling I do while the test is developing. I have to get down and dirty with the questions I ask people and it sometimes really makes the people think about the choices they make. My heart goes out for those people. I also have to make the people I am testing feel comfortable enough with me to open up. I honestly do not care what they do in their personal lives, and I forget most of what I am told, but I have to know their histories so I can effectively tell them about how to continue to protect themselves. It also helps me to know when I am doing a good job (or a bad one) so that I can be more conscientous of my counselling approach. (Just a bit of advice to those on the other side of the test: be honest and give feedback about the administrator's approach. It helps us do our jobs better.)

Then, I was off to Auburn to check on the condo. Things were well. I had a little shindig with a couple of my neighbors and I got back in touch with my old resident manager. Good times :)

Then, back to Birmingham to go to the Led Zeppelin symphony. More good times.

Then, off to Knoxville. What a trip! First, it ended up taking me 9 hours to get there. Clearly, a long story. I don't care to go into that now, so all I will say is I learned my lesson: don't fly to Knoxville via Atlanta. If I ever fly there again, I will go through Memphis. I spent a week in Knoxville, babysitting, being an extra set of hands, and reading my Emily Post biography.

Back to Birmingham for Christmas. I was very blessed this year. The tree never made it up, but that's okay. I made some awesome vegetable soup and some terrible cornbread (which really threatened my Southern-ness).

The day after Christmas, I went to Chelsea to visit my Uncle. And two days later, I went out to Hueytown to drop off some donations to T.E.A.R.S., which is an animal rescue place that was out of money and food for the animals. It got me started thinking about getting a dog again, which I believe is a really good idea, especially if I am going to be single in Birmingham a lot more than I originally planned. My cats are too sweet and skittish to protect me, and Feffer is just getting to old to be my attack rabbit anymore ;)

I made a gi-normous donation to Bread and Roses today, and I plan on making even more donations soon. I have years of things that never made it to the front porch for Hannah Home donations.

I have also been working on cleaning out the townhome so that I can do some more entertaining in the coming year. And I've been making my new year organizational lists and goals.

Hopefully, I'll have it together much better this year than in the past few months. (I'm thinking I took on too much at once. I have to remember I'm not 22 anymore. Not that I feel it.)

Take the money and RUN

So, on Monday, November 30, I got a new car. Apparently, the last day of the month is THE day to buy a new car. The dealership offered me WAY more than anyone had on my car and I took it! And they even knew the car was broken! I am now a proud owner of a brand new Acura RDX. (Well, the Honda bank is actually the owner, I'm just the proud driver.)

I'm going to Knoxville December 13 and staying until further notice.

I fired Charter cable in Auburn. They kept calling me about paying my bill. The thing that got me mad was when I signed up for it, the only way they allowed me to pay my bill was by giving them a credit card number to bill monthly. If they want my bill paid on time, they need to charge my card in time. Duh! So, I fired them because I have gone without 90210 and reliable internet since September. And I keep getting phone calls for not one, but at least two, people who used to have my phone number and that was a ridiculous headache in and of itself. Oh! And when Charter calls you about paying the bill, they actually have a message when you pick up your phone telling you to call them. So, when I called them, they didn't recognize ANY of my phone numbers and I didn't have any account numbers since, I bet you can guess, they don't send me bills very regularly.

It's supposed to snow tonight. I must decide whether to buckle down and go to Auburn today or enjoy the snow in Birmingham. Decisions, decisions.

I also have to pay my taxes. The joys of being self-emplyed and having TONS of medical bills, and a crappy car, and a stupid cable service, and the list can go on forever about all the incompetent people I have dealt with in the past few months. Let's not forget the insurance company who charges an arm and a leg and doesn't cover anything. They're going to get fired as soon as I can get in touch with someone.

The decorations are still NOT up. Yet. If I stay in Birmingham this weekend, they will be. I hope.

I've got the "I Wants"

A husband: From a feminist standpoint, I don't need a husband, it's just that I'm good at traditional wife-y things and I like the company. And I've decided that it's time to get married when I boo-hoo through the Kardashian Wedding that plays a lot on E!. As I told my cousin yesterday, they're good to have around when I have multiple crises going on at the same time so I can delegate to him.

A baby: 'Cause babies make the world right. You can't be upset around a baby because they will sense that and scream until you calm down. And they're just so sweet, it takes a lot to get upset when a baby is around.

Decent health insurance: It's not right when the amount of money I spent on my healthcare this year has totaled what I could comfortably live on for a year. Granted, I've been sick. But, really?!? My accountant gasped when I told her the number (and she's pretty stoic about that kind of stuff).

A new car: 'Cause Ava ain't cuttin' it anymore. Acura RDX in that white color, please and thank you.

A BlackBerry: I am turning into a tech junkie. And I am learning how easy it will be to stay connected as I go out and accomplish things. (Hopefully.)

My boutique to get going: I've gotta keep Roxy's memory alive in a way that doesn't make me sad. And I need something to do that's creative and challenging. If I don't have a husband or a baby, all I have is myself to wake up for, and that's getting old.

Vera Bradley, "Hope Garden": It's pretty :) Send me your email and I'll send you my wish list.

Sanity: With all that I've been through, it's amazing I've still got some in me. Sometimes, though, I think I'm running on empty. Of course, maybe I don't and I'm just crazy enough to fake it. That sounds like a better explanation.

I'm whiling my time waiting for this wish list to be filled, thinking about drinking a good ol' vodka tonic, Mackey Style. (That's a whole 'nother post.)

Vodka Tonic (Mackey Style)

You need:
16 oz. cup (preferably clear plastic)
Ice
Vodka
Tonic Water
Lime juice
Limes (sliced, duh!)

Directions:
Fill cup with ice
Pour a single shot of vodka
Fill with tonic
Add lots of lime juice and lots of lime slices, to taste, of course

I didn't know I had it in me

I just found out the Auburn/Alabama game will be on the Friday after Thanksgiving, as opposed to the Saturday after Thanksgiving.

This throws a huge wrench in my holiday plans, as Thanksgiving officially kicks off the holiday season for me. (Well, that and the fact that my car is in the shop. Again. Second time in three weeks. Can the new year come soon enough so I can go ahead and get this?)

As I have already said, the Christmas shopping is done. I have made my housecleaning schedule. I have tentatively scheduled a party for Thanksgiving night, as I did last year.

Now, if the rumor proves to be true that my family will be celebrating Thanksgiving at my uncle's house, it would be convenient for me to leave from his house on Thanksgiving day to go to Auburn to get ready for THE game the next day.

But you know what would be more convenient? To move Thanksgiving to Wednesday.

To think I want to move a holiday to make it convenient for my football schedule. Apparently, I have more Southern in me than I was beginning to think.

