Welcome back! I know I promised you four topics for this edition but I just got ‘to ramblin’ and these were all I had time/room for. You’ll get your other two topics next time. Promise.

Gospel vs. WASPel* Music

Lemme just put this one to rest up front: White people suck at gospel music.
There. I said it.

I don’t care how successful Elvis’s gospel albums were. I don’t care how beautiful Anne Murray or Alan Jackson sang “The Old Rugged Cross.” White people gospel (Or WASPel, as I like to call it.) is boring.

White people suck at worship music in general, when it comes right down to it. Traditional hymns are the most depressing, slow-tempoed, brooding melodies you’ve ever heard, sung with reluctance by old people who are just singing it -and insisting that everyone else sing it - because they did when they were kids. Even the “upbeat” tunes like “He Lives!” are sung in apathetic monotone in every traditional church across the South. There is no joy. There is no inner reflection. Frankly, there’s not really even any worship going on when you get right down to it. Even if you go to these contemporary church services, there are a handful of white people clapping on the 1-and-3-counts while singing along to a seemingly endless soft-rock ditty that’s just dripping with sentiment (Usually the lyrics sound like they were written by a 13 year old girl with a crush on her older brother’s best friend.) while everyone else stands awkwardly by, mouthing along with the words and thinking about where they’re going to have lunch. It’s the same “Schmeh”-attitude-singing that came from the last generation, just with some guy playing the drums instead of the organ. If anything, I think we’re boring God to tears as much as we’re boring ourselves. 95% of what white people crank out and call “gospel” is a grave insult to the entire genre, considering gospel’s incredible roots and what it stands for today.

Gospel in it’s truest form is the single most amazing phenomenon to come out of the South, in my humble - yet loudly proclaimed - opinion. As you may or may not know, original gospel music was borne of African slaves, both in their native country during the occupation of the missionaries and then later, working on plantations in the deep South. These beautiful people, in the midst of horrific living conditions that included being beaten, sexually assaulted, imprisoned, and having their children stripped from them while working tirelessly in sweltering heat, developed the roots of gospel music which, unlike the white people’s worship songs, wasn’t melancholy or forlorn but, instead, was raucous, joyful, hopeful and damn fun to sing along to.

There’s nothing in the world more inspiring and invigorating than a Sunday morning at a predominantly African-American church. The joy of the message and the music paired with the symbolic, historic integrity it stands for is enough to strike awe into the heart of even the most devout non-believer. Tight harmonies and simple melodies of this centuries-old tradition invite participation with reckless abandon, enabling church-goers to lose themselves in the excitement of such an incredibly rejuvenating experience. (Which is probably why these churches don’t get out until way after the white folks have eaten, gone home, gotten out of their church clothes and taken a nap.) The sounds facilitate joy, perpetuate hope and invite the loud, unabashed praise that I think God really appreciates the most and that gives a sense of fulfillment and recharged energy for anyone who dares to join in. There’s a sense of community in the songs - everyone admitting that we’re flawed but are working to be better every day, all of us singing praises and gratitude for our gifts and our lives, no matter how miserable things may be in our current situations… There’s the understanding that God is loving and caring, walking along beside us, expecting us to serve him by serving others and rejoicing with us - things that are rarely celebrated in the music of white churches with any form of enthusiasm.

I think the main difference between African-American gospel and white-people gospel is the pure emotion found in the former. Singers and performers of African-American gospel don’t hold back from clapping along or singing out or dancing or yelling out praises as the emotions wash over them. Meanwhile, I can’t remember ever seeing anyone so much as crack a smile while singing in the Caucasian churches I’ve been to. If people are comfortable being boring, that’s one thing, but there’s this overwhelming feeling of inhibition and preoccupation with the rampant solemnity in tradition, even though the creed specifically states “Make a joyful noise unto the Lord.” As Eddie Izzard noted, it seems so ridiculous to listen to white people sing “Hallelujiah” when they look like they’re on the brink of crying themselves to sleep.

I like the joyful noises and the “Amen!”s screamed back at the minister and the ever-accelerating tempos of gospel music as the crowd reaches a frenzy. I like the feeling of being part of something and actually giving back to a worship service as much as I’m taking away from it. I like the idea that people together create a synergy as opposed to congregating to have one person create a holy atmosphere. I like a whole crowd of people seeing each other as real, flawed people and singing about an other-worldly hope and divinity that pushes us forward.

That’s what Gospel music is about. And, as far as I’m concerned, it’s the closest thing to Heaven that exists in the South, aside from peach cobbler a la mode.

See white people do it wrong:

Country Roads

I’m not a John Denver fan at all, but the man was a marketing genius when he penned “Country Roads”, as discussing the song’s subject matter is a surefire means to tweak at the hearts of anyone who’s lived outside the metropolitan South. (And, no, “metropolitan South” isn’t an oxymoron.)

Now, this is not to say that country roads are all magical, wondrous vistas filled with beauty and flawless romanticism. There’s a lot of crap going on on the side of most country roads, like run-down trailer parks and abandoned gas stations with boarded up windows and overgrown parking lots. But even the idiosyncrasies are what make taking the “scenic route” worthwhile. As weird as it sounds, I really like looking at century-old tobacco barns and houses that are still standing although long-abandoned as I feel like they add a great deal of character to an area, and tell a story of progress and hope. (I know. I can hyper-romanticize a can of tuna if you’d let me.)

