theology&geometry

My grandmother e-mailed me this photo, taken yesterday at the Dodge Store on Wayne Road in Savannah, Tenn., where, as high schoolers, Phil and I would go and get pizza sticks, jojo potatoes, chicken strips, a roll, and Golden Flake sourdough butter pretzels — a fine spread to take home to consume in the pulsing glow of a television.

I like to think that I would be entirely overqualified for the advertised position.

“Want some of this?!” I yell to my brother over the shaky din of the front-end loader as he hauls his Dickey-clad lower half toward a location on the family farm that will make him some money. I shake a bright orange can of mosquito repellent at him.

He looks at me like I’m some sort of communist.

“NO!” he shouts at me, shaking his head. It’s like I’ve suggested that he take out twenty percent of his paycheck to solve the mystery of why men leave the toilet seat up and why women always think they can change a man.

“They’re eating me up!” I holler as a means of explanation for the intricate aerosol dance I’m performing as I glance at my bare legs. I scowl at the throbbing patches of skin where enterprising mosquitoes have already staked their claim. I squint my eyes, fan myself, and cover my limbs in sticky chemicals that supposedly will keep blood-sucking parasites at bay. The dogs, previously nosing pressingly into my creases, back off.

“You’ve been in the city too long,” my brother tells me. I don’t know what to say; I hardly consider Memphis a city in the traditional meaning of the word, and instead think of it as one big rural neighborhood with pizza delivery. I shrug off his comments and douse myself in chemical. The following day, my mother and I will spot a clandestine colony of honeybees constructing honeycombs out of sight behind plywood covering what used to be the door to the only bank in town and I will creep ever closer for a glimpse behind their buzzing curtain, but for now I will smack at a buzzing pest hovering near my thigh, wondering what’s in the repellent that keeps the blood-suckers at bay. The sky contracts. The clouds pulse silently and lower to cover the horizon in a full-court press. I smile, content.

This is my home, even if I’m the only one in the entire family that the mosquitoes still bother.

The mosquitoes, I remind my brother, have always eaten me alive.

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Today the clouds hung low and common like weightless glaciers, suspended in the sky above and beyond me. I kept my gaze trained to them all day, mouth slightly agape like some kind of developmentally disabled infant with her hands pointed toward a mobile featuring the skies. I say that because a big blue sky like that makes me feel dumb and happy. It didn’t seem real, the scale of it all. I wondered what it must be like to look into the near horizon and see an honest-to-god mountain or two. Every day. How that might affect perception for someone used to a flat plane. I think I might feel constantly watched if anything other than sky ever crept up around me. Or do the mountains push an illusion of privacy? I have lived in the flat lands of West Tennessee all my life and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to answer that question.

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We watched a movie this weekend, a cautionary tale: Don’t let the machines evolve faster than we do. Wall•E is a Pixar flick with a calming political influence mapped in its bones. You watch it and you can’t help but want to say shucks, we fucked it all up, and then feed and clothe the lowly artists who have to cope with the mundane storytelling and shading of each animated post-apocalyptic form. I watched with great interest all the sci-fi homages. Johnny-Five and Hal, yes. And likely more that I did not tap into or have forgotten or am too lazy to mention.

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We buried two small, quaint bundles of treasure today. Stickers and typing-paper explanations. The geocaching community in Saltillo is no doubt fledgling at best, but could be bolstered by the unbridled enthusiasm of two pre-teens, a millenial, and a baby boomer. Funny to think that I’d never given geocaching a single thought until this past week when a soon-to-be-honeymooning friend mentioned it and suddenly the world skidded into silly relief in relation to the idea that people were hiding tiny treasures all over town. I don’t know; maybe it’s easy to ignore that fact and remain happy but as far as I know, you ought to seek shelter under the nearest ban on allcaps and just enjoy the summer from then on out.

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Would it surprise anyone to know that I was totally drunk as this post was going up?

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Update, from the future!!!: I sobered up and edited this post … extensively. Didn’t edit out the stupid, though. That’s going to stay for posterity. Honestly, sometimes I am amazed at the random shit that I will say or write once I’ve got a couple of drinks in me. I get mouthy when I drink. And lately I’ve been reading a lot of fiction, which tends to make me wordy when I write. Drinking while writing, well, I get mouthy and wordy and messy and then have to answer for it to my sober self the next day.

Me: Man, I wish Savannah had some actual real, decent restaurants.

Oldest nephew, completely sincerely: You mean like Arby’s?

My hometown newspaper finally has a website!

It’s weird and hard to navigate and I don’t think much of the news other than tornado stuff has made it up, but it’s at least something.

[for Wednesday, Dec. 26]

Not to be confused with this kind of Worleybird, the Savannah eatery owned by Darryl “Have You Forgotten” Worley, country music sortastar.

Phunny story about Darryl Worley*:

Phil was at the Savannah theater with his brother, watching I Am Legend, when some douchebag’s phone rings.

Douchebag: Hello? … [leans over to woman companion] We got any more of my CDs in the truck?

Douchebag accomplice: Naw, I don’t thank so.

Douchebag: Sorry, man, I don’t think we do. [hangs up] [to companion:] Someone’s wantin’ to buy one of mah CDs.

Project 365

*Originally Phil was totally confident about the identity of the douchebag in this story, until I made him repeat the story over and over to everyone I knew, at which point Phil began to add: “I think it was Darryl Worley.” So it may not have been. I will have to consult the Gawker Stalker log to see for sure.

