Parent-hazing (Sick Baby) and a Bit of Sap to Go With That

I'm a real parent now.

I've passed another initiation rite.

Last night my son woke up at midnight because he threw up in his crib. Then he threw up for several hours every twenty minutes or so. He was finally able to fall asleep in my arms and then just wake up to vomit into a blanket as he cried.

So it turned out that Stoker and I only got about two hours of sleep. Like idiots we've been going to bed around midnight. You see the problem?

Anyway, Stoker called the experience parent-hazing and I think it fits. I mean, it's not just the no-sleep thing. It's the holy-hell-my-son-is-in-serious-pain-and-I-can't-stop-it. And that is really hard. Even though we know that most likely, this isn't too serious. It's just real pain. It's just the "WTF is this vomiting nonsense? It's unnatural," he seems to think. You know what I'm talking about. It's one of those human things and it's weird and no one likes it.

Hearing him cry every time it began and while it was happening was kind of hard. I don't want to sound like a wimp, but you get pretty attuned to your child and when they hurt, you tend to hurt, if not a bit more because you want to protect them from that.

He seemed to feel better this morning, and was even playing despite the terrible diarrhea that set in around six-thirty am. And then I fed him some solids, and then he vomited all over me, the couch, himself, and the living room, around four-thirty (as you can tell from this description, it was crazy projectile vomit). So the solids were a dumb idea.

Let me just say that I really admire and feel for the parents of children who suffer more than what my son is going through. You really get taught a lesson by the universe, or life, or mother-nature or whoever, just when you think you have a handle on things.

So, I ought to go to bed right now, because I just heard my son cry and I have a feeling that it will be a long, hard night again. I'm glad I don't have to face this stuff alone. Last night his dad was the real hero. I'm incredibly thankful for both of them.

Corbet gets a stubbly kiss from dad during a Sunday drive up Provo Canyon. 

Notice the grocery bag in a tree to round out the shot. Nature is beautiful!

Corbet likes everything dad likes and wants to do everything with dad. 

Dad feels the same way! 

A Note from Alexander the Great's Mother. Kidding. It's Just Me. Nicole.

Attention everyone: I have an announcement to make. My son, Corbet, has officially learned how to point and say, "Ah." Sure, when someone ELSE'S kid does it, it's just yeah, you know? Oh. Huh. Cute.

But when MY son does it, he's demonstrating his superior intellect. He's not even a year old yet. The boy understands POINTING. He might as well be writing out complex equations that calculate the wind-speed velocity of the slope of a rocket ship. I have no idea if that's a thing, but it sounds intense.

Anyway, when he does it, I melt and laugh and give him a big fat smooch.

 Corbet on his first swing as a big kid. Well, big-GER than when he was a newborn in a swing. That's his dad's hand. 

Beautiful hand. And the boy is beautiful too, if I do say so myself. And I do.

So that's fun. It makes up for the three or four interruptions of my good nights' rest. Which isn't a good nights' rest at all, unless I were to go to sleep at ten. I don't, so every night's sort of hellish. I SHOULD, but I don't. When else am I supposed to read if not in bed, before falling to sleep? There's no time the rest of the day.

Corbet is also walking like a brand new colt. His legs are a bit wobbly, and he falls a lot, but he's actually learning to stand in the middle of the room. Any new walker understands how difficult this is—free-standing, you know. Instead of crawling to a stationary object, he's realized he can make his legs straight with his hands on the floor and then sort of rise up.

It's pretty amazing when you see it.

Additionally, he's been attempting to run. He usually falls, but that doesn't seem to stop him from trying again. Lately he's taken to walking to my Simple Human garbage can (that made me throw up when I was pregnant!), opening it, and taking trash out.

That's pretty awesome. The best is when it's got cat vomit in it (my orange cat seems to have a weak stomach and throws up once a day at least) and Corbet pulls the paper towel out with the cat vomit in it.

 Orange cat with a weak stomach. Also works as a window security system.

Ok, so that only happened once and then we learned our lesson. Cat vomit goes in the OUTSIDE garbage can. Plus it stinks something delicious.

Something delicious. To describe a bad smell. I like it.

It's adorable and I know it doesn't bode well for the future, but I can't help but laugh when Corbet heads to the garbage can and I say, "Cor-BET," where my voice goes up on the last syllable, like "Oh no you DOOON'T." He laughs and squeals and runs for the corner where the garbage can hides. And I run after him. He laughs like crazy. 

I laugh too, of course. How can I resist? It's hilarious to me that he's learned there are forbidden things that he'll get in trouble for. Sometimes he shakes his head and turns away, like he really knows how to mind. I wonder how long THAT will last.

Maybe forever. Maybe he'll be a perfect saint, unlike his mom and dad. One can hope!

Right now he's in this phase—Stoker keeps saying everything's a phase—where he wants me to hold him ALL the time. It's a bit inconvenient, but I try to enjoy it, knowing that at some point he'll never want to cuddle, he'll only want to play and be as far from me as possible.

That happens, right?

Being a mom is pretty great. I can't wait to teach him how to take over the world. I've got my lesson plans all laid out and soon, I'll begin guiding him toward world-domination. He'll be a great ruler. It's going to be awesome.

The "Weaker Sex" Could Never Pull This Off

There are some subjects begging to be written about. I've got some gripes with real estate, in general, but more specifically, the whole agent issue, which I think is a racket. I know, every business is sort of a racket. Anyway, that's a topic I want to dissect further. I also want to dissect the pointless nature of higher education in the U.S. It's pointless because it's totally socialized, yet . . . not. I'll have to go into that further later.

For now, what's really bothering me is how hard it is to be pregnant. I haven't written much about it here, saving my real gripes for Facebook statuses, you know, plaguing my "friends" with my complaints. Don't worry, they love it. It's why they hang out with me, on Facebook, because they enjoy my witty insights and biting retorts.

If you've never been pregnant, you have no way to imagine how rough it is. If you're a man, you're even more in the dark about it. But if you're a man with a wife who's done it, you know better than a single woman who's never done it. That's the hierarchy I've worked out. It goes further, but there's no need to go into all the intricacies of how I judge others who've never been pregnant.

The Venus of Willendorf really captures how it feels to be pregnant. Huge breasts. Huge belly. Huge thighs. In a word, huge.

I'm sure it will pay off in the end and after all, it was my choice. I'm not bemoaning the fact that this just happened without my consent. That'd be sheer stupidity. I'm sure there are people in that boat and my heart goes out to them, but that's not my boat. I'm in the boat of utter shock at how this is completely unlike anything I could have imagined. That is to say, really really hard. And as I understand it, it doesn't get easier.

Stoker keeps saying things like, "You're a miracle." I reply with, "What do you mean?" Because sometimes I'm not sure. I think, "Is he talking about how cool I am? Or something else?" I think he's talking about how I'm carrying his baby, but I don't know for sure, so I ask for clarification. Sometimes, I admit, I just want him to explain himself so that I can hear more about how awesome I am. I do that often, actually.

Like if I say something that I think is funny and he begins to laugh, I'll ask, "What's so funny?" The other day he said, "Another joke I just thought of." He knew what I was going for and out-maneuvered me. Truthfully, sometimes it shocks me that he ever thinks I'm funny. That's his job, right? And he does keep me laughing, but I really don't expect to get that kind of response from him.

In any case, I don't feel like a miracle. Any woman could do this. But his acknowledgment that I'm doing something difficult helps. Somewhat. Some days I want to give up. I wish I could, you know, stay at home in my pajamas and sleep this part away. Maybe it would go faster. Yes, yes. That would defeat the purpose of the exercise. Right? But it would be nice. Kind of.

I keep thinking, one day at a time. One day at a time. One day at a time. Over and over again, so I don't get ahead of myself and then become despondent when I realize that I have seven weeks left or what have you.

When I was a kid, my mom had my youngest sister (my protege, Cassi), and so I remember, if only vaguely, her being pregnant with Cassi and how she seemed to just take it in stride. It didn't seem difficult or uncomfortable. I remember when Cassi was born—it was the last day of school and my dad came to tell me. My due date is around Cassi's birthday, though I doubt that will work out perfectly (though it would be cool and I'm sure she thinks it would be fitting, also). But I confess, I'm a little mad that my mom didn't warn me better how ridiculously difficult this would be. That's her job, right?