However, a lot of these unique country attributes demand that travelers adhere to the Southern rules of the road, of course. For example, in the summertime, you have to be careful around sharp turns and coming over hills so you don’t rear-end a slow-moving tractor or the occasional herd of cows being transferred to another pasture. You must drive slowly in densely-wooded areas at night in case you come across a deer, a possum or a hunting dog (although, if you’re like me, you’ll want to load the hunting dog into your car and take it to an animal rescue shelter - no animal deserves to be spray-painted and sent out to work at night.) In fact, you should really drive as slowly as possible at all times while in the country as there’s always the threat of running across chickens, dogs, children, horses, funerals, schoolbuses, churches being let out, early-morning farmer’s market patrons or old people cruising around for their “Sunday afternoon drive” (which is apt to happen any afternoon of the week). But, if you remember nothing else, for the love of God, don’t honk at anyone’s driving mistakes when you’re out in the country; Southerners take a reprimanding carhorn as a personal offense and you’re liable to get an entire town to turn against you if you hold down your horn for longer than 1 second - especially if you’re in the “downtown” district, which may be no larger than a blinking stoplight and a Quickie Mart.

It isn’t hard to get to a “country road” from anywhere in The South, although it’s significantly more difficult to get to one that’s particularly enjoyable. This has a lot to do with subjectivity, however, as every Southerner has his or her idea of what really makes an ideal country passage. For the redneck off-roading set, the muddy, unpaven routes or the hilly, rocky enlarged mountain trails are the most beautiful aspects of Southern terrain, perfect for flinging chunks of mud and scaling jagged, pointy boulders in a wild, testosterone-injected variation of a four-wheel-drive SUV. For the farm families, it’s long, straight roads constructed of curved dust that line miles and miles of flat, treeless fields.

I prefer a variety of Southern journeys, in all honesty. When I get into the Lowcountry, I love finding myself on narrow landbridges tunneling through quiet, forgotten swamps, shaded by a canopy of Spanish moss dangling from cypress. In the North Carolina Piedmont, I’ll load my daughter into her carseat and let the gentle waves of country hills lull her to sleep while I smile at the endless display quaint, storybook farms and houses that look like something out of old model train sets.

Of all the Southern country roads, however, the ones I love the most are the ones in the Appalachian. When making my ascent, I’ll roll down my windows to inhale the deep musk of rhododendron and fern. Even on the interstate, there’s a serenity that seems to settle on every traveler and compels them to gaze out over the endless landscape of ancient mounds that fade gradually into a blue haze. I’ll even roll my windows down when I’m riding through the mountains in the snow, listening to the hushed settling of acceptance as the trees get reacquainted with the rare bite of frost. But in the summertime, I love to hang my head out the window like a dog, watching the sun cut green columns through the blankets of leaves and feeling the humidity pool on my hairline, where the smell will stay for days if I’ll let it. I love reaching the fields in the valleys where the brooks topple over worn stones and cows lumber about on great hills where it looks like they should go sliding off any minute. I’ll honk and wave at farmers on tractors or kids tubing down the river or old folks shelling peas at their roadside produce stands. (Assuming I’ve already stopped for a bushel of apples.) I really get into my mountain roads and always insist on stopping at least once every 30 minutes to take in an overlook or mosey around a tiny village, usually to the chagrin of whomever I’m carrying as a passenger.

But, usually, by the end of the trip, anyone in the car is a convert to the simple majesty and elegance of the Great Country Road. Unless said passenger is my husband, who has seen “The Hills Have Eyes” and is terrified of anything other than interstates. Poor guy.

This concludes the Third Installment of the “Things I Love About Being Southern” series. Join me next time when we will discuss:

Festivals

Gullah Culture

The Fine Art and Usage of the Word “Honey”

Roadside Produce

In the South we pride ourselves on our produce, in case you haven’t noticed. In the summertime my mom used to make weeks and weeks worth of meals that consisted of just local, handpicked veggies. Steamed corn on the cob dripping with butter… boiled lima beans with my Gran’s chow chow on top … slices of huge, juicy tomatoes so big they could’ve doubled for a plate… Mmmmm… And, sure, you can get these things relatively locally at your grocery store (boooooo!) or at the always-bustling farmer’s market (the best part of waking up early on a Saturday) but everyone knows that the very best produce is the stuff you see in the back of a pickup truck or a trailer or a small shack on the side of the road.

Now, you have to be careful with what you choose to purchase from these entrepreneurs as not everything is safe. When purchasing from a mobile produce stand [read: Billy Bob's pickup truck] it’s best to stick to the tougher, less volatile foods like watermelons, sweet potatoes, cantaloupe, peanuts and maaaaybe zucchini. Believe it or not, a good tip to judging the quality of a mobile merchant’s produce is whether or not that person is present. I know this sounds strange but the best produce can be found at an unmanned stand with a coffee tin that reads “Honor System”. Because the farmer believes in the goodness of humanity and trusts you to do the right thing, you, in turn, trust him to deliver a quality product. And you will never ever be wrong about that. If you visit a mobile stand where the farmer is standing by, he has the option of changing the prices on you or pressuring you to buy more or breathing down your neck to make you uncomfortable so you buy a mediocre product in your haste to get away.

For the most part, produce sold in little rickety shanties with peeling paint and faded, misspelled signs is always safe. Clearly the stand has been there long enough to garner decent business over many years and obviously the local farmers have trusted the stand owner to sell their goods and be fair with the commissions, so you really feel like you’re a part of the community. The other thing about these places is that, unbeknownst to the throngs of tourists who happen to spot it while making a detour from the interstate, these are the pride and joy of many clusters of little farms because they are able to keep their produce local and give back to their small towns while building a reputation for themselves. If you hang out at one long enough, you’ll get it.

Oh! And one very important note about Southern culture regarding roadside produce: If you are on the way to a relative or friend’s home, it is extremely good manners to stop off at one of these stands and buy them a bag of fresh peaches,  tomatoes or sweet potatoes (and sometimes corn on the cob if you’re well-established with your host.)

