Shoulder seasons

I always complained about Central Oregon's lack of shoulder seasons. For the five years I lived there, spring and fall for me were just brief blips between winter and summer.

While I did eventually come to appreciate the muted high-desert palette of sage on gray on dust on moss, I never got over missing the intensity of color where I'm from, the wetter side of Oregon. I missed Portland's spring and fall. I've previously written here about the glory of springtime in the south. Flowers explode everywhere - it's an assault of color and fragrance. My yard in the springtime includes flowering bradford pears, dogwoods, wisteria, Carolina jessamine, honeysuckle and gardenias. Every time you turn around, something else is blooming. Honestly, even Portland and the Willamette Valley is muted in comparison with the south; for the most part, it's just a place where green congregates; forest on kelly on fern on envy on chartreuse.

The hiccup of autumn in Central Oregon was never anything to look forward to. After the glory of blue-skyed summers and their clear mountain lakes, summers of blessed, blessed dry heat, I wanted none of it. All fall did was remind you that winter was coming for you. October's frigid mornings and gray skies were winter's way of saying, "Get your ice scraper ready bitch. I'm coming for you."

Contrast that with the relief I feel now that summer is over. It's physical. Goosebumps with each turning leaf. When I pulled my first sweater out of its summer storage (I'd never lived in a place where you actually store your sweaters all summer. In Oregon, you face at least a handful of chilly days and evenings even in August.) we cried and hugged like old friends reuniting at an airport - I swear I heard violins playing in the distance. I don't even want to admit what I did when I wore boots for the first time this fall - it's simply indecent.

One thing about fall in South Carolina that's strange for me, that feels wrong for the season at hand, is that I'm opening up the house for the first time in months. Doors and windows, everything's open. No more mornings where you open the door to go outside and the air is hot and moist, like dog breath. After a long summer of sprinting from one air conditioned space to another, of keeping shades drawn against the heat, I've been throwing open all the doors and windows, letting a breeze blow through the house for the first time in months. It feels like spring.

So I did some spring cleaning. Starting with brushing the dogs.

Yeah, so that happened.

When southern girls get married

I realize that there are probably weddings in Oregon that look and feel like southern weddings. I’m guessing that they’re for rich people whose families have ties to the East Coast - but I don't know a lot of those people. I’ve been to probably a dozen weddings since I turned 18. I've attended everything from a quick wedding for two 18-year-olds (graduating the next day) who rented the local Moose Hall and had their aunts hang some paper streamers to a $30K+ affair with late night dancing, gorgeous flowers, fancy cocktail dresses and passed finger food.

I’ve only been to one southern wedding.

However, I first suspected that some things about weddings would be different when, shortly after arriving in South Carolina, my boyfriend’s stepmother, I guess in an effort to gauge the seriousness of our relationship, asked if we’d picked out a china pattern.

“Um, no,” I stammered. “Do people … still do that? People my age?”

She laughed and said that maybe she was just old-fashioned.

But the southern bride whose wedding I just attended, she’s not old-fashioned. Modern girl, this one. And she picked out formal china, informal china, Christmas china and FORMAL Christmas china.

Touché.

Also, the southern wedding I recently attended took place in a church. I have not been to a church wedding since I was a kid – I know they still happen, but I do believe they’re more rare than the ballroom, or outdoor park, or wedding venue style-affairs that are de rigueur out west.

Unfortunately, my date and I arrived only 10 minutes early for the wedding, something I hadn’t intended (my beau’s wardrobe malfunction [read: lack of planning when it came to ironing] was to blame), but I still thought would be OK. But no. The chapel was full so we were put in the overflow room with the other derelict guests. There was a big screen TV with a live video feed from the chapel. This is another thing I’ve never seen before.

But when the video feed went out, the other guests looked around and agreed it was time to hit the bar, I realized that there is at least one important nuptial factor that is universal from coast to coast: booze.

Thank baby Jesus.

The level of formality is another factor that is different from Oregon. This is something I anticipated. See, in the entire state of Oregon, there are probably two restaurants where you can’t wear jeans. And if you’re the governor of the state, you can wear jeans anywhere you damn well please. Not the case here. Example: A Southern girlfriend of mine believes that male guests at a wedding that is held at 6 p.m. or later should wear tuxedos.

Yeah.

So, my beau and I had some trouble figuring out what to wear – mostly because we’re poor, but also because he spent the last decade working in the outdoors, so he doesn’t own a tie. Me, I pretty much only own dress-up clothes that could be seen as too loud/quirky for southern affairs (I had to be talked out of wearing a short black dress and hot pink tights to the wedding and I’m still kind of miffed about it). Also, my fancy clothes just aren't fancy by southern standards. I do not own a single sequin. I don't really do sparkles. Or bows.