From now on, if the Auburn/Alabama game MUST be played after Thanksgiving, I propose it be played in Tuscaloosera the Friday after Thanksgiving and in Auburn the Saturday after Thanksgiving. You know, since it works out better for me ;)

You know you're in Alabama when ...

You wear your HARVARD sweatshirt and people tell you, "Roll Tide!"

And, since I'm an Auburn girl, it took me a while to "get it."

The first time this happened, I was in Winn Dixie with my mother on a Sunday morning. We were getting our buggy (not a cart), and this woman comes up to me and says, "Roll Tide!"

"War Eagle!" I said. That's my standard response to the 'Bammers who like to tell me "Roll Tide."

"But your shirt ..."

"It's a Harvard shirt."

"Well, it's the right colors."

Another time, I was at a Phil Lesh/Allman Brothers Band concert and it was cold and rainy and I put on all I had to cover up with, my trusty Harvard sweatshirt. During intermission, it happened again, only I didn't get a chance to say, "War Eagle!" Plus, I figured any idiot who brings state politics to the hippie concert isn't worth my time.

Only in Alabama, y'all.

On a brighter note (for me), I did get a big, "War Eagle!" while getting onto an elevator on my cruise ship in 2004 (just before that beautiful season).

Confession (a.k.a. How's this for transparency?)

Way back when, when I started college, I remember going out with the girls one night and one girl was being relentlessly teased about going to college for her MRS degree. When I found out what that meant, I couldn't help but think to myself, "That doesn't sound so bad."

Fast-forward a few years and everybody and their mother is getting married and having babies, if they haven't already. I had also turned 21 and realized how much fun it is to party like a rock star six nights a week, resting on Sunday, oh who am I kidding, seven nights a week go out a couple of times a week and not have a boyfriend to tie me down. I had a job I loved for the first time in my life, I was making good grades, and I was on the path to a well-respected graduate degree.

Well, something happened at the end of my next to last semester of undergrad: I met this guy who thought he was my boyfriend. And he treated me like his girlfriend. I liked him. He was a good, strong, Auburn fan and he made me laugh. And I really liked being treated like a girlfriend. So, I decided I would start calling him my boyfriend.

Six months later, I graduated from college and I was attempting to become a bona-fide adult. And I was IN LOVE with this man. I wasn't the only one who thought they could see what was about to not happen. Surely, we would be announcing our engagement any second now. Wrong. Apparently, all the seriousness of this relationship was getting to him and he asked to cool it down, and eventually broke up with me just after the one year point.

I gave up the single life for this?

All of a sudden, the thought of marriage made me angry. I would watch "General Hospital" and think, "Why can't they leave poor Patrick alone? Isn't it enough that he and Robin are together? Why does he have to be forced into something more? Friends of Robin, SHUT YOUR MOUTHS! YOU'LL SCREW IT UP!"

PTSD? Maybe. Just a little. (No offense to those who actually suffer from PTSD.)

Not to worry, though, my boyfriend and I got back together soon after the grandest romantic gesture I have ever experienced (note to future husband: you must top this, and you have some big shoes to fill to do so): after a few hours of drinking beer together at our beloved TC's on a Friday night, my boyfriend professed his love for me, so that everyone within a 10 foot radius could hear.

For six months I had been waiting to hear those words, and it was better than I ever imagined.

Well, two years later, I finally decided it was over. Over. Over. Over. Unless, he had suddenly changed his mind about getting married and becoming a parent (again, for him). No, he hadn't, so we both knew that storm cloud that had been hovering over our near-perfect relationship all these years was exploding.

I decided to move to Auburn for reasons unrelated (although, it would be an added benefit to be 100 miles away from him in case of a moment of weakness).

But, y'all, I have a confession: As excited as I am about being single again, I really want a husband. I have visions of purple garden weddings, Pottery Barn linens, Lenox China, sweet little babies with good, strong, Southern names, and a membership with the Lee County Junior League dancing in my head.

I have the wedding fever, and the only prescription is a ring on my finger.

It's just the way I see it, y'all.

So, if any of you out there know a good, strong, Southern man who is also a good, strong, Auburn fan (or just plain doesn't care or who can be mature with me about it and not be a tacky un-Auburn fan), is into adopting kids, will appreciate a wife who cooks and manages the house, while volunteering for the Junior League, and selling the occasional property to supplement the household income and support her Pottery Barn habit, who doesn't drink too much, but isn't a teetotaler, who isn't so conservative his socially liberal wife needs to walk on eggshells when it comes to her socially liberal ways of thinking (bonus points if he's very socially liberal, as well), who just wants to have a good time and who lives in Auburn (or is willing to), send him my way.

Ain't life grand

Y'all, I know I shouldn't live so much in the past, but I just can't help it.

2005 was a wild year for me. If I ever forget it, you will know one of two things: 1) I have lost my marbles and must be committed or 2) I have lost my marbles and you need to commit me. And, y'all, to this day, I am amazed I survived.

Okay, quick year in review:

• January: rang in the new year at Banana Joe's (long story, but let's just say it wasn't my first choice), watched Auburn win the Sugar Bowl (War Eagle!), started UAB
• February: figured out UAB was not a nice place (unlike Auburn, War Eagle!)
• March: Spring Break '05 at the Embassy. Embassy Suites, y'all. ('nother post)
• April: Happy Birthday to me! Started allergy shots about a week later.
• May-August: eh!
• September: Went out for Rush at UAB ('cause UAB is so not Auburn or Alabama. Riiiiight.), got dropped from Rush, was on the verge of a breakdown and I gave up on UAB
• October: visit from my old neighbor, Halloween
• November: danced with Pat Beck to "Ain't Life Grand", met my future boyfriend, saw Auburn beat Bama for the fourth year in a row ("Fear the Thumb" and, of course, War Eagle!)
• December: Got a boyfriend, Christmas, whatever

The award to the most favorite moment of 2005 (no offense, Boyfriend) goes to (drum roll, please):

Pat Beck

for dancing with me to

"Ain't Life Grand"

So, I was "wallering" in misery at the bar one night. Okay, now that I think of it, maybe this happened in October. But we'll just say November. I missed Auburn. I hated UAB. And the bar was D-E-A-D dead. It was just me, the bartender, and Pat Beck. Pat and I had been drinking beer and throwing darts, and while we were waiting on our Rocky's delivery, I was playing "Ain't Life Grand" on the jukebox.

When I combine nostalgia, misery, and drinking, I have my moments, let me tell you, y'all. I think Pat sensed a meltdown coming because when I started talking about how much I love that song and how much I missed my old neighbor, and how much I hated UAB, Pat, being the good, strong, Auburn fan (War Eagle!) and bar friend that he is, stood up, grabbed my hand, and began twirling me around. And around. And around. And around. And I'm getting queasy just remembering it. I had to force myself to stop because I thought I was going to pass out.