But no. She let me walk blindly into this. In fact, she pushed me. Shoved me toward it, as though I'd find fulfillment in it. Her punishment is, of course, listening to me complain. There are some days when I'm full of beneficence and I pontificate on the calling of women and how I'll be a more amazing woman for having done this sort of thing, and how I'm learning patience and how I'm doing what I was made to do and blah blah blah.

The walrus does better in water than on land. I know how he feels. 

And some days I share that stuff with my mom, but usually I'm saying things like, "I can't breathe. I get heartburn just thinking about food. I can't sleep. Coughing is sheer torture. I know it's good for the baby to move, but my liver feels like pate. I can't move. I was ready to have the baby months ago."

And then I explain to whoever will listen, my desire to be one of those adorable pregnant women you see walking around in cute skirts and comfy tops that look perfectly natural, and who smile and appear to be the very picture of joyful motherhood. You've seen them. They're angels. And I hate them. While, admittedly, loving them for being so content and decent, rather than grim-faced grouches with thunderclouds following them around, like me. That's what I look like. Give me a black cloak and scythe and I could be the pregnant grim reaper.

Another Nicole. She does pregnant WAAAAAAY better than I do. I could never pull off this look. But a girl can wish.

There are days when I feel really strong. They probably correlate to the days when I get enough sleep, and those are the days when I want to apologize to Stoker for being grumpy or for behaving as though this is a difficult task. I feel magnanimous and big-hearted and want to tell him that it's not that hard and baby, I'm sorry for being grouchy last night . . . I'm sure I don't say baby like that, but it's funny to write it here as though I'm a real cad normally and that apologies come naturally to me because I'm so terrible all the time.

Well, I probably have been. Understanding my hormonal cycles when there are none is rough. I tried to explain this to Stoker but I think he kind of thinks that I'm moody constantly, even when I'm not pregnant. Maybe I am. But at least it corresponds to a calendar. The moodiness of men is unpredictable. Like me. Right now. Ha!

I think I just described what is normally understood to be bipolar disorder. So pregnancy has turned me into a bipolar monster. But don't worry. I'm dealing with it just fine. No, I don't need medication. I just need more sleep, understanding, and an Italian cream soda (raspberry or blackberry) and maybe some pancakes. Or French toast. I could really go for some French toast right now. Also, I could really do with one of those chairs the fat people use in Wall-E. That'd be fantastic.

Alexander: A Million Years

I know, two music posts in a row. That's lame, yet I can't help it. I wrote a post yesterday, but it was controversial and so I didn't publish it. You don't even want to know what it's about because the subject matter alone is enough to ignite rage amongst the calmest of folk.

But this song is great. I just heard it and fell in love immediately, like the first time I saw Stoker playing the drums that night in the Factory in Logan. And I dedicate it to Stoker, except that, obviously, we need to switch out the "my girl" part and make it "my boy" but that sounds odd, so let's make it "my guy." And pretend I'm singing it and that I sound good and any other gender references should automatically be the opposite so that it fits with me dedicating it to Stoker. Thanks.

Also, Stoker doesn't wear make up. So that part should be about MY make up. Not his...hmmmm....I hope he doesn't wear make up. I haven't noticed mine disappearing mysteriously...

Ha ha! Kidding! So kidding. I just thought it would be funny to pretend to be suspicious, suddenly. Suspicion is ALWAYS funny.

"It's a spun tongue, it's a holy s%#$......"

p.s. I love it that I no longer have to call the radio station and ask them to dedicate songs to the one I love. Remember doing that? Talk about sweaty palms over nothing! Now all I have to do is post a song to Twitter, Facebook, or my blog and say, "I dedicate this to you, baby." And please don't bring up Delilah. I will never ever never ever call her. Not even when she's the last radio program on FM. Never.

I love cats.

Walking Away

Why am I still writing?

I continue to work on a book I finished almost two years ago. In fact, I can't remember precisely when I finished it, but I know it's been a while. Don't read this and think, "Oh no, another stupid blogger who is also trying to become an author...yippee," click, delete subscription/bookmark/address, burn computer monitor sullied by idiotic writing.

Because seriously, even if I never become anything in terms of publishing credentials or the like, my blog is all right, isn't it? 

And anyway, it's not like I'm writing a book of sketches. No way. That would be awful. No one wants to read an entire book of that.

Wait, did I just inadvertently condemn my blog?

The point is, I continue to revise this book. I can't let it go. I like the ideas in it and some of the characters too much to bid it farewell. I might have a problem. Do I? Is intervention necessary?

I could start on another book and I have the ideas to do that much. However, this other book, well, I guess I like staring real hard at it all day long, trying to turn it into something more perfect. It's not easy either, because as you can see from my writing here, I'm no James Morrison. 

That's a joke. Jim Morrison. Haha. Excuse me if you think Jim Morrison was one of poetry's greatest accomplishments. The name has just been scrolling around in my head recently because of some insult someone else wrote about his writing. It wasn't me either. I think it was an agent saying that it's not a compliment to compare your writing to Morrison's. 

I think Stoker is worried about my absurd dedication to rewriting this book. I can tell. He's given me a couple concerned looks while trying to be casual and asking multi-layered questions such as, "So, do you think it's getting better the more you edit it?" And his voice rises an octave at the end of the sentence, suggesting he thinks it's not getting better. 

He's a good diplomat.

But yes, his concern makes sense. He's an engineer in Nashville. He mixes music, which is like editing a book. When a band does an album, they record it a certain way. Then an engineer (or someone not as qualified these days, like a plumber by day and a street-busker by night) adjusts things after the fact. Cuts out drums, replaces certain sounds (oh the wonders of digital editing), lowers the vocals, and all that. 

It's a different head-space from creation. So Stoker knows that at some point, you stop hearing things right and you have to just stop. Your brain gets too deep in the mix. Things begin to sound muddied. Noises don't strike your eardrum right anymore. It's the trees, you're lost in them. You need to get out and see the forest. 

For me the words are the trees and the story is the forest. Too much editing can crush the life out of a story. And at times I don't know when to just walk away. 

When I first rewrote the beginning of this story, a few months ago, I guess, I was extremely excited. I thought it rocked. I was full of self-congratulation and lauded myself the next Homer of epic stories. But now I feel like Chris Farley in Tommy Boy when he has crushed the rolls to death in the diner where they encounter Sea Bass. If I don't just walk away from this chapter, like RIGHT NOW, it will die. And I will hate it. It will resemble a dusty pile of yeast and flour (is that possible? I wanted to relay that it would resemble its most basic elements, but was the yeast a stretch?).

So I'm walking away, you hear? Story? I'm talking to you, Story. Don't think you can lull me into changing one more word in Chapter 1. I'm through. We're through. I'm going to continue coddling chapters 2 through 5 until they sing like sirens. 

I know you thought that by the time we arrived here in this post, I would be saying that I'm walking away from the book entirely. Ha! Psyche. No way. It's too good to give up on entirely. I'm a stayer. Even if it's to my detriment in the long run. 

Further, I had a conversation with the Universe earlier wherein I told the Vast Silence that I'm just going to keep plugging away. I can wait an eternity to get anywhere. I've done it before and so help me, I'll do it again. 

Reverse psychology sometimes work on the Universe/Vast Silence. It's a gamble, but really, what's NOT a gamble?  

__________________________

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My Visit to Rowan Oak, OR How to Magically Ruin a Pair of Expensive Jeans

Memorial Day weekend was great, until we got to Memphis. Then everything went to hell real quick. 

But first.....

Rowan Oak.  

Mississippi is humid, just like all swamps in the south. The strange thing about humidity is that when you add air conditioning to the picture, it can get cold. So naturally I wore a pair of jeans while we we drove from Tupelo to Oxford to not catch a chill in air conditioned rental car—an Impala. Oh yeah, we went all out for this road trip.  