I tried to explain this to an Australian friend who was visiting the States and allowing me to be her tour guide around the South. She seemed confused, “So, if I’m going to a friend’s house and I stop at the Wal-Mart grocery and get her some corn that would be weird and unfitting but if you buy a heap of corn from a toothless man on the side of the road that’s good manners?”

Exactly. Not only is it good manners but it will elicit a reaction of elated surprise and the inevitable refrain of “Gosh, these are beeaaautiful!” and you will be the highest valued guest of any that week.

Unless someone brings a fresh produce pie.

How we Deal with “Cold” Weather

In the South it gets cold for a total of 10 days every year. When I say “cold” I mean “lower than 40 degrees”. During these ten days, Southerners will become completely consumed with this obvious crisis and will discuss it amongst themselves incessantly as if having cold weather during the winter was completely unpredictable. It is not uncommon for two Southern strangers to stop and gab about how cold it is for twenty minutes in the dairy isle of the Piggly Wiggly or gas station cashiers holding up lines of patrons. Excitedly, they will compare notes and firsthand accounts as to how this insufferable weather has affected their daily lives with stories about how their car took 15 whole minutes to warm up or how the pond in their backyard had a ring of ice around it that almost extended to the middle. Southern mothers of all ages will call their children on a daily basis make sure that nobody has caught pneumonia in these gales of 38 degree (F) winds.

FUN FACT: Because we rarely get snow, we have reappropriated the fun Yankee word “toboggan” (which means “sled”) to now mean “knit cap.” If you didn’t know better, one could easily suppose we were running around reminding each other to put sleds on our heads and the heads of our children forpity’ssake.

The regularity of snow varies between specific regions of the South, of course. If in West Virginia or Virginia, one can expect snowfall to start in mid-December and continue weekly until mid-February. In North Carolina, one can tentatively expect one or two snows every year (which are mostly ice storms anyway), while South Carolina gets 2 or 3 inches every 2 or 3 years. If you’re in Georgia and Alabama, you’ll probably only see a local snow 3 or 4 times every twenty years and, if you see snow in Florida or Louisiana it is time to start packing your bags and saying your prayers because the apocalypse is nigh.

Although to an outsider the Southern Snow Reaction may appear as mere pandemonium, there are, in fact, three phases to the event of a Southern snow. These phases still stand regardless of the amount of snow, although the elapsed time of each phase in a community is directly proportionate to the inches of snow the area receives.

PHASE ONE: Because we don’t get much of snow that actually sticks to the roads, we don’t spend our tax dollars on fleets of snow-removal equipment. With this in mind, any weatherman in the South has the power to incite riots simply by mentioning there is a 60% or more chance of snow on a following day. This news stimulates nerve receptors in the Southern mind that forces said Southerner to drop his or her immediate activity, grab his/her keys and coat and drive in a blind panic to the local supermarket. Within the hour, the dairy and bread aisles will be completely cleared of any inventory, leaving the empty-handed to walk around wondering if powdered milk is really all that awful anyway. Unfortunately, 86% of these predictions turn out to be false alarms which inevitably leave thousands of Southerners with a gallon of milk in the fridge that they now have no use for because they rarely drink it at all.

PHASE TWO: There are a lot of times to be terrified of gleeful Southerners, like if you’re in traffic when the “Hot Doughnuts Now” light flickers on at the Krispy Kreme. But there is no single event that blankets the South with a deliriously giddy, childlike glee as the arrival of snow. Other than in the parking lot after the victory of a local university’s football championship game, there is no other time that Southerners are entitled to publicly lose their minds like they do when snow flurries begin. Even if the snow lasts 20 minutes and never sticks to anything, a Southerner’s entire day will be monopolized with an obsession for snow. It will be all anyone can talk about as if the rest of the world has completely ground to a halt because of frozen precipitation. And, if this snow sticks to the ground, then all hope of a productive Southern society is lost for the next few days. Even if it’s the second or third snow of the year, Southerners of all ages will frolic outdoors all day, crafting makeshift sleds (because we rarely have them), allowing ourselves to be dragged behind pickup trucks, stripping down to our skivvies and making snow angels, etc.

PHASE THREE: This is the part that always lasts the longest. After the roads have been cleared and everyone goes back to work the topic of conversation for the next week will be about the snow and everyone’s experience of the sacred event. They will compare this recent snow with snows in their pasts, arguing over which year had more or the worst ice or the most power outages. They will talk about ice-related tragedies that struck various trees in their neighborhoods. They will post pictures of themselves in the snow on Facebook or send it to family members with hour-by-hour accounts of the event, citing scientific data for emphasis. And just when you think it really should be over, someone will mention on Monday morning that the news is predicting a 65% chance of snow on Thursday night and the whole cycle will begin again.

Bluegrass Jam Sessions

I don’t listen to bluegrass music. I don’t have a single bluegrass CD, I don’t know the names of any well-known bluegrass artists and I don’t know any traditional bluegrass songs by name. However, I could spend entire weekends at bluegrass jams if given the chance.

Bluegrass jams can be well-organized and can happen at convention centers or colleges, but they seem to lack the comfortable genuineness (that’s a word! Look it up!) that really makes the experience worthwhile. Witnessing firsthand a slap-dash gathering of bluegrass musicians in a small, off-the-beaten-path location (that’s usually rundown and has no amenities to speak of) is easily one of the most invigorating experiences a person could have. There’s something so magical about clapping along with a rogue group of old men and women who play continuously for hours on end, smoothly transitioning into one song after the other as if they’ve practiced this line-up for months. The music will literally last for five or more hours with the musicians and singers joining in or taking breaks as needed and the atmosphere welcomes anyone who wants to chime in, which is how I’ve been known to take 5-minute spoon solos. (A friend welds together antique spoons and gives them a thumb loop and a leather wrist strap, perfect for the professional spoonplayer.)