Pat Beck and I shared many a night together at the bar, our bar friendship based on being good, strong, Auburn fans, a love for the High Life, a love for TC's, and a love for playing darts, and many memories pop up in my mind when I think about it, but that night is one I will treasure forever.

While I can never get those few momenrs back, the grin on my flushed, glistening face after gliding across the floor in the light of the dart boards was enough to last a lifetime.

Pat Beck, wherever you are, and this is why I actually put your name in here, that was one of the greatest moments of my life, and you are solely responsible for that joy.

The science of poetry

When I lived in Auburn (during college), I lived in a complex that attracted some really colorful people.

There was the guy who got dropped off one night because he was too drunk to drive. He went into his apartment and came back out nekkid. He walked down the stairs then scaled the handrail to get back up. Did I mention he was nekkid? (Unfortunately, I missed the show because I was sleeping. It was Sunday night, y'all, and I was probably sleeping off the weekend.)

Then there was the creepy guy who lived across from me who dyed and styled his hair to keep up with Scott Peterson’s ever-changing-at-the-time hair and blasted “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails on repeat every afternoon for a week until the resident manager told him to turn it down because, well, there's only so much "Closer" a girl can take.

And let’s not forget the guy who called me while I was in the check out line at Wal-Mart and asked me where he could BORROW a PACK of CIGARETTES. Riiiight. He also asked if he could buy one of my Rolling Rock’s from me when I only had a six pack. Say it with me y’all: Riiiiight. Oh, my soul!

Then there was the guy who lived a few doors down from me and did crystal meth. You knew he was tweaking when he would knock on your door and ask if you saw anyone hanging out at his apartment the night before.

“No. I don’t remember seeing anyone.”

“Ah! It’s my friends from Greenville playing some practical joke on me. See, what they did was they went to the bait shop and got a bunch of crickets and put ‘em in a pillowcase, then they sealed the windows and around the door, only leaving a little crack, then they let the crickets out and the crickets got stuck in between my walls”

I didn’t have the heart to tell the guy that I didn’t believe him because, first, I didn’t hear the crickets, and, second, there was no such thing as between walls at those apartments, which is why I would have known if there were people outside his apartment in the night. Everyone knew when someone was visiting because it sounded like they were outside your apartment.

There were many other colorful characters, some that deserve their own entire blog, but I have to get to the point of this story.
We were a friendly group of people, especially the guy who did crystal meth and his friends from Greenville. If it was the weekend, his friends from Greenville would be at the complex. I enjoyed sitting outside my apartment, drinking beer, and watching the drunk girls stumble in their stilettos as they crossed the parking lot to go to the club, so I got to be rather friendly with the Greenville crew as they passed by me on their back and forth trips to their big ol’ trucks, where they kept their pony kegs stashed.

Y’all, let us pause and marvel at the invention of the pony keg. Because of the pony keg, we are able to be a travelling keg party. What if our room mate sucks and we want to party? It’s pony keg time, baby! Rock and roll!

One Saturday night, after an awesome football game, I was sitting outside with a friend of mine and the Greenville crew was overflowing my neighbor’s apartment. One of the guys got tired of walking to his truck every five minutes to get another beer, so he eventually just stopped at the mid-way point – my apartment – and started talking to me.

“Yeah. My deddy gave me my own cow and it’s so cool when I come home. She sees my truck coming down the drive and she knows it’s me and she starts running to greet me. I get out of the car and run to her and she just nuzzles her nose in my chest. I got to raise her, you know.”

“So, you live on a farm?” My friend asked.

“Yeah. It’ll be mine some day, if I graduate. My daddy says I have to have my degree before he’ll let me have the farm.”

“What do you major in to be a farmer?”

“Well, I’m majoring in poetry science.”

“What does that have to do with farming?”

“Well, see I don’t really want the whole farm. I really like the chickens.”

He and my friend kept talking and talking about cows and chickens and farming and “poetry” science, and finally he ran out of beer and left.

“I didn't know you could major in poetry," my friend started, "but I still don't understand what that has to do with raising chickens."

Brings new meaning to the term "chick lit", doesn't it, y'all?

(For those of y’all who haven’t figured it out yet, the guy from Greenville was majoring in poultry science.)

You know you're a seasoned Auburn student when ...

You are told something is in room 1234, and you automatically think, "First floor, second quadrant, room 34."

Remember at Camp War Eagle being taught how to navigate Haley Center? If you forgot (or were never properly taught), let me give you a refresher.

The first number tells you what floor the room is on.

The second number tells you what quadrant the room is located. And how do you know where the quadrants are?

• 1: Faces Jordan-Hare Stadium (because Football is most important)
• 2: Faces the library (because class is second)
• 3: Faces Foy (because a) it has three letters or b) it is where your friends are and friends are third most important)
• 4: I don't remember the saying for this quadrant, but since I went to Auburn, I am smart enough to know how the process of elimination works :)
• If the number is 0, then the room is located in the center of the building.

The final numbers are just the room number.

Y'all, this is so ingrained to me that I got the first part of the post right without thinking, but when I started in on the steps, I realized I had steps 1 and 2 mixed up.

Friends don't let friends drink pink wine

Y'all, I don't get it when you order zinfandel and you get served a glass of pink wine. If I wanted pink wine I would have ordered white zinfandel. And since zinfandel is red, and white zin is pink, I don't think I should have to clarify I want red zinfandel. Specifying red would be superfluous.

Once, I went to the country club with Mom and Gamma. I noticed my favorite wine on the menu (and I think it was a drink special!), so I order the zinfandel. The waiter comes back with this glass full of pink. I was confused when he served it to me. I just didn't know how to handle it.

"Um, excuse me, but this wine looks a little ... pink?"

 

"You ordered zinfandel."

"Yes. Zinfandel. As in the red kind. The Ravenswood."

I don't think the waiter got it. And I am too nice of a person to go off on my waiters at the country club. He gave me a glass of red wine that was okay tasting, so it had either been opened for a while or wasn't actually Ravenswood, but he acted a little strange about the whole situation.

Then there was a time when the Boyfriend and I went out to dinner and we ordered Ravenswood Zinfandel and the waiter comes back with pink wine.

Really?!?

I had to send it back, and thankfully I had the Boyfriend backing me up on this one. I hate wasting things and it bugs the crap out of me when I don't get what I ordered.

"Friends don't let friends drink pink wine," I teased our waiter. It always helps to have a good rapport with your waiter before they bring you pink wine.

While I am venting on wine faux pas, let's talk about the bar I used to work at: red wine was constantly kept in the coolers.