We figured it out, but we ended up looking dowdier than  most of the other guests. No big deal, as far as I'm concerned.

But this is all leading up to my proclamation. In my view, the 2 best things about southern weddings:

1. *Seersucker suits with bowties. There were dozens of them, on everyone from little boys (!) to grown men. I will admit that, unfortunately, I didn't see any of the older gents wearing them, so suspect they could be trend that I just hadn't been exposed to before.

*I do know some folks just see the seersucker thing as an affectation. Some sort of old-money, stodgy ... really, I don't know. I haven't been here long enough to understand the intricacies of Southern affectations. Regardless, I find boys in seersucker and bowties adorable and charming. If I still worked at a newspaper this post would be headlined "A sucker for seersucker." Or some such thing.

2. The electric slide.

Now, I don’t do the electric slide. I learned it at some point, but I’m terrible at remembering dances that require specific moves at specific times. But southern ladies like their electric slide. And we're all the better for it.

On swimming

It's hot, y'all.

I warned you there would be a lot of complaining about the heat, right? Because it's HOT. Like, really, really hot. All the time. And muggy. So very, very muggy.

And here's one thing that pisses me off about this. Everyone told me all this humidity would be great for my skin. I expected to glow. So why do I have scaly patches spreading across my face? Oh, right. Because it's too frigging hot to go outside and soak up the humidity.

I spent one night at my friends place at the south end of the beach (farther away from me but, from what I understand, slightly preferred to the resorty madness in Myrtle Beach). We did make it to the beach. It was nice. Stiff salt breeze, hilarious people watching of mahogany-colored blond girls who will doubtless end up looking like old luggage one day. Waves. Honestly, if I lived near the beach, I imagine I'd go there with some regularity. And since I wear sunscreen, my dry lizard skin might go away. But a) I don't live near the beach and b) have I mentioned that I'm kind of afraid of swimming in the ocean?

It's not that I'm not a swimmer. I love swimming. I was on a swim team for awhile when I was a kid, and I actually would have been good if I'd had a drop of competitive spirit in my blood (I've since developed that drive, but not related to physical pursuits. For the only race I've ever participated in, a half marathon, my only goal was finishing. I don't even like competitive ping-pong. But get me on a monopoly board and I will make you my bitch - or pout when I lose).

It's not that I fear swimming in natural bodies of water, necessarily. I grew up swimming in rivers and lakes. I have very distinct memories of swimming in the Santiam River with my sister when I was a kid. There was one swift channel that the little kids were too scared to swim across, and I remember with pride the first time I made it. I was finally big enough to hang with my big sister and the older cousins on the far bank. My older cousins were awesome.

However, where I'm from, you do not swim in the ocean. First of all, it's cold. Year-round. Frigid. Numbing. There's also the fact that there's usually a giant, terrifying break far away, dangerous riptides, something called a sneaker wave, and great white sharks. But really, it's the cold. When you're a kid, you wade in until the water comes up to maybe your hips, you laugh and splash for about five minutes, daring your sister to go out a little father, then your feet turn blue so you return to your sandcastle. Before long, it's off to Moe's for some chowder. And that's if it's not raining on the day you make it to the beach, which it usually is, year-round.

My first experience swimming in the ocean was in Mexico when I was in my early 20s. I didn't know that when a wave was coming for your head you were supposed to dive under it, so I just closed my eyes and got knocked into the sand. When I recovered, my top was around my neck and my sunglasses were floating toward my boyfriend's dad. Sweet.

Plus. Jellyfish. Ugh.

While explaining the ins and outs and complications relating to my many excuses for taking constant shelter in the loving, frigid arms of central air, a friend asked me why I don't go swimming in the river near my house.

That's fucking hilarious.

Here's an illustrative anecdote: Roomie and I recently tried to take an early morning kayak trip on the Waccamaw River. Not only was it 90 degrees by 9 am, but the river is largely swamp. So, you know, gross. And the parts that aren't totally swampy are still blackwater. As in, the color of black tea. I know I've covered this, but it bears repeating. The Santiam, when you stand above it, is green, but when you're in the water, it's clear. You can't see your own boobs in blackwater. In the Santiam, or the Deschutes, you can watch trout swimming by. You can check out the periwinkles nestled in the rocks.

I hope the "where I come from" rant hasn't gotten old, but if you haven't been, have you at least seen pictures of Oregon? Just google Crater Lake. I'll give you a sec. Or, another of my favorites, Clear Lake. Crystal clear mountain runoff, kids. This is what I'm used to.

