Tones of Home

Yesterday was Thanksgiving. Steve and I went down to Shallotte the night before and slept on twin beds in the bedroom that many years before had been my Duran Duran-plastered lair, but has since become the hallowed grandkids' room, with traces of my nephews throughout their stages of childhood inhabiting every square inch.

We woke up early (for us). My only job was to make deviled eggs from the fancy deviled-egg cookbook I got for my birthday from my friend, but my Sainted Southern Mother, who'd been awake since 5 a.m., had already boiled the eggs, halved them and smooshed the yolks in a bowl. It took me about 10 minutes to mix in the ingredients, spoon the filling back into the halves and top them with rosemary sprigs she brought in from the bush my sister Jill planted outside years before.

My aunt and uncle weren't due for another few hours, my SSM had already set the elaborate table and my Good Ol' Boy Daddy had taken the turkey over to his buddy's house to deep fry it. My mother is usually unable to sit still, but when she realized there was nothing left to prepare, nothing to worry over, she did what she always does to relax: She went into the living room and started playing her piano.

Steve and I flopped on the couch in the den reading the paper for a while. Then I recognized the song my mama was playing, "What a Wonderful World." I put down my cryptoquote to listen. And smile. And be thankful.

So very thankful.

The Ties That Bind

My nephew Joshua just turned 12 and lives in scenic Vermont.

My sister Jill just updated me on their recent cultural activity: After a Bread and Puppet production this summer, Joshua said, "Just go ahead and tell me I'm adopted. That was the worst reenactment of Othello I've ever seen. Nobody I'm related to would ever appreciate that."

...

"Godspell?" I said a little too loudly at the last amateur outdoor performance I ever attended. "More like God-Awful!"

Discerning taste just runs in our blood.

Free Bird

I had the coolest locker my freshman year in high school. It was plastered inside with lovingly cut-out-of-magazine pictures of new wave rock stars and surfers.

But I dreaded, dreaded, dreaded going to it. And when I was at it, I didn't have the luxury of time to bask in its artful glory, because I had to dial the combination, grab my book and get out of there as soon as possible. If I dallied, I'd have to face The Mean, Scary, Redneck Girls (MSRGs).

The MSRGs were two junior girls from the particularly mean part of the school district. They were always together, combining their evil presence to further intimidate the younger person upon whom they unleashed their unholy torment of cruelty.

When I didn't get away from my locker fast enough, they inevitably came up next to me and plowed through their script:

MSRG1: She looks like a damn bird.

MSRG2: I saw her at the grocery store and her whole family looks like a bunch of ugly birds.

MSRG1: Who the hell does she think she is? Boy George?

MSRG2: Yeah, because she's a homosexual.

I developed the world's strongest bladder because there was no way in hell I was going into the girls' room, where they hung out smoking cigarettes, with no authority figure around to protect me (the teachers stayed the hell out of there, too). The pay phone was off-limits, as well, because they hung out there making calls to their unemployed, dropout boyfriends. Even when I had to make the most important phone call ever, I waited around the corner for the first bell to ring before rushing to the phone to make my call, knowing I was breaking the rules and would get in trouble for getting to class late.

MSRG1 dropped out after that year and MSRG2 faded into the unremarkable noise of high school, her powers diminished without her girl.

That was 25+ years ago. Culture Club broke up. The Berlin Wall came down. Yugoslavia and Burma changed their names. The Internets got invented...

And today, on my personal Facebook page, MSRG2 popped up as a recommended friend. I clicked on her profile, which was public.

She's living in a small town in a different state. Her profile picture is of her, sporting a home-bleach job, and her 4-yo grandson with a "creatively" spelled name. Her relationship status was "single."

Her overshare profile status read: "Im lonley."

I feel so heartsick for her. She never had a chance, really, coming from the background she did. I had so many opportunities and took them for granted. I should have been kinder to her.

Just kidding! BAHAHAHAHAHA, redneck loser!

Thanks, college!

Me: At least I know what a key grip is. I studied film in college.

Mr. Sweetypants, the professional scientist of some sort I can't really explain: "Yeah, how's that working out for you?"

(I'm the one who studied Oscar Wilde while Mr. Sweetypants was doing whatever Chemistry majors do, yet he has the best bons mots. I want my parents' money back.)

Nothing this awesome ever happens to me

Then again, I am not nearly as charming as my husband and I have never been to Iowa.

Mr. Sweetypants was eating dinner alone in the restaurant of the Holiday Inn in Davenport, Iowa, when he saw Christoper Walken (yes, "THE Christopher Walken") have a seat at the bar.