These jeans really are quite awesome. I purchased them recently and I happen to look like a million bucks when I wear them. It's been a while since I felt or looked like a million bucks, so this causes me to strut around with a confidence no one has seen on me in years.  

And if I don't, in fact, look like a pile of glittering diamonds in the jeans, the important thing is that I feel like one. As I proved long ago, if you feel it, it must be true.  

We arrived at Rowan Oak in Oxford and Stoker drove down a gravel driveway and parked beside a trailhead. We didn't know where we were, exactly. The area is quite forested and you can't just see where you should go (especially if you drive down the little gravel road and don't simply park on the street).  

So we didn't talk to anyone after we got out of the car. Stoker looked at the little sign at the trailhead which read, "Bailey's Woods" or something and informed us that the trail was a quarter mile and it ended in the museum parking lot. Faulkner, the sign read, used to enjoy taking walks in this forest to think about his work. 

If Faulkner did it, we had to do it.

"Let's take this trail.  It ends in the parking lot," Stoker said. Obviously we assumed the museum parking lot meant the parking lot of Rowan Oak. Since we hadn't been up to the house (we didn't know where it was, in fact), we figured museum meant Faulkner's house. Duh. Of course. It's open to the public and is no longer a house, therefore is really a museum. Makes sense. 

Still wearing my jeans and a pair of very comfortable Born wedge heel sandals (I never wear wedge heels, but this pair of jeans requires them), we headed down the trail. At that point, it was quite cool for Mississippi at the end of May. So I thought it'd be fine to wear jeans for a hike (there was a pair of shorts in the car).

What most people don't know about these parts of the South, at least I didn't until I lived here, is that there are many forests. Oh sure, you knew that, right, because you've watched lots of reenactments of the Civil War. You've seen stuff about the deep south. You know that there are towering evergreens all over and crazy vines taking over the whole place and you realize these things because you pay attention and read many books and watch countless hours of television.  

Ok well, I'm constantly in awe, even as a resident of four years. I keep forgetting that the South isn't all about magnolias. These forests are thick and kind of scary and when I'm in them, I begin to understand the fear the Puritans had of them and their darknesses. I also begin to see the influence the landscape had on Faulkner and his writing. Anyway, that thing you learned as a kid, about the moss growing on the north side of the tree trunk?  That's true here. Because you can't get your orientation in the forest by the sun or the mountains. So bring a compass.

The trail in the Rowan Oak forest was nice. At first. It was shady and we were there early enough that the temperature was kind of cool. We plodded along, laughing, joking, swatting at mosquitoes and leaping away from enormous spiders. Spots of sunlight filtered through the canopy of leaves and we'd stare up at the towering trees with their sculpted trunks, mouths agape. I think Stoker got tired of me pointing and saying, "Holy crap, look at the tree!"  

A few minutes into the forest and I began to hear disembodied laughter, like someone nearby was having a pool party . . . or something. . . . The trail split—we took the one with fresh footprints (were those hoof-prints?). We began to feel lost. My footwear was horrible so I tripped several times.  

Soon the air grew stifling and swampy. Or more swampy, anyway. Stoker laughed at my stride. Never one to be deterred at creepy laughter in the woods, he continued to take pictures and reassure me that the trail hadn't already gone a quarter of a mile.  

"This is WAY longer than a quarter of a mile. I think we've gone two miles already," I said.

"No way. Our block in the city is a half-mile. We haven't gone that far yet," he said, laughing.

"Not a chance. We've gone way further than a quarter mile and we're not even to the end yet."

"Why are you walking like that? Walk normal," he said, snapping a picture of me on a bridge over a huge grotto filled with trolls.

"What's wrong with the way I'm walking?" I asked, paying the toll. The trolls demanded a fruit roll-up.  Luckily I had one.  

"You're waddling," Stoker answered, glaring at the toll-taking troll for taking the last fruit roll-up. Stoker loves gummy candy and fruit snacks like that.  

"It's hot.  I'm sweating.  My jeans are shrinking." The troll loped away and joined his clan beneath the bridge, and I wiped the stream of sweat from my forehead. I'd turned into a fountain.  

To prove his point, Stoker showed me a picture of myself mid-stride. I looked like I'd just ridden a hundred miles on horseback.  

My jeans WERE shrinking. It was so humid and hot, it was like living inside a washing machine and a dryer at the same time.  

We continued on. The disembodied laughter kept getting louder. There were red toadstools with white spots on the edge of the trail. It was hard to breathe. The floor of the forest was littered with creepy fern-like plants out of the jurassic era (or at least the movie Jurassic Park). I began to threaten the makers of the trail with lawsuits about false advertising and bad trail management. They could have at least put signs out for the proper route, AND a warning about the trolls* would have been really helpful. 

Finally we came to the end of the trail. I could barely walk. My jeans had shrunk four sizes and I only managed to move by thrusting my legs backwards and lurching forward in a wind-up motion (see? using the material's natural restrictive tendency to propel myself.  Clever, eh?). I was certain the leather sandals had carved blisters into my pinky toes. But the end was in sight and hopefully an air conditioned house/museum.

HOWEVER, the end of the trail was followed by a short walk through an ugly meadow to the campus of the University of Mississippi. The Museum was a real museum. Betty's museum, or someone like that. 

Rage filled me, I heard a loud tearing noise and the skin of my legs was suddenly visible through the fabric of my jeans. Luckily, the campus was a ghost-town, being Sunday on Memorial Day weekend, so no one but Stoker saw my transformation into the Incredible Hulk.  

Rowan Oak, Faulkner's home, was on the other side of the forest and the trail. We turned around.

*By the way, there were no trolls. I put that in to wake you up. If there had been trolls, I think we'd have gotten a much different body of work from Faulkner.  

"FINISH HIM!!!"

For several uninteresting reasons, I'm having a difficult time concentrating lately.

Who am I kidding? The reasons are actually incredibly fascinating. Because I'M interesting, mysterious, entertaining, and a whole host of related adjectives.

Seriously. It's undeniable. I keep a blog to make a record of my compelling opinions and intriguing adventures.

This morning I stopped at the Flatrock Cafe for a sausage biscuit. Stoker got a breakfast casserole and Larry, the manager, gave him a large helping. Stoker lamented that he didn't think he'd be able to finish it because he was full already, but he felt bad not finishing it. Then he said in an evil overlord voice, "FINISH HIM!!!!!"

I laughed. Raucously. Sometimes I realize after I've already emitted an obscene laugh like that, that I'm laughing obscenely. And then I want to apologize immediately to let people know that I know that my laughter was inappropriately loud. No one cares at that point, but sometimes it's nice to try to convey that you WANT to be genteel, even if you're not by nature.

The reason my laugh was so loud and obnoxious was due to the reference-humor. Is there such a thing? I'm sure there's a genre or sub-genre of humor that's referential and that's where it gets its power. I don't know the name of it, so I'm calling it reference-humor and in my case, it's based on some weird personal quirk I once told Stoker about.

You know what I'm talking about. Some purely stupid phenomenon you possess and it baffles the heck out of you that you even do it, let alone that you're AWARE of it, but somehow cannot make it stop?

It kills me that Stoker remembers such things. He's got a mind like a steel-trap.

A while ago I told him how it really really bugs me when I think to myself anything relating to the word finish. Like, "I need to finish the vacuuming, then I can play PS3." Or, "Once I finish this sandwich, I'll do the dishes." Or, "Holy crap, I'm NEVER going to finish painting the mudroom."

Inevitably after I think to myself something about finishing anything, my mind always drifts to the next obvious thought: Mortal Kombat. When the evil announcer guy says after you've almost beaten your opponent, "FINISH HIM!!!!!" And the type is all blood-red in an evil, creepy way.

So things like, "I need to finish the vacuuming, then I can play PS3," end up followed by the with the haunting echo, "FINISH HIM!!!!!!" Turning the relatively harmless task of cleaning into an evil slaughter in the living room wherein Liu Kang's spine is ripped from his body and lifted triumphantly over Scorpion's head*--a bloody, grisly trophy.

