Air Travel

I leave for Utah today and I can't think about anything else. I'm plagued with worries. Traveling sucks, in a way. I don't mind the part where you're on the road or in the plane, but everything leading up to that time is rather stressful. All I can think about is getting to the airport on time, or being certain I've packed everything -- as we all know, if you forget something the trip will dissolve into a nightmare. Not really, but with the way I obsess you'd think that was the case.

In other people's lives, I'm sure that traveling is really smooth. Other people appear unruffled. These are also the kind of people who never pass gas or do the dishes or put their pants on one leg at a time. They walk through the airport with their laptop bag slung over their shoulder, their suits are neatly pressed, they exude confidence. They hang out with their peers at the airport bar, drinking and laughing like a beer commercial. Their teeth glimmer when they smile, their eyes are bright and sparkly and photoshopped. Everything is easy. Everything is good. Before the trip they have a manservant pack their bags for them. They know if they forget all their pants or socks, they'll just buy a new wardrobe. No big deal. A limo picks them up and takes them to the airport on a private back road. They can charter a helicopter if traffic is monstrous.

At least, this is how it looks from the outside. There's always people running around the airport who you'd think could never afford a ticket. They look like they just rolled out of a garbage can. There seems to be a windstorm of chaos following in their wake. You see them and expect to find loose newspapers trailing behind them and cookie crumbs stuck to their sweater. They look like they couldn't decide whether to travel comfortably, in their sweats, or business casual, in their freshly ironed sweats. You pass them as they sit in the McDonald's of the airport food court munching on fries and they look as harried as someone forced from bed at three in the morning to pick up their son who just got a DUI.

I fit into the harried crowd. I look like I've had second thoughts about my carry-on, like I wish I'd checked it after all. I look like I'm always just about to miss my plane and I'm lost and I can't read the sign announcing my gate. I don't wear sweats, but I'd be at home in them and everyone knows it and the flight attendants always ask if I want a blanket and a pillow as though they suspect I might have my own in that carry-on I've been sneering at the whole time. That would be wise, actually, since the blankets have been used by other passengers and who knows what diseases they were carrying. Small pox. Measles. Something like that.

Wish me luck.

Belated Birthday Post

Last Thursday I turned thirty. I could go on and on about the woes of aging and how strange it feels to say, "I'm thirty," and all that, but what's the point? This isn't a Hallmark card, or Shoebox Greeting or whatever brand of greeting card it is out there perpetuating all the hilarious jokes about getting old. In fact, why am I even talking about it?

Birthdays are still great, even when you get old. Honestly, I'm not really SAD about aging, if for no other reason than that the older I get, the better the presents get. Okay, so not really every year, just this year, otherwise by the time I am thirty-five I should have a Hummer . . . or a tank (the kind with cannons on it, not the ones seen driving around American towns doubling as Cadillac Escalades or some other "family" vehicle). And what's with all the crap about the economy being bad? I'm still spending money. Loads of it.

Last year I got a Trek 4300 for my birthday. That's a mountain bike. This year I got a Scott S40, that's a road bike. A picture:



What's with the bikes, you might ask. Simple. I haven't ruled out nuclear holocaust and when the shit is coming down, how else am I going to get around quickly? The rest of you will be in wheelchairs. I'll be gliding along on all my bikes.

Really I just wanted to say "the shit's coming down." For my sensitive readers out there, I've given up on you. The only sensitive people I know stopped reading my blog long ago. I'm too crass, I guess.*

I almost got a Sledgehammer this year, but instead I just put pegs on my Trek.

Seriously, who knew Scott was out there making bikes? Ski poles, ski goggles . . . and bikes. I guess I'm WAY behind the times.



Special thanks to my lover for working all the long hours just to put bread on the table and a bike in my back pocket (it weighs so little, you see). And also thanks to all the relatives who kindly sent me money (even though I KNOW you don't read my blog [secretly YOU are the sensitive readers I was talking about]). This is where it went: the bike and bike accoutrements. Happy birthday.



*Understatement is funny because it's understated. No one in their right mind could presume to think that the word "shit" is offensive. Understatement is a form of exaggeration, and we all know exaggeration is funnier than hell.

Beautiful Comb-Over. Or Is that a Wig?