I literally could ramble about synergy and magic and not caring about the genre of the music but feeling like you’re connecting with people and history and all that for a few pages but, honestly, it’s one of those things you really have to see for yourself. And if you find a bluegrass fest being held at a small Southern community center, go ahead and visit; if you make a good impression, the old-timers will tell you how to get to the afterparty.

Front-Porch Sittin’

Southern porches are where magic lives. These are where stories are passed down through generations and where kids learn to whittle and weave sweetgrass baskets and catch fireflies in small jars. Southern porches are where women test drive sweet tea recipes until they find the perfect combination. They’re where friends come together to trade gossip and catch up on what’s happening in their community. Southern porches perpetuate the ideal spirit of the South.

Porch-sitting is an obvious Southern tradition that harkens back to the days when we actually labored to make the food we ate and the clothes we wore. After long, hard days in the sun or in the kitchen, Southerners would go outside to sit on the porch and enjoy the gradual decline in temperature. These days, the tradition continues in millions of Southern households every night, and, ultimately, the rules haven’t changed.

The Southern Front Porch is the preferred porch for evening-sitting as it is where the reclining parties can observe traffic. I realize how ridiculous that sounds but this, also, harkens back to when people sat on their front porches to watch and see who passed by their homes on horse-drawn carriages and carts. The porch sitters could get their news from the people traveling home after work and invite them to come sit for a glass of tea or a bottle of beer or a mason jar full of whiskey (depending on the era.) These days the tradition is the same in that, when a neighbor sees a family sitting on a front porch it is a welcome invitation to come and at least strike up a casual conversation. (IMPORTANT NOTE: Unless you’ve been to talk to a group of porch-sitters more than 5 times, you must not take a seat before being invited to do so!!)

Porch-sitting activity varies from day to day. One day the men of the family may be sharing beers, playing chess and talking sports while the next day a gaggle of Southern women may be crocheting and catching up on gossip. Small household tasks that are easily translatable to the front porch include (but are not limited to) shelling peas, shucking corn, plaiting hair, folding clothes fresh from the clothesline and rolling cigarettes for the week. Any leisure activity like cross-stitching, reading, finishing crossword puzzles, etc. are to be done ONLY if you are the only one on the porch or if you’ve just stepped onto the porch where the other person/people are engaged in private leisure activity.

Frankly, I don’t think a house or apartment is worth living in unless it has an outdoor porch from which to observe the sun setting. A wrap-around porch with Kennedy-style rockers are ideal but any Southerner can grit their teeth and make do with a deck or concrete patio if needed. Besides, it’s never about the condition of the physical porch so much as it is the events that take place there.

This concludes the Second Installment in the Things I Love About Being Southern” series. Join me next time when I will discuss:

Gospel vs. WASPel* Music

Festivals

Gullah Culture

Country Roads

*WASPel is a copyrighted catchphrase, property of The Suburban Bohemian. If you should choose to incorporate this cool new word into your vernacular, you must report the reaction of your listeners to me as I’m still in the trial phases.

It’s a huge misconception that I hate the South just because I hate the rampant redneck/white trash (synonymous) population that screams their religious agendas into the political realm while living off welfare checks and, thus, misrepresent the majority of us who have brains and don’t act like idiots in public. The truth is that I adore being Southern. I’ve been Southern my whole life and, while I’m extremely well-traveled in the US and know scores of people from across the country, I’d have to say that I’m very proud to have originated from North Carolina (to be specific, although VA would’ve been acceptable, too.)

And there are a number of things about the South that I do hate. Like grits and Civil War reenactments and chicken bog and high schools having pageants in addition to Homecoming Court and May Court and Sweetheart Court (I’d never actually heard of that until I moved to SC) and chicken bog and hearing Skynyrd every time I go to a bar and John Deere couture and chicken bog and dishonesty disguised as manners… But there are at least a dozen things I like for each one that I hate.

I’d like to take you on a magical journey through the things I love the most about being Southern. If I can dispel a few stereotypes along the way, that’d be great but really I just want to make sure these things are celebrated in a public forum at least once. I’m going to need to make a number of installments of these as my list is quite extensive. This is the first of many.

In no particular order. Except the first one.

1) The Great Unifying Rule: There is one subtle undercurrent of inherent knowledge that lives in the hearts of every Southerner, young and old, Republican and Demmer and allows all of us to live in harmony together with the hope of a common ground and peace and understanding. And that is the unspoken but omnipresent Hatred of Yankees. Now, this has nothing to do with old Confederately-biased principles at all. In fact, the majority of us really don’t give a crap about that and do not believe the South will rise again, nor do we feel the need to make that happen. Many of us (if not most of us) have Yankee friends that we’ll talk about much like racists say “I have black friends!” or homophobes say “I have gay friends!” in order to justify their generalized hatred of a type of person and so it’s not really a hatred of Yankees as specific people so much as it is a hatred of them as a collective unit. The ones who choose to retire in our beautiful neighborhoods and then proceed to bitch about how we don’t have lacrosse/decent pizza/hockey etc. They’re the ones who constantly talk about how our food is nothing compared to that in [insert city of origin here] and how our schools just don’t compete and how our politics are all backward and how it’s too damned hot all the time and the humidity is unbearable. They’re the ones who pitch fits in restaurants/retail stores/airports/etc. because one of the staff looked at them the wrong way and they’re the ones who sue people left and right without any regard as to how these things effect the idea of community that Southerners pride ourselves on. They’re exhausting and, more times than I can count, I’ve found myself looking at a complete Southern stranger in the midst of a public Yankee tirade and exchanging the nonverbal “Why don’t they just go back where they came from if they hate it here so much?” mantra we’ve heard since birth.

FUN FACT: Expressing one’s hatred of Yankees is the ONLY TIME it is socially acceptable for a Gentile woman to curse in public.

