Greensboro NC
Waiting for a part for the Coach
A block or so away from the University of North Carolina sits a nice little deli called, appropriately enough, North Carolina Deli. We gave it a shot. It smelled good and pickle-y when we walked in, and the menu looked pretty decent. Among the many selections were bagels, lox, bialys, smoked herring, chicken soup, pastrami, kosher pickles, brisket, and even Dr. Brown's Cream Soda.
Looking up from his menu, John said, "No matzoh ball soup."
Then he added, "Carolina Posers."
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Please Help Me I'm Falling
Buddy Gregg RV Dealership
Knoxville, TN
Sunday Afternoon
I fell out of the bus a couple of days ago. And no, it wasn’t moving. I slipped sideways in my sandals and headed – and I do mean head – down and out and onto the grass, where I pirouetted on my noggin, slammed a shoulder, cracking my neck and landing flat on my back, praying I’d be able to walk at some point in the future. Thank god for grass, any way you take that.
What I got for my troubles was a bruise the size of a brick extending from my clavicle, over my left girl and down to my ribs, where it crosses over in perfect symmetry to my left arm. Which, if I were a forensic pathologist, would tell me exactly how the victim fell. It also got me a trip to the hospital and the news that I’d also bruised my sternum, which is why, I guess, I have not been able to lift anything using two arms in synchronization, cough, or clap in that veddy British way with arms extended towards the clapee.
I fall a lot.
Once I tripped on a sidewalk pothole, grabbing my partner Frank’s raincoat and pants on the way down. He had to peel my frozen, curled claw off his person before he could help me into a cab to go to the hospital for my broken ankle. He went on to our appointment and had to borrow a stapler from the receptionist to fix the seam of his pants, which had torn from crotch to belt line. Needless to say, he stood to make the presentation.
A year later, I broke my wrist falling in another sidewalk pothole. New York City is a dangerous place for me. I got myself into my car, cradling the throbbing limb on a file folder, and headed home. When I called my husband to tell him of my mishap, he offered this suggestion: “Why don’t you stop at a hospital on the way home and see if it’s broken.” I guess he’s a little over-stimulated on the falling/breaking thing. Needless to say, the man drove me to the emergency room. Every time’s a first time for me.
Then there was the time I was standing perfectly still, holding onto a shopping cart while I looked around to enjoy the bling and baublery of the seasonal Christmas Store, you know, the one that sells patio furniture the rest of the year, and next thing I knew both the cart and I were sideways on the floor.
I don’t know why I fall. Is it the fault of my ears? The fluid in the semi-circular canals? Do I need a refill? Is it the fault of my parents, who obviously each contributed a recessive gene for lack of balance when I was being manufactured? Is it my brain, which goes into meditative mode whenever it has a chance, and doesn’t alert me to things like, oh, say, danger?
Oh my god, that’s it. It’s all of those things. That and some minor deafness. This is what lets me write while my husband is walking around fuming, the dog is whining and the coach is making weird engine noise, obviously the cause of the fuming and whining. Maybe the dog was fuming and John was whining. Anything’s possible.
Like the fact that we were trapped in this bus today for over an hour with no sign of rescue. The short story is, John tied our recalcitrant non-obedient electric awning with the dog’s leash so that we could drive to the dealer, with whom we were to have dealings with on Monday anyway. It's always something.
He pulled the rope inside and slammed the door to secure his efforts. When we got to the dealer to drop off the bus, we discovered we couldn't get out. The thick rope had jammed the door and the lock would not function.
Now in case it hasn’t occurred to you, this was Sunday and nobody was home to help us. We drove around until we happened upon a motorcyclist in leather chaps with the price tag hanging off them. ($379, holy sh#t, that's a lot of money.)
He very nicely went around to the side of the bus and got our ladder out so we could escape. I went first, sore ribs and all, and skipping here a few ins and outs and you try this and I’ll try that, we finally decided to cut the beloved dog leash, the one that’s been dragging through the mud for two years, so dirty no dog worth his fleas would choose to wear it, but my husband loves it because it’s really long.
John cut the outside and I tugged from the inside. No use. So we switched places. I was to climb the ladder, take the hammer, wedge it in the door and create space for the tugger to pull the rope through. I wedged and wedged and wedged. Nothing. Then the hammer popped out of the door and I fell off the ladder. Of course I did. My sore chest is now back to square one in the hurtin’ department, and I now have a groin pull in addition to the bruised sternum.