So Mr. Sweetypants, living up to his moniker, went to the bar, sat down beside THE Christopher Walken, bought him a drink and told him how he loved his work in one particular role. No, it wasn't "Annie Hall," "The Deer Hunter" or "Pulp Fiction." It was "More Cowbell."

You heard it here first, my husband talked to THE Christopher Walken about the "More Cowbell" sketch. THE Christopher Walken laughed and told Mr. Sweetypants that it was a blast to work on and he had a hard time keeping a straight face.

"So," THE Christopher Walken asked Mr. Sweetypants, "What are you working on?" Mr. Sweetypants has an English accent, and THE Christopher Walken assumed he was part of the film crew. Why else would he be in Davenport, Iowa?

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I do want to go to Iowa someday to meet my favorite blogger and re-enact my favorite Til Tuesday song with her.

Two Girls From Shallotte on Facebook, Vol. one

Give it up for my kid sister, fellow Shallotte native and co-blogger!

TGFS: You like the Shallotte Phone company? Is it the memory of us in mama's Pontiac 6000 going to drop off the check, nearly getting hit by another car and you busting out Eye-dee-eye-oh-tee? Or being old enough and from a small enough town to remember only having to dial the last four digits for a local call?
about an hour ago · Comment · Like · See Wall-to-Wall

TGFS's sister: It took me a minute to figure out idiot with that down home drawl... I totally remember that! about an hour ago · Like


TGFS: You should "like" Brunswick Electric next so we can talk about their super-awesome for banana-seat bike racing drive-thru at the end of the street. about an hour ago · Like · 


TGFS's sister: That was the closest thing we had to hills at the beach!about an hour ago · Like


TGFS: If kids today darted straight out onto the road without wearing helmets, their parents would get investigated. Here's to growing up fearless and unregulated.about an hour ago · Like · 


TGFS's sister: I think about that every time Banyan wants to go for a bike ride. I let him. I also yell at all the crazy drivers to slow the hell down! Just like that... fearless and unregulated! 57 minutes ago · Like


TGFS's sister: Why did you ask me if I like the Shallotte phone book?about an hour ago · Like


TGFS: On my home page, it says "TGFS's sister likes ATMC and three other pages." ATMC is Atlantic Telephone Membership Corporation.about an hour ago · Like · 


TGFS's sister: Isn't that just like a utility company, putting people down for things they didn't sign up for! about an hour ago · Like


TGFS: You just won funniest comment of the day. I refuse to type ell oh ell, so let me just say I reacted audibly with amusement at "Isn't that just like a utility company, putting people down for things they didn't sign up for!" That's the sentiment I've been paid to combat for two jobs now. 56 minutes ago · Like · 1 person ·

(TGFS’ Sister likes this.)

The awesomest insult ever

I was the oldest, and therefore the coolest, when we were growing up. I pretty much ignored my sisters through high school. I was the first to get a driver's license and apartment and live in the big city.

But I was also the first-born and had the strictest rules, so I couldn't drive farther than to Wilmington or Myrtle Beach, but my sisters were allowed to drive halfway across the state to see me. When I moved to Raleigh after college, my house became party central for Frink girls from Shallotte. And I was supposed to watch them.

Of course I didn't watch them. I bought them beer and let them do whatever they wanted. Because I was the coolest.

Both of them descended on my apartment one night in 1993, and we went to see Chris Connelly from the Revolting Cocks and Ministry doing an acoustic set with Frankie Nardello from My Life With the Thrill Kill Cult at the Fallout Shelter.

Because it was acoustic, we all sat on the floor listening, and I was in awe of the hot, Scottish rivet that is Chris freaking Connelly. After they played to the very small house, CC made his rounds talking to people. So when he got to Jill and me, I was nearly breathless.

But then Jill, with her dreadlocks, piped up and said, "So, are your dreads real or from beeswax?"

"Beeswax," Chris FREAKING Connelly replied.

Jill told him that was cheesy. And I ran away, embarrassed.

Amy was holding her own with the boys chatting her up in the corner. Jill and I let her do her thing as we went to play pool, keeping an eye on her (she was 18) and occasionally yelling, "Amy, get away from the frat boy."

Jill and I were very into our pool game. We noticed one particular out-of-place-looking, long-haired, muscle-shirt-wearing guy checking us out and bitched among ourselves: "Ewww! He is so going to talk to us!" "Oh my god, here he comes!"

The guy approached us and asked, "Have either of you ever played this before?"

Jill and I completely abandoned character and went right back to our redneck roots. After we stopped laughing, we gave homeboy props and went back to our game, finishing a good half-hour later.

And to this day, "Have either of you ever played this before" is part of our vernacular.

