The Mercy Blog 2: Mean Man and Me
I noticed without much fanfare or to-do, this morning, that our neighbor had a rental truck slap up against his front door. Coming down the road, from class, I saw the bed, the table, and various other accoutrement loaded inside. I took this to mean he was moving. I was...I must say...ok with that. He wasn't the easiest man to like. An attempt had been made, earlier in the year, to befriend him, mainly because he had the most adorable roommate: a Bassest hound. And one afternoon, I was in the backyard with Max, the dog I live with. He's a large white German Shepherd,...
All they could do was "talk the fire out."
Part of my nightly ritual is calling U.L., checking in with him before I go to bed. He's a very nervous and worried man, and has a slight addiction to mayonnaise, like the rest of us in Mississippi, despite believing that it causes him great anxiety. It's gotten a little better now that he's on his "nerve pill." Which took every preacher south of God to convince him to take. This side of my family is very old, very superstitious, maybe a little Christian Scientist but registered as Southern Baptist... And it never fails that each night our phone conversation goes a little...
She could smell me, couldn't she?
I don't mean to brag, but my hometown has what appeared to me, yesterday, to be the cleanest and most organized landfill ever in the entire world. At least from inside the truck. I'd taken the day off and driven home because, ironically, I'd not managed to make it there on Sunday for Nana's cooking. I intended on staying an hour at most, a quick lunch, a few updates, etc. but instead, I found myself at the landfill. Here's how it happened. I was making myself a sandwich from porkchop leftovers. Nana and U.L. were under the carport cleaning. I have never...
You can go home again…it's just frustrating.
Thomas Wolfe wrote, "You can't go home again." (At least, I think he did). But you know what: you can. I do it every Sunday. Mainly because I don't want to miss Nana's cooking; it's in a class of its own...and I love going home, I do, but you want to know a secret: It's also quite often very aggravating. Why is that? Why is going home such a frustrating experience? Sometimes, I think, it's because as soon as I open that front door and step inside, I'll see that nothing has changed, and I'll feel like I haven't changed either. And I hate that feeling. Despite...
Endangered species: Men who snap their fingers.
I saw something rather unusual today. Actually, it was no less than ten minutes ago.
I was walking, taking a short cut to my very dull office, via the library; it's close to my office on campus. And also, I have several several friends who work in the library, so I was anticipating speaking to one or two of them, namely Amanda, who is my best friend.
And so that's what I did, and I spoke to her for a few minutes, begged her to bring me some lunch (on Mondays and Fridays I get...
Keep off the grass, or don't "go potty" on it.
Yesterday I saw what may very well be the most delightful thing a person can witness in a given lifetime: 3- and 4-year-olds playing baseball. Actually, what they play is called Buddy Ball, it's apparently the first rung on the ladder up to full-blown T-ball, and in Buddy Ball: no one loses, each child a winner, everyone bats twice, everyone, en masse, runs after every ball that's ever hit, and then...then, the game is over. There are no field positions, no short stop, no catcher, no pitcher, just small children in a chorus line across the in-field, waiting, fighting, pinching, talking, constantly,...
Well, so, I got podcasted.
I make no promises that I sound intelligent or even fully aware of what I'm saying; still, we're heading to Nationals, in June, and as the director, I had to answer questions...I think I started out all right, but well, things tend to start at the tops of hills, for me, and then...well, roll...downward. You can hear it for yourself at the link below, and if you listen really closely, and truly believe in your heart of hearts that you hear the point at which it turns for the worst, I'll fully pretend to give you all the money in my right...
…tomatoes who show no pity.
I'm trying to go green, but the cats won't stay out of my small, slightly ergonomically designed box garden. I've considered several ways to get rid of them: BB guns (but that's hardly a green attitude); a tin pie pan tied to a 2x4 (but that would ruin the aesthetic); placing lime, lemon, and orange rinds around the exterior (my fading grandmother with all her southern gentility and, now, senility, swears this is a feline deterrent - I'm highly doubtful and so have yet to choose this option); or simply leaving Max in the yard (he's a 100+ pound white German...
I prefer to shop alone. But let me tell you why.
Not so very long ago, I went shopping. It's usually a love/hate recreational blood sport, for me; when it happens, under the guise of shopping with others, I like to get in, get done, and get out. No holds barred, no time for stragglers, and definitely no time for Buckle employees. I'm not so keen on "group shopping", or "couples shopping." For whatever reason, truth be told, I prefer to shop alone. I can become rather delusional, in my personal shopping, not knowing when to say when. My previous attempts at shopping with others is probably a more normal cycle for a shopper: ...
Like mother, like martini…
See, this is how it started. I was filling out one of those ridiculous questionnaires - you know the type that base a great deal of your personality on random, pointless questions that once they've summarized your responses you find that it is at once both complete fluff and somehow absolutely accurate - they've all but infected Facebook. Yeah, so that's what I was doing instead of working...or, as I like to say, it was my smoke break...but, since I don't smoke, I just take 10-15, or 40 minutes or whatever and browse through onion.com or cnn.com or engrish.com, etc.
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