After I caught my breath and my heart slowed to a reasonable 200 beats per minute, I took the inside shift and the leash came sliding out – which of course sent me backwards and I fell, but only into the driver’s seat. That didn’t hurt at all.
I opened the door, then turned around and headed for the Advil. Doing the safest thing I could imagine, I tucked myself into my little breakfast booth, turned on the computer, and began to finish this article while John cleaned up our rescue attempts.
Suddenly I was aware of whining. Oh no, another problem. But it wasn’t. It was Zeus, smiling up at me, his ugly, filthy, peed-upon, germy leash affixed to his collar and, in the middle, a nice, neat square knot.
I laughed for five minutes. And it hurt everything, everywhere, the whole time.
Knoxville, TN
Sunday Afternoon
I fell out of the bus a couple of days ago. And no, it wasn’t moving. I slipped sideways in my sandals and headed – and I do mean head – down and out and onto the grass, where I pirouetted on my noggin, slammed a shoulder, cracking my neck and landing flat on my back, praying I’d be able to walk at some point in the future. Thank god for grass, any way you take that.
What I got for my troubles was a bruise the size of a brick extending from my clavicle, over my left girl and down to my ribs, where it crosses over in perfect symmetry to my left arm. Which, if I were a forensic pathologist, would tell me exactly how the victim fell. It also got me a trip to the hospital and the news that I’d also bruised my sternum, which is why, I guess, I have not been able to lift anything using two arms in synchronization, cough, or clap in that veddy British way with arms extended towards the clapee.
I fall a lot.
Once I tripped on a sidewalk pothole, grabbing my partner Frank’s raincoat and pants on the way down. He had to peel my frozen, curled claw off his person before he could help me into a cab to go to the hospital for my broken ankle. He went on to our appointment and had to borrow a stapler from the receptionist to fix the seam of his pants, which had torn from crotch to belt line. Needless to say, he stood to make the presentation.
A year later, I broke my wrist falling in another sidewalk pothole. New York City is a dangerous place for me. I got myself into my car, cradling the throbbing limb on a file folder, and headed home. When I called my husband to tell him of my mishap, he offered this suggestion: “Why don’t you stop at a hospital on the way home and see if it’s broken.” I guess he’s a little over-stimulated on the falling/breaking thing. Needless to say, the man drove me to the emergency room. Every time’s a first time for me.
Then there was the time I was standing perfectly still, holding onto a shopping cart while I looked around to enjoy the bling and baublery of the seasonal Christmas Store, you know, the one that sells patio furniture the rest of the year, and next thing I knew both the cart and I were sideways on the floor.
I don’t know why I fall. Is it the fault of my ears? The fluid in the semi-circular canals? Do I need a refill? Is it the fault of my parents, who obviously each contributed a recessive gene for lack of balance when I was being manufactured? Is it my brain, which goes into meditative mode whenever it has a chance, and doesn’t alert me to things like, oh, say, danger?
Oh my god, that’s it. It’s all of those things. That and some minor deafness. This is what lets me write while my husband is walking around fuming, the dog is whining and the coach is making weird engine noise, obviously the cause of the fuming and whining. Maybe the dog was fuming and John was whining. Anything’s possible.
Like the fact that we were trapped in this bus today for over an hour with no sign of rescue. The short story is, John tied our recalcitrant non-obedient electric awning with the dog’s leash so that we could drive to the dealer, with whom we were to have dealings with on Monday anyway. It's always something.
He pulled the rope inside and slammed the door to secure his efforts. When we got to the dealer to drop off the bus, we discovered we couldn't get out. The thick rope had jammed the door and the lock would not function.
Now in case it hasn’t occurred to you, this was Sunday and nobody was home to help us. We drove around until we happened upon a motorcyclist in leather chaps with the price tag hanging off them. ($379, holy sh#t, that's a lot of money.)
He very nicely went around to the side of the bus and got our ladder out so we could escape. I went first, sore ribs and all, and skipping here a few ins and outs and you try this and I’ll try that, we finally decided to cut the beloved dog leash, the one that’s been dragging through the mud for two years, so dirty no dog worth his fleas would choose to wear it, but my husband loves it because it’s really long.