It was a constant battle of me and the happy hour bartender versus the night crew.

Got that people? Red wine DOES NOT go in the cooler. It is served at room temperature.

And while we're at it: Ruby Tuesday in small-town Alabama, red wine DOES NOT go in the cooler, either.

So, let me end this on a positive note and share one of my favorite tips for opening a bottle of wine.

• First, do not waste your money on one of those foil cutters.
• All you need is a basic, winged corkscrew from the grocery store.
• Pull the wings up so that the screw part comes out.
• Holding the wings up, use the tip of the screw to scratch into the foil so that you are able to pull off the foil.

Voila! Since I figured out that little trick, I can open a bottle of wine in a matter of seconds, as opposed to minutes of fighting the foil.

My beloved Ava

Dear Ava,
When you came into my life that late April Saturday in 2008, the day of the Alison Krauss and Robert Plant concert, I was so excited. I immediately began daydreaming about the hypothetical trips to the beach, to Auburn, and the countless days we would enjoy together bouncing around Birmingham, soaking up the sun.

My beloved Accord, Black Velveteen, had been taken away from me too soon by some crazy teenager without a driver's license and insurance. I was really counting on her being my rock for getting me around town for another few years.

I drove my uncle's Pathfinder around for a few weeks, pondering what I would get to replace Black Velveteen, and those Audis really caught my eye. I test drove an Acura because I promised myself when I got Black Velveteen my next car would be an Acura. But I just couldn't bring myself to spend THAT MUCH on a car with all that computer stuff I didn't even knew existed, much less, would ever need.

When I saw you, I knew you were THE ONE.

But when the dealership started keeping us apart for days, and eventually weeks, at a time, I began to get concerned.

I want you to know it's not your fault. The people who created you left too much to go wrong.

I will miss our too few trips to Auburn. I was really looking forward to breathing that fresh Auburn air this fall with you.

I will miss "going topless" with you whenever the weather permitted.

But I will not miss having you break down hours away from your doctor and having you towed away from me, leaving me stranded and having to rely on taxis to get me around. Or having you randomly break down and have to go to the doctor during the most perfect convertible weather of the season.

I want you to know, if I could trust you would stay well, I might consider keeping you a while longer, but seeing as how you have depreciated so much in the past year, I think our time was borrowed, at best.

Farewell, dear Ava. It's been good for the most part, but not enough.

Loves Your Mommy,
Girl Sunday

Forgive me, did someone say, "Food"?

I have this thing with Halloween food. My traditional Halloween spread consists of pigs in a blanket, chips, dips, drinks, anything that looks good at the grocery store, and, duh!, candy. Once I decided I was too old to go trick-or-treating, I enjoyed getting dressed up and passing out candy to the cute little kids. Since trick-or-treating falls during dinner time, it's tradition to have a snack buffet on Halloween night.

Being in the fall spirit, and having been invited to attend the midnight showing of Rocky Horror, I was in an entertaining mood that Sunday Halloween in 2004.

My neighbor below me came over and her friends showed up. We were having cocktails and I was obsessed with downloading Rocky Horror songs and printing out the audience participation script so I could brush up on my Rocky Horror.

I threw together a costume by adding a pair of cat ears to my standard Long and Leans, black shirt, and black heels outfit.

I taught my guests how to do the "Time Warp."

Being the good, strong, Southern lady I am, I had to serve hors d'oeuvres. And with it being Halloween, I didn't have to think too hard at all about what to serve.

I went to the grocery store and grabbed cocktail smokies, croissant dough, chips, dip, cookies, crackers, cheese and, of course, beer. So easy.

My Nepalese neighbor popped in and I insisted he stay for a while. I was so proud of myself because I knew he could eat everything I was serving. (Since he is Hindu, he doesn't eat beef.)

Or so I thought. So much so, I even told him the food was beef-less.

'Cause cocktail smokies are pork, right?

Nope. They have beef in them.

I found that out a few weeks later, when my Nepalese neighbor and I were in the grocery store together and he told me it was important for him to read the labels because beef is snuck into a lot of foods. Out of curiosity I checked the cocktail smokies.

Sure enough, beef was one of the ingredients.

Y'all, I felt so bad. Not only did I feel bad for disrespect someone's religious beliefs, I felt like a failure as a hostess.

Thankfully, my Nepalese neighbor is a very Zen Hindu, who said, "It's okay. It was an accident. You didn't know. I didn't know. We are forgiven."

Hicks don't mix with politics

That's why I gave up the political aspirations, y'all.

Well, first, I was over it. O.V.E.R. Over. I majored in it. I planned my life to accomodate my political career. But when I started working with mo-rons, and I watched The Pentagon Papers, y'all, that's when I decided I would not be a politican.

Sorry, y'all.

There are just more important things in this world.

Like purple.

And kittens purring.

And reading Celia Rivenbark books. And Tori Spelling books. And, of course, Chelsea Handler books.

And what about watching those Kardashian girls?

And, well, I'm out of things that interest me more than politics these days.

Did I mention I majored in it, y'all?

You know things are bad when you major in it and a few years later, you decide it's bullshit.

Bless her heart, Brother's girlfriend is a Republican. And she says she wants to be President.

Been there, done that. (Except for the being a Republican part.) Go for it. You can have it.

And, y'all, if she becomes President, I'm outta here.

Of course, at the rate we're going, I'll already be outta here.

I'm going to buy my own island. Only people who are like minded are allowed. It's not to be mean or discrimatory, y'all. It's just because I'm so over the way things are. I just want to live. L.I.V.E. Live.

I know that I can't just buy my own island and that's it and I get to make up my own rules. But, y'all, if we're just a bunch of peaceful people on my island, who's gonna care what we do?

And if someone has a beef with it, y'all, they can kiss my grits! Mutiny is on.

Don't think I won't say the "S" word. You know, that thing the Southern states did that jump-started the Civil War. (For all you Yankees, or Southern kids reading text books written by Yankees, the word is secede.)

So, for those of you who think you may be interested, here's the law of the land for my island:

• There will not be no being mean.
• There will not be no insurance.
• There will not be no pushy sales people.
• There will not be no mo-ron drivers.
• There will not be no guns or violent weapons.
• There will not be no solely cash economy. Trading is encouraged.
• There will not be no banks.
• There will not be no reliance on the political system. "Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman" will be deeply studied for inspiration for the political system, but in accordance with "Dr. Quinn", the political system will not be at the center of the way of life.
• Island time will be observed.
• Everything will shut down for Happy Hour, from noon until bedtime, Monday through Friday, and all day Saturday and Sunday. Drinks will be self-served and on the honor system.

And most importantly,

• There will not be no meddling in other people's business.

And this will work because of the first rule: there will not be no being mean.