But there’s a certain sense of pride in loathing Yankees together. It’s the one thing we can all agree on. It’s the one thing that breaks down barriers between generations and races, creeds and heritages. It’s the one tradition that is seamlessly passed on from generation to generation with a laughing understanding of the idea that tolerating these rude, arrogant people can allow us to feel a bit better about ourselves. And, knowing how incredibly petty that is of us, we’re proud to share that common bond as a means to identify ourselves as Southerners.

The Rest of the List:

Please note that, while many of these things have a lot to do with small-town Americana across the nation, I feel strongly that these are the definitive traits of this region.

Food On Sundays

I feel like I could write an entire book on this subject alone but let me at least break it down to the Need-To-Know Facts.

On Sunday, Southern people get up and go to church. (Not all of us but the older generations certainly did. In throngs.) Sure, they heard a sermon and there was that adorable performance of the children’s choir belting out “This Little Light of Mine” but what every single person is thinking of is food during the entire 11:00 service. This tradition usually starts with the early-morning run to a locally-owned doughnut shop. If one’s town doesn’t have one of these always-kitschy-and-outdated gems (or a Krispy Kreme) then everyone will congregate at the town’s Bojangles. This will be justified as every patron intends to bring enough biscuits or doughnuts for everyone in his/her Sunday school class unless he or she has a child at home sick, in which case this person will bring home breakfast for the rest of the family after scarfing an extra serving in the car.

That is Phase One.

Phase Two is the most important meal of the whole entire week. Write that down. There are varying levels of Phase Two, starting with those families/old people who cop out and go to places like Ruby Tuesday’s after the service. Those people are cheaters, unless they’re going to the “country club”, in which case they’re in the clear and probably the envy of 60% of the women over 50 at their church. The other two categories are the most important culinary institutions in our entire Southern history -the first being The Sunday Dinner and the second being Dinner On The Grounds.

Now, both of these events require hours of planning and husbands being shoved out of kitchens so the womenfolk can focus on their craft but the difference is primarily location.

The Sunday Dinner will always take place in the home of the family’s matriarch, preferably the Grandmother if she is still capable/alive and then the oldest married daughter if that doesn’t pan out. This woman will go to “early church” and come home to begin making The Biggest Meal You’ve Ever Seen in Your Life that will include no less than 4 entrees, 9 side dishes and 4 pies/cakes all made from scratch. This meal is served at precisely 1 p.m. (which is why ministers make it a point to ramble no longer than 12:15 at the very latest, especially if he/she has a tee-time or it is NASCAR season) and nobody is excused from the table until a sufficient dent has made in every dish and every person is incapacitated from overindulgence. The men will be released to the den to watch football/NASCAR/golf/etc. and the women will begrudgingly help with the piles of dishes and leftovers. These leftovers will be consumed from this point until the following Friday.

Dinner On the Grounds, however, is an event that serves as the highlight of many churchgoers’ entire seasons and is never to be taken lightly. Much like Easter or Christmas, these events are often one of few church services that some people attend at all.

FUN FACT: Depending on the region, these are also known as “Covered Dishes” (short for “covered dish dinners) and, when I was younger, I was told by many of my Protestant elders that one could not enter the Kingdom of Heaven without a fresh covered dish in hand.

Anyway. Once (soooometimes twice, if there’s a church holiday) every spring, summer and early-autumn, everyone brings gargantuan portions of their finest dish to the church where they are placed upon football-field-length tables outside for everyone to share. As a rule there will always be no less than two massive bowls of ambrosia salad (always green), 8 boxes of take-out fried chicken (usually from those shunned Easter-and-Christmas-only patrons), 3 red velvet cakes and 27 bowls of potato salad. The rest of the fare is mostly traditional, including green beans simmered with a ham hock, homemade mac and cheese casserole and corn on the cob but there will always be one or two rogue eccentrics that everyone will lean over, squint at and take a teaspoon-sized “No Thank You” serving of. (It’s good manners.)

The Pièce de Résistance of the meal, however, is the highly-anticipated arrival of the Bucket of Homemade Ice Cream. While this legendary highlight of the event could make an appearance at any DotG occasion, it is usually reserved for mid-summer Dinners when the maker has access to fresh fruit - usually peach, sometimes strawberry. The presence of this dish, however, is the turmoil it creates in picnic attendees. Because the bucket of ice cream is always placed at the very end of the buffet with the other desserts, it’s unexpected introduction incites panic in the hearts of diners, as well as an immediate regret of everything he or she spent the last fifteen minutes methodically choosing and placing on his or her two overloaded plates. The next five minutes are spent hurling all these carefully-prepared meal items into one’s maw as quickly as possible, so as to beat everyone to the Hallowed Bucket, in which there will never be any more than 10 servings of half-melted sugar milk.

Phase Three involves complaining about the self-induced discomfort from the day’s gluttonous activity and then wondering what’s left over for a light dinner at 7:30.

The Black Eagle Over The Doorway After extensive research and years of asking around, I still don’t know where this tradition started or what it means other than as a form of patriotism. In older houses (usually rural) these are hung over doorways and garages with absolutely no explanation whatsoever. I think it probably has something to do with the Illuminati.

This concludes the end of the First Installment. Join me next time when I will discuss:

Roadside Produce

How We Deal with “Cold” Weather

Bluegrass Jam Sessions

Front-Porch Sitting

On a personal front, things have gone from drab and increasingly depressing to amazingly optimistic, which has arrived only just in time.There’s something really taxing in having to force optimism and I think after a while, feigning hope for the sake of forward movement starts to eat away at you, too. It’s certainly a better mental state than pessimism but after you do it long enough, the stench of bullshit starts to seep into everything and you just start feeling ridiculous.

