* The full, real title is I’ve never had a mullet, and other Things I Feel I Have the Right to Brag About and also Things I Cannot Stand. Just, you know, FYI.

You should know that what follows is a) a partial list only, and b) they’re not in any particular order of Cannot Stand vs. Brag. I would say to put your Big Boy Panties on and read carefully, but it’s odd how similar the things I can’t stand and the things I want to brag about actually are.

I’m not sure what that says about me, but anyway – to be safe – how about I don’t say anything about your panties. No need to tip the scales against me…

This is the very face of irony. And its finger.

Just enjoy the read.

• I will not eat food while wearing a jacket.
• I’ve never been bitten by a rattlesnake.
• Pudding, Cool Whip, and/or meringue, formless foods that try to make you think they can stand alone.
• I cannot, cannot, cannot abide a haircut where they “wet your hair” instead of rinsing it, fully.
• I hate talking on the phone.
• I have good teeth.
• People who pass gas and are proud of it.
• I don’t like people who don’t use turn signals, myself included.
• I rarely get sick.
• Animals like me.
• I’m a very good driver.
• I can listen to a song I like on repeat way, way longer than you can.
• I do not appreciate tardy people, and I tell them that.
• I cook well.
• Interestingly, I can give myself a fever.
• I disapprove of people who smack.
• I am, for the most part, actually clever.
• I’ve been featured on the back cover of The Dramatist three times.
• Spandex.
• I frown on poor penmanship.
• People who say “kewl.”
• I’ve never broken any bones…well, not my own. (Please see the next bulleted point).
• Once, I got so mad at this boy, at some Christian Bible camp I had to go to, that I wished and wished he’d get hurt. And he did, he broke his collar bone.
• I dreamed once that a man was going to drown, and he did.
• Meetings. Meetings. Meetings. And talk of future meetings.
• I am routinely complimented on my penmanship. FYI.
• Truckers.
• I learned Hebrew when I was four.
• I’ve never had a mullet.
• But, I have eyelashes of jealous, enviable length.
• No one in my family has ever baby talked the babies.
• I wrote my first poem when I was eleven.
• People who prefer not to use deodorant.
• 4-way stops.
• Answering the phone. (Please see the fifth bulleted point, above).
• Lying.
• I only have original art in my house.
• I’m more than likely the reincarnation of either Truman Capote, Noel Coward, or Oscar Wilde. I’m just saying. Because that’s like, totally something to brag about.
• Fedoras and scarves.
• My cat, Aristophanes, is part-bobcat.
• Church cantatas that include handbells. 
• My legs.
• Hang nails.
• I have a brother who is half-Iranian, a second brother and sister who are half-Polish, and a third brother who is half-Cherokee, between my parents. On top of that, as you might have guessed, we’re all half-siblings. Now, add on top of that this: the Iranian brother is Muslim, but our mother comes from a Jewish family, which makes us Jewish, so I feel certain war will eventually break out between us. Talk about a conflict of interest.
• I was once ranked third in the state in Men’s singles tennis.
• My brother who is half-Iranian is also an up-and-coming rap artist, in Las Vegas, by the way. I thought you should know that.
• I have an autographed book by Eudora Welty, who was a friend of my mother’s.
• Screaming, and any variation of it.
• Proselytizers.
• Mississippi is no longer the fattest state in the nation.
• My grandmother once made me stop the car and get out, to help a turtle get across the road. That’s the stock I come from.
• Billy Hull, who lived down the road from me, was once the longest-serving County Supervisor in the United States. He held the record until he died.
• My cousin, Lucy, was a second-alternate for the 1996 Olympic gymnastics team, behind Amanda Borden.
• My Uncle Oscar started Morrison’s Cafeterias.
• My Nana is deaf in the same ear as Caesar.
• Feet.
• I was Little Mr. Winston County in 1983.
• Fred Phelps.
• I won the Mississippi State Horticulture award in 1994, even though I didn’t climb the tree like everyone else at the week-long camp did to retrieve a sample of blighted mistletoe.
• Boogers.
• People who end all of their sentences as if they’re asking questions.
• I’ve never gotten pregnant.
• I almost met Harper Lee.
• I can play the piano by ear, if the piano is out of tune like U.L’s.
• Oh, and get this, U.L. had a brother who was a dwarf, named Ran.
• I saved a young boy from drowning when I was fifteen.
• Coffee.
• I know the world’s greatest drummer. No lie.
• That being said, the world’s foremost banjo player is from my hometown.
• My mother dated Marty Stuart, years ago.
• Pumpkin pie.
• I once sang a note, and held it for a minute and twenty-eight seconds. But, only once.
• Even people who hate me, like me.
• Sweating in work clothes.
• Computers that are slow.
• I once got stung by twelve yellow jackets, at the same time. Three on the face, alone. And lived to tell it.
• I used to make my own books of poetry from discarded gift boxes and wood glue, which I for years thought was more durable than normal glue. They fell apart, though, after about five reads.
• One of my neighbors, growing up, had a pet monkey that did not like curtains, or his daughter.
• My Aunt Sally lived to be 100; my Uncle Pat, 102.
• I am the Cat Whisperer.
• People who pepper their conversations with French. How gauche.
• My blog is an app on someone’s iPhone.
• Rude children.
• Waking up.

