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.