And the thing is, no one can say that there's nothing to fear in the blackwater! Snakes! Venemous ones! Vicious biting turtles! Fucking alligators! No, for real. We had to turn around on our little kayak outing last weekend when we saw a 6-footer ahead of us.

I'm not sure what to do except whine, moisturize, and wait for autumn. I'll be the one sitting inside with the blinds drawn, dreaming of scarves, sweaters, boots, and pumpkin pies.

Review - Quaker instant grits

I didn't try grits for a very long time. I just wasn't really interested. They sound gross, for one. Just the name.

Then when grits were served to me, they had been cooked with water and not seasoned much. I didn't see the point. Grayish, goopy and grainy? I think I'll pass.

Then I started dating a southern boy (so many delightful stories begin with that sentence ... ). When I told him I didn't care for grits, he shook his head and explained that I hadn't had his grits.

Apparently, that was not a euphemism.

I now keep grits on hand, and make them as a breakfast or dinner side quite often. They're easy and good, and I usually add a bit of milk, cream or butter because what isn't better with butter and cream? He likes to spoon bacon grease in his. I recommend it.

So, when I moved to South Carolina, I was excited to check out the grits selection at the grocery store - they can sometimes be hard to find out west. You may not find any, or you may just find one kind. Out here, the grits section is bigger than the oatmeal section. And they make instant grits in little packets--just like the oatmeal my mom wouldn't buy for me when I was a kid.

Naturally, I had to try it out.

Flavors: American cheese, three cheese, cheddar cheese. I also plan to try the bacon-flavored variety.

Moo.

Detail. Because I'm all about details.

Grit-tastic.

 Difficulty: Can you figure out how to stir something and microwave it for 1 minute and 15 seconds? I hope so. This is a crazyshort cook time.

Nutrition: There's 100 calories in a packet, plus the calorie content of the milk - if you use it. So, not a lot. And there's no nutritional value really, unless you're looking for more carbs in your diet.

Taste: These are gross, y'all. I know, SHOCKING.

Why am I surprised? I don't know, I like those little Quaker oatmeal packets. They're like the candybar of breakfast grains. But these were extra gritty and hard, and I swear they had enough salt in them to preserve an entire ham. And it's not that I don't like fake cheese flavored powder. I'll eat a tub of cheeseballs, cheetos, and a box of Kraft mac and cheese (Kraft dinner to my Canadian friends).

My advice? Run far away from these things.

Unless you're one of the friends to whom I've mailed a novelty package of instagrits, in that case, YUMMY! Enjoy! They're a southern delicacy!

On finding the right words

This is not about how to find the right way to say something complicated.

This is about how to throw a party.

A friend of mine who lives in Oregon likes to have these parties at the beginning of every summer wherein guests bring some pasta salad, maybe a few beers, oh, I don't know, perhaps some Jello? No, probably not Jello. But, you know. Coleslaw maybe. The hosts crank up a grill and cook hot dogs and burgers. Condiments are presented. There may be a lawn game or two involved.

In Oregon, such an event is called a BBQ. Or, spelled differently, a barbecue. The event is so recognizable as such, that my friend, should her last name be Windsor, could invite people to a Windsor-Q, and all attendees would know that it would be outside and that food would be cooked on a grill (fascinators optional).

I tried inviting some of my South Carolinian friends to an Aynor-Q recently. Later, when I mentioned that the grill - the one we keep outside and cook food on - would be heated for the event, I got a surprised response. "Oh, we're grilling?"

Right. Because not only was the Q not specific enough to suggest BBQ - which I get - but here, in the Deep South, the word BBQ (or barbecue) does not mean "a party where people cook outside." It is a noun that means "food that is cooked with smoke" or a verb that means "to cook with smoke." In the Carolinas, it can also be a noun defined as "pulled pork." Said pulled pork may be mixed with barbecue sauce, either vinegar or mustard-based, but NEVER, for the love of Jesus, will that sauce be tomato-based.

Here, an event where people cook outside on a grill is called a "cook out."

Oooooohkay. Lesson officially learned.

I also learned another lesson at what turned out to just be a good dinner party: if you're a yankee (I hear I am), don't try saying "y'all." It works in writing - I've found it's quite efficient as a plural, gender-neutral pronoun in a casual email. However, when I tried it on my guests, my efforts were met with mockery.

Bastards.

Two minor points

1. There's a decent amount of farming going on where I live. This is not terribly new to me, Oregon has a lot of rural areas. Of course, what's different is what's grown. Oregon's all about seed, really. But you'll also see a lot of fun crops like strawberries and grapes. Here, I have tobacco fields growing literally across the street from my house.

 

The other day I decided to check the plants out, despite my fear of maybe being shot. Tobacco plants are really kind of pretty, with giant, crepey leaves. And since Bath and Body Works makes that really lovely fragrance called "Tobacco Flower," I assumed the pink flowers would smell good. They didn't smell like anything. I was pretty disappointed.