It's gotten so tiresome, in fact, that I try not to EVER think of finishing tasks ("FINISH HIM!!!!!!"). That way, I never have to experience the transformation of these mundane daily moments into Kombat to the death. It's not that I don't love to finish things ("FINISH HIM!!!!!") and it's not that I don't love video games, it's that I don't LOVE the confusion of reality with video game reality.

But I DO love it when Stoker remembers the things I have said and casually tosses them out in appropriate moments and makes me laugh obscenely.




*Secret finishing-move not guaranteed to belong to Scorpion. I haven't played it recently enough to recall WHOSE finishing move the de-spiner is. It could be any one of the vicious fighters.

"Minstrel of the Dawn" or "To the Morning"?

In reviewing my expansive CD collection, I've been coming across some old gems. Today I ripped Gord's Gold. It's imperative that you understand my musical history before you pass judgment on me for owning this album (my friends in high school ridiculed me, of course. I listened to old people music). I was raised on FM100. In Utah that's easy listening, light favorites, and love songs. (In Nashville, Lightning 100 is the cool-kid indie station. That's taken some getting used to.)

Anyway, my mom listened to stuff like Jackson Browne, Dan Fogelberg, Abba, the Carpenters, Kris Kristofferson, and stuff like that. So I listened to it. It's logical. And of course that branch of music is still pretty important to me.

So, if you want to make me die from a good heartache, wake me up Saturday morning with Dan Fogelberg's song "To the Morning," from his very first album Home Free. My mom used to do that when I was a kid. She'd play it really loud and it would pull us all from our various beds. Sometimes she would have breakfast ready.

We lived on the foothills of the mountain, so it took forever for the sun to get over the mountains. We had a window facing east and I still remember my mom standing in that window, watching the sun come up, singing the words along with Dan Fogelberg. She was pretty amazing. Need I even say that I thought she was a goddess? 

What's fantastic about all this, now, is that occasionally Stoker tries to yank on my heartstrings by waking me on a Saturday or a Sunday with that song my mom used to play. But he forgets which song it was. So several times I've woken to Gordon Lightfoot's "The Minstrel of the Dawn." A song about a musician singing in a bar. It's probably autobiographical.

"Minstrel of the Dawn" is nice, if a little jiggish in parts.  It doesn't really hold a candle to the melody and power of "To the Morning" which is about the passage of time and the inevitability of love, separation, longing, and pain. 

It's a funny mistake--playing "Minstrel of the Dawn" when you meant to play "To the Morning."  It's become one of my favorite memories involving Stoker.  You can see how he'd mix up the songs.  They both have something about the morning in their titles.  And once you've hit play, you're kind of committed even if you realize your error because the volume is turned up really loud. 

Guess you had to be there.  And know the songs.  One thing is that I think Dan Fogelberg really meant his song to be one of the first things you hear in the morning so there's a stillness in the first notes--there's a long instrumental introduction before he begins singing.  Minstrel of the Dawn doesn't really have that reverent feeling to it. It starts out with words right away, like this, "The minstrel of the dawn is here to make you laugh and bend your ear..."  Quite the jolt first thing in the morning.  

For a comparison, Dan Fogelberg sings, "Watching the sun, watching it come up over the rooftops...."  He says it in a hushed kind of voice.  Pretty fabulous.  It's one of the better ways to start your day out.   

The Golden Age of Film

This weekend I realized the truth about movies, again. That’s how life is, I believe, learning the same lessons over and over again until you die, and by that time, hopefully you understand everything that you should.

The truth about movies is that modern films suck. Old films have it all.

Just ask Stoker. Finally, after all these years, I sat down and watched Cool Hand Luke. Stoker watched it with me, but I said “I” in that last sentence because I have known that I ought to watch this film for a long time. At least since my first years in college, but I put it off and put if off, since I’m not a huge Paul Newman fan. I’ve got my Cary Grant, Gregory Peck, and from time to time Rock Hudson and Robert Mitchum (I’ve heard tell that Gary Cooper should be in there somewhere, but I’ve never indulged in a Gary Cooper film). So anyway, I should have known. I should have known better, should have seen Cool Hand Luke a long time ago.

Anyway, Stoker, bless his insight, pointed out that the Coen brothers’ style isn’t really a style at all, it’s a rip off of the techniques from old films. And I mean, the day before we watched Cool Hand Luke (I was very sick this past weekend) I watched (again) North By Northwest and had noticed the same thing. Recently Stoker and I rented and viewed that let down film, No Country for Old Men, and what we loved about it (didn’t make up for what we loathed about it) was the absence of a film score. Older films didn’t have overproduced sounds. Many of them DID have film scores, but there is a distinct absence of, say, a microphone right next to the actor’s mouths, so we don’t have to listen to the suction and sloppy noises of a kiss. C’mon! Who wants to hear the details of a kiss!? No one. It doesn’t ADD to the moment, it’s a distraction!

Anyway, though I love many of the Coen brothers’ movies, I have to say, what I realized this weekend is that I don’t need to overdo it. My first love was correct and true. My first love, which bloomed in junior high and high school, was old films. There was a short period during graduate school when I watched an old Cary Grant show and felt a little embarrassed at its innocence, and I swore I’d never go back. I was cynical and bitter, I thought my eyes had been opened to the real world and that I finally knew what great art was. But I was naïve to assume so much.

The truth is, old films are pure and untouched by the dirty hands of modernity. What directors like Hitchcock couldn’t say outright, they said through implication and innuendo, they crafted a story around what could not be explained and in doing so, shed light on the dark corners of the human psyche. They created meaningful dialogue through what was said as much as what was UNSAID. Their sparse sets and stark images, such as those in North By Northwest (i.e. the scene outside the United Nations), say as much in the positive space as they do in the negative spaces. The color in North By Northwest is gorgeous. Tell me, have you ever seen anything like it?

In any case, I have always known that Stoker is a genius. He understands things and he has ideas about things. I’m an idea-lover. I can’t help it. And when I hear his ideas, I realize I’m madly in love with him all over again. Tonight or tomorrow night, I’ll finally see a Steve McQueen movie. I had this mentor a long time ago who raved about Steve McQueen. All this time I’ve never seen a Steve McQueen film. Can you believe it? It’s nice to still have things to do even though I’ve lived such a long life.

How to Catch 10 Colds in One Year: Work in a Nashville Studio

Stoker has a cold. Again. Last night I asked him if his manager/boss noticed that Stoker was sick and Stoker said he didn't think so, and anyway, his boss is sick too. And then I belted Stoker. Knocked him flat on his back.

Just kidding. But I did swat him on the kidney, because it's my way and because I was so mad at the absolute moronic behavior of these ridiculous workaholics I'm surrounded by. Since coming to Nashville, Stoker has been sick with a cold about five times. We've been here a year and a half. Before that we were in Mesa for about 9 months and Stoker didn't get sick once, and before that we dated for about 9 months and I don't recall him being sick then. He was like a horse. Horses never get sick, right?

Then we come to Nashville and all hell breaks lose. Have you been to Nashville? Next to Sin City, Nashville is the second most happening town for the devil. The devil hangs out here. It's his crib, or whatever the kids call it these days (that's only funny if you know the real Nicole, I'm only 29, so young!). Nashville, or Nashvegas, as it is called in some circles, is Sin City 2. Hello! What's-your-name Frank-something-or-other, hint hint, second graphic novel Sin City 2, set in a rainy, autumny Nashville. Former Bell South tower, great lines! Great contrast, Gateway bridge!

Anyway, once here, hell broke loose. It was 60-70 hours a week at the job. 8 am to 2 am. How many hours is that? 9…10…11…15…18! It wasn't that drastic EVERY day, by any means. But there were several days where Stoker was at work from 8 until 1, 2, 3 in the morning, and on the days it wasn't that late he was still there 12 hours or more. And he wasn't getting paid. It was an internship. Magical words. Ship and intern. Meant to be together. More powerful in the modern world than relationship.

Currently a typical workweek for Stoker is 60-70 hours a week. The days have no structure. He doesn't really get a lunch. He's always at that studio, which is no bigger than a closet. (Only the BIG studios are bigger than a closet. Most studios in Nashville are not the big studios. The small studios are where it's at. Sad fact: most big studios are going out of business.)