John cut the outside and I tugged from the inside. No use. So we switched places. I was to climb the ladder, take the hammer, wedge it in the door and create space for the tugger to pull the rope through. I wedged and wedged and wedged. Nothing. Then the hammer popped out of the door and I fell off the ladder. Of course I did. My sore chest is now back to square one in the hurtin’ department, and I now have a groin pull in addition to the bruised sternum.
After I caught my breath and my heart slowed to a reasonable 200 beats per minute, I took the inside shift and the leash came sliding out – which of course sent me backwards and I fell, but only into the driver’s seat. That didn’t hurt at all.
I opened the door, then turned around and headed for the Advil. Doing the safest thing I could imagine, I tucked myself into my little breakfast booth, turned on the computer, and began to finish this article while John cleaned up our rescue attempts.
Suddenly I was aware of whining. Oh no, another problem. But it wasn’t. It was Zeus, smiling up at me, his ugly, filthy, peed-upon, germy leash affixed to his collar and, in the middle, a nice, neat square knot.
I laughed for five minutes. And it hurt everything, everywhere, the whole time.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Shotgun Shooters Stingy Hooters
White Pine Tennessee
Hog Heaven Gun Club
Now I am familiar with the adage “Southern Gentleman” and I assume that means great manners, true regard for women, generosity towards one’s kin, and drinking prodigiously but holding it well.
Maybe I’m too far North, and maybe I’m in too unusual a niche, but Tennessee shooters are the stingiest men I’ve ever met when it comes to their wimmen. They waltz past my display of lovely jewels, fairly priced, and make comments like, ‘Wayl, mah wife in’t into this nemore. (sic)”
No woman into jewelry? Okay, maybe three women in this country, but are they polygamists and do they only marry shooters? My big, flower-decorated sign announcing that Mother’s Day is just two weeks away is greeted with snorts and silly smiles, as if these women hadn’t ever borne Southern children, washed Southern overalls, or spent lonely weekends alone with the Jewelry Channel because ol’ Boone, or Charley, or Whit was out at the range, shooting targets at $39 a round, shooting the breeze with his cronies and shooting the spice out of his woman by neglecting her so thoroughly.
And by the way, my husband is a shooter with Giants games in the off season, but he’s sweet and generous and thoughtful, and he never begrudges my Jewelry Channel purchases.
No wonder these old farts think the wahf jist isn’t into it. They haven’t brought her home a little surprise in years and she’s lost all hope.
And I do allow for those guys who’ve brought little gifts home, only to have them returned the next day. That’s disheartening, to say the least, and can kill a guy’s instinct for the romantic gesture. But most women are smart enough not to do that – at least on a consistent basis – and instead, tuck the major gaffes into a drawer, offer some unusual sexual favor, if you get my drift, and the next day, take him shopping and show him what they like. That’s male adult education and I know from experience that it works.
What’s the harm in a sweet and thoughtful little gesture that costs him, oh say, $40? Consider: A three-day shooting event, with three 100-shot target events each day at an average of $35 per event. That’s a $315 investment, plus the side bets that can cost $25 each. For example, who shoots the second lowest with no matching score and is wearing green that day, something on that order. Next there’s breakfast, lunch and dinner, for I have never seen a shooter, ever, with his own brown bag lunch. It just isn’t done. That’s a conservative $75 for the weekend. Oh, and lest we forget, those shotgun shells cost a dollar apiece, so add in $90. Do I hear $500 dollar weekend? Not counting gas? Oh yes.
So isn’t the little woman worth a ten-percent tip for staying behind with junior and Ellie Mae and the two dogs and the house and god forbid, no car? Or does he hope Jethro from next door will drop by with a bottle of Southern and lascivious intentions, thereby eliminating the need for him to administer some Southern Comfort of his own on his return, such as it is, dirty, exhausted and where’s the heyl’s dinner anyway?
So here I sit on a Tennessee Saturday afternoon, my lovely, lonely wares on a picnic table covered with black velvet, my nose running because it’s kind of cold and windy under this lean-to, my lacerations, contusions and sore ribs throbbing from the fall out of the bus earlier this weekend, but that’s another story.
I don’t know why I expected it to be any different, but I did think I’d sell some stuff. After all, I made $500 in Arizona and the shoot was much smaller. But then again, those were westerners, not southerners. And that place wasn’t called Hog Heaven.
Come to think of it, that was my first clue. Missed it completely.
