Bad memory


My sister once convinced me to eat a crabapple from this tree in my grandmother’s yard. She told me it would taste good and I believed everything my big sister said.

It did not taste good. It was remarkably terrible, actually.

That’s not the bad memory I’m referring to, though. That’s one of many stories of her pranking me throughout my youth. The crabapple, the red onion she told me was red cabbage, the hot sauce on my peanut butter sandwich. Those stories gets retold at least twice a year at family gatherings and we all laugh at how mean she was to her little sis.

No, the bad memory I am referring to is whether this is the actual crabapple tree at all. I can’t tell by looking at it and I distinctly remember it being located closer to the road. I don’t even know if this is a crabapple tree at all.

The bad memory is mine.

(Here’s the tree in color if that helps make it easier to identify.)


I wanted to write something about ghosts. Something about how when they show up in your dreams they steal rest from you all night long. Not the kinds of ghosts that wear sheets and chains or the kinds of spectral presences that populate spooky stories. I’m talking about the kind of ghosts that used to live large in your life but that you killed off, metaphorically speaking, so you could move on. About how when they use your dreams to resume their presence in your life, it sucks the wind right out of you. Who gave them the right?

I wanted to write about those ghosts but I couldn’t come up with anything to say, really.

Making a break

I once made a bindle and ran away from home up this road. Think I was around 6 or 7. Sister came to retrieve my in my dad's giant silver Ford. I did not get very far. I never do.

I once made a bindle and ran away from home up this road. I don’t remember what awful domestic injustice led to this action, or which cartoon convinced me I needed an actual bandana-tied-to-a-stick bindle to carry my things.

I think I was around 6 or 7 and the day was waning but I started the trek up the gravel road next to our old house, toward the hog barn and grain bin, completely unsure of where it would lead once it passed the cluster of farm equipment I was familiar with. I had followed my dad up there several times to watch him work, but I still had no idea where that road eventually led. I remember watching pigs be born in that little hog barn, and my dad having to help the sow deliver. I think I remember that, anyway. Turns out my memory is an unreliable narrator.

My sister came to retrieve me in Dad’s giant silver Ford pickup. I didn’t resist.

I did not get very far. I never do.

Remember when I used to doodle on dummies during news meetings?

doodle14 doodle13

doodle12 doodle11

doodle9 doodle10

doodle8 doodle7

doodle6 doodle5

doodle4 doodle3

doodle2 doodle1

My trip down memory lane via Flickr has been epic tonight.

Remember that time I shot photos at the last White Stripes show ever?







We didn’t know it was the last one, of course.

Happy 10th birthday, T&G

I have been blogging for 10 years this month. I can’t figure out the exact day I really started because I began “blogging” using Geocities-hosted web pages that I slapped up on my old (dead) domain, The Wayback Machine used to keep a bunch of my content from that site archived, but I’ve noticed over the years the amount that it indexes continues to dwindle, and now you can’t even really get past the splash page for any of the dates.

I would write a post — with hand-coded html formatting — on a basic page, and then for the next entry, create a new page for the previous post so it would link behind the first page, cut and paste the previous entry and put it on the new page and then put my new entry on the splash page. And so on. God, it was tedious. And then that November, Blogger happened. And that, friends, sealed the deal. Blogger made it so incredibly easy. And I could dink with how the whole thing looked a lot more easily than in Geocities. Also, Blogger would work on a Mac. Geocities’ PageBuilder thingy wouldn’t. Can you imagine?

So that is why my archives here only go back to November 2003.

I was a student then, a year away from wrapping up my college experience and thrusting myself into the workplace. Ugh. “Thrusting.” I lived with my boyfriend in a small one-bedroom apartment — with a laundry room! — that we paid $425 a month for. We had two ferrets. We had a rule that at night we would only watch things on TV that were nonviolent, nonthreatening and nonaggressive. I played video games. I wasn’t speaking to my sister and I don’t remember why. My family’s political incorrectness was really novel and annoying to me then, and made me question my DNA origins.

I worried constantly about grades and assignments and all three of my jobs. “I am tired of working 51 hours a week” is a thing I wrote, and EL OH EL because if I could drop into my 2003 self’s dreams I would laugh in her face about thinking that working 51 hours a week in college was going to be the last time I would work so hard.

It was a sweet little life. Not without its trials, of course. I sort of wish I had used my time in college to break out of my comfort zone a little more. Travel more. Sleep around, maybe? Do a lot of mind-expanding drugs? I don’t know. I say I should have done those things but I am pretty sure I would have felt completely ridiculous even trying to have some kind of typical wild college experience. I’ve been middle-aged my whole life.

So here’s to 10 years of writing it down. Gonna aim for 10 more.

31 years and 30 days

The other day I learned that a childhood friend shot and killed himself. I had lost touch with him since graduating and leaving Hardin County. Honestly, I probably didn’t have a whole lot to do with him during high school either. We ran in different circles and I had my head up my boyfriend’s ass all through high school. I always thought he was so cute, though. I remember him being so silly, too. In middle school, group of us would spend lunch in our English teacher’s classroom, playing cards and being silly.

I learned about it through Facebook. Some cryptic comments here and there got me suspicious and I kept checking Topix until someone asked and confirmed that he had shot himself. His obit says he was an NRA member.

I don’t know. The whole thing just makes me really fucking sad.


Motivational poster

It’s 10 p.m. and I’m sitting at a blue plastic table, sipping a canned Coke. I’m surrounded by banks of whirring silver washing machines, and I’ve figured out that by sitting at this table, I can feel the blasts of cold air from the AC. It’s a nice counter to the heat radiating off all these dryers. This is the Wash Tub Coin Laundry, open 25 hours, according to a sign on the side of the building. I am not entirely sure that’s meant to be funny.