And his boss is a great guy, an amazing businessman and I like him very much. But I question the wisdom in going to work sick, ESPECIALLY when your workspace is the size of a kitchen pantry and it's guaranteed that there will be more than five people shoved into that space. On a busy day, there are several engineers, anywhere from 5-12 musicians, the client -- who might bring an entourage --, the staff members who comprise 3-5 bodies, and the interns, who make up 2-3 of the bodies breathing the infected air.

Because Stoker is ALWAYS run down, he is GUARANTEED to catch whatever is brought into the studio by the warm, viral human vector. The vector I'm blaming this round is his boss. I've never been able to blame him before. One time the staff guys kept the same cold going round and round. I think Bob brought it in (Bob's gone now so I can tell you his name). Then the other dude got it. Then Stoker got it. Then Bob got it again, and so on.
It doesn't help matters that Stoker can't really call in sick. It's not a job where you've got back-ups. You can't call in sick. There are no safety nets. They don't even have insurance. It's like a flipping SWEAT SHOP.

I love Stoker's job. I admire his tenacity. I'm amazed that he's persevered and forged a path for himself. It really kills me to see him succeed. But there are times when I'm convinced the engineers have gotten a raw deal. The session players have a union and there are rules the studios have to follow about scheduling. If the players choose to work outside the rules, that's their right. The songwriters have a union, too, which protects their rights. The faces of the music, the stars, don't need a union because they're sort of the pets of the label. Their biggest problem is looking good. And let's face it, it would be embarrassing to have a union for celebrities.*

But the success of all of these groups rest on the skill of the engineer. And the engineer earns a pittance and gets walked on by the producers and the songwriters. The session players have their union, so they know that the producer won't be making them work past 10 pm, or whenever. But after the players are gone, the engineer keeps plugging away until the songwriter or the producer lets them go.

I'm not sure why no one has started a union for the engineers of Nashville. Probably because the machine would stop working if the producers and the songwriters couldn't squeeze every penny out of that day rate they're paying. It's pathetic, really. The most outrageous thing is the gall of some of the songwriters who buy a Protools rig so that they don't have to book studio time, and then they call an engineer to ask for help! It's like deciding to do your own dentistry and then calling the dentist because you don't know how to fix a cavity. What the hell?!

Most engineers have the grace to help out, but they're really biting their tongue. What they're most likely thinking is, "Hey, man, you're taking the food out of my mouth, yet you want me to chew it for you? Here's a little sugar to make it go down sweet." Add a few expletives. It's all political, right?

Anyway, I guess the point is, Stoker has his dream job and that's why he deals with the crap. I'm the one on the sideline watching him succeed, but I also have to watch him take the hits and it sucks. I want to help out. I just can't, Grasshopper. He has to do it himself and if he wants something to change, like going to work with a cold, he has to instigate that change. I just hope that I don’t catch his cold.


*In no way do I claim this as fact. This is information I've gleaned from being here in Nashville. For all I know the celebrities could have a union. And for all I know engineers don't feel like they're getting a raw deal. I don't represent anyone but myself, not even Stoker, who loves what he does.

Moving Made Harder

My advice to you is, when you buy a house, don't wait a month to move in. Unless you have to. Unless, in your excitement the day after closing, you tear up all the carpet and linoleum to refinish the hardwood floors, and you rip down all the ugly paneling in the "den" and frame a wall to put up new, modern drywall (as opposed to plaster, I guess), and moving in would mean not finishing the floors. Because you really ought to finish those damn floors before you move in.

I guess waiting a month is rough, because instead of the house being a home, the house is a project that you carry with you to and from work and your real home. It wears one out, I think. But we didn't know that until we'd done it. No one offered any advice, really, and if they had we probably would have told them hush up, we know what we're doing.

Also, if you're not living in the house, it's real easy for a dripping bathroom faucet to turn into a gushing fountain that could potentially flood the entire basement. What? Oh, yeah, yeah, that happened to us. But see, we thought the dripping faucet wasn't anything. We thought the puddle of water in the basement was from the toilet. Later that night, we figured out it was the sink (turned off the faucet, everything dried out).

The next day, when we stopped by to put up drywall, the toilet had flooded and the basement was a mess again. It was the tank, see, it never stopped filling. We turned off the valve to the toilet, but the next day it had flooded again (ghostly? The valve WAS turned off). Three days in a row. It's like a sign from God or something. He deals in threes, you see.

If we'd been living there, those enormous water problems wouldn't have ballooned like they did. We would have caught them at the trickle stage, right?

So, we moved in all the way on Wednesday. Or rather, we moved everything out of the apartment and into the house. We were up until 3 am on Wednesday night doing all that, you know, vacuuming the apartment before we left so they didn't think we were quite so piggish when they came to clean it up for the next tenant.

Something that took longer than we'd expected was moving the cats. They were very frightened. We only had one cat kennel, so we held the other two in our laps. Well, Bastet rode in my arms, Sobek rode on Stoker's shoulder. He really loved riding in the car. Sobek did, that is. (Stoker likes riding in cars, too.)

Bastet is pretty good at riding in the car with me because she's so well traveled. She's been from Mesa, AZ to Salt Lake, and from Mesa to Nashville. She's also ridden on a plane with us. She's a jet-setter, that cat. A hippo jet-setter (I don't know, something about her screams hippo. She's a hulking creature. Beautiful and hulking). Polly (short for Neopolitan, like the ice cream) rode in the kennel -- she's still quite skittish.

The cats hissed a lot in the house, at first. The previous owners had cats who left behind lots of terrible smells. So I think the cats were waiting to be jumped by enormous tom cats or something. That or I'm right about the devil room and there ARE ghosts in the house. Cats can see ghosts, don't you know?

Anyway, it took us longer than we thought to calm the cats down, and even when we left they weren't calm. When we returned from buying new cat litter, Sobek was burrowed between some pillows on the couch. He was like a kid hiding from thunder (I used to hide from thunder under the velvet throw pillows on my mom's couch, so that's how I can make that comparison). When Sobek saw Stoker, he ran into his arms. It was like a Kleenex commercial or a Cat Fancy sponsored music video for "Reunited." It really tugged at the heart strings.

The cats are doing better, the odd thing is that suddenly they're all sleeping on our bed with us and so I can't move at night, lest I kick a cat off the bed. Bastet has successfully rubbed against every possible object, to claim them, as the supreme cat in the household. I think she worked herself into such a frenzy from marauding about the house, shooting out her scent, that now she has a cat cold. Her little eye was a bit oozy last night, poor thing. I told her to rest today. Get some sleep. Recuperate.

Anyway, moving was the most horrible thing I've had to endure for a long time. I thought the glue-scraping was rough, and it was. I thought the sanding was a burden, and it was (especially the devil room. I NEVER thought we'd get through all that black tar. And it WAS tar. I've had it confirmed by several sources). I thought filling the nail holes with stainable filler was rough, and it was. But moving stands as the number one shitty thing a person has to do in their lifetime.

It could have been worse, I could have been 8 months pregnant with a two year old, two cats and a dog, and it could have been from DC to Miami, or Southern California to Miami, or Miami to Denver. Take your pick. Luckily it was from one side of the circle that is Nashville-Davidson, to the other side.


P.S. The floors look excellent, and who can complain about new appliances? Especially a side-by-side fridge when all you've had your entire adult life has been the top-freezer monstrosities apartment complexes offer. The beasts!

Sleep, Read, or Watch T.V.?

Why can't I go to bed earlier? All my life I've been a night person and I really suffer in the mornings, like right now, when I can barely keep my eyes open. I curse the TV. On a nightly basis, Stoker gets home and wants to watch a quick episode of the Simpsons or Futurama, to wind down. The problem is that he falls asleep while watching it, and I'm wide awake laughing.

So then, I'm like, "Wake up! Drink your tea," and he's like, leave me alone. And then we have a comical little tiff wherein he blames me for keeping him awake. Ha ha. So then he goes into the bedroom and I brush my teeth in the bathroom. He sprawls on the bed and falls asleep again. "Did you brush your teeth?" I ask, because really, he might have brushed them an hour ago without me noticing. But now he's asleep again, and this question has woken him. He growls at me.