Hog Heaven Gun Club
Now I am familiar with the adage “Southern Gentleman” and I assume that means great manners, true regard for women, generosity towards one’s kin, and drinking prodigiously but holding it well.
Maybe I’m too far North, and maybe I’m in too unusual a niche, but Tennessee shooters are the stingiest men I’ve ever met when it comes to their wimmen. They waltz past my display of lovely jewels, fairly priced, and make comments like, ‘Wayl, mah wife in’t into this nemore. (sic)”
No woman into jewelry? Okay, maybe three women in this country, but are they polygamists and do they only marry shooters? My big, flower-decorated sign announcing that Mother’s Day is just two weeks away is greeted with snorts and silly smiles, as if these women hadn’t ever borne Southern children, washed Southern overalls, or spent lonely weekends alone with the Jewelry Channel because ol’ Boone, or Charley, or Whit was out at the range, shooting targets at $39 a round, shooting the breeze with his cronies and shooting the spice out of his woman by neglecting her so thoroughly.
And by the way, my husband is a shooter with Giants games in the off season, but he’s sweet and generous and thoughtful, and he never begrudges my Jewelry Channel purchases.
No wonder these old farts think the wahf jist isn’t into it. They haven’t brought her home a little surprise in years and she’s lost all hope.
And I do allow for those guys who’ve brought little gifts home, only to have them returned the next day. That’s disheartening, to say the least, and can kill a guy’s instinct for the romantic gesture. But most women are smart enough not to do that – at least on a consistent basis – and instead, tuck the major gaffes into a drawer, offer some unusual sexual favor, if you get my drift, and the next day, take him shopping and show him what they like. That’s male adult education and I know from experience that it works.
What’s the harm in a sweet and thoughtful little gesture that costs him, oh say, $40? Consider: A three-day shooting event, with three 100-shot target events each day at an average of $35 per event. That’s a $315 investment, plus the side bets that can cost $25 each. For example, who shoots the second lowest with no matching score and is wearing green that day, something on that order. Next there’s breakfast, lunch and dinner, for I have never seen a shooter, ever, with his own brown bag lunch. It just isn’t done. That’s a conservative $75 for the weekend. Oh, and lest we forget, those shotgun shells cost a dollar apiece, so add in $90. Do I hear $500 dollar weekend? Not counting gas? Oh yes.
So isn’t the little woman worth a ten-percent tip for staying behind with junior and Ellie Mae and the two dogs and the house and god forbid, no car? Or does he hope Jethro from next door will drop by with a bottle of Southern and lascivious intentions, thereby eliminating the need for him to administer some Southern Comfort of his own on his return, such as it is, dirty, exhausted and where’s the heyl’s dinner anyway?
So here I sit on a Tennessee Saturday afternoon, my lovely, lonely wares on a picnic table covered with black velvet, my nose running because it’s kind of cold and windy under this lean-to, my lacerations, contusions and sore ribs throbbing from the fall out of the bus earlier this weekend, but that’s another story.
I don’t know why I expected it to be any different, but I did think I’d sell some stuff. After all, I made $500 in Arizona and the shoot was much smaller. But then again, those were westerners, not southerners. And that place wasn’t called Hog Heaven.
Come to think of it, that was my first clue. Missed it completely.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Crossing Oklahoma
With apologies to Rodgers and Hammerstein
There's a bright golden haze on the meadow
There's a bright golden haze on the meadow
A gust full of dust makes my hairdo go bust
And I feel like I'm blowing clear up to the sky
Oh what a beautiful morning
Oh what a beautiful day
The wind here's beyond merely breezy
Feels like we're blowing away
It's so shocking
How we're rocking
Hold the wheel and say a prayer
For this tussle
You need muscle
And a ros'ry to help get you there
Oh what a beautiful morning
Oh what beautiful day
It's fun when the bus takes you sideways
Oh Lord we're blowing away.
There's a bright golden haze on the meadow
There's a bright golden haze on the meadow
A gust full of dust makes my hairdo go bust
And I feel like I'm blowing clear up to the sky
Oh what a beautiful morning
Oh what a beautiful day
The wind here's beyond merely breezy
Feels like we're blowing away
It's so shocking
How we're rocking
Hold the wheel and say a prayer
For this tussle
You need muscle
And a ros'ry to help get you there
Oh what a beautiful morning
Oh what beautiful day
It's fun when the bus takes you sideways
Oh Lord we're blowing away.
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