2. There are a few things that people out here say differently. Roomie says "cut on," in addition to saying "cut off." As in, "will you cut on that light for me?" This makes no sense to me, but he says it's a totally normal thing to say. They also use not just double negatives, but double-positives. As in, "how will we handle this situation? Well, we might could handle it this way ..." Well, maybe the "might" isn't a full positive, but a possible positive. Does that mean a "might could" is, like, a positive-and-a-half? Am I even making sense anymore?

Anyway, that was all a lead-in to one really adorable thing southerners say: they use the word "buggy" instead of "shopping cart." Isn't that cute?

They also, really, genuinely call people "yankees." I mean, I guess I knew that they did, but it still makes me giggle every time I hear it.

Sexy flower time

As I expected, it's not yet July, and I want to cry when I leave the house in the morning. My glasses fog the second I walk out of the house, like I just opened a steamy dishwasher (Related: there is nothing that makes me feel like a dorky-ass kid as much as fogged glasses. It makes me feel like Velma.) I also cannot walk into my yard without 45 mosquitoes jumping my shit, and my electric bill is half my paycheck.

I find myself wondering WHY THE SHIT PEOPLE LIVE HERE.

Then I see some pretty flowers, and I think, "maybe this is why?" But that seems stupid.

Nonetheless, I feel like I need to know the name of every gorgeous plant and flower I fall in love with. Lately it's been these intense, hot-pink flowers that have exploded all over the ornamental trees that grow at my work. They have this gorgeous, pantyhose-nude colored bark, and these orderly, symmetrical leaves.  They're like robot leaves. Part of why I'm fascinated by them is because they just look like they could never grow in the high desert. I'm no botanist, but these trees somehow look ... hot. Basically the opposite of the Central Oregon icon, the juniper. Exhibit A:

(image stolen from this weird site)

See that gnarled old beast? That's a juniper. They have a distinctive smell that makes me homesick, though some crazies say they smell like cat pee. Now look at the kinds of trees I'm looking at these days:

They're all exotic and shit.

I pointed the sexy pink trees out to Roomie to find out what they were called, and he gave me the wrong answer. (jerk). Nonetheless, I was somehow able to figure it out through a series of internet clicks--which really is a hard task when you don't know how to describe botany accurately. Sexy flowers? Pantyhose-colored bark? Weirdly robotic leaves? Yeah. Not great search terms.

But it turns out the trees are "Crape Myrtles." I have a hard time typing that, however, since I don't know the word "crape." I know the word crepe though. I've been informed that "crape" is simply the southern spelling of "crepe."

Right. Because they do that here. There's also a flower named "Confederate Jessamine." It's a type of jasmine, but southerners decided that pronouncing the word crazy wasn't good enough.

Anyway, in my sexy pink flower research, I discovered the best website ever.

Go, click.

Did you catch that?

Yes. It's sexy people posing in front of trees. Are they Russian? Or gay? I can't tell.

What happens when you don't go to church

So I’m home alone on a Sunday, and I’m cleaning and cooking and working and cleaning dog beds. Typical Sunday. I take these two foam things we let the dogs sleep on out into the yard to hose them down because for some reason my three year old dog has started peeing the bed, and sometimes just peeing on the carpet, and a junker car drives by and honks. I look up, as though I know anyone out here, and then go back to my hosing.

But the car turns around, and then pulls into my yard - we don’t have a driveway, you actually have to drive through the yard to park on the landing in front of the barn-like garage and carport. He drives toward me, and I stand up, and it occurs to me what I look like: I’m wearing a tank dress (I’ve started to refer to them as housedresses) because it’s the only thing I can stand to wear in the heat and humidity. I’m squinting through my glasses, my frizzy hair is piled on top of my head, and I’m wearing no bra, though I do have an apron with a wild horses print on it tied around my waist – it was an ironic gift from my best friend, but I actually wear it because I cook and bake and wash dishes by hand. Also, as though I have new readers who need this info: I’m ultra white and have tattoos.

The fellow driving his beater car across my lawn is a black guy (p.s. more than once in the last few weeks, I’ve been in restaurants with people who have stage-whispered “black” when referring to perceived cultural differences. I’ve also gotten a stage-whispered “white” when someone was telling me which Taco Bell was preferred, because the employees were all, you guessed it, “white”) about my age, smoking a swisher sweet and wearing a white wife-beater tank top.

I say hello when he leans out his window. I’m thinking about where my dogs are. Inside the house.

He tells me he’s looking for “Heavah,” she lives somewhere around here and she looks just like me.