Both art and a good philosophy.

I’d like to continue but, ironically, another thing I can’t stand is writing. Who’d’ve thunk it? I’m driven to write, though, I can’t ignore that, but I still find it painful and grueling.  Probably because it’s such a raw craft, makes me vulnerable…or better yet, makes me think and feel that I’m vulnerable.

Which reminds me…

•  Being vulnerable, you know, and stupid things like that.

Oh, and, one last thing…

•  I’ve held a baby gopher turtle. I bet you haven’t.

I know that makes you jealous, the baby gopher turtle part, and I’m sorry for that. I would be too, I mean, come on! It was a baby gopher turtle! You’ve probably never even heard of a gopher turtle, in the first place…raise your hands if you have.

I didn’t see a single hand go up.

Ok, I’m done. That’s all for now.

So…go on and have a good one.

Related Posts:

• Yes, Virginia, I am a vegetarian.
• I don’t have to use a walker to pump my gas.
• I try not to abuse the privilege of a horn.
• Suffice it to say, I was spanked, a second time, OR The 100th Blog.
• I can't die here, not this close to the Mennonite bakery.

Because I’m a fairly safe driver. It’s one of the good qualities I inherited from my father.

I kept my cruise control right on 60 mph, stayed in the slow lane, and I’d successfully steered cleared (literally) of any MDOT lane closings and the ubiquitous trucker. No one was on the road with me. Oh, and I had my lights on, too, naturally.

No, what almost killed me was a heart attack.

This reminds me: I need to lay off sweets.

At least, that’s what it felt like.

For nearly thirty pure and unadulterated minutes, my entire chest cavity ached unlike any pain I’ve ever encountered, and I had a bad experience when I had my wisdom teeth removed. The whole suffocating episode was very Spaceballs, I must admit, though in intensity only. No miniature alien burst forth from my stomach and started tap dancing – I would have enjoyed that.

This was the complete opposite of enjoyment. This was like a miniature alien bursting forth from my chest and lecturing on Vibrational Spectroscopy.

Now, I’ve heard a lot about heart attacks and chest pains, and the near misheard moniker of angina – U.L.’s been battling heart issues for several years – but I’ve never directly been involved with one myself. I’ve always been the one who arranged the Get Well cards and got the nurse because he wasn’t sure how the call button worked.

At first, I tried to burp this discomfort away. I always assume that any type of unease in my chest is simply gas on Va-Ca (that’s what the kids call “vacation” these days). So, I spent a good ten minutes trying to make myself burp. I’ve never been able to do that.