I surprised myself last night and watched Celebrity Apprentice. I was bored, eating my salad by myself, and the cats weren't in the mood for conversation, so I turned on the TV. We don't have cable or channel two, ABC. I don't even know what shows run on that channel. At least, I think it's ABC. ABC is channel two in Nashville, right? I don't know. I know I get the nightly news with Katie Couric and the channel with Brian Williams, so whatever that's worth. Guess you have to know your channels and the shows to know what I'm talking about.

Anyway, my favorite thing about the show was watching Donald Trump. I know nothing about this man aside from the fact that he's extremely, embarrassingly wealthy, he was married to a woman name Ivana, and he doesn't care what you think, he's going to comb his hair like that! So I've heard he's an ass on the regular Apprentice and maybe last night diverged from his typical behavior, but I thought he seemed very humane when he fired Stephen Baldwin.

Maybe I'm easily impressed, because I was also impressed by Stephen Baldwin, the way he took the bad news and all that. I would have been in tears and the night would have ended with me screaming obscenities at the Donald and at the camera and at Trace for being such a perfect country gentleman. I guess that's why I do what I do, I can't handle the truth. I'd never make it in a real dog-eat-dog world. Everything would end with me screaming obscenities at everyone.

So Donald. He's real interesting. To his secretary, "GET me the final four in here right NOW!" What a man. A man of action.

This weekend: chicks from the Feed/Co-op whatever it's called. A coop. A rain barrel.

To Have Chickens, Or Not to Have Chickens....

I have a week to build a chicken coop. To figure out how to build one, to draw up some kind of blueprints, to paint the coop, buy the chicken food (feed?), etc. The chickens will be ready next week. It's a little scary. Can I even be a chicken owner? It's like deciding to be a parent. It's freaking me out a little. Maybe I won't get the chickens. Maybe a garden is all I can handle . . . a garden, a compost bin, and some rain barrels.

Records, Compost, and Rain Barrels

Two weeks later and here I am. My blog looks better on a Mac, with two big flat panel screens, if you know what I mean. Last week was rough, the kind of rough where you think you might not make it out alive, and when you do you wonder how the heck you ever doubted yourself. That happens to me all the time, perhaps because I'm just a negative S.O.B., right?

But it looks like I made it, baby.

Totally unrelated, I bought the most perfect gift for Christy Baugh. It's a record. She's going to love it. I found it sitting right out there in front of everyone at Phonoluxe in Nashville. I can't believe no one else picked up this sweet gem before I got to it. That's all I can tell you about it, but I wish, I really wish I could divulge more info about it. I might snap a picture of it and post it up here, but who knows. I'm usually all talk when it comes to taking and posting pictures. I'd tell you I'm more of a Polaroid girl because that sounds interesting and borderline artistic, but it would be a lie. The truth about me is that I'm lazy and unartistic. Before I married Stoker, two and half years ago, I started working on this present for him that involved some creative effort. It was going to be a wedding present.

I'm still working on it.

I have some good news. I found a place to buy a compost bin for $40. I've looked into them and have wanted to start my own little home compost pile, but I've only found the bins online and the cheapest the good ones run is about $100. Plus shipping and all that. So when I found out that my city, the Metro Nashville Public Works people, offers them for $40, I almost had a stroke. I was that thrilled. It means no shipping and no waiting for UPS. I also found a local place that sells rain barrels for relatively cheap (Gardens of Babylon), especially when compared to the stuff online and shipping costs. Anyway, that's where I'm at. Looking for rain barrels and compost bins and maybe some backyard chickens.

Now I just need to build a small chicken coop. I've been doing my homework. If I get some chickens, I'll definitely post about it, maybe put up some pictures. Again, that could be a lie. I like to keep you guessing. Honestly though, I might get a beehive and buy a colony of bees. And for sure I'll plant a garden this spring. I'm all over it.

Chicago Dogs in Nashville

I've been doing a lot of eating lately. I think the winter is getting to me. Everything looks so tasty.

What's really bugging me is my kitchen. It's completely unfriendly, uninviting. You could say I was spoiled by my mom's kitchen—it was well-designed and has lots of counter space and room for food preparation. So ever since then, most kitchens have been pieces of crap.

The problem I have with my kitchen simply forces me to eat at restaurants. Because, you know, who wants to prepare food on three inches of counter space? It sounds like my fault, like maybe I could take some initiative and remodel the kitchen. Great idea, I'll tackle that as soon as I'm done with the devil room and the mud room (which we scrounged from the edge of devil room).