And then I say real sweetly, "Well, maybe you should just get in bed." And he tells me that he's just going to start going to bed when he's tired. Only he says it like it's a threat, and it'll ruin my life because I always want to watch the Simpsons, every night. By now he's in the bathroom brushing his teeth and his eyes are totally bloodshot from being pried open several times by my rousing conversation.

At this point in the night, after he's fallen asleep everywhere but in bed, under the covers, he's really just sleepwalking*. So I don't hold the childish fit against him, I've been known to have my own bursts of indescribable rage at being woken from my after school nap**. I respond to his "I'll just go to bed when I'm tired" jab with, "Great! I don't care if I don't watch television all night before bed."

Because I really don't. I love Futurama and the Simpsons, but moderation, people. Whatever happened to reading books? I miss books. I try to read a book and it's like pulling teeth. Stoker and I don't keep the same work schedule. Usually I'm home before him. But instead of reading, I run around like mad straightening up the apartment, or as my cousins used to call it, doing my chores. The new habit is to have the television*** on when I'm there alone. It's like a Ray Bradbury book. I have my fake family chattering away in the background and I don't feel so lonely.

How can a book even compete with free television? I can't clean out the cat litter while I'm reading a book, and that's part of the problem. And hey, what's wrong with being alone? Why can't I just enjoy the silence? What's with this dependence on noise?

I don't know. I guess it's habits. It's what you get used to. For so long I was used to being alone. I lived in Salt Lake in a house on a busy street, in a kind of slummy area (Sugar House, the greatest area in Salt Lake City) and I was alone at night quite often. It never bothered me. I used to walk down the street at night to the bookstore or the coffee shop, alone. I had no fear. But HERE, in Nashville, if I'm alone in the apartment and I hear a loud noise, I wish I had a gun.

Anyway, I'd like to read a book instead of watching television. Scrubs is entertaining, for sure, but I can feel my mind melting. Sitcoms do nothing for my intellect. Thousands of words I had learned from my years of bookishness have been replaced by obnoxious buzzwords and rude sitcom banter. That's no way to interact with people—as though you're in a sitcom. Honestly, has anyone else noticed what an effect sitcoms have on their interpersonal relationships?

Lifelong goal: become a morning person. The kind of thoughtful early-riser who sips delicious Celestial Seasonings tea and watches the sunrise color the sky (haven't you always wanted to be THAT person? Like in the coffee commercials, onlyI prefer tea). This WILL take a lifetime, for me.

Immediate goals: go to bed earlier and read books again. Is this possible?




*Remember, he falls asleep ON the bed, without brushing his teeth—and he needs to brush them, we just went to the dentist and they counseled him on not brushing his teeth into oblivion, and yes, floss more.

**"You BITCH." My poor sisters. I was ASLEEP! It's like being held accountable for your dreams. Plus, hello! It was high school. And because it was high school, I got into trouble. Double-dutch trouble, as they say. By the way, Anji, I'm still sorry about that.

*** It's free, like we'd pay for cable, and by free I mean we get about eight stations. Two of them are televangelists.

ABBA: Stress-buster

It's weird how stress makes you not want to work. At least, it makes me not want to work. It makes me want to listen to ABBA and stare at a blank wall, reminiscing about simpler times. Or it makes me want to vacuum vigorously. Clean like there's no tomorrow, or rather, that tomorrow there will be a panel of judges filing through my house to score my work.

Stress makes it difficult to focus. For several weeks the stress has been gathering. I got a cold sore last week, and then wonder of wonders, Cassi got one. Cassi's my youngest sister. She lives in Omaha. She blamed me for the cold sore, claiming that because I told her over gmail chat that I woke up with a cold sore, I cursed her. It seems impossible, but what do I know? I tell her at 9 am that I have a cold sore, at 5 pm she calls to shout into the phone that SHE has a cold sore.

Remember the Simpson's episode where Burns is in a tank outside the Simpson home, about to get revenge on Homer's mother, and Flight of the Valkries is playing (I think that's the piece)? And Burns is like, "I've waited for this day . . . " and he's wearing a helmet and looking all evil and formidable, and then the song suddenly turns into "Waterloo! I was defeated you won the war!" It's ABBA! It kills me. Smithers is like, "I'm sorry sir, I accidentally taped over your song."

Oh man. It's funny on so many levels. I was just thinking about that, because I'm thinking about ABBA and how great ABBA was, and is. Seriously, Benny, Bjorn, Agnetha, and Anni-Frid can't be outdone. They're right up there in the pantheon of rock gods.

We close on the house today. At 2:30. Remember when I was just a little girl writing about how I was in love with Stoker and I resented him for going to California without me, and then he was asking me to marry him, and now here we are, buying a house in Nashville, Tennessee? NASHVILLE! How does that happen? I was in SALT LAKE. Now I'm in TENNESSEE.

That's some crazy shit, that's all. I'm probably the only one who gets it. Well, I'll take some pictures of the house with my disposable camera, then I'll develop the pictures. Then I'll send you copies. I'm technologically backwards. I don't know how to post with pictures. Everyone else has their digital SLR. I have my camera, which is constructed of paper.

Buying a House in Nashville

We finally had to get rid of our old realtor (pronounced "real-tor," not "real-la-tor," as my mother pointed out to me once upon a time. I've never been able to forget it). In some ways we thought we should just buy a house without a realtor. But a couple music guys (a songwriter, a session player, and another engineer) couldn't stop insisting on their realtor.

By "get rid of our old realtor," I mean get out of our contract with her, not, as it sounds, bump her off (is that a phrase? It sounds so weird right now. Perhaps because I'm so caffeined up, my heart's got the pedal to the metal -- my arteries are about to explode) or send her to sleep with the fishes. Again, I'm not very versed in mob-talk. We don't have HBO and I've only seen the Godfather twice, and it's been awhile since I played the Xbox game.

Hopefully you get the point. Nothing happened other than a phone call between the old realtor and Stoker, wherein Stoker said, "It's just not working for us." And she said, "You WORK too much! You shouldn't be buying a house!" At least she finally told us what she was REALLY thinking.

Stoker and I are the kind of people who stay. That's one of the reasons we got married. We both found something we liked and we ran with it. I figure this correlates nicely with how we are in working relationships, friendships, and when we find the right house. We've already put two offers on houses.

As my many fans will recall, the first offer didn't pan out because the house was missing a portion of its foundation. The second offer wasn't accepted. For that we partially blame our former realtor and I could explain why and you'd agree with me. But I haven't the time and you haven't the attention span for it.

We're first time homebuyers. Part of the reason we sought a realtor was because we needed someone to hold our hands through the process.

I'm still not entirely comfortable writing about people on my blog without their consent (unless you happen to be a friend or family, in which case, bad luck, you happen to be a friend or family member). So, I'm not going to mention our old realtor's name, but I'm also not comfortable using our NEW realtor's name, even though at the moment I only have good things to say about him (those music guys were right). We've put an offer on another house already.

The new realtor is professional yet polite. When we went to look at this house we're trying to buy right now, it could have been a very awkward thing because the current owners were there. But the new realtor (a name would make this so much easier, but . . . still not comfortable) totally put both Stoker and me, AND the current owners at ease. I'm pretty sure they were at ease, though I didn't ask them. After we looked around he thanked them and asked some pretty damn pertinent questions, and he phrased them in a diplomatic way. I wouldn't have dared asked the current owners anything. I always feel awkward about that.

By the time we left it was dark, but it was still 100 degrees outside. The three of us stood on the road by our cars and talked. It was so damn hot. This new realtor had the courtesy to say, "Let's talk in my car and I'll turn on the air conditioner." !!! I couldn't believe it. Another cool thing was that he didn't put on airs about his success. He showed up at the house in a Mercedes.

Stoker and I aren't high rollers, you know. We have good credit, but we have student loans, so we're not buying a super sweet house. I know that there are salesmen out there who are very calculated about that stuff -- they don't want to appear too successful or not successful enough. Perhaps this realtor is that slimy, but so far he hasn't felt sleazy, plus he's been more willing to work for us than the realtor we stopped working with.