I just can’t burp on command.

It’s something I’ve had to come to terms with in my journey to Masculinity. (Though, trust me, it ain’t the only thing). And if by journey, you think that what I really mean is wasting half my time on color coordinating my travelwear to match my luggage, then Yes. You are correct.

I’ve not taken the first step toward any such journey. And, yes, to answer your question, I’m sure it’s far more than a thousand miles away…from where I am. So, what good’s taking the first step.

I’m hardly ashamed to say that I can’t burp on command. I think it’s rather crass, and usually, they seems to appear unannounced – at least for me. But, don’t say that in front of Matt or Mandy, about the crassness of burping. (I’m certain that between the two of them they could recite the Magna Carta, one belch at a time. If they knew the Magna Carta, that is).

Please tell me you remember the Magna Carta.

You shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free.

(And then, remind me what it is, when you do. I’m not sure but I think it had something to do with the Board of Alderman allowing Sunday sales of alcohol in Starkville). Of course, that only applies to restaurants, not liquor stores. The theory is it’s OK to drink if you’ve got food to eat with it. That works for me, just fine; I never drink without eating. That’s what makes dirty martinis such a perfect beverage. Besides, liquor stores don’t sale olives.

Excuse me. I’ve gotten off topic. Again.

I was talking about gas, the manmade kind. I don’t want to say that I have a problem with gastric distress, unless I’ve eaten raw broccoli. Then, it’s every man for himself. But, lately, I must admit, I’ve been having rather difficult heartburn.

I’ve become addicted to Tums. I’m dropping antacid like it’s the 60s.

And it’s not really working. Which is, I’m afraid, problematic. Let’s not discount the fact that I’m also a hypochondriac, but that aside, I could be in serious trouble.

I certainly thought I was, last Friday.

There I was, driving down the road in Tigi (I named my car after my great grandmother), barrelling through a downpour (excuse me, I mean, safely cruising at just under 60 mph, as I stated earlier and with my lights on), thinking I was having a heart attack. It reached such a pain that I did something I rarely do when traveling, I stopped driving altogether.

I pulled under a defunct gas station (God, the irony, the near-miss of a good pun when I typed that, it’s killing me), and I stopped the car. I opened the door, because when you’re in a crisis, no matter what is, you always do one of two things: you either  go outside because you “need fresh air,” or you get up and head to the sink because you need a “glass of water.” This is a learned behavior, starting in Vacation Bible School, and sometimes, the Boy Scouts.

I got out of the car and my first instinct (and thus, the root of a much deeper problem) wasn’t to call 911. It wasn’t to call anyone, not U.L., not Amanda, not an ambulance. (Amanda informed me, later – since I’m not dead, that I’d more than likely experienced a panic attack. Great, one more thing to stress about).

No, my first instinct was how should I fall on my way into death. If I fell forward, I might hit the side of the door and scratch my smooth, ageless cheek. If I fell backward, I might scrape down the side of my car and land too close to the tire. The side of my car was filthy with mud and wet from rain; the tired was caked with grease from the eroding back brakes. That’d look too messy, I thought.

I was only clear on one thing: to leave the keys in the ignition. That beeping sound was very dramatic. It’d last until the battery went dead, like me, and I’d just gotten a new battery a few months back, so no worries there.

I should probably, I also thought, tuck my shirt in. But neatly. 

This picture needs no caption.

“God,” I prayed throughout the whole ordeal, “if this is my time to go, then I’ll go, but why didn’t you just let me drive a little further south. I can’t die here, not this close to the Mennonite bakery.”

I consoled myself by thinking the positives: U.L. would at least be pleased that I looked neat and tidy, until the very end. And, if he got hungry, I couldn’t argue with the culinary skills of a Mennonite. Of course, I was devastated about what the rain would do to my hair. Curly hair and humidity, which I knew would follow closely behind the tail end of the rain, never worked well together.