Anyway, first and foremost we’ve found a house that we’re in the middle of shuffling legal/financial paperwork around for. It’s about 30 minutes away from where we’re living now which puts us closer to the metropolitan sprawl but also means that our options were limited to squished, prefab suburban developments that weren’t our first choice. However, the house we found is adorable, full of sunlight and has a backyard that’s pretty divine. We’ve already started making artsy/hippie plans for home improvement and I’m totally nerding out with excitement over the garden I’m plotting. I’m going to spend the next year cultivating a composting system and digging/structuring terracing in the hill where I plan to put everything. (It’s HUGE, but the slope is such that it won’t support anything other than low, spreading shrubs.) I’m planning the basics, like tomatoes, carrots, squash, herbs, etc. but I also want to put in a few apple and peach trees, some blueberry bushes and maybe some grapevines along the back wall. Also, we’re going to rig up a rain barrel system so we can cut down on water costs so I’m researching DiY techniques for getting that started. And the hubs is contemplating taking the government up on this offer to help fund solar paneling, which would be perfect in our specific location and would also solidify our complete liberal, conservationist dorkiness to anyone in the immediate vicinity.  Utlimately, we’d love a small house in the middle of nowhere with tons of land and not so much bustling commercialism on our doorstep (the natives of New Hometown are entirely too excited about thenewTargetandWalMartandmovietheatresopeningjustacrossthestreetohmygahd!) and, honestly, we don’t want to settle in this county/state/side-of-the-country/hemisphere any more than five-ten years (at most) but we’re happy with what we can afford right now and are comfortable committing to it for the foreseeable future. With this house, we don’t feel like we’re “settling” and that’s the best part, I think. Also, with this specific location, my blog will still be aptly named. Score!

In other news, it seems that my personal business ventures are finally picking up and that elates me to no end. Not to whine about financial matters but, since mid-January, my various enterprises have been at a dead standstill and I’ve started getting really down and uninspired to continue. Being in a new town hindered my ability to book any new parties and the post-Christmas retail slump took a severe toll on the sugar scrubs and I kinda got to that self-pitying “I should just give up… wahhhh.” point. However, out of nowhere, about the time the temperature spiked and the sun came out, everything just sort of sprung back into action. I’ve randomly gotten three party bookings in the last three days (huzzah!) which is exciting enough but I’ve also introduced 4 new flavors to the Yum in the Tub line that people really seem to be responding to. Oh! And in a couple weeks I’m going to be featured in the Test Kitchen section of BUST Magazine (!!!!!!!!!) and I’m so excited/nervous I can barely stand it. The assistant editor sent me an email asking for a hi-res image and my address so she can send me a copy of the mag and seemed really positive about it so I’m hoping they don’t publicly loathe the coffee scrub I sent them. (However, my husband optimistically pointed out that, even if they hate it, I can always market myself as “As featured in BUST!” without assuming that anyone will remember the review.) So we’ve started prepping the website for that and it’s going to look AMAZING in a couple weeks when we debut it as a freestanding site and no longer linked to Etsy. (Now is when I’m eternally grateful I’ve married a graphic designer. Seriously, this website looks like I dropped a couple grand on it. I’m aware that I’m bragging right now.)

It just seems like everything’s on the upswing on the whole. The Bear is getting to be outside more because of the weather, which puts her in a better mood and makes the day flow better, my sister moved to NYC and left me her Jeep, which means I can fit my running stroller in the back and hit the trails at a local park every morning, produce is getting back in season so the prices are slowly falling, I’ve been meeting and hanging out with a lot of new people from various venues and social circles and have even started talking about building a burlesque/cabaret troupe with a local gal which would be amazing. (My past attempts have always been thwarted but the dream lives on.)

It just seems like things are racing upward, which is as much of a relief as it is a cause of great excitement. I know, it’s all too cliche to hit the “reset” button and try to redefine one’s purposes/goals/intents at this time of year but I really don’t mind falling into that trap when it feels like the Universe is piling on the support. I’m finding that my motivation and momentum are renewed and the extra boost makes me want to work harder to get started on more of the projects I’ve been putting off because of my “Schmeh, whatevs.” attitude in the last few months. It’s only been a week or so and I’m already getting more done every day than I have in the last month.

It’s nice. I like it.

I’m sick of watching/reading/hearing people publicly apologize for something they said that offended some random group of people. And, as much as I’d like to be angry at the parade of hyper-apologetic wimps that stream across the headlines, I really am more pissy at the public they’re talking to, who are sitting around being offended and tapping their toes for an apology. But when it really comes down to it, I’m kind of just incredulous that few people are actually recognizing how unbelievably ridiculous this whole scenario is in the first place. And how avoiding/learning to deal with it is painfully simplistic.

Look,

1) If you say something, MEAN IT.

This doesn’t even apply specifically to people who are public figures. This has to do with all of us. It’s pretty basic. If you say something, make sure you mean it. And that’s not a stand-in for that cheap “Keep your words sweet; one day you may have to eat them! ::giggle!::” line kids like to use as their senior year yearbook quotes. If you know what you have to say is going to piss people off, you’d better make sure you can stand behind it all the way. Because when you don’t, and you come out offering an apology, then you not only look like a wuss with no brain, but you totally shoot your credibility in the foot for… well, for forever.

Here’s a perfect example: In January 2010, Sen. Harry Reid decided to show everyone how incredibly antiquated he actually was by mentioning that Barack Obama made a good candidate because he had no “Negro dialect, unless he wanted to have one.” (Wow. I’ll bet he still calls black waitors “Jackson”.) Anyway, when the book was released and everyone [understandably] pitched a bit of a hissy about him being a douche, he came out and apologized for what he’d said. Okay, it’s one thing to say something stupid off the cuff (See? I’ll admit that Obama’s flawed.) but when you go out of your way to have something published in a book that obviously was taken through a few editing sessions and still voluntarily included, maybe you probably meant it. So coming out and apologizing for saying it kinda makes you look even dumber, because we get it. We know you’re just doing it to save face because you didn’t think it would bother anyone. And our opinions of you have already been set, knowing all the work you had to do to get those words in print. So at least have the self-respect to stand behind your statements.

