I Feel Finny

I have never been over the Mississippi. Ever. I've been at the asshole end in Louisiana, but never past it. It's like a big wall. A big wet wall that I never found the time or energy to wonder what was on the other side of. And now I have. The end.

I hate touristy, look-at-our-shiny-bits, news-reels-be-damned websites built by those whose well-being and livelihood rely on unsuspecting suckers traipsing about and looking foolish. (Note to self - figure out how to buy stock in fanny packs and ugly shirts). I want to know where the locals go (the less insane ones if I can catch 'em), or at least someone who isn't paid to peddle.

The Still Kinda Gruntled Nerd's Guide to Places that Might not Suck

My first foray into this unknown world of the mossy and the southern is Charlotte, North Carolina. Right off the bat, I'd describe it as kinda humid and slightly racist (I can't tan, people. Deal with it!)

I'm on loan from our home office in the nice, dry, less pretentious desert, and I never thought I'd miss it; but I do. Don't tell anyone there. 90% of them wouldn't understand you anyway.

Before heading out I requested suggestions of friends, both online and domestic. If I hear one more request for something NASCAR-ie I'm gonna drown myself in free hotel shampoo that smells oddly of Off. There were also great suggestions concerning restaurants I could try (something other than Mexican food is always greatly appreciated) and museum trips (my hometown's idea of a museum is pretty sad. I think we're one step away from a "Tortillas of the Virgin Mary" exhibit) and big purdy houses full of the rich and somewhat snooty (we've got teeny houses packed to the below-code rafters. How many cars do you have to park on your tiny front lawn before anyone becomes concerned?).

Small problem:

Southern Streets are not Built on Logic

or rock and roll

They were built on moonshine and nonsense. 'East' and 'west' mean nothing here. You'd think they'd at least pay a little closer attention to the concept of 'north' and 'south' but nooooooooooooooooo. If I were a turtle and NC were the sea I'd get lost, never mate and swim into oncoming whales and end it all. Luckily the hotel has a bar and snacky food, so I won't starve.

Even tho the streets were planned by and for the cross-eyed (who is this Sharon person and why do all her streets and lanes converge at one point only to wander off and be named something else?) who don't mind stop signs blocked by shrubbery as long as it has flowers, the houses I got lost around were gorgeous. Oh and I won $10 on a NC scratch-off (I said 'on' not 'at'. I don't think I'd like to be anywhere near a scratch-off competition unless I had a hazmat bunny suit...complete with ears and fuzzy tail of course...then again it'd be more of a frizzy tail...stupid humidity... dear god, I'm tired...)

Most of my day has been filled with variations on the theme:

*grumble grumble grumble*

frickin' humidity

*grumble grumble grumble*

curly hair

*grumble grumble grumble*

rental car agency maps slash placemats

*grumble grumble grumble*

Did I mention I seen purdy houses?

Oh and I was called a Yankee:

Clerk: Where you from?

Me: West Texas

Clerk: *mumble* Yankee Tourist *mumble*

Me: Do you sell maps of the US?

Clerk: Yeah, over there.

Me: Good, go look up Texas. It's the really big state souther than you.

As for the streets, all I ask is that when there are a 3rd, 4th, 5th and 6th all lined up nice and tidy-like, 7th should not be allowed to meander about all willy-nillish so I end up 10 miles from where I was aiming before I realize it.

What makes 7 so special? Did someone a long-ass time ago, like in the 80's or something (sorry, I'm trying to not feel so old) think that the punchline "'cause Seven Eight Nine" was so frickin' High-lair-ee-us or, even scarier, a true and frightening tale of the awesome power of primes, that it deserved more respect than all the other numbers? Even more so than 8 who I hear is really a cannibalistic bastard intent on chewing away its own divisibles?

Oh, and one way streets are for weenies.

Viva la Little Mexico!

I think something in me broke when I crossed the Mississippi. Another traveler said they'd found a Super Wal-Mart and it was like he'd said god was giving out free enlightenment and Slush Puppies down at the in-convenience store and the first 30 people get a free Polaroid of Jesus during his nakey phase.

I'm sitting in the Eastern time zone but my body's stuck on Mountain but it seems to have backfired.... I miss sleep... and offices where people actually talk and move around and do stuff other than clack clack clack on keyboards and shuffle papers about and work still gets done.... I need a Feeny hug and a Pi-Pi wake up 4 am wake up call... I need a Conner belly rub... I need a drink.

I'll leave you with this thought:

[insert life-affirming notion of peace, love, happiness and free cable here]

You're welcome. Donations are always appreciated. Then I might be able to buy a real map without cartoon caricatures of smiling buildings and streets that are directionally retarded.

Random Bananas are Haunting Me!

On my commute I pass a local Social Security office every single day, and every single day there are 2 plastic bananas wired to one of the trees.

Why are there plastic bananas!?! I haven't gone to introduce myself to them yet, but really I'm just assuming they're plastic because they are still discernable as bananas. What if they aren't? What if some Social Security nut simply replaces the aforementioned bananas every morning to taunt me? And what does this craziness (theirs; not mine) mean in regards to my future retirement? If banana-man (sorry, Banana-Person) snaps a little more will my benefits be used to buy stock in Chiquita?

Why does no one else seem bothered by this? Am I the only one that can see the bananas?

What if there really aren’t bananas on that tree and in some screwy Matrix-knock-off kind of way they’re a marker for the daily transition I make from Dork-Grrl to CAD-Biscuit every weekday? This doesn’t happen on the weekend when I don’t pass them; so really, this could be a plausible anomaly of my existence that other than really tweaking my cookies could explain a great deal about the inner workings of my reality.