Yeah, we've been working on that for four months. The going is slow and frustrating because we both work full time. Stoker actually works twice as much as me and he's the brawn behind our projects. I'm not a damsel in distress, but I'm not about to hang drywall myself. Or cut it. Or mud it. Or sand it. What you can count on me to do is to fill the screw holes with mud. That's the extent of my interaction with the mud (aka joint compound).

I've already blogged about the crème de la crème of the hot dog world, the Home Depot hot dog stand (for interested parties, the Home Depot in Berry Hill, across from Hundred Oaks mall). Today Stoker and I got adventurous and tried the Chicago dog from Hot Diggity Dog, located behind the Episcopal church near the Mission in downtown Nashville. It was . . . ok. Just ok. You'd definitely expect this hot dog to knock my socks off, but it didn't.

I guess it's hard to top the BEST Chicago style hot dog. I went in with high expectations. Hot Diggity Dog had the cards stacked against them to begin with. To be fair, it wasn't a horrible hot dog, and at least I could request that the dog be grilled, or in their terms, charred. That was good. And the bun was toasted. But the relish was bright green. How can that be? It was almost glowing, like overly fertilized grass. Or more like that fake grass that comes in Easter baskets. It was weird. And I'll be honest, I prefer jalepenos to the sport pepper.

Next, we need to try I Dream of Weenie, which I hear is located on the East side. It's really about what you prefer, I guess. If you like the sport pepper, you'll like Hot Diggity Dog. If you like unnaturally green relish, you'll enjoy Hot Diggity Dog. So what I'm really telling you is that I prefer hamburger dill chips and jalapenos and strong onions and heartburn. Because that's what the Home Depot hot dog offers. It's great. It's downright American.

Another place we dined at recently is Flyte. World dining and wine. Dun dun duhhhhhhh. It sounds brilliant, doesn't it? It sounds very modern and chic and expensive. It was all of those things. I'll write my own personal review soon, and because I'm so keen on honesty (I seriously can't lie. Not even to shave $3 off the admission to lap swim at a county rec. center -- $3 adds up quickly when you really think about it, doesn't it?), I'll be forced to compare Flyte to my other fine dining experiences. That's just how it goes.

Overcoming Nightmares Brought on by a Bestseller

I don't have to explain to you how crappy it is to have a nightmare. I know you know. Last night I woke up from the most terrifying dream I've had in years. I think dream sequences are really annoying in books, so I won't get into the subject of the dream or try to explain it to you. That's too hard, plus it's irritating for readers—I mean, I'm not looking for an interpretation. I know what prompted the dream.

It was the book The Historian. Curse that book! I read from it just before falling asleep, and so far I haven't been too worked up over it or anything. I haven't even been truly scared, you know, it hasn't freaked me out. I'm less than a hundred pages in. Not too much has happened—some guy got attacked by some mysterious creature and the medical professionals thought maybe it was a dog bite.

On the neck.

Anyway, I read that part while falling asleep. Stoker was asleep already, so when I turned off the light, I was alone. No light-hearted banter to brighten my mood. I said a little prayer and then fell asleep. I woke up from the nightmare at some point during the night. It wasn't one of those dramatic things either, where a person sits up gasping and sweating and crazed, like in the movies. I just opened my eyes. This incredible fear brought on by a frightening image and turn of events in my dream—I swear it nearly killed me in real life, the fear. I opened my eyes and just stared at the door to our bedroom. I didn't know what I was looking at. I laid there, the image that woke me making my heart beat fast.

I was disoriented. I stared, trying to figure out what I was seeing in the bedroom. And then I felt vulnerable, like the thing in my dream was going to come up behind me, through the window to our bedroom, and kill me. Whatever had been in my dream had followed me into the waking world. And when I tried to close my eyes again, the image was still there.

I woke Stoker up and asked him to talk to me. He asked what was wrong and I told him I'd had a terrible dream. He wanted to know what it was about, but I couldn't talk about it.

Weird, huh? I mean, usually when I've had a bad dream, I immediately want to tell someone. I couldn't bring myself to tell him. It was too vivid. The thought of trying to recount the dream scared me. I guess it felt evil. Something like that. I told Stoker that it had to do with the book, but I didn't want to get into it.