I’m not saying I approve of him (or anyone) being a douche, but like Evelyn Beatrice Hall said (although usually miscredited to Voltaire) “I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.” That’s one of the things that’s rad about America- we’ve got free speech going on for us. Sure, I think Carrie Prejean is a hypocritical, plastic moron who is perpetuating disgusting stereotypes about young American women but I believe she has the right to say anything that’s on her mind and stand behind it. I believe we all do. And, luckily, I’ve got the Forefathers on my side with this one, so I usually don’t have to censor myself.

And this all brings me to my next point.

2) If you’re alive, you’re going to offend someone at least once before you die.

My grandfather was literally the kindest human being I’ve ever known. He was a prestigious businessman who came from very very humble, rural roots and was incredibly generous and active in his community. (Fun Fact!: He orchestrated the Japanese surrender ceremony on board the USS Missouri on September 2, 1945. We have a photo of the event with him in it, just after escorting the foreign officients to their position and he actually had one of the pens that signed the treaty until my Gran just tossed it because “we just don’t need more stuff.”) When he passed away in March 2000, the congregation at his funeral spilled out onto the steps of the large church where it was held. He’s the kind of person whose acquaintences can’t even find the audacity to take the time to try to find something they didn’t like about him as a person…

… And yet I’m positive that he offended a few dozen people in his life. At least.Just by being who he was.

The thing is that just being who you are is going to offend someone. Period. If you’re a Repub, you’re going to offend a left-winger. If you’re a feminist, you’re going to offend an idiot… er, a chauvanist. If you’re privileged, you’re going to offend someone who isn’t. That’s just the way of the world. So trying to live your life without stepping on anyone’s toes is fruitless, no matter what.

I’m not saying you should go out of your way to offend people. That’s Madonna’s job and, frankly, that schtick got old in the late-90’s. I’m just saying that you should stand strong for whatever you stand for. Because if you don’t, then you’re going to look like a spineless idiot and there are more than enough of those in the world right now. Try to change the status quo. Don’t back down. It’s going to be hard but wouldn’t it be worth you to be important for a cause you believed in than unimportant and standing for nothing? I can’t believe anyone would settle for that.

In this exhausting, cathartic, havoc-wreaking, daily-self-inventory-and-renovation I’ve been undertaking since I actively started working on recovery a few years ago (I might’ve mentioned it here… a few times…) I’ve had to dig out a lot of personal muck (usually of the self-induced variety), filter it, clean it and then put it back in my foundation where it belongs. It’s been pretty taxing and has lead to what seems to be an unending series of epiphanies about me as a person but, for the most part, I’ve been able to look at it all, deal with it accordingly and then move on when the time is right.

As it should be, I think.

But in the last couple years, it has become more and more obvious that I wasn’t just a terrible person when I was drinking or in my throes of depression or even when I started adolescence, as I’d first suspected when coming out of my drink-driven stupor. In fact, in the last six or so months, I slowly became aware that there might not’ve been a time in my life before a few years ago when I wasn’t completely self-involved, malicious, spiteful, wrathful, jealous, insecure and pathologically dishonest. And that stings way worse than the thought that I had an illness or even an addiction to hide behind.

I’ve discussed this ad nauseum (so if you’ve read anything on this blog before now, feel free to skip this paragraph because you’ve probably heard me talk about this ten times minimum) but, basically, I sobered up and started trying to figure out this whole mental illness-cum-self loathing lifestyle I’d clung to for the better part of a decade because I realized that I sucked to be around to everyone, especially myself. And I kinda went about all the follow-up work (making amends, identifying my flaws, addressing my insecurities, avoiding the catalysts/antagonists) in hopes that, eventually, it would chip away at this character my addiction and illness had created and reveal the bright, polished, pure person I used to be way back in the life I could no longer remember, mentally or emotionally. That was kind of the end goal- I wash away all the muck so I could get back down to basics and start rebuilding from there.

But what really happened was that I started making amends and looking at my flaws objectively and doing the really embarrassing/humbling work of raking myself over the coals to find out what the hell I was doing and try to fix it all, only to realize that my original foundation was made of crap to begin with.

I know that sounds really harsh because, for Christ’s sake, I was just a kid when the depression really started setting in. (I can remember my first episodes at 11, which is still “childhood” for me, I guess.) But even before that, I was never a nurturing, compassionate child. I was bossy and domineering and totally self-centered and brutal and meeeaaaan. Good Lord, I was mean.

Don’t think this is me just feeling sorry for myself or blowing typical childhood cruelty out of proportion; when I had this epiphany, I spent a good while going “No, that can’t be right. You’ve had friends since you were a kid; surely you didn’t suck that much. You’re just in a funk. Go walk it off and come back and look at this more objectively.” And, after a ton of deliberation it seems that this isn’t just a fluke.

I was manipulative and dishonest for as far back as I can remember. I can remember bullying other kids and enjoying taunting people who made me feel weak and imperfect as early as preschool. I can remember saying horrible things to and about other people at every age. I can’t remember doing selfless or unprompted kind things for those around me at all… not even once. And what’s worse is that I can’t remember doing anything really kind or selfless for my siblings at any time during my childhood, which is something that really tears me up to think about, to be honest. I could go on but, truthfully it hurts a bit too much. The point is that the evidence is present and clear. These are the things that were only magnified once the hormones and disease kicked in later on.