I’d have to grab my Fedora. Give it one last hurrah.

At this point, I realized that my chest pain had stopped, mostly. In an effort to make it leave completely, I pulled a Celine Dion and hit my chest a couple of times…why I did this, I couldn’t tell you. Even though the pain had dwindled to a mild irritation, I wanted it thoroughly gone, and thought if I beat myself in the chest it would return to its place of residence: my stomach.

Eventually, it subdued enough that I felt I could keep driving. However, I still had half an hour on the road, to go.

Be prepared. Somewhat. Or, at least, mostly.

I finally got to my office, and went to the restroom. I looked so pasty, I wasn’t sure I hadn’t had a heart attack. I dismissed it though; I had been recently cast as a British character in a play downtown, wasn’t I supposed to look like this?

But, it’s gotten me worried, I must say. I’m not old, not yet, but I’m not young anymore, either. Something’s got to get me, one way or the other, right? I’ll have to be prepared, as much as I can be…

Related Posts:

• I was able to order my fish sandwich without incident.
• I’ve never had a mullet, and other Things I Can Brag About [...]*
• How on earth do you wash a Fedora? [and other random thoughts]…
• He'd just always wanted a hearse, he said.
• Yes, Virginia, I am a vegetarian.

The one burning thing inquiring minds want to know is How Do You Manage That Long, Awful Drive?

It’s an hour in to work, and an hour home, though the drive home seems much quicker. I’m not sure why.

It's not really this bad a drive. There are goats, along the way.

Anyway, I thought about that question this morning, when I was stopped, yet again behind a truck hauling half a mobile home. We were squenched over on the right side of Highway 45 (not Highway 45 Alternate) and were at a complete standstill because of road construction.

Ahem. I have no shame in saying that I hate a trucker.

I was thinking that as I sat there, idling, listening one more time to Paul Simon’s “You can call me Al.” I listen to a lot of Paul Simon, these days. And I suppose you could say that is one way I “manage the long, awful drive.”  But, as I sat there thinking, “God, I hate a trucker,” I had no choice but to recall the very root of this One-Way Hate Wave.

That’s right, a “hate wave.” (I’ve admitted in previous blogs that I possess an addiction to puns. Don’t look so surprised).

I didn’t always hate a trucker.

I wasn’t always aware of them. Until I moved. The first time. Since that legendary move I’ve logged a lot of hours on America’s highways; hours I’ve spent and wasted, on the road, over the last ten years. I’ve accomplished automotive feats I didn’t know I was capable of: stranded in Louisville, Kentucky, waterlogged in Wheeling, West Virginia, broadsided in D.C., towed in Manhattan, and iced into an embankment outside Nashville, Indiana, one hill away from the Little Ole Opry House. Loretta Lynn was coming that weekend. I’ll never forget that; I could just see the top of the sign from where I was stranded.

I still can’t change a tire, but I digress.

As you can imagine, over the course of a near decade, I’ve learned a great deal about patience when driving. I’ve also learned a great deal more about what I simply cannot (and will not ) tolerate as a driver.

I think drivers have to be the most selfish people in the world.

I know I am. I get behind that wheel and I mean business. I automatically assume, the second I slide into my cloth interior front seat and turn the AC on full-blast, that I’m the safest driver in the entire Western Hemisphere, and because of that, you shouldn’t do any of the following, while in my vehicular presence: swerve, text, call, wear an iPod, misuse a blinker, cut me off, try and out-pedal me at a 4-way, second-guess my speed at an intersection, refuse to merge when I’m coming down an off-ramp – this will warrant honking, and I hate honking; I consider that to be the Panic Button of a bad driver - or challenge me at a red light, especially while eating a McRib. (But that’s another story, another blog).

I don’t feel like it’s asking too much from the rest of the mobile public to adhere to and honor these simple rules. And please note: this is not a case of monkey-see-monkey-do. I can’t help it if I’m better at multitasking than you are; work on your reflexes and then we’ll drag race.