So he said, "Oh yeah. How the historian in it is getting chased by the old guy?" And I said yes, while thinking that he'd said too much, I haven't even figured out that someone is chasing someone else. And then I got scared some more, as my mind put the puzzle pieces of the plot together and realized it must be the historian's professor shadowing him and he's the one who said "He will brook no trespasses."

"You know what that old guy is missing? In the book?" Stoker asked me.

"No," I said.

"He's missing a Glock. If he'd just had a Glock, everything would have been fine. Don’t you think?" I guess Stoker was trying to make me feel safe by reminding me that we have a gun. Ha ha.

But even a gun was no match for the sense of evil the dream had blanketed me with. I needed something to push back the fringes of darkness, it was the reason I woke Stoker up. In the middle of the night, nothing feels real except a fear like that. So we talked some more and I tried not to think of the dream. I told Stoker that we needed to talk about something happy, I needed to get my mind off the dream, because every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was the image that woke me.

Other people might pray or something useful like that, but we talked about The Simpson's. When Homer rides the tiny clown bike and his pant cuff gets caught in the chain and it pulls his pants off. Then Krusty says, "Burn that seat." We laughed about a bunch of other scenes, like new billboard month, and the bag of MSG that Homer buys, and how his unit is burning, but all Homer can think about is clowns. It worked, and then I fell asleep.

During the night, later, whenI woke up again, I swore I wouldn't read any more of that book. I have a mind that's vulnerable to suggestion—at least, my imagination is. I can't listen to Coast to Coast when they're talking about aliens, UFOs, or ghosts, because I have to protect myself. And I hate scary movies. But I didn't realize a book could freak me out so much, especially not one about vampires (which I don't believe in). I guess what got to me is the feeling of evil. Of being pursued. I hate that feeling.

Anyway. "He will brook no trespasses."

I can read the book during the day. Right?

The Great Eva Miller: American Idol in Atlanta

It's no secret that I occasionally give in to my weakness and watch American Idol. I don't like laughing at people who are embarrassing themselves, but hey, you put yourself out there, you're fair game. If you were smart, like the rest of us, you'd know implicitly that you suck. We stay home because we know. But I guess some of us need to be told we bite. This is what happens when you end up with a whole generation of kids who've been told they're great. You can do anything! Just put your mind to it.




Ok. I swear it was a bet. I swear her friends put her up to this. I can't believe she pulled it off. Anyway, it was horrifying at first. But then I just let my inhibitions go and I laughed. Next stop: Jerry Springer.

Hot Dog Stands: Yet Another Way Home Depot Makes Dreams Come True

I'm not big into pork. I'm just not. Can't explain it. But the best hot dog* in town comes from a hot dog stand at the Home Depot by Hundred Oaks mall in Berry Hill. Stoker and I were there on Saturday, buying some more drywall (when you're new at hanging drywall, it's easy to make rookie mistakes, like not laying a piece flat to store it). We splurged and got the Chicago style hot dog. It was amazing. And the heartburn was amazing too.

There's another place in town called The Dog. You'd think it would offer the best hot dogs ever. It's got such a cool name. The sign out front is so inviting with its modern appeal. For a long time I could't tell when it was open. The windows out front are so tinted and the open sign was too faint through the window. I went by one Saturday for a chili dog (oh yeah, I go all out when I finally imbibe on pork -- can I say that? Can I say "imbibe on pork?"). I was the only customer there. Inside they had flat panel T.V.'s hanging everywhere, and cool stools standing next to cool chrome-edged tables.

I ordered a chili dog and the guy went through a door and brought it out immediately. There was this illusion that perhaps they were a made-to-order sort of restaurant because the kitchen was in the back. But the hot dog took him three seconds to prepare. The chili was just ok. The cheese was the sort that comes pre-grated: it had a fine powder on it. I don't know how most people eat a chili dog, but I like to use a fork for mine. This was rather difficult, given the dog was lying in wax paper in a plastic basket. The kind with big holes.

Anyway, I mentioned to the two employees working there that maybe it would help business to have a neon open sign out front, you know, the side of the restaurant FACING the busiest street. Tinted windows are cool and all that, but they don't do much for a business**. Most people judge a store by how well-lit it is. If it looks closed, we avoid it. We're like moths. We're drawn to lights. This isn't rocket science. And neon open signs cost, what, five dollars at the Dollar General?

