Sabbatical: Week three, day two

I had a hard time adjusting to this time away from the office for the first two weeks. I didn't realize how much my work routine -- and seeing my work buddies every day -- was an integral part of my life. And the weather's been dreary: unseasonably cold and rainy for the South in April. Steve's been traveling and, as much as I love my alone time, I had nobody to talk to and was developing cabin fever.

Steve's in town this week and I've stopped sleeping all afternoon and staying up all night. Yesterday I got up in the morning, took a shower and waited for Susan, our cleaner, to get here. After Steve left to go to the science lab, my mama called. I was standing on the front porch talking to her when a huge gust of wind blew a big wodge of that icky, stringy, pollen-filled stuff that comes off oak trees directly into the back of my still-wet head. "Gaaaahhhh!," I screamed into the phone as I frantically shook my head and ran my fingers through my hair. I told my mama I'd call her back and went into the house, trailing tree excrement behind me.

Susan showed up and I cleared out. It's been hard finding things to do outside the house as I'm on financial lockdown, but my girlfriend told me about a cheap nail salon near us. So I went to get the third manicure of my entire life (it was only 12 bucks).

The manicurist's name was John. He was a good-looking guy in his 20s. We got to talking about our lives and he told me he came from California to escape his gang-banging past (just above his buttoned up to the second-hole shirt, I could totally see the scripted tattoo across his chest). He went on to tell me all about his baby-mama drama.

Keeping up my end of the conversation, I asked, "So how long have you been doing this?" "You're my first customer," he replied. "How am I doing so far?"

For a split second, I freaked out. Then I called him out. We spent the next 20 minutes taking the piss out of each other. It was very much fun.

I left the nail place, got in my car, fished out a cigarette, and completely tore up my nail polish.

As I still had time to kill, I went to Borders to buy a birthday card. While I was there, I decided to peruse the memoirs and look at page counts in order to get an idea of what I need to do to write my own book. The last one I picked up was called, "Mississippi Sissy." I flipped it open to a random page and read: "(Expletive)!," said Frank Hains. "I knew I shouldn't have given that last bourbon to Eudora."

Eudora would be Miss Eudora Welty, the grand dame of Southern literature. My idol. The one for whom I named my precious darling angel princess baby girl.

Of course I bought it. Came home and sat out on the deck devouring the first 100 pages before going to the Tuesday night Board Meeting. It was all I could do to tear myself away.

When I came in, I saw that I had a new message on the machine. I pressed play and heard a message from an older gentleman with a gorgeous, honey-dripping, old-money Southern accent.

He introduced himself and told me who he'd gotten my name and number from. He said, "I'm writing a book and I really need to get somebody to do the editing and help me with it. Betty has said you're wonderful at it. I live in Wilmington, but I'm originally from Raleigh forevah. In fact, my family was the third family in Wake County..."

I called him back with the intention of finding out the scope of his project and telling him about my services, rates, etc. He started telling me stories about his life. Unbelievable, undescribably awesome stories about his upbringing here in Raleigh through his life as a decorator and dilettante in New York in the 50s through his years in London, Paris and Hong Kong.

I barely got a word in edgewise, but my every vessel was perked up and waiting his next word. His stories were that amazing. We're having lunch on Tuesday. I can't wait! I love me some Southern gothic, and I just may have come across the raconteur of my dreams.