I tell him I don’t know anyone named Heather out here. Then he points out my tomato plants, and tells me that he grows tomatoes, too, and eggplants and okra and beans, and his watermelons are doing well, too.

When he describes the wall he built to keep his tomatoes off the ground, I say, “yeah, we should have done something like that, too. Anyway, good luck finding her.”

Then he drove away.

When I told Roomie about it (we tell each other any time anyone comes here, as it happens so rarely) suggested that the guy was “fishing.”

I’m trying to picture how that would have gone successfully for him.

“Oh, Heather? I don’t know her. Would you like to come inside for a lemonade? Or some homemade salsa?”

Am I being innocent?

Have I mentioned lately that I hate bugs?

The other night as I was going through my evening routine (I’m very good about taking my makeup off at night. I heard Stevie Nicks claimed on Oprah once that her “secret” [as though she looks great?] was that she always took her makeup off, and my podcast girlfriend Julie Klausner did a hilarious rant about it on her podcast. Something like “maybe I passed out face first in a pile of coke, but I removed my makeup first!”), I heard a sound in the shower. Skittery. Sketchy.

The dogs had been acting weird—standing in the yard staring off into the distance, rather than running in circles or dragging their asses across the driveway—and Roomie was passed out on the couch. For some reason I pictured a raccoon in the shower. Or a snake. Or an alligator. 

I live in the south now. I figure I should prepare for these things.

So I opened up the shower curtain and found a huge palmetto bug cockroach crawling up the wall. I squealed like a little girl, of course, and slammed the curtain shut so hard I whacked my thumbnail against the tile, splitting the nail down so far it bled. Of course. Because I just painted my nails two days earlier and that activity is basically an invitation for fingernail destruction.

Cockroach: 1

So I wrapped a band-aid around my thumb to keep the broken nail from snapping completely off in the night and went to bed. I resisted the urge to stuff a towel under the bathroom door to keep the bug from crawling out of the bathtub, scampering across the floor, shimmying under the door, crawling over to the bed, up the blankets and then, of course, crawling onto my face or into my ear. For good measure, I took a swig of vodka and put in earplugs.

The next morning, when I got up, I was so groggy, I’d totally forgotten about the bug until I whipped open the shower curtain and found the giant thing on its back, legs in the air. Dead. Apparent natural causes.

Serial: 1

I still count this as a win. You know, since the bug dead.

Though, instead of cleaning him up, I left the corpse for roomie and gave myself an Irish bath in the sink.

Come to think of it, maybe we all lost in this battle.

On humidity: Part 1

Oh, humidity. You wicked, wicked bitch.

On a recent day, I was feeling hi-tech, so I looked at the weather indicator on my iPhone. Our house is temperature controlled, and it seemed easier than going outside. It said the day's high would be 77.

Since I'm an idiot, and I lived in the desert for five  years, I put on a pear of jeans and a breezy black blouse with cap sleeves, plus a jaunty little blue hat I bought on impulse at some cheapass shoe store in the mall (I look really good in hats, as long as I can get them on my giant head).

A pair of earrings, some flip flops, and I'm set to go.

Ha!

You southerners already know my mistake. 77 with 10% humidity is jeans weather. 77 with 99% humidity means you'll be peeling those fuckers off when you get back to the comforts of central air.

Stupid.

So I changed into a sundress, and I thanked Jesus for giving me blonde leg hair.

Actual conversation between me and Roomie:

"Uhg, I just don't want to shave my legs."

"I don't care."

"Well lucky me, because I'm lazy."

"It just lowers the chances of some southern hottie stealing you away from me."

That's love, people.

*Update: The following day, when I woke up, I looked out the window and saw a sort of low-hanging fog that, if I lived in London or the Pacific Northwest, would mean a cool, gray day was ahead of me. Here, it's just the hot morning mist. I walked outside, and it felt like I'd walked into a dog's breath. The high tomorrow is 91. (p.s. It's still May, right?)

I begrudgingly shaved my legs, and in the process shaved a chunk out of my ankle about the size of my pinkie nail.

Blast you humidity! Blast you (said whilst shaking bloody Venus razor at sky)!

It's going to be a long summer.

Conversation I had this week

"So, what did you say about the rapture at work?"

"Um, nothing."

"What, really? No one brought it up?"

"No, and I'm not going to. That would be a really quick way to get fired."

"Oh, come on. You could have just said, like, 'Hey, probably won't see you all Monday, eh?'"

"Right. Add in a 'I mean, I'll probably still be around. I'll hold the place down.' That is one valuable point I did not think to put on my resume. 'Definitely won't be called back in case of Rapture.'"

Goodbye. Wish me luck. I'm sooooo going to need it.