The house inspection is on Thursday. Both of us are nervous about it. You know, it's such a difficult process, buying a house. It helps immensely to have a realtor you like. Then you feel good about that 3% they're going to walk away with. After the crap experience with that other realtor, it's like, "3%? You should have 4%!" Ha ha. Yeah right. But you know what I mean.

Shopping for a House in Nashville

We're looking for a house. To buy. I know, I know. It's a million things all in one: scary, exciting, exhausting, scary, and exciting. Tell me about it.

Stoker is always at work, so when do we have time to even look at houses? We don't, usually, but we went to look yesterday. The only day off Stoker has had in a while where we knew two days beforehand that he had a day off.

Flashbacks and the Unattainable Neighborhood

It sucks looking at other people's houses. Especially when they vacated the house quickly and left it a mess. It spurs flashbacks to my mom's house and the Underwood's who rented it just before the divorce. In my dad's real estate gluttony, we rented that house and moved into a new duplex. That's when everything fell to pieces and then the Underwood's were sent packing and we retreated back to the old house -- our dad kept the duplex. The Underwood's had ruined everything and the things they didn't want, they left behind for me and my sisters to throw away. It was awesome.

I guess it wouldn't be a problem if Stoker and I could afford an expensive house in an upscale neighborhood. But, ha ha ha ha, we can't. When we were driving around yesterday, we called a for-sale-by-owner number to find out their asking price. The house was smaller and in a nice neighborhood. A rich neighborhood. I asked the man what their asking price was. He told me the price and I coughed and choked and cleared my throat and said, "Ok, thanks, buh-bye now."

That's not what I said. And I kept my composure. But Stoker and I relived the moment and laughed about it a lot after I hung up the phone.

You Get What You Pay For; Or, How a Free-Market Society Works

What were we thinking? I mean, what fantasy-land were we living in when we thought the two of us -- poor, white-trash ne'er-do-wells -- could afford even a 600 square foot house in THAT neighborhood? Hardy har har.

Don't you just wonder how a person justifies selling a house for the price they're selling it for? I mean, take an 800 square foot house in a nice neighborhood. That tiny, cramped cottage could sell for $500,000 in some neighborhoods and no one would be allowed to bat an eyelash. That's what it's worth because it's a nice neighborhood.

Some of the neighborhoods we drove around in were really frightening. At any minute we expected to be ambushed and made to get out of our car by a gang of hoodlums, who would then take our car on a joyride to the see the sun sphere at the Knoxville world's fair.

But we could totally afford a mansion in those neighborhoods.

Navigating the Waters of a Codified Language and a Specialized Market

Buying a house is tricky. There are all these unspoken rules. And there are things your agent can't say. For instance, our agent can't say that the neighborhood we're looking in is dangerous and teeming with gangs, drugs, and murder (in 2003, Nashville had 74 murders, 1.7 percent higher than the national average). Even though that information would be helpful to us, because in Nashville there are so many neighborhoods that we know so little about. She can try to tell us about the neighborhood by using a difficult to understand code language, with phrases like, "That area has changed." Or "That part of town is really fast-paced." None of which sound like what she means: "That area is scary as hell. I saw hypodermics in the gutter and I saw a man get shot outside a gas station."

And they say you don't want to have the nicest house on your street, for appraisal reasons. But you also don't want to have the ugliest house on the street. Our agent can't tell us where we should live, though that would be helpful too (but knowing me I'd do the exact opposite of what she told us to do). She can't really tell us which areas she thinks will increase in value, though that would be extremely helpful, too. We'd love to buy a house and watch the area change (for the better) overnight and the value of the house appreciate fifty thousand dollars in nine months.

Anyway, the point is that the only way to learn how to buy a house, really, is to do it. And it kind of sucks. Especially when you get to a house and it's 95 degrees outside with 65 percent humidity and the house you're checking out has been shut up for a day and it smells like the previous owners housed birds and dogs and snakes and quite possibly, ducks. That's when you decide you can afford to look at houses ten to twenty thousand dollars MORE than the house you're standing in, with it's old red carpet and water-heater in the hallway.

Also, it helps to have vision.

Travis: The Boy With No Name ... Battleships ... NeverEnding Story

I really like the new song "Battleships" from Travis' new album. I do. It's a great song. I downloaded it last night and I've got it on continuous play along with "Closer" and "Under the Moonlight" (from the same album), and a couple of songs by Young Galaxy, Sea Wolf, the Phoenix Foundation, and that one song, "Jenny Don't Be Hasty" by Paolo Nutini (it's so good, I can't resist even though I want to resist).

Unlike my friend Jason, I'm not a huge Travis fan, but here and there I enjoy one of their songs. I don't even have one of their albums unless I can count Stoker's collection as my own. If so, I have a Travis album! Except I think Stoker bought the album because of some floozy he was dating back before he met me (kidding kidding. She was a really nice girl, I'm sure). Since he bought it because of the influence of an ex-girlfriend, I can't count it as one of my albums. Rules are rules.

But the song "Battleships." I can't get over how that one part sounds just like the song from NeverEnding Story, the song the "NeverEnding Story." It's really beginning to bother me. I guess the guys from Travis didn't watch awesome kid shows back in the '80s because if they had, they'd recognize that the portion of their melody, when they sing "I guess it's just another day in lo-o-o-o-o-oooove," is uncomfortably similar to that part from the "NeverEnding Story" song, when the guy sings, "Turn around, look at what you see-eee-eee-eee." Or whatever.

Unfortunately I'm at work right now, and my machine is a relic. I have no sound card, otherwise I'd listen to make sure I'm correct. I'm relying wholly on memory. I mean, I guess it's not a big problem, since I've always loved the NeverEnding Story and the theme song. It's just one those things, you know. It's like what I told Stoker today when he asked me if I wanted to eat at San Antonio Taco Company, which he compared to Taco Bell -- if I wanted to eat something that tasted like the food from Taco Bell, I'd just go to Taco Bell. So we went to Bruegger's, which is kind of like Einstein Brothers.

Thirsty

Around here it seems like someone is always opening a can of soda. That click and hiss are so suggestive. I can hardly think of another sound that has got me so trained that I respond like Pavlov's dog. It's a downward spiral from there. You see, I've been trying not to drink Dr. Pepper -- all that sugar is so bad for me . . . but it tastes soooo good. Once I hear that sound all I can think about is opening my own can of Dr. Pepper.

When we went back to Utah for a visit recently, Stoker and I got Dr. Pepper at the Maverick gas station. You won't believe this, but it tasted so much better than the fountain drinks you find in Nashville. I'm not kidding. I don't know what it is. The water? Someone laughed at me when I explained that I think it's the water. But Dr. Pepper in the western U.S. isn't bottled at the same place as the Dr. Pepper in the south. And ask anyone, the water in Utah tastes better than pretty much anywhere.

So you combine better water with a delicious soda and you get a better soda. If I'm not mistaken, water is an important ingredient. In fact, I think it's the first ingredient listed on a can of Dr. Pepper. I'll have to check that later, since I don't have one sitting in front of me (oh, but don't be so quick to judge -- I have a fountain drink Dr. Pepper at my desk).

Back to the water thing . . . last year Stoker and I went to Lynchburg, TN, to the Jack Daniels distillery, and guess what makes Jack Daniels so special (one of the things)? The water. That's right. I'm not a big fan of Jack Daniels, but I do know that the big barrel house smells like pickles. So if you ever visit, be prepared to want two things at the end of the tour, pickles and whiskey. I'd advise you to just go for the pickles because the whiskey will only let you down in the end.

And if you ever visit Utah, make sure you try a fountain drink Dr. Pepper. Then come back and tell me it doesn't taste better than anywhere else you've tried it.

My Hypochondria: Lyme Disease, and Meningitis

I can't bend my neck and touch my chin to my chest without terrible muscular pain. All my life if I had a stiff neck my mother would say to me, "Well, can you touch your chin to your chest? Ok, good, you're fine then. It's just a stiff neck." When asked what else it would be, she'd say something about spinal meningitis. I had no idea what that was, but it sounded horrible.