Just when you think you really know someone

I was telling a co-worker that I won't hate on NASCAR because my Daddy watches the race every Sunday.

"Who's his favorite driver?"

And you know, I drew a complete blank. I have absolutely no idea who my Daddy's favorite driver is. I know his favorite color, his favorite beverage, his favorite fishing spot and his favorite Beatles movie. How can I not know who his favorite driver is?

I don't even know who his arch-nemesis driver is, because he refuses to put stickers on his truck window. Without a visual of Calvin peeing on a number, I have no frame of reference.

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There's also the time I actually drove a stock car; it's way harder than it looks. :)

Thinking about Della Reese, because I was touched by an angel

Now that I'm back in the world of full-time employment with benefits after eight years as a contractor, I've been catching up on those things I used to take for granted: Doctor visits.

Today, I went to a general practitioner for the first time in five years since my beloved GP, Dr. Feelgood ("Cramps? Here's a scrip for muscle relaxers"), closed her practice.

Seems I've developed old-man-level high cholesterol.

PA: So you need to stop smoking, drinking and eating fatty food and start exercising.

Me: No s@$t. Now give me my prescription.

(I did not actually say that. And she would not give me a magic bullet.)

I left in a bad mood, imagining how tomorrow I will completely change my life, and how freaking boring that life would be without delicious takeout food.

A little old lady was waiting for the elevator. She was four-foot nothing and her fancy pocketbook was nearly as big as her. When the elevator arrived, I, being the sophisticated urbanite who's worked in high-rises, noticed that it had an up arrow, meaning it was going to visit the fourth and top floor before going back down. I stood back as she got on, and she put her hand on the side of the door to stop it from shutting and called to me, "Going down, honey?"

I wanted to say, "It's not going down, ma'am," but I, in an unsnarky moment, went and joined her in the elevator.

As the elevator travelled to the fourth floor, I realized how freaking hot it was in there, further fueling my internal foulness.

"Gracious," my fellow rider said, "they must not have turned on the air conditioner in here."

I freaking hate talking about the heat. "Hot enough for ya?" could be the question that drives me over the edge. The police report accompanying my eventual assault charge will contain witness accounts of me screaming "No! It is not hot enough for me! I am only happy when the asphalt melts my tires!"

"Yes ma'am," my breeding led me to respond. "It's too hot in here."

""Wouldn't it be something if we got trapped in here? Just us two white-haired ladies." *

It was perfect timing. Right after she said it, the elevator opened to the lobby. She stepped out and said, "You have a great day, honey."

"You have a better one, ma'am!" I called after her as she walked out, toward the hot parking lot, wishing I could go wherever she was going and be best friends forever.

*My hair is currently bleached platinum. I pray it goes snow white someday and I can rock it like her or my great-aunt Louise, our family’s original rebel. :)

Now it all seems funny, kinda like a dream

My best friend and I were underage but had been going out in Myrtle Beach regularly since we were old enough to drive. We knew where to go and what to say easily by the time we were 20.

We had figured out that if we went to expensive restaurants and showed that we knew what to order, we would get served. It didn't hurt that she worked in an expensive restaurant and all the Myrtle Beach 20-something wait staff knew each other at least by face from hanging out at the same local bars.

So we were at a fancy-pants restaurant one night, and my friend told the waiter that we were celebrating my 21st birthday and ordered a bottle of wine.

It was a mafia-style steakhouse, dimly lit with high-back, red, leather booths, so even though they could hear us, we couldn't see the group in the adjacent booth. All we heard was a mixture of drunken West Coast and English accents yelling, "Yeah! 21! Happy Birthday, baby." And snickers.

And we bitched loud enough for them to hear about how much we hated tourists.

Our waiter brought a bottle of Moet White Star we hadn't ordered and said, "Happy birthday from LA Guns."

"Who?" I asked too loudly.

"The gentlemen in the next booth," he responded.

Having been raised by my Sainted Southern mother, I was compelled to stand up and look over the booth and say "Thank you."

Thankfully, they were closing out. As they walked past us, my friend and I raised our glasses and said, "Thanks again!"

When they were out of our sight, we started laughing and making Poison and cover band jokes.

A few weeks later, I was sitting at the bar of the restaurant where she worked. It was nearly midnight and I was waiting for everyone to close out so we could go out. The bartender set the television to "Headbanger's Ball."

And there they were.

So LA Guns, if you're still living and reading this, I want to thank you again for the champagne. I really like "The Ballad of Jayne."

This is a nice place... too bad we can't stay, baby

My building is four minutes from my house inside the beltline, but I never knew it was there because it's in the opposite direction from downtown, set back from the road where you can't see it for all the green, leafy trees. From the building itself, you'd never know you were in Raleigh because all you can see is green, leafy trees.