I kept wanting to write a post this week, about all kinds of things (for example: Have you noticed that people who drive with their arm out the window of the car, sort of gripping their entire car like it's their shaft, are always dickface drivers? I have.) but I'm leaving tomorrow morning for a huge conference. And not the fun kind, where you're an attendee and you can sneak off for booze. No, the kind that I'm helping run, where I work a kajillion hours and drive with coworkers in a rented car for 13 hours and where I'm not allowed to drink any alcohol the entire time I'm gone. The week leading up to the conference has basically been hell. And it was also finals week for Roomie.

So here is one photo from a post I don't have time to write, because I have to wake up in four hours:

Yeah. We had a car break down. So we got towed by a tractor.

Hugh Hefner of chickens

Since my neighbors cut down a lot of the shrubbery between our yards, I now have a view of their chicken coop. It's not very close by, and it's partially blocked by what I've been told is a "dog run," a fenced in area in our vast yard where, if we were "real" southerners, I suppose we'd lock up our dogs, instead of snuggle with them on the living room floor. Instead, we use the area to make compost, and use the fence to keep our dogs out of it.

Anyhoo, the chickens. I absolutely adore the rooster. Probably more because he lives on the opposite side of the house from my bedroom window, so I never hear him crowing in the morning until I'm already up. Because in case you'd never considered this, rooster crows are entirely dependent upon where you are when you hear them. Roosters crowing when you're making tea and eggs = awesome, but rooster crowing when you're in bed and trying to sleep = feathery hellspawn.

The best thing about the rooster is that he likes to hang out on top of the hen house. He stands up there, strutting, and quite often, there's a hen up there with him. Sometimes two. I like to think of the coop as some sort of bunny ranch. Hugh, the Rooster, decides who gets the top position and gets to come upstairs with him, based on whims. I haven't decided which hen to call Crystal. Wasn't there a Holly, too? Or am I confusing Hugh Hefner with Bob Barker ... ?

Anyway, I like thinking of the coop as a tiny redneck bunny ranch. Especially since I've heard the bunny ranch smells about as good as a chicken coop.

The Sun News

Look, I am not gonna go and knock Easter. I just want to share some cultural differences.

Where I come from, you do not generally see this on the front page of your newspaper on Easter Sunday:

What's that, you ask? Why, it's a fawning, front-page profile of the local carpenter who spatters himself in fake blood and faux-crucifies himself on Ocean Boulevard in Myrtle Beach every year.

Oh, wait, I'm sorry. He used to do it. From 1993-1997.

Oh, and it wasn't Easter. It was the day before Easter.

But still! Cool headline! And he's a carpenter (made his own cross, people) and his initials are J.C. So. There ya go.

I actually do like this quote, written about the phase before he became a Christian:

To his dismay, his wife Elaine Curkendall, refused to let Jesus go and told him so.

"If  you are asking me to choose between you and Jesus, then I'm choosing God," she said. "You ain't even a close second."

That lady doesn't mess around.

Honestly, my only real problem with the story is that it took away from the headline with the other lead story of the day. It's about a local run where people stop and eat a dozen Krispy Kreme glazed doughnuts in the middle of their 10K.

Best headline ever?

Severe weather

I've heard severe weather warnings before. But not tornado warnings. There was a tornado in Oregon sometime in the last year and everyone was like, "A TORNADO? In Oregon? Are you sure?'

Here, my NPR news quiz was interrupted (the nerve!) telling me to evacuate if I'm in a trailer or vehicle. Because everyone knows tornados love trailer parks.

The wind had picked up, and the light outside was changing rapidly, from ochre to white and back. Trees swayed. Dogs paced under my feet, then hid under the bed. Roomie was at Lowes, picking up supplies to protect our young tomato plants and lettuce from any hard rain or hail.

The radio then said I might want to get away from windows, or maybe lay down behind the couch and cover my body with pillows. Also, if I'm outside and things get ugly, "lie flat in the nearest ditch."

Y'all, the radio has never before told me to lay in a ditch.

*Favorite comment on my Facebook post about this weather warning: "Exciting! Keep some red shoes on standby!"

Anyone remember that movie Ferngully?

Of course we have neighbors we hate.

No, that's too far. We don't hate them. They just seem like dicks.

My house sits on an acre, just far enough back from a busy road. We have a big yard, and we like to spend time outside, usually tossing a ball for the dogs, and often with a beer (or large glass of wine) in hand. On one side of us, close to our house, is a house that's empty save occasional visits from the grown kids of the dead lady who used to live there.