I don't think there will be any tax paying, since we won't exactly have income.

And if you do not follow the rules, you have to go back to the main land.

All for island time, stand up and holler!

Greetings, fellow Auburn fan

In 2004, when my beloved next door neighbor of nearly two years moved out of our complex, I was devastated. But soon, I found out I had a very kind, new, next door neighbor. He was from Nepal and in exchange for me taking him to the grocery story, he would cook Nepalese food for me, with lots of cilantro, just the way I lik(ed) it. (Thank you, Reflux.)

My new neighbor was a graduate student, and not only was he new to Auburn, he was new to the South. He had completed his undergrad in Washington state (or Oregon, somewhere in the Northwest), so I relished explaining to him Southern culture.

One afternoon, we passed each other on the landing we shared, outside our apartments.

"What is this wa-yr eagle I keep hearing?" He asked me. I loved that I was someone he could go to for the right answers about this kind of stuff.

I thought for a moment how to best describe "this wa-yr eagle" business to him. "War Eagle has two purposes. At games, you say, 'Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaar Eagle!' as a cheer for the team, and around campus, or wherever you may be, you say, 'War Eagle' to fellow Auburn people, like a greeting."

"I see."

I tell him the story of the Civil War vet who brought his pet eagle to a game, and how the eagle broke loose and circled the stadium, and how we Auburn fans believe that eagle led us to victory that day, and how at the end of the game, that eagle plummeted to the ground and passed away. (I can't bear to say the other word.)

Ever since, we Auburn people use the phrase, "War Eagle!" as a greeting and a cheer for our beloved Auburn Tigers.

"So, that really happened?"

"No duh it really happened!"

He looked a bit bewildered.

"I mean, yes. Yes, the story is true."

War Eagle, Auburn fans.

There will not be no birthin' babies on the Pottery Barn

Y'all, don't judge me.

I have 11 cats living in my house. And a rabbit.

First, the rabbit, Feffer. He's old and he behaves and the only person he ever showed interest in was my old neighbor.

Then, my boyfriend has had Mister Cat since before we started dating.

Then, when I was getting ready to move out of Mom's house, I had the opportunity to get some cats of my own. Two. The Go-Go Girls, Boston and Roxy.

Then, I had the opportunity to get just one more cat, Prudence. Y'all, I have a soft spot in my heart for black cats. I don't know what it is about them.

THEN, a little over a year ago, just when I thought I was beginning to get settled in my new house, I started hearing these kitten cries coming from the privacy fence that shields my complex from the not-so-fancy apartments behind us. Zoe and Miso came to join what I had already begun calling the Furgalicious crew.

Raising the babies, Zoe and Miso, was a lot of fun. In hindsight, of course. So much fun that I began wanting to raise more kittens. "It'll be the first time in two years I haven't had kittens!" I would moan.

Quickly, I got over that and decided I wanted a HUMAN baby instead and decided to focus my efforts on finding a husband.

Well, y'all, all I can say is: be careful what you wish for.

The day before I left for Auburn to close on my condo and begin a new stage in my life, and maybe get to work on that finding-a-husband-and-getting-a-human-baby-of-my-very-own business, this very pregnant cat, a kitten herself, shows herself after crying at me from the bushes all week.

This Cat Momma knew what she was doing. She knew I would be sympathetic, but she knew I would make her stay outside. So, she waited until Mom and the Boyfriend were both at my house to make her debut.

She looks just like Zoe, and we all know the Boyfriend has a much softer spot in his heart for animals than a good, strong, Southern girl any day.

"I promise I will take care of her," he said while looking up at me from the ground, hovering over this Cat Momma who had decided to worm her way into my Grand Plan.

I went straight to work in the guest bedroom, trying to pack up what would be moving with me, but it was just too much, y'all. Cat Momma was ruining my plans to use the spare bedroom as a place to put all the packed boxes and I was getting increasingly overwhelmed.

So, I did what any one with half a grit for a brain would do and I surveyed the danger zones: the big, un-lidded Rubbermaid boxes with stuff I can't bear to get rid of, but have no place to put any of it, and the bed. Oh, my beloved Dakota bed, with the beautiful, DISCONTINUED Pottery Barn bedding.

Y'all, God bless him, if you leave the Boyfriend in charge of something as important as removing bedding from the premises, it probably won't get done. (Case in point: I had boxed up my champagne flutes and white wine glasses before Cat Momma put on her show, but I didn't have a safe place to put them since Cat Momma took over the spare bedroom. I told the Boyfriend to find a safe place for them, as I was leaving, and, guess what, y'all? That's right. They still haven't been moved! One week later. I shouldn't be talking, though. I can't seem to move them anywhere, either. Except for the guest bedroom, where the birthing suite is.)

But, I digress. I took charge the best I could and I moved what I could to the guest bathroom. Then I removed my beloved Mia quilt and shams from the premises to go on and make their new home in Auburn.

I still don't know what his contribution to preparing the guest room as a birthing suite has been, other than UNpacking a box and cutting it apart for the Cat Momma to NOT use after all, all while leaving the contents of said box on the den floor. Or maybe it was using my fine stainless to serve wet food to Cat Momma and leaving the spoon next to her bowls to dry. Or maybe it was squirting the calorie supplement for Cat Momma on the lid of one of my out-of-season clothes containers instead of putting it on the food, like the directions said.

Oh, well. At least I can say that I saved the Pottery Barn quilt from being the delivery medium of choice for Cat Momma.

Y'all, all I have to do now is figure out how to reconcile that I will be living in a quagmire for the next week and a half or so while trying to keep my hands off five stinkin' cute kittens that just had to be born under the Dakota bed.

Funny you don't sound like it (a.k.a. I can write Southern better than I can speak it)

Y'all, something bad is happening to me: my Southern accent is fading.

What's next? I forget how to make cornbread? My pound cake doesn't rise? I lose my taste for grits? What's happening to me?

I remember talking to this guy on the phone and he teased me about how I drawled out my long "I" sounds. He said I shouldn't try to hide it or be embarassed about it because he thought it was cute.

In college, I remember sitting on the porch, joking around with my fellow Southerners about how you could tell if someone was Southern or not: get them to say, "Big, bright, white, light." If the person saying it was a true Southerner, they would say, "Big, braaaaht, whaaaaht, laaaaht."

Also in college, I struggled with pronouncing Spanish correctly because my Southern drawl would get tangled up in all the pronunciations.

But I never wished to lose my Southern accent. Not only did guys think it was hot, it is (was?) an inherent part of who I am as a Southerner.