I was in the designated smoking section today, surrounded by green, leafy trees, when I saw something I've never seen in 19 years living here, one of the two reasons I had to flee my Shallotte home and move inland.

There, between me and the door to get back in was a repulsive, evil, green chameleon. It cocked its head back, showed its money and said in a demon's voice, "Get out." (I heard it. Really.)

I screamed and panicked because I was outside by myself. I threw a twig in its general direction to get it to move, but it didn't. So squealing like a freaked-out four-year-old, with my arms flailing and my face twisted in terror, I ran as fast as I could past it so it wouldn't have time to jump on me and suck my eyeballs out... all the while being recorded on a security camera.

At least I didn't fall down. Women in old horror movies always got picked off early because they couldn't help falling down.

Crazy Cat Lady Chronicles, Vol. XV

It won't be long before I'm wearing a housecoat and screaming at the toaster with 12 cats swirling around my legs. Only then will I fess up and write my manifesto about why cats are perfect creatures.

I am keeping a mental list of material. I don't want to give too much away in advance, but here's a sample.

Reason #158: Cats keep you real. If you've been given a compliment that leaves you smiling and feeling like the Best Person Ever, a cat will take a huge, toxic dump in the litter box nearest you, cast a fleeting glance your way and prance off, as if to say, "It's your problem now."

And I thought the crackhead running through the yard and apologizing was interesting

I was standing on the deck, minding my own business, when I saw something out of sorts. So I called 911.

Me to the operator: I know this is gonna sound crazy, but there's a coyote in my neighbor's yard.

Operator to me, assuming voice she was probably trained to use with mental calls: And what did the dog look like?

After she assured me someone would come out to take a look, I started to doubt myself. Like I always do when I doubt myself, I got on the interweb. I googled "coyotes" "Raleigh" and found this.

I'm not crazy!!!

Crazy Cat Lady Chronicles, Vol. XIV

My friend called in a panic because she had an early morning doctor appointment and needed someone to take her 3- and 1-year-old littles to preschool. I brushed my teeth, threw on a hat and some comfy sweats and went over.

Since their school is only four blocks away downtown (and car seats are a level of engineering I have never needed to master), I put them in the stroller and walked them there. No problem.

But as I was pushing the empty stroller back down Blount Street at morning rush hour, I was actually HOPING someone I knew would see me, figure I'd finally lost my mind and ask what I was doing, because I had the PERFECT response:

"Eudora jumped out and I can't find her."



(photo Geoff Wood)

That's funny, I don't care who you are...

My Good Ol' Boy Daddy's birthday was coming up. Before I bought his surprise present, I called my Sainted Southern Mother to arrange getting him up here to the RBC Center three weeks later for a show.

We made the arrangements for them to get here and get a hotel room, as the show would end at 11 p.m., well after both their bedtimes.

"Now will Steve be going with him?" my SSM asked.

"I was planning to," I responded.

"Thank God!" she shrieked. "When you said two tickets, I thought you were going to make me go with him."

I got my Daddy and me tickets to the Blue Collar Comedy Tour.

For his actual birthday surprise, I sent my SSM my confirmation e-mail. I asked her to print it out and give it to him when I called to wish him a happy birthday.

"Hang on," he said, after I sang the birthday song over the phone, "your mama's shoving papers in my face." I listened as he read aloud, "Bill Engvall, Jeff Foxworthy and LARRY!" (emphasis his)

"Hey, hey," he chuckled, "this is awesome!"

Last night, after three weeks of anticipation, it was show night. My parents came to Raleigh and had dinner with Steve and me. After dinner, Steve and my SSM breathed collective sighs of relief as my daddy and I set off for the show, rubbing our hands in glee.

We got to the RBC Center, paid $10 to park, got out and looked around for signs to let us know what lot we were in so we could find the car on the way out. There were none. We agreed to remember that Carter-Finley Stadium, where our beloved Wolfpack loses football games (Daddy said it, not me, and he went to State) was at the left and we should just keep walking a long way when we got out.

I gave Pops his ticket and walked in before him. After I walked through the metal detector I said something to him, wondered why he didn't respond, and turned around. There was my Pops, being held up by security over his pocket knife he's had in his pocket for 50 years.

"C'mon, man," he said to the security guy. And they waved him in.

We made our way to our eighth-row, unobstructed seats. "Check it out, Daddy," I said, "We can both see!" "Pfft," Daddy replied, "last time I was here, I had a floor seat." We whiled away the minutes seeing who could read the most names on the retired State jerseys in the rafters. Daddy had Lasik and I just graduated to bifocals. He got two and I got one.