I will honestly say that it wasn’t easy for me to develop my tolerance for stupid drivers.

As lethal as it looks.

There are many instances in which I’ve, of course while behind the wheel myself, jotted down a few license plates on the backs of random church bulletins. I even once followed a car to a Waffle House because she made me so irate, no blinker, swerving in and out of her lane, all the while trying to apply mascara. I could have slit her tires.

It turned out to be my cousin, who was in her boyfriend’s truck, at the time, and on her way to work…but still…we all look the same on the road.

No, what I’ve done, you see, is over the years, I’ve developed what I call my “driver’s lung.” I didn’t do it with focused breathing or yoga lessons, like a runner does – why run, when you can drive? I did it with nothing but my sheer will power and a stern, unwavering constitution. (And yes, it took a lot of convincing and a serious amount of eyes-wide-open-praying, but I succeeded).

I’ve clocked thousands of road-hours, coupled with hundreds of road-rages, but finally, I developed an over-sized capacity to forgive the idiots who apparently wait until I’m on the road to even begin driving. Haven’t you felt that way before? Every time I’m in a hurry, it seems, that everyone else then decides, Hey, Kris is in a hurry to get somewhere…everyone, quickly, get in your cars and go somewhere else. Now.

Truckers, still, of all the nincompoops on the highway get to my last nerve quicker than anything else. I can’t entirely blame them (yes, I can). They do drive the Everyman’s version of a tank on our nation’s interstates. And they know it, too. You don’t like them? So what. Are you going to say no to an 18-wheeler? I’m not. (Better add that to my list, then).

And no, you’re not, either. Nor could Patty Loveless. But they’re not about to get a dozen roses from me.

Nowadays, though, instead of offering some physical gesture across the dotted line to them, I simply take a deep, really deep, breath and think: They’re not going to the same place I am. At some point, they’ll turn, or the road construction will thin out and I can pass them, or I can stop, and I tell myself this quite a bit, at the next gas station and buy a Red Bull, sugar-free. I don’t have to keep time and rhythm on the road with them.

We’re not in a caravan.

They’re just in a hurry to deliver their furniture, or refrigerated fish, or cocaine, or chicken, whatever it is truckers deliver these days. And, even though I don’t care what it is, I do care that we share that in common: we’re all merely trying to get off the road.

We just want to get to our destinations, whether that’s Indianapolis, Memphis, or Scooba, Mississippi.

That makes it a little easier for me, to pretend we all share in the same plight: getting somewhere and sitting still. There’s a whole school of psychology locked away in that comment, I’m sure of it. I’ve felt it before, when I’m out on the road, alone, hours at a time…you know, you develop a kind of kinship with your traveling neighbors. You pass each other, time and again, you run into each other at roadstops, you even, every once in awhile, start to have an expectation. No matter where they may be going, you expect you’ll see them again, when you pass them a third, fourth and fifth time.

Traffic still makes my heart stop. Lungs, though, just fine.

And, it’s a little sad, when they finally find their exits, flip on their blinkers and do what you can’t wait to do yourself: get off the road. Of course, in my mind, they’re always going somewhere much more wonderful and exciting than I am…though, before today, I’d have been more than happy to challenge them to find a place more exotic, in its way, than Scooba.

That’s probably going to change, now.

The trucker I was behind this morning, well, when I went to lunch, I saw him again. He’d brought that half a mobile home to campus, and parked it right next to my office building.

Apparently, it’s going to be a “dorm” for the spillover students, from the record enrollment we’ve had this semester.

Sigh.

I might need two Red Bulls.

Related Posts:

• You can’t kill a Honda, unless you’re an 18-Wheeler.
• I’ve never had a mullet, and other Things I Can Brag About [...]*
• I would have prayed, but I had to merge.
• I try not to abuse the privilege of a horn.
• Not tonight, dear, I have a checkbook.