Visiting Laundromats every other week or so is something I’ve been doing since we moved. Of course, I should be doing it much more often than that but we literally use every piece of clean fabric in the house before I get weird about not having anything to dry off with after a shower, and surrender and load my car up with every rag we own.

Our landlords were kind enough to leave their washer and dryer in the house for us in case we wanted to adopt them, but they warned us that there was an issue with the washer that would need to be repaired. I tried to get a repair company to come out and look at it but they refused to do so since the house is rented. Besides, I think having the thing repaired to the degree it is probably going to need might cost more than I am willing to spend on a repair job. Just a hunch. I finally decided the other day to throw in the towel and just buy a new washing machine because going to the Laundromat is a pain in the ass when you’re single and you just have a trash bag full of your own clothes. It’s practically torture when you’ve got three towering baskets full of three people’s clothes — some of them sporting more than a little poop (I won’t tell you whose) — to wash and dry using every quarter you can possibly get your hands on.

The Wash Tub has an interesting ethos. There are three things on the wall that are not washing related:

• A poster featuring the characters of the Marvel Universe
• A poster featuring a blonde beach babe busting out of her bikini while reclining in water
• A calendar featuring pictures of churches

There’s also a pool table. When I first got here, there were a couple of guys playing a game. Now the guy who helped me get my clothes inside (such service!) is lying down on it, watching TV. There is a group of three teenagers who came in with no laundry; they just wanted to play the shitty arcade games, I guess. I feel like someone should tell them they’d get a better value for their money if they gave me their quarters to finish drying my jeans. It’s an investment.

I remember doing my laundry in college sometimes at that Laundromat next to La Siesta, near Murphy Center. (I seriously just had to sit here and think for a few minutes about what Murphy Center is called. Shameful.) I didn’t have any concept then of the sheer volume of laundry that was to come in my life. Just like I have no concept now of how much laundry is going to be involved as my child gets older and we stop being lazy and put him in two-piece outfits more often.

Life in Murfreesboro was ages ago. I think if I went back to my old haunts, I’d be really pissed that I let my youth slip away so quickly. But what can you do. I purposefully did not put a question mark on that last sentence. Because I am not asking.

My sister found some old cassettes in my parents’ attic

They’re from the late ’80s, when my brother and sister and I would leave our boombox on record for hours on end, until the tapes would run out. They are packed with preciousness and hilarity. I have fuzzy memories of making some of these recordings in our old house, perched on a bunk bed with the bedside lamp on, a blanket hanging from the top for some privacy.

My mom let me hear some snippets when she was in town this weekend because she has a tape player in her Explorer. I have got to find a tape player so I can get them all recorded digitally before the tapes themselves melt or worse.

Here’s a bit I caught on my phone of my mom and me listening to a tape (meta!) where I am singing a Bon Jovi song and then, later, trying to get my 2-year-old brother to talk.

Evan and Lindsey on tape in the late ’80s

Hope you enjoy my drawl, y’all.


How many Chipper puns should I try to make for this title?

I caught wind on Twitter that Chipper Jones is retiring. I haven’t kept up very much with Chipper or baseball in general for many years, but back in seventh or eighth grade, I fell hard for Chipper. I just happened to see his face flit across the TV during the game and I was instantly in love. He had that easy boyish grin that always hooks me. I watched the game to find out his name and from then on did everything I could to find out every morsel about his life. This was pre-internet so it wasn’t easy, but I was very devoted. I watched every game that I could catch on television and recorded them, even if I had watched them live. I clipped stories from the newspaper that mentioned him, and clipped his box score if he’d had a good game. I watched SportsCenter for highlights of the games to catch a glimpse of him. I amassed lots of Chipper and Braves memorabilia — glossy photos, pennants, keychains, hats, shirts, magazines. I drew rudimentary portraits of Chipper and hung them on my wall. I was his biggest fan.

Our eighth grade class took a trip to Atlanta to a Braves game (I don’t remember why now; I will have to consult my diary) and I was sort of convinced in that eighth-grade way of thinking that I was going to be able to meet Chipper Jones and he was going to fall for me despite my braces and my being 14 freaking years old. Turns out our seats were on the third-base line (yay!) but we were way out in the outfield. Not even within yelling distance of Chipper. (Now I don’t remember anything about the game except the extremely drunk GROWN-ASS dude who put his arm around me and had people take our picture. My teacher, Mrs. Yeiser, tried to confiscate the roll of film, heh. She did not get it. Now where is that dang picture?!)

So, I didn’t meet and snag Chipper. But I kept hope alive.

I remember being so upset that Hideo Nomo won rookie of the year that year instead of Chipper. And now where is Hideo Nomo? HE DON’T PLAY BALL NOMO. I’m sorry. But the snub stung and may have fucked up my head a little bit.

I really got a reality smack across the face during a game one day many months into my crush, when the camera panned over some big-haired lady in the audience. She was wearing a cowboy hat and she was very blonde. The announcer mentioned that this was Mrs. Chipper Jones and my heart fell out of my chest with a wet thud. Wait, he was MARRIED?! To a lady wearing a COWBOY HAT?! And so that day I began mopping up my messy affections for the third baseman from Marietta, Ga., realizing they were a pipe dream. Also I probably had some other dude I was crushing on at the time so I had to reserve my energy and pour it directly into that ridiculousness.

So, fare well in your retirement, Chipper. I’ll always have fond memories of your prickly little goatee and your chewing-tobacco habit. You know, I always thought that was super gross but I was going to make an exception just for you.