And my mom wonders why I'm a hypochondriac. Honestly, it's like accusing someone of being an alcoholic all the time and then being surprised to find out that they have a problem with alcohol. I don't think I started out worried that I was going to die of cancer or AIDS.

What child isn't saturated with information about all the diseases and dangers of living? And it's not complete information, either. It's just enough to make you really worry if you have even one symptom associated with a certain disease. Like the stiff neck. Turns out, the chin to chest test should be done when you're lying down and you should be able to do it without raising your legs (from WebMD).

Last summer Stoker and I went camping. Well, we tried anyway. It was over the Fourth of July and it turned out to be hotter than the bayou outside--even in the middle of the night! We're mountain people (I really love to say that) and it's typical to experience a hot day and then a cool night in the mountains or the desert. Not so in the south. Plus, in all my life, I have never seen more bugs than that night except in the Temple of Doom. Bugs are great in the daylight, when you can see where they are, but when you find a giant spider having dinner on your backpack, it's disturbing.

So, we went home instead of camping. We hadn't been able to sleep and I'm pretty sure there were potato bugs (I've always called them this, in fact they are woodlice) in my sleeping bag and gigantic crane flies inside the tent. It didn't matter that we kept things zipped up. They found a way in.

Potato bugs (I'm going to keep calling them potato bugs for sentimental reasons) weren't the only thing I was sharing with that night. I had two ticks. They were tiny, devilish, and looked like small moles. I don't think they bit me. But after that, I worried I was going to catch Lyme disease.

I remember when I was a kid, there was a television commercial about Lyme disease. Some famous girl from some contemporary sitcom did the advertisement. I'm probably the only one who remembers it. The girl came on and talked about what a devastating disease Lyme disease is and how easy it is to catch it. Most people don't even know they have it. Something like that, and then please give us some money for Lyme disease research. Very depressing.

I don't think I have Lyme disease. At least, I got through that run-in with the ticks last summer. We're all okay. Except the ticks, we drowned them. But Stoker and me, we're fine. We still go outside. It's probably a stupid idea, but I run through tall grass on my daily run. Apparently, ticks hang out on the tips of blades of grass, waiting, the way hobos wait for a train. As an animal or person passes by, the ticks hop on board . . . like a hobo . . .

Last week, this mysterious bruise appeared on the back of my thigh. I had recently read that tick bites looks like a mosquito bite, a bruise, or a bulls-eye. A few days later, my neck starts hurting. Meningitis can be caused by Lyme disease. Look it up!

Ok, so I'm pretty sure my stiff neck isn't because of an infection. I'm pretty sure I've been turning the air conditioner down too low at night, and lately Stoker has really been hogging the blankets. This morning I woke up with only a corner of the blankets covering my lower back. And I was all curled up in a ball, like I was cold. So, I blame Stoker. Ha ha.

He came in to wake me up and I said, "I think I know why I've been having a stiff neck." And he asked why. I said, "Because for some reason, I never have any covers." And he was like, "So, uh, is that my fault? Are you blaming me?" He didn't say it defensively, just with that kind of sweet, resigned tone, as though I always find a way to blame him for everything.

And I won't lie to you. It usually goes that way. I don't know, it's something programmed into the female. I remember when my sister Dani was pregnant the first time, and really close to being done with it. Jason, her husband, would tell my family that occasionally Dani would shoot him these piercing glances, as though she blamed him for her suffering. And she did. Because, it was HIS fault she had that parasite growing in her. It was really funny. Guess you had to be there.

So, don't worry. I try to overcome my tendency to blame Stoker (stupid stereotypes, I blame the stereotypes!). It only happens when I'm grouchy. It's true of him, too, you know. When he gets grouchy, mainly. But usually he's perfect.

Also, don't worry, I'm trying to overcome my hypochondria. It's just hard to find a balance with that. You don't want to worry too much and go crazy with worry, but you also don't want to ignore what you're body is telling you. I guess I could always check for ticks. Obsessively.

Kenny Rogers to Foreigner: How Does that Happen?

Right now I have a Foreigner song stuck in my head. It started out as the Kenny Rogers song "Lady," but around the part where he sings, "Lady, I'm your knight in shining armor and I love you," it turned into, "In my life there's been heartache and pain / I don't know if I can face it again / Can't stop now, I've traveled so far / to change this lonely life!" Yeah! "I wanna know what love is! / I want you to show me / I wanna feel what love is! / I know you can show me."

And because I know the Foreigner song better than the Kenny Rogers song, I just kept going with it. It's so sultry. So emotional. But if you really think about it, oh man, does he REALLY want to know what love is? I guess that depends on your definition of love. I, for one, don't think it's something that you're in, it's something that you do.

This morning Stoker started singing "Yesterday" while we were getting ready and I begged him to stop. He wanted to know why I wanted him to stop and I told him because I didn't want the song to get stuck in my head. That song, "Yesterday," ALWAYS gets stuck in my head. And it's such a ridiculous song to begin with. Most songs are ridiculous, you know. But "Yesterday" is more ridiculous than most. All those silly rhymes, so pathetic I won't even mention them. Great, now the song is stuck in my head.

Other crap that gets stuck in my head: the horsey horsey song ("I like to take a horse and buggy / I like to travel through the town") that I learned in third grade, and the donut song too, ("there's a hole in the donut I can see right through"); the AT&T commerical song ("all around the world," or something), which then turns into, "If you wanna change the world shut your mouth and start this minute," from the Cracker song. Very irritating. I'm sure there are about a million others, but I can't remember them right now. That's a good thing.

Go, Obese-Exercise-Man, GO!

Recently Stoker and I went for a bike ride on the greenway. We passed an extremely obese older man wearing an oversized T-shirt and sweatpants and perspiring heavily. He'd just come up one of the steep hills. I've seen this guy before and every time I think, "Great job!" Because I'm secretly really proud of him. I learned this from my friend Anna K., who rolls down the window and cheers people on when she sees them out exercising. The first time she did this, I think I was about to make fun of them with a snide remark about their weight, because sometimes I'm really small like that. And then Anna surprised me by rolling down the window, waving, and letting out a "woo-hoo, great job!"

At first I was embarrassed for her and for me a little, thinking, what will they say? And then I thought, "Who the hell are they?" After realizing there was no they to laugh at me, I thought wow. Then I asked Anna why she'd do something like that. I probably said, "Anna? What the heck?" And she said something like, "What? It's so cool that they're out doing that. I love it when people exercise!" Something very Anna to say. She has a lust for life that I envy.

And I think when people cheer you on, it really makes you go harder. It helps you to believe in yourself. One time I was out running and going hard. I was sweating up a storm, what with the humidity and the heat. As I came around a bend, there were two older guys walking towards me, who I had passed earlier. This time when I passed them, one of the guys said to me, "Great job! Keep it up!" Or something like that. I smiled and wanted to say thanks, but I might have been out of breath, having just tackled a hill (curse you, Tennessee, and your rolling hills!). But that encouragement from a complete stranger gave me a burst of energy and I felt I could run for forever.

When Stoker and I passed the obese gentlemen, I gave him a silent cheer in my head. Then I looked at Stoker and he seemed sad. I asked him if he was all right and he said:

"Sometimes don't you just want to give people a hug and say, 'It's OK, everything will work out'?"

And I said: "Do you mean that guy we just passed?"

And Stoker said: "Yeah. It just looks like he has a sad life. We pass a lot of people who look like they have sad lives and I wish I could tell them something reassuring."

Then I said: "I've seen that guy a lot. I usually just want to cheer him on, but I know what you mean."

Then I told Stoker how I love and adore him and think he's really precious. How can I not? I'm f-ing lucky to be married to him (f-ing lucky = flucky. New word. It will be all the rage!). As for Obese-Exercise-Man, I don't know if I'll ever have the courage to actually say, out loud, "Keep it up!" Because I am a chicken. So I'll say it here: "Great job, man!" Maybe he's out there, somewhere, reading this.