How did this loss happen, you ask? I blame it on my Yankee friend from Ohio. We became best friends in the dorm and it just so happened his father had recently been transferred to Birmingham. He didn't have a car, so I would let him ride home with me from time to time. I moved back to Birmingham and he stayed in Auburn, but we kept up our friendship. When I moved back to Auburn and he moved back to Birmingham, we still stayed friends. And when I moved back to Birmingham and he stayed in Birmingham, it was he who helped get me through that which is The University of Alabama at Birmingham, otherwise known as UAB.

Y'all, those people at UAB act like a bunch of Yankees (except for the ones that are my friends), letting doors slam in your face and getting a kick out of saying, "Roll Tide!" to you when you wear an Auburn shirt, even though both of you are going to UAB. (Yes, I do not think there is much difference between Bammers and Yankees, except I'd rather marry a Yankee than a Bammer.)

So, as I was saying, my Yankee friend was the eye of the UAB storm for me. He would invite me to meet up with him for coffee before class by texting me, "Meet you at Foy?” Awww. (For you non-Auburn people out there, Foy was the beloved student union at Auburn University when I was a student there, and the HUC is the "Foy" of UAB. I know that "Foy" is not what all student unions are called, but in my world of commuting to UAB, along with all the people who work downtown, while hung-over from drinking at TC's until the wee hours, just so I could get a decent parking spot all while what I really wanted was "my" Auburn, the HUC would be called Foy.)

My Yankee friend and I shared a love for drinking beer (or wine from a box) until it was all gone and the convenience stores within a safe stumbling walking distance were closed, and coffee to nurse those hangovers, playing pool and darts, and clothes shopping. And Tom Petty. God forbid I forget good ol' Tom.

My Yankee friend and I have an early history of having these atrocious fights. We were young and moody and took our moodiness out on each other. We had our last fight in 2004, and within six months, we were friends again and we've been on good terms ever since. In fact, for about three years, we were practically inseparable. I used to have so much fun getting all gussied up to go to our favorite dive bar with him on Saturday nights. I even was invited to his family's Christmas, y'all. Pretty serious stuff for not being his girlfriend. Then, after I got back together with my first serious boyfriend, he started to drop off the face of the earth again. I haven't seen him much over the past couple of years, but hanging around him all that time prior had done its damage.

Y'all, one day while I was out and about, I was chit-chatting with someone and they asked me, "Where are you from?"

Not thinking anything of it, I said, "From here. Birmingham."

"No, I mean, where were you raised?"

"Here. Born and raised."

"What about your parents?"

"Same. Well, my father was from Walker County."

"You mean you've never lived anywhere else?"

"Well, I went to college in Auburn for a few years."

"It's funny you don't sound like you're from the South."

Y'all, that Yankee and his family neutralized my accent and I don't know if I can get it back!

Just because it's located in the North doesn't mean it can't be Southern

Y'all, have I got a good story for you.

The first thing I remember learning how to cook was cornbread. Hundreds of times my Granny poured ingredients into the plastic bowl as I stirred. Eventually, I began pouring in ingredients, a little at a time, until she said, "That's good." If you know anything about cooking in the South, you know we Southerners do not really use recipes. We cook by intuition. It took me YEARS to perfect my cornbread, and I even managed to give my Granny a secret: add an egg. It won't hurt anything and, for some reason, it always makes things taste better.

Now, I'm not too keen on sweet cornbread, even though I do like it from time to time (even, dare I say, crave it). For me, sweet cornbread, like beer and wine, is an acquired taste. I do not, under any circumstances, like peppers in my cornbread. Blasphemy, I tell you! Dressing is even an acquired taste for me. I used to think it was a waste of good cornbread.

When I was in eighth grade, we were taught that Maryland, even though it's located up North, is a Southern state. I don't quite get what's so Southern about Maryland because I used to know a girl from Maryland and she wasn't that Southern. Also in eighth grade, I went to Washington, D.C. I was forewarned that biscuits would not be served at breakfast in the mornings. When I was in ninth grade, I had a "boyfriend" who was from somewhere "up North" and he told me it was true that grits were not available for purchase at the grocery store up "there". So, everything about the differences between the North and the South, I learned in junior high. In college, I had a friend from Ohio who refused to even try pound cake (but his family did enjoy my pound cake that one Christmas).

Being a Political Scientist, by major, and a Historian, by minor, I was really excited to go to Boston in 2005. We were going in the summer, so I was even more excited to escape the misery that is summer in the South. But, knowing about how Northerners are about cornbread and grits, two things I could not ever live without, I braced myself.

Well, my dreams of a cool August were smashed when I found out it was not cooler up in Boston during the summer. As soon as I stepped foot outside the airport upon arrival, I was hit with a wall of humidity. Just like home.

Mom and I embarked on the scariest cab ride ever from the airport to the Hilton Back Bay. When we arrived, shaken and stirred from the terrifying cab ride, topped off with the cabbie scraping another car just before slamming on his brakes to drop us off at the hotel (yes, true story), our room wasn't quite ready. The hotel let us drop off our luggage and we decided it was time to get some food (after all, we had been up since the rooster cock-a-doodle-doo'd and we had been on two flights, back to back, that only served pretzels and drinks, AND all that combined with the wacky cab ride, we were staaaaaahving, y'all). So, we ask the person at the hotel where to eat and they sent us up the street to this place.

This is where it gets good, y'all. Not that wild cab rides and pretzels and ginger ale mid-flight aren't good, but this is where it gets really good. Mom and I were seated in this AIR CONDITIONED place (not quite to the really good part, but AC is a very good thing) and when they took our drink orders, they put, in front of us, a basket of, brace yourselves, y'all: CORNBREAD. Can you believe it? It is possible to be up North and still be Southern.

And, even though the drivers were wacky, let me tell you, y'all, the people were pretty nice up there. All the time we were asked where we were from, and never once did someone say something ugly about Southerners. They loved our accents (may mine RIP, which is a whole 'nother post for some other day), and one person even marveled over the roller coaster at VisonLand.

Now, I did have one te-niny problem up there: the tea. See, I'm a bit un-Southern when it comes to my tea. I like it unsweet. (Although, like my cornbread, I do like it a little sweet from time to time.) So, you can imagine my excitement about going up North and not having to send back my tea a million times at a restaurant because the server failed to listen to my request for UNsweet tea. Well, y'all, while eating at a restaurant on Newbury Street one day, I was dying for some tea. Just to be sure, since so far my trip had been a dream for a Southerner, I asked the waitress if it was indeed true that the tea was "just plain old, normal" tea. She confirmed. I ordered my tea and when Mom and Brother looked at me expectantly as I prepared to take my first sip of UNsweet tea in days, I just had to ask them if it was, by some cruel twist of events, sweetened. They answered in the negative, so I took a swig. Y'all, don't ever take a swig of tea up North as if you're expecting Heaven to flow through your mouth. Mom couldn't contain her laughter anymore. I finally understood why the Bostonians threw all that tea in the harbor: Nestea, y'all, is nas-tea.