On the other side, past the vast expanse of our lovely yard, live The Jerkoffs. It's a couple and a kid, and someone who looks like a grandma seems to appear from time to time. Roomie has seen the kid shooting at birds. That's just a really good way to piss off this particular hippie. And, charmingly, while the kid was shooting at birds, Grandma was just chilling on a riding mower, watching.

It's not like we have seagulls or some other kind of asshole birds around (like steller's jays, which are big, fat jerks), but sweet songbirds, cardinals, something called a titmouse,  and amazing, huge pileated woodpeckers -- rare, protected Woody the Woodpecker birds. Roomie also saw the kid chasing the chickens around their chicken coop throwing rocks at them. Cool, right?

(Don't get me wrong, I'm OK with eating chickens. I'm just not really into being an asshole to them while they're still alive. I get the irony, but as I see, it, 90% of the point of raising chickens is eating eggs -- or meat -- without feeling guilty about the horrible treatment the animals experienced while they were still alive.)

While all that makes me think the kid is a turdface, I wasn't really pleased when I heard his dad yelling at him while they burned whatever they were burning (they do it so often I suspect it may be their garbage) in their yard one morning. I'm not sure, but I think I heard him smack the kid, too. Excellent. (Mom's an unknown. Guilt by association, I say.)

Oh, and I haven't even mentioned the dogs. They have dogs, but they don't appear to be pets. They live in a pen outside next to the chicken coop, and they bark incessantly. I don't hold it against the dogs. They look out and see our off-leash pooches running around, frolicking happily with owners who love and snug them and throw balls for them. I mean, I'd bark, too. It's like the dogs are yelling, "Hey!  We want to play! This is bullcrap! Did you guys see this? We live in a cage! Look, see how huge this yard is? Why can't we run in the yard?! That looks like fun! We want to come play! Come get us! Can we hump your dogs?!"

So that's the background on how I felt when, one day, I heard the sound of large machinery coming from the neighbor's yard. It sounded angry, and hungry, and as I looked at the stand of trees and brush that separates our property from theirs, I saw limbs and leaves heaving and shaking as they clawed and cut them out of the ground. Tiny birds fled the destruction.

My vision's not great, but it was totally a scene from FernGully (p.s. Avatar was basically an expensive version of FernGully, but without Tim Curry. Incidentally, I have loved Tim Curry since he was trying to figure out who killed Mr. Boddy. Anyone with me? My early exposure to Rocky Horror only confirmed my adoration).

So now I think of my neighbors as the new embodiment of Hexxus.



Except my neighbor is in no way sexy.

In summary: Tim Curry is rad, my neighbors are dicks, and Hexxus destroyed enough bird habitat that we can now see the dickface yard better and hear said dicks yelling at their kids more clearly. Yay.

On the other hand, I now have a much better view of the daily activities of their chickens.

But that's another post.

Holly's House of Beauty - Aynor, SC

I got my wig split the other day.

OK. I don't think I pull that phrase off as well as other people I know. I really like it though, so I keep trying.

Anyway.

I went here:

It's called Holly's House of Beauty. My trim cost $12.

Here's how it happened:

Roommie and I went to Ned's, one of the four non-fast-food restaurants in town, to get burgers one night. While I waited, the woman working started chatting me up, and she asked where I'm from. Side note: Everybody around here asks me where I'm from. I'm not sure how they can tell.

She asked if I lived in town, I told her yes, nearby, on Blahblah Street (back off, stalkers).

"Oh, you do, whereabouts?"

"In the white house across from the Business."

"Oh my gosh! Holly used to own that house! Dan!" she said, shouting over the grill at the guy cooking our burgers, "they rent Holly's old house!"

"I love that place. Nice wood floors," Dan said.

They are pretty nice.

So I got the quick rundown on Holly, where she lives now, who she lives with, and was informed that the cute little haircut shack two doors down from my house is hers.

And the thing is, I'm not doing much with my hair lately. I call the long, undyed hair my "recession 'do." I miss color and cute sassy haircuts, but a) for some uneffingbelievable reason Roommie likes my hair long and b) with my hair this long, I can get away with applying product to my hair, scrunching it, and air drying. I'm not saying I like the way it looks. But I drive an hour to work every day. If I get up early enough, I'm not going to use that time on doing my hair. I'm one of those assholes who puts on makeup in the car now.

Also, I love supporting local businesses (as the folks in Bend would say, Make Local Habit), so I called.

Holly is the best.

She talked non-stop, with one of the thickest accents I've yet to encounter. At first I was scared, because when I walked into the shop, Holly was touching up a scrubs-clad woman's long, curly mullet. They chatted about the Mullet's boss, 15 ex-boyfriends and I think probably half of the residents of our town. In between, they worked me for info about myself, starting with "where are you from baby?" (Seriously. Baby.)