There are other hot dog joints in Nashville. They're springing up everywhere. There are two downtown, one called Hot Diggity Dog and another called I Dream of Weenie. Clever names for simple fare. I haven't tried them yet, but I may. I mean, I won't be looking for the brass ring because I already found it at the no-name hot dog stand outside Home Depot. Can you believe it? The guy doesn't even have to dress it up in a clever name and a modern sign. He just stands there and lets the smell waft through the exit doors and we follow our noses outside like salivating zombies. It's the Field of Dreams story all over again.



*The one indulgence. Sometimes bacon, but that's happening less as the quality of bacon decreases.
**Unless your business happens to be one of the million strip clubs in town.

Job Security

Almost two weeks ago, I got some unsettling news. "They" were "reorganizing" the "company."

It was difficult to hear my boss telling us what was happening. She talks quietly and sometimes it seems like the timbre of her voice blends with the beautiful white noise the "company" pumps into our office space. Sometimes I really appreciate the white noise, other times, like when we're being told borderline bad news, it's infuriating.

She delivered the news. Everyone stood there. "What is she saying?" We were all thinking. Our job descriptions were changing, we were all being bumped up, would be earning salaries instead of hourly wages, we'd do less copyediting and more farming out. "So, we're not being laid off?" I asked. I could tell everyone was kinda sorta wondering the same thing. I also asked if some other employees in our office would stay where they were. They would. And those employees were also wondering the same thing. I'm a mind-reader.

But two of us would be moved to another department. Everyone was thinking the same thing: it would be me and the other employee who was hired about the same time as I was. Last in, first to go. So we prepped ourselves for the move. We heard nothing else about it, except that the change needed to be completed by February. We had two weeks to adapt to the news.

The following Tuesday morning, just as I walked in, a coworker asked me if I'd heard that it was me that would be leaving. I hate mornings, and though it's been on the books for many years that I'm waiting to become a morning person, I especially loathe Monday mornings. I even feel snarly on Tuesday mornings masquerading as Monday mornings. This was one of those. So I wasn't in the mood to deal with emotional upheaval first thing Tuesday morning. My co-worker -- there were two of them actually -- asked me if I had heard the new news. I said "no."

"You're the one who's leaving," they said.
"Just me?" I asked.
"Just you," they said, nodding.
"Oh."

I sat down, trying to hide from their eager faces. I couldn't tell if they were glad or what, exactly. They seemed excited, but it wasn't clear whether they were excited that it wasn't them (or the person who was hired two weeks after me -- that person is, admittedly, better than me at what we do. Older. More experience), or if they were just putting on a happy face about it for me. I felt a little let down. It was one thing to be shuffled around along with a coworker, a peer. Another to be the only one picked out of the litter to be carted off.

A senior coworker asked if I wanted to go see where I was moving to. I said maybe later. Then, literally a few minutes later, after I'd been stewing over my irritation that the "company" had lied to me, that it was only me leaving and not two of us like they'd said, the senior coworker popped into my cubicle with my future boss, and insisted on introducing us. They led me back to the new cubicle.

Two flat panel computer monitors. A Mac G5. Oh how those sweetened the somewhat bitter deal. Yes, I can be placated by better technology (for a time). Because I love technology.

And the raise isn't so bad, either.

But I ask myself, over and over again: is all this worth my life? My life is the time I sit here in this cubicle, fulfilling the dreams of other people. This isn't my dream. How many of us sat through high school classes, elementary school classes, and dreamt of a far off cubicle decorated with pictures of loved ones and other reminders of why we endure the bourgeoisie torment? There are worse things, but in this society where we are buffered from physical suffering and other oppressions, isn't this numbness exactly what we fear?

Or maybe I'm just spoiled. I know I am. When the news came that one of us would be going, first I was thankful that we weren't being laid off (though deep inside I felt skeptical, wondering if this was some sort of preliminary song and dance before they cut us off completely), and second I felt bitter that they could bandy me about like an object, a resource sans feelings and opinions (I wasn't ever really asked if I wanted to go). Sure they can placate me with the promise of more money, but what have they taken in exchange for that?

We exchange our dreams, I guess, for the security of a promised income and the benefits to patch the wounds we cultivate from sitting motionless in our cubicles. Some of us break away and become the owners of the "company," and they know just what we'll sacrifice for those feelings of security, because once they were one of us.

I am a slave to the feeling of security. Will I ever achieve my outlandish dreams while sitting in a cubicle? Or do I have to up the ante by putting myself in harm's way first, by losing the benefits and the steady income? Who knows.