I propose, y'all, that we Southerners adopt Boston as a Southern location. It can't be too hard to fix the tea situation. And I believe any place that serves cornbread upon arrival would be open to grits, so that shouldn't be too complicated to correct. We can just call it polenta, like the Italians do, and they'll totally go for it. Don't you think so?

Watch out or I'll go Julia Sugarbaker on you

Y'all, I have a confession: I'm not one of those sweet, submissive, never see anything bad in anyone kind of Southerners. I consider myself kind and generous, but don't cross my path. I'll go Julia Sugarbaker on you and make you feel about the size of a grit.

I try to be polite at all times, but when some local politician calls me for the umpteenth time and I actually get to speak to a PERSON, you better believe I will take the opportunity to tell them I am sick of getting similar phone calls to the point that I am beginning to find myself apathetic. And I was a Political Science major, y'all. I believe in voting. Well, not exactly right now, but I'm trying to get my faith back in this world. So under prior circumstances, I believe in voting.

If you are a pushy real estate agent (or similar type person) and are really bugging the crap out of me, I will eventually tell you to suck it. Unless I am in Real Estate school and would like to keep all contacts I have in that profession as professional as possible, since I never know where I will be working and who I might be up against in negotiations.

If you are an insurance salesman who, after having me explain to you why I have been denied insurance in the recent past, tells me I can get insurance from you, and when I go to get said insurance, and I am, in fact, denied, I will let the nastiest bad word in the world fly. (And you must know you deserve it for listening to it for a few rounds before hanging up on me.)

Getting to what this post was to really be about, if you are an old friend who sends me inappropriate text messages, I will blush. And if you send those text messages in the middle of the night and wake me up, I will tell you, "Contrary to the version of me you used to know, I am indeed sleeping at 5:00 A.M. I do not appreciate wake up texts asking for dirty things, especially dirty things with no strings attached. Because, also contrary to the version of me you used to know, I settled down with a boyfriend and it turns out I actually like it." That seemed to nip it in the bud for a while, but I really missed my old friend, so we ended up starting to text each other again. It was fun having him back in my life.

Until this morning, at, say 3:27 A.M. when I got a text message too dirty to even attempt to describe in a lady-like way detailing what he did with a girl, who apparently is not one bit a good, Southern, lady. If I knew who she was, I would tell her father what was said about her. Shame on her! Let's put it this way: contrary to common Southern convention, I am by no means a Republican AND I consider myself very socially liberal (remember, I did say I was a bit of a hippie). Not much surprises me. Except at 3:27 A.M. when I get a vulgar text message that was really not necessary. This stirred me so much I wanted to get up and go out to see if Two-Bit and my friend were still hanging around the scene of the crime and I wanted to let my friend have it. I was gonna go Julia Sugarbaker on his sorry buns.

Of all things, y'all. I am STUNNED. Google the "Golden Girls" quote where Blanche is stunned. That's how stunned I am at what I saw in that text message. It was worse than vulgar, y'all.

Now, y'all, he did manage to put a "Sorry" in there. Why, I don't know. Sorry for waking me up? Sorry for tearing apart what was left of my innocence? Sorry for being vulgar? I don't really know, but I know that if he really was sorry, he wouldn't have sent that in the first place. And that, y'all, is what I texted back to him at 3:31 A.M. Only time will tell, y'all. In the meantime, I must come up with and practice a diatribe that would make Julia Sugarbaker feel the size of a grit.

But, being a good, Southern, LADY (ahem, Two-Bit), I will forgive him. With proper apologies, of course. Although, I might need some chocolate and wine (Ravenswood Zinfandel, please and thank you) to settle my stunned nerves first, and, of course, a beautiful bouquet of flowers would help. And if that doesn't do the trick, it's called Pottery Barn and you can check my registry.

The New Home

You can say you saw it first here (unless you're my mom or realtor): my game day condo-tuned-new home in Auburn.

So, why is it not just a game day condo?

See, y'all, while I was laying in bed all Spring feeling ill because of the ga-zillion radioactive tests my GI doctor ran on me before sending me off to the surgeon to remove my gall bladder, I started making lists of what I wanted in life. I was really trying to get myself motivated to go back to work, but it's kind of hard to get motivated to go back to work when you have random abdominal pains and near-incessant nausea. The only cure for that, y'all is phenergan and makeup, jewelry, and pajamas, in the form of retail therapy, and on really bad days, phenergan, ginger ale, saltines, and aforementioned pajamas, propped up in bed on a million pillows while watching "Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman" or whatever you can stand to watch on TV.

A constant item on those lists was a game day condo in Auburn. It's nothing personal against hotels. I heart hotels. The only thing is if I had a game day condo, I could afford to spend MORE time in Auburn during football season. I could be one of those people who gets to Auburn on Tuesday or Wednesday (Thursday at the latest) and stays 'til Sunday. I could attend every home game, and be in Auburn for the big away games, to cheer on the team from afar with other Auburn fans. I might even start going to basketball games. And I could even go to the A-Day game.

I didn't intend to actually move to Auburn at first.

I had an epiphany as I was watching "Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman" one day while recovering from my gall bladder surgery: if Dr. Quinn could leave Boston, I could leave Birmingham for Auburn. See, Dr. Quinn's father died, and my Papa had recently died. Dr. Quinn left the big city for the small town, I would leave the big-ish city for the small-ish town. Fresh air, fresh start. It sounded like a good idea.

Being a good, strong, Southern girl, I can't be too far away from my family (unlike Dr. Quinn). I hate driving and I hate flying, so wherever I go will be within a two-hour radius of Birmingham. So, Auburn is still a good choice for me. It's about as far South as I can go for right now.

Not much is more Southern than that

As I was reading through old attempts at being a humor writer, I came across a subject that can't be much more Southern: (o)possums.

First, let's clear something up about the spelling. I know good and well the animal is spelled opossum. But we really say "possum". And I am one of those people who, even though it's correct, gets bugged when I see “an opossum”, because it makes me want to say “an ‘possum” and that doesn’t sound right. So, as a compromise, I will be referring to these mysterious creat-chters as (o)possums. As for the term of endearment, I will be using the word "possum".

When I was a young girl, my Papa affectionately called me “Possum”. Taking him literally, I took all I could stand before I finally corrected him: “I am not a(n) (o)possum! I am a little girl!” I was never called “Possum” again.

When I got the Go-Go Girls, Roxy and Boston, little Roxy Go-Go had the sweetest little ‘possum face ever. I couldn’t help talking about her cute little ‘possum face, but I never once called her “possum.”