As I sat down for my trim, a dad and his kid came in for a trim, and the dad, Jeff, proceeded to tease me and Holly.

"Now why'd you cut that bald patch in the back of her head?" Jeff asked.

"So Holly, you get married or you still living in sin?"

"I'm still living in sin; will you pray for me Jeff?"

So good. Holly kept punctuating everything she said with, "Oh, lordy, Jeff," but the way she said Jeff it was like, Jay-eff.

I seriously regret I didn't secretly record the chatter. I was also too chicken to take photos of the inside, but it's not nearly as cute as the outside. Not really horrifying, either. But the voices. Ohhhh the voices.

I'll bring a secret recorder next time, kids.

Oh, I did get a photo of the super adorable welcome mat:

 So, my review of Holly's House of Hair? Go. It's totally worth $12.

The Bootie Bros. - Florence, SC

An approximation of a recent IM convo I had with a friend at work:

Red: Girl, I think I need to pay me a visit to the bootie brothers.
Me: ?
Red: The bootie brothers?
Me: I don't follow. Who are the bootie brothers?
Red: You've never heard of them?
Me: That's what I'm saying.
Red: We have to find one of their commercials on YouTube ...*
Me: ?
Red: It's a boot shop.
Me: Oh! Boots! I know those.
Red: I'm going over for lunch. Want to come? I need some cowgirl boots.
Me: Of course I do.

(*Apparently these commercials were awesome. I can't find em, but I didn't look very hard. If you come up with something, please share.)

Now, I've been to Western wear shops before. There's a lot of phony-baloney cowboy crap in Oregon. But this place is something special. Partly, I was impressed because most of the shops I've previously visited have either been A) in a mall or 2) made to appear as though the buildings they were housed in were built from rough-hewn logs. I hate fake log buildings. To me, they reek of faux-country rich boy "ranchers" and "cowboys." Think George Bush. Or the Pioneer Wife's hubby (Or so I hear. I've never read her, I just read about how she never mentions that her "pioneer" husband comes from a shitload of money. And like any self-respecting liberal, I dislike rich people I don't know personally.)

Alas, behold:

While you try on boots, a dude with a sick southern accent vaguely flirts with you (if you're as cute as Red, you'll get comments on your toenail polish and offers to help roll up your pant legs). Plus, these are damn fine boots.

If anyone's taking notes I want these:

They's so pretty I had to get multiple angles. But if you're not into $300+ boots, worry not. There's something for everyone at the Bootie Bros.

 
These were the winners. Red said the insides feel like tennis shoes:

So, this may be the best part: Remember how I said I had NO idea what Red was talking about when she mentioned the Bootie Bros? Well, the night after we stopped there, I realized I drive by a gigantic Bootie Bros. billboard on my way home from work every single day.

I'm super observant.

Oh, and the following morning, I realized I drive by another Bootie Bros. billboard every day on my way to work.

Really. I hope I never witness a murder.

"Um ... I think he was wearing a green shirt? Well, it might have been a woman ... wait, did you say they were aliens? Huh. I didn't even notice ..."

It's gourmet you guys.

Oh, gourmet Japanese sauce? That sounds fancy. I wonder what's in it?

(I took these photos awhile ago. Do not misconstrue my terrible timing for insensitivity about the horrible earthquake tsunami nuclear reactor endtimes scenario everyone's understandably obsessed with right now. This particular post has nothing to do with Japan, and a whole lot to do with America. Still, I gave a little bit here, and it wouldn't hurt you to do the same. xoxo)

Swamps are pretty cool. Except for the dead deer rotting away next to where we parked. That was uncool.

My first swamp guys!

Big change from the high desert where I've been living the last five years. Actually, I guess it's totally different from any place I've ever lived. Best part? We found a nice hut to hang out at when we become hobos.

 

It even came with an area rug. (Insert Lebowski joke here)

Roomie's trying to teach me some of his smartypants stuff. Like how to identify a few birds. Truth be told, I'm pretty terrible at it, because my eyes are so bad, but even people who can't see far away can hear calls and see shapes of large birds at a distance.

Also, did you know that cypress trees have knees? They're stubs of root that grow up out of the swamp around cypress, and they look vaguely phallic and eerily primordial. Most of the ones we saw today had these salmon-colored tips that really upped the tree-ween-of-the-swamp-floor factor.

Gross, right?

Here's a close-up:

Also, we thought Margaux loved the desert, but that's probably just because we'd never taken her to a swamp before. I mean, mud and stink and neck-deep puddles and bugs and dead things? Brackish water you can swim in that's the color of over-steeped tea so you don't know what's at the bottom of the pool and there could be anything down there! Snakes! Sticks! Dirt! More mud!


Sister was in heaven.