Well, my hooptie is thismuchcloser to becoming junkyard scrap. Lately it’s been doing this thing where it will shudder violently if I’m idling in drive or reverse, and it will stutter and stammer and act like a prissy toddler that doesn’t want to do what I’m telling it if I’m driving and trying to accelerate the least little bit.

The TRAC OFF and SERVICE ENGINE SOON lights have been blinking in a display of holiday festiveness. I didn’t know if the damn thing was going to get me from Memphis to Saltillo, but it did. And this afternoon I dropped it off at a mechanic in Savannah, who’s keeping it overnight.

I know nothing about cars but I suspect it’s either a transmission problem or fuel filter/injector issue.

Obviously I’d prefer it to be a fuel filter problem (as in, “Here’s a new fuel filter; you’re good to go, little lady!”) but I suspect it will be whatever could possibly be the most expensive disorder on the menu. Mmmmmm, love that new transmission smell.

While in Savannah, I got a wild hair up my ass and coaxed Phil to drive me to Wal-Mart. I’m not sure why I’m occasionally hit with these urges to be COMPLETELY EFFING MENTAL but I believe I lasted all of five minutes inside there before crying uncle and demanding that we leave. And it wasn’t really even all that crowded. It’s just that it’s Wal-Mart … in Savannah … a place I very much do not like to spend lots of time. A place teeming with that uneasy sense that you vaguely know every person you see, even if you don’t recognize them. Or that, if you do, you’ve got to stop and talk. My dual nature (total asshole vs. polite country girl) rips my innards to shreds in such situations. I think the whole thing gave me indigestion.

We left and drove around Savannah to look at all the houses we made out in when we were kids. That was kind of fun. And we marveled at all the broke-ass meth lab houses and how some parts of Savannah look so, so shitty. And then we picked up Phil’s mom and took her out to eat at Uptown, which has apparently changed owners but still serves up yummy chicken salad (albeit using a slightly different recipe). And I’ll be damned if I didn’t have a delicious Riesling there too — a steal at $6 a glass! Made my car problems seem oh so distant.

Tomorrow morning I have to get up and check on my ride to make sure it will be functional by the time I need to leave for work (noon). Hopefully they will have fixed it. Otherwise, I’ma park my ass at Uptown and keep drinking. It will be one of those days.

*This title has nothing to do with the post. I’ve just been watching my new Flight of the Conchords DVD and needed to acknowledge that my obsession has been rekindled.

I’ve still not gotten over the irrational love/hate/mostly hate thing I have for Savannah, but never did I expect to find something in Savannah I can actually gush about and say that I really, really like.

Uptown is this restaurant on Main Street that’s kind of in the tradition of trendy New York bistros, where things are black and glossy and stylish and asymmetrical and that sort of thing. I’d eaten there once before when it was fairly new, and I remember being unimpressed. But that’s because I had a stick up my ass and felt ridiculous even being in Savannah.

Said stick has been more or less removed. I’m trying to not be such a jerk about my hometown and sort of drink it in and appreciate it for what it is. (I do not extend this generous line of thought to any time spent in Wal-Mart.)

Anyhoo, yesterday evening, as the sun was setting on the river, mom and I stopped by Uptown for dinner. The weather was beautiful, so we asked to sit on the deck. I asked for the wine list with glee — only recently did Savannah finally pass a liquor-by-the-drink law that allowed booze in restaurants — and was relieved that it wasn’t all Yellowtail and Sutter Home. And Franzia. Mom ordered the glazed salmon and sweet-potato fries, and I ordered the chunky chicken salad sandwich (with cranberries!).

I almost danced a little jig when they brought out mom’s salad. It was a real salad — you know with romaine and olives and parmesan and all that good stuff. Not just iceberg lettuce, carrot strips and bacon bits.

Seriously, I can’t express to you how bad the standard fare is in Savannah. You’ve got your caste of fast food, of course — McDonald’s, Taco Bell, KFC, Wendy’s, Burger King, etc. — but then just above that are the so-called restaurants that, honestly, don’t serve food that’s much more sophisticated than a sackful of Krystal burgers. These places pretty much rely on Sysco for their food supplies, so everything tastes like something you probably ate in your middle school cafeteria. Sure, you can probably get some decent soul food-type stuff if you’re okay with everything being fried and drenched in cheese and ranch dressing, but it sucks to have to eat chicken-fried chicken or fried chicken strips or fried steak or any of that crap when you want to go out to a nice dinner that includes non-breaded items.

So, enter Uptown, which has been around for at least five years. The menu isn’t huge, which probably turns a lot of people off. It’s fairly pricey (our tab for two was $40). And the menu offers a lot of items that probably freak the more xenophobic Hardin Countians out (pot stickers, anyone?). Plus, the general aesthetic of the place is very anti-redneck. Shit, it seems very anti-Savannah.

Which — surprise! — is why I guess I enjoyed myself so much. It was like a little slice of urbanity in a big fat Southern-fried pie. And Savannah needs that diversity. I mean, I enjoy going to the River Heights Cafe and inhaling the scent of greasy, fried catfish while whooping it up with the family, but I also really like kicking back with my mom and eating fantastic and beautifully prepared food with pretty silverware while drinking wine on the deck of a sidewalk bistro.

It’s about freaking time Savannah offered that option.

Project 365