I’ll tell you how I know I’m getting old. Sunday night I spent some quality time with a magnum of pinot grigio and several episodes of My So-Called Life in the company of some of the funniest (and silliest-dressed) people I’ve ever met. There were rules. There were amendments. There was plaid and impossibly tall combat boots. There was angst. And I remembered how when that show aired, Jordan Catalano was the hotness. And yes,…
“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…
Me: Man, I wish Savannah had some actual real, decent restaurants. Oldest nephew, completely sincerely: You mean like Arby’s?
While playing Apples to Apples tonight, the green apple card called for “cruel.” Someone threw in “Martha Stewart,” which is funny for its own reasons, of course. After it was all said and done, the youngest nephew explained why he had done so: “Casey had told me that she was going to ban hunting!” My sister did a spit-take.
I don’t know why I’m still up. Oh wait, yes I do. BECAUSE I AM A GLUTTON FOR PUNISHMENT. And instead of packing and going to bed like any normal person about to fly down to Florida for a week of beachy funtimes and Radiohead, I’m uploading photos from the weekend to Flickr. And I haven’t even gotten to today’s MusicFest pictures. I guess they’ll have to wait until I get back Thursday and then…
The sunset tonight was pink for twenty seconds, and then it dissolved into orange and blue. I know because I was outside — paying attention for once — my old softball glove on one hand and one of those pitted practice softballs in the other, readying to hurl it toward my brother, who was intent on hitting it over the bales of hay far behind me and into the pasture. He never did hit it…
I want to take it out behind a middle school and get it pregnant. I was just lamenting last night to Ay that I haven’t been to a single cookout this year, and just now my dad calls me to tell me that he’s loading up the truck with fifty pounts of ground beef, ten chickens, and two hogs*, but that I may need to pick up hot dogs on my way to Saltillo. Along…
Just suffered through a round of “Obama is the antichrist!!! It is prophesied, omfg!!!” at the family compound. Chewed holes in my tongue but managed not to get worked up or say a single word. Never realized how effing paranoid my family can be. Ho. Lee. Shit.
Oh happy day, I actually had a really good weekend. I know that this in no way has any bearing on how the remainder of my week will play out, nor does it indicate that the Universe is going to take it easy on me or anyone else for a while (the Universe don’t roll like that, y’all), but I still would like to recount the ways the past few days have not pissed me…
Who says nothing interesting ever happens in small towns? From the story (actually, this is the whole story at this time): TBI officials say an underground marijuana-growing operation was busted in Saltillo, Tennessee on a 600 acre farm. Investigators say marijuana plants were found inside a metal tank buried in a field in the 1000 block of Five Forks Road. The tank is about 20 feet long and eight feet tall. More than 1,000 marijuana…
You must be logged in to post a comment.