That or that stop light is way too frickin’ long.

And My Clothing Continues to Torment Me

And no this isn't about the fact that a coworker misread my t-shirt and my new name is Stinky.

I have learned to never take clothing out of context... or would it be "used"? Whatever it is it was a bad fashion choice this morning. You would have thought that the memory of all my past mockage of people wearing sun visors and tennis wrist bands in movie theaters and malls would have come to my rescue, but noooooooo.

For the ill-fated softball games I bought a longsleeve Under Armour shirt. For those who have never heard of this stuff, it helps keep you cool when you're working out/in the heat for a while, which is a must for me considering this area has 102 degree summer days and very little cloud cover and I have a bizarre sun allergy that turns me into a drooling mass of delerious pain.

This morning I thought, "Hey, it's a $40 shirt and it certainly isn't going to be seeing any physical exertion until my knee heals up," and decided to trade my usual under-tee long sleevey shirt for this uber-science-like, so-far-beyond-cotton masterpiece of engineering.

While it is a lifesaver when out and about in the cruel, cruel sun, it is not, I repeat NOT prudent office attire. I'm freekin' freezing and I can no longer feel my fingers.

Shirt Choice Proves Ironic

Or maybe purely co-inky-dink-y. It's too early for Alanis Morisette bouts of theological discussion.

This has been the first full week back at work after my Softball Faux Paux/Knee Popping Extravaganza, and it’s been tiring and severely, mind-numbing, muscle-spasming painful. But it was my own stupid, wanna-be normal fault, so I take my punishment with as little whining and bitching as possible. For those of you who know me, you'll nod when I say that at the least this is annoying, at the most it’s a great way to learn new cuss words and frighten small children. (Nod, damn you!)

So TGI-Frickin’-F everybody! It’s the unofficial silly t-shirt day.

The week before last’s tee, which proved to be bizarrely prophetic, consisted of:

1. A cutesy wootsey cartoon bunny head - A tribute to Conner the Wonder Chunk? A love of strategically placed ears? The caricaturish manifestation of my desire to be light and fluffy and accepted wherever geeks are bold perhaps?


2. Pink crossbones – Doomie doom doom, apparently; no conundrum there.


3. Oh and whatever animal t-shirt comes from, of course

This morning, through a haze of night-time pain killer remnants and a severe case of eye-crunchies, I opted for an old favorite. Perfectly worn in, with that comfy familiarity slack-off clothes tend to harbor, I left the house secure in the knowledge that tomorrow I could sleep in and cope with 5 days of pent up pain and frustration.

It wasn’t until I was already hobbling in the general direction of my office that the true significance of this particular choice hit me. My life is a series of obscure metaphors and bizarre happenstance, and just like the mediocre fun my witty little shirt advertises, I too travel very slowly down stairs.


I’m also fun for girls and boys, but that’s an entirely different post.

Lessons Learned

If I ever get it in my screwed up head to become a normal, social adult I want you to poke me in the eye so I can begin my new life as the pirate I know I've always been meant to be. The eye patch will go real nice-like with my wooden leg and crutch. Ok, so it's not a wooden leg, per se; but I can't move it and I'm prety sure there are termites.

First game of the season, first hit of the season (and it was a great one, by the way) and first mind-numbingly painful cockup. I decided against buying the oh so fashionable kleats thinking the crappy place we practice must be the same as the nicer place where the games are. I ran, slid, bopped around trying to regain my balance without landing on my bad knee tearing 3" of skin off my good knee in the process, made a spectacular popping noise and ended up sprawled on the ground feeling really shitty for cussing in front of coworkers' children.

I sprained my knee and added a slight tear where the previous damage was. It could have been a helluva lot worse, so I'm slightly okay with it. Oddly enough, the most pain comes from the skinned knee (it's really more of a scalping of the knee, there's that much gone) and hobbling about on crutches in a hoppy sort of way that makes the crunchy bits on the scrape crinkle and crack and hurt like a mofo.

Weasels! I can't think of a title....

Yesterday I was faced with an interesting question. It flitted about in the back of my mind as I went about my daily activities. It popped up like an exasperating round of Whack-a-Mole for the better part of an afternoon, bouncing about Arsenic Treatment Vessels in glorious 3D and slithering in and around what seemed like miles and miles of virtually virtual piping.

“If she was a real mother and not some fairy tale mock up of an evil pain-in-the-world’s-collective-patootey (I still love, love, LOVE that word!), how much would I be happily willing to spend on a birthday pressie?”

I thought and thought and thought and took a break for a cookie and thought some more. It wasn’t until I was well on my way home that I settled on a nice round number, the kind of number that makes even the humblest of giftees utter a resounding “Holy Shite!”

Finally equipped with a value but before I could begin the narrowing down of wonderful shiny things that could be purchased with just such a fabulous and oh, so generous number, the reality of it all hit me. I remembered (as if 8 years of witnessing it all first hand could be easily set aside) that she wasn’t some lovely, caring Mom or even a halfway decent Mother. I balk at even referring to someone who would spend a lifetime belittling and tearing to shreds every single person around her (even tho her own sad excuse for an existence is pathetic at best, parasitic at worst) as “That Thing that had you Removed.”

So faced with the unsettling fact that the old adage of the evil mother of the groom can be a reverberating, disturbingly, and empathically True, I took that deliciously zoftig number and found an enormously more therapeutic and much more fulfilling use for it – I bought myself some shoes and a pair of Happy Bunny socks that say “It’s not my fault you’re icky.”… in Blue.

Now to summon my squirrel army!