At last, the show started. Watching my daddy laugh until he couldn't catch his breath over Jeff Foxworthy's story about a shotgun wedding where Grandma got so mad she threw her beer on the ground was a moment I want to keep memorized forever. Seeing him do the same thing over one of Larry the Cable Guy's sex jokes will take a lot of therapy to erase.

But it was a blast. I didn't think twice about being the only person in the RBC Center with pink hair. Spending 25 minutes trying to get out of the parking lot in the only car with an Obama/Biden sticker, on the other hand...

It was probably worse for my Pops, being seen in a car with a lib'rul bumper sticker.

Oh, let me tell you what happened at Wal-Mart!

I called my Sainted Southern Mother this morning for a chit-chat. We shot the breeze for a while before she said, "Oh, let me tell you what happened at Wal-Mart. It's a blog story!"

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Last Sunday after church, my SSM told my Good Ol' Boy Daddy she was popping out to Wal-Mart and asked if he needed anything. "I'd sure like some merlot," he replied. My SSM doesn't drink, and her alcohol purchases are probably limited to a bottle of rum for seven years' worth of Christmas rum balls and what was supposed to be a virgin pina colada at a restaurant in Asheville once (my sister Jill witnessed that one).

I'm pretty sure my Pops was not expecting her to bring him a bottle of wine, but she decided to surprise him.

The Super Wal-Mart in Shallotte is the size of a city block, and the wine section is discreetly tucked away in the back corner. On her way in, my SSM ran into "every Baptist and Methodist in Shallotte talking about the sermon." And every one of them stopped her to hug her neck and talk about the sermon.

Miss Popularity made her way, little by little, to the wine section. She looked around to make sure nobody was looking and grabbed the first bottle labeled "merlot" she saw.

And she stuck it under her coat. Yes, she stuck it under her coat so the church people wouldn't see it. No, it did not occur to her that security cameras probably zoomed in on her as a potential shoplifter.

My dear SSM is recovering from hip surgery, so she took a shopping cart to lean on as she walked through the massive store to buy two things, but she shed the cumbersome object and concentrated on just getting the wine and getting out of there as quickly as possible. With her left hand, she secreted the wine stash and with her right, she used the heck out of her cane while her pocketbook dangled from her elbow "like a little old lady's."

She got a quarter of the way back to the registers when she looked down and saw that the neck of the bottle was sticking out of her coat. So she fished a Kleenex out of her pocketbook and covered it before making a beeline to the closest register to the door, paying for her contraband and sneaking it through the parking lot.

She proudly presented my Pops with a bottle of Wal-Mart merlot and told him the story. "Good lord, Birdie! You could have been arrested!" he exclaimed. The thought never occurred to her.

"Mama!" I said after catching my breath from laughing about her coming close to showing up in the court docket of my hometown weekly, "Those Baptists and Methodists were probably making small talk so you would leave and they could buy their wine!"

"Your sister said the same thing," she replied.

Random ways to amuse yourself at work, vol. 1

Every morning, I walk into the office and say, "Good morning, Tom," in the exaggerated "Great to be here, great to see you!" voice I developed at a previous job to psyche myself out when I was thinking, "I hate this place and you personally." It became a subconscious habit.

Tom is the office manager, whose desk is in the lobby. He's very businesslike and focused on his work, so he has no time or use for pleasantries. He grudgingly, without looking up, mutters a gruff, "Morning."

I always say his name because that forces him to answer me. And it irritates him. And that amuses me.

His morning vibe is "You are irritating me." So his 5 p.m. vibe is "I would rather stab you than acknowledge you."

My sing-song "Good night, Toms" were getting nowhere. So I started saying random, ridiculous, farewells he'd hear above the unnecessary noise of people walking past while he's crunching numbers.

Recent examples* include:

So long, Tom

Rock on, Tom

Peace out, Tom

Keep on truckin', Tom

Sayonara, Tom

Catch you on the flip side, Tom

Nite-Nite, Tom

Check ya later, Tom

Godspeed, Tom

May the force be with you, Tom

Good old Tom has taken to responding, "See ya, Leigh Ann." He doesn't take his eyes off what he's doing, but he can't help but like me. Begrudgingly.

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*Need more examples. Send 'em in! Gotta keep this train rolling.

One for the road

I watched every single episode of "The Late Show" with Conan O'Brien from when he debuted until I got a real job again and had to go to bed earlier, two weeks ago. Right about then, all hell broke loose.

Can't shake the feeling that it's somehow my fault for not watching. Jimmy Fallon and the Roots summed up my feelings best:



Team Coco!