When one of my old Auburn neighbors came to visit me in Birmingham for a weekend, and it came out in conversation he had never seen a live (o)possum before, I was hoping I could fix that for him.

Y’all, let me tell you, I was befuddled as to how someone born and raised in the South had never seen a live (o)possum. BE-FUDDLED, tell you.

Earlier in the day, my old neighbor and I went to Oak Mountain to see the Wildlife Rescue Center, and we went to good ol’ Browdy’s (may it rest in peace) for dinner before going to the Widespread Panic concert that night. (I guess now it would be a good time to mention I’m a good, Southern, HIPPIE.) Our relaxed, one-with-nature day, topped off with good food and good music, was capped off with a stop at my favorite bar ever, TC's (may it, also, RIP). Finally, with nothing left to do, we called it a night and headed back to my house.

As I was pulling into the driveway, I saw a raccoon scurry towards the backyard. I screamed at my old neighbor to look. I think he missed the raccoon, but as I pulled on into the driveway, there was the missing piece of the puzzle: a(n) (o)possum.

It wasn't just any (o)possum. This thing was standing on its hind legs, baring its teeth, making the meanest   (o)possum face I have ever seen. And I think it was missing an ear. I locked the doors and insisted we not get out of the car until I had decided what to do. My old neighbor didn't seem to get it. (O)possums are very likely rabid, duh! And judging by the scowl on that one's face, I wouldn't be surprised if it was.

I made us sit in the car for about 20 minutes before I decided it just had to be safe enough to make a mad dash for the house, just in case the (o)possum decided to come back and attack us.

There, y'all. My first REAL Southern post. As I was telling my mother about it earlier today, I mentioned I didn't know what was much more Southern than (o)possums, and she just had to top me with ... (drum roll, please) ... ARMADILLOS (i.e. (o)possums on the half shell). Let me be honest here: I (and I think I am in the majority on this one) don't think I have ever seen a live armadillo. Maybe once, but it was never confirmed, and I don't have a colorful story to go along with it, so y'all will be the first to read all about it when I finally do see my first (confirmed) live armadillo.

The Short Version

2005: First serious boyfriend. He's a good, strong Auburn fan. And twice my age. (I really did not mean for that to happen. It just did.)

2006: Graduate college, begin graduate school (i.e. came to understand how people become alcoholics)

2007: I have a pretty bad meeting with my concentration advisor in grad school ("Frequenting bars is not advised," she told me. That should have been enough for me to get out of there then.) The Boyfriend and I break up a few hours after the deadline for me to drop my classes. I am devastated and rush to make phone calls early the next morning. I could move back to Auburn and totally get away. Unfortunately, I needed my advisor to help me do all that, and, of course, she did not return my calls and emails. So, I did what I knew to do: stick it out and hit the bar whenever possible. Got a nasty stomach bug. Daily nausea. Switch majors in grad school from Education to Public Admin. Get back together with the Boyfriend. Start co-running a dart tournament. Get a couple of stinkin' cute kittens.

2008: Still nauseated. Get another cat. Start working as an elderly sitter. Love the job. Begin the process of buying first home. Become a bartender. Break up with boyfriend. Buy townhouse. Black Velveteen is totaled in a McDonald's drive through line. Get back together with boyfriend. Buy Ava. Bar job sucks! Declare I will move to Auburn in six months if "things" do not improve. Sitting job may end. Hard time settling into house. Bad roommate. Kittens abandoned outside my house and I rescue them. Boyfriend insists on keeping them. Bar job really sucks. Decide to move back to Auburn. Tell Boyfriend, and he starts treating me very nicely again. Move put on hold. Fired from sitting job. Re-hired to sitting job. Sitting charge on hospice. Did I mention the bar job sucks? Sitting charge dies. Phenergan cut off. Devastating bar experience, quit bar job.

2009: New doctor, new phenergan prescription. Stomach bug, take 2. Still can't get settled in townhouse. Want to start a business with Mom. Boyfriend moves in. Start Real Estate School. Stepson comes to visit. Easter hosted at my house. Grandfather goes to hospital. Two and a half weeks later, Grandfather dies. Again, I am devastated. Want to buy a game day condo in Auburn. Decide to break up with Boyfriend. Gallbladder removed. Blood pressure high. Start watching "Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman." Decide to move to Auburn. The Guy Who Still Lives With Me takes in a pregnant cat. Five kittens born. Here I am, still nauseated.

While this is the most condensed version I could come up with, I want it to be known that there is a lot to be thankful for and I did manage to let out a couple of smiles, maybe even laughs, during the past few years. It's been a wild ride, not all bad, but there were some bad things that really seem to characterize these years.

I do not intend to run away from my problems, but I do know I need to remove myself from the "situation" for a while. Fight or flight was really kicking in a few weeks ago, and now that this move is underway, I'm beginning to feel much better.

I am looking forward to living in a beautiful town with nice people and fresh air. I am looking forward to downsizing my possessions that I have accumulated over the years. I am looking forward to being single again. I am looking forward to not have a million cats at my feet as I make my breakfast every morning.

And it would be really nice, but it is not a priority, seeing as how I need to heal for a while, to find a good, strong, Southern, Auburn fan down here to fall in love with, get married to, and adopt a kid or two or however many God sees fit.

I'm ready to get on with my life.

Greetings from the Plains

Well, y'all, in just a few days, it will be official. I am moving to the loveliest village on the plains, where the eagles soar and the tigers roar: Auburn, Alabama.

I guess this is kind of sudden to most everyone who knows me, but be honest, y'all, it's not that much of a surprise. Is it?

THE MOVE has been in the works for a while now. If I want to be good and Southern about it, and dramatize how long it has been, I'll say since I was moving out of my apartment in Auburn in 2004. Really, though, it's been about two or three years in the making.

After I took my first serious boyfriend down to Auburn one weekend in the early days of our relationship, I knew I wanted to move back there. After my first serious boyfriend and I broke up the first time, I really tried to move back down there, but it wasn't very practical. When I was in the process of looking for my first house, I peeked at properties in Auburn (and I found THE quintessential Auburn home on Samford Avenue - of course, it sold within a matter of days). And within a couple of months of buying my first house - a townhouse in Birmingham's Highland Park - I declared, "If things don't get better in six months, I'm moving to Auburn."

I gave it well over a year before I actually made good on that declaration.

So, here I sit in my hotel room, about to go to bed because tomorrow is a big day: I have the inspection on my condo. If all goes well, I will be moving in a couple of weeks.

So many people ask, "Why Auburn?" I tell them so I can breathe. I'm only half-joking. The air is fresh, people are more than nice, and I need to remove myself from the bad situation that is Birmingham. Plus, I don't know how much more Southern you can get than Auburn.