And, yes, okay, I’ve realized and explained where all my chronic meanness came from before now. I totally get it. I was so insecure and was so certain that someone was going to jump out and mentally assault me (which, incidentally, happened a number of times) that I preemptively did it to as many people as I could in hopes that… ::sigh:: it would make me feel better? I could beat everyone to the punch? Who even fucking knows? It’s all very textbook. It’s all very pathetic. I know. I get it.  And, as aforementioned, the worst part was that I honestly thought I was so insignificant that the awful things I said and did to people couldn’t possibly have any sort of repercussions because who the hell cared what I had to say? I didn’t. And, as blathered about for a few years now via this blog, this is what I’ve had the privilege of wading through and sorting out in my search for sanity and a better, cleaner, lighter soul. So far, it’s been working.

But now, at the bottom of all of it, when I make deliberate actions and I’m fully accountable and responsible for everysinglething that I do or say or think and I don’t do anything or say anything I don’t mean, I find that there’s not anything else that’s left for me to work with. There’s no real memory of anything likeable about me from before I was some sort of monster and I feel like I’m sort of grappling at straws while having to deal with this awful realization that the reason I was so eager to escape my reality to begin with was that I’d always just sucked to be around since I was like, 3.

Ouch. Didn’t see that coming.

Now my personal recovery is not just about knocking down all the rubble and shaking it off my limbs but it’s also trying to figure out likable aspects of myself as a base skeleton.

Shit. I don’t have the energy for all this. Wouldn’t it be easier just to do an Etch-A-Sketch restart where we shake it clear, pretend it never happened and start over?

And, of course, more than half of my problem with this realization is the utter grief and remorse I have for being that person and not realizing it up until now. Naturally, this is the part that I’m honestly trying not to assault myself with the hardest but it’s proving to be nearly impossible - seriously, who wants to think that they were never a genuinely nice person at any point in their youth? I just have to keep reminding myself that rolling around in the muck isn’t going to help me get clean. (I love cliches. Thanks, Aldous Huxley!)

But still, there’s a level of defeat and frustration to this huge realization that I’ve been working to fend off in order to keep moving forward. I guess I had always figured that, if nothing else, I had a real pure Self under there that I was hoping to recover and reconnect with once I got my Demon Era properly handled and filed away. Problem is, it looks like this going to be more of a discovery/construction mission than a reconnaissance one and I’m not sure I packed the right tools.

Liz Pardue-Schultz

NOTE: I was going to do one on a monthly “Unhappy Hour” in which I rant and complain about everything that’s bugging me about my life but really? I’m feeling too good to bring down my mood by focusing on the small things that are going wrong. I’m saving that one for a rainy day, but it made me feel good that I didn’t even want to complain about anything today. I’d say that’s a small victory.

ANOTHER NOTE: I’m so glad I didn’t commit to doing one of these daily or I’d be looking pretty weak right now. There seems to be plenty of intent and not as much time. Maybe I’ll make this The Pronoiac Months.

Dream Pronoia Therapy pg. 34:
Write your own “I have a Dream” poem, story, essay or manifesto here:

I have a dream that one day women and men will no longer be susceptible to loathing their bodies, characters, minds, ideals or selves in the wake of others’ hatred.

I have a dream that one day every man and woman will give everything he or she can to help improve others’ quality of life without desiring something in return.

I have a dream that someone will invent a luxurious chocolate with no calories.

I have a dream that no person will be persecuted, ostracized or ridiculed for his or her beliefs, creed, gender, race, nationality, family history, intellect, financial status, marital status, sexuality or lifestyle.

I have a dream that our society will accept mental illness as a legitimate disease and will discuss symptoms, prevention, understanding and treatment within every school’s curriculum.

I have a dream that the cast of “Sesame Street” makes as much per episode as those morons from “Jersey Shore”.

I have a dream that children will no longer have to work in sweat shops for American companies to feed their families on pennies a day.

I have a dream that we will return to nature, learn how to fertilize the earth and reap the benefits of it’s fruits and joys.

I have a dream we will peel ourselves from our televisions and computers and create revolutions.

I have a dream that people stop keeping secrets from each other and learn to communicate their hopes, fears, vulnerabilities and hardships openly and frankly. I have a dream that this will allow us to see each other as united equals.

I have a dream that every woman will be allowed and encouraged to explore her sexuality without fear of external stigma or abuse.

I have a dream that religions will stop convincing people to hate and judge themselves and each other.

I have a dream that no human settles on a life less than ideal and continues to make changes to improve his or her personal well-being.

I have a dream in which we televise chemical (of the acid variety) castrations of rapists and sex offenders on Pay Per View and use the money earned to pay for our nation’s education.

I have a dream that teachers are considered to be of the highest profession and are paid comparable salaries to doctors and lawyers.

I have a dream that we use the taxes from legalized marijuana to help fund our national education system.

I have a dream that every person gets to visit every country in the world, in some massive Citizen Exchange Program.

I have a dream that the mentally ill receive just as many cards, prayers and flowers as a cancer patient when they are hospitalized for their disease.

I have a dream that every town will engage in one childhood game every month, like Red Rover or Duck, Duck Goose.

I have a dream that every American will learn how to be self-sustaining and survive off the land.

I have a dream that we will revert to a barter system that will include deeds as well as goods.

I have a dream that there were no dress codes.

I have a dream in which prostitution is legalized to protect and screen the sex workers who otherwise will be beaten, raped, murdered and subject to STDs and drug addiction.

I have a dream in which people see the horror of surgically altering one’s body instead of finding inner peace and acceptance.

I have a dream in which two people of different races or of the same sex can hold hands or kiss in public without anyone around them feeling or expressing disgust or disapproval.

I have a dream that everyone has the option to have a public voice that will be recognized, respected and considered.

I have a dream that nudity doesn’t terrify anyone anymore.

I have a dream that we can write letters to friends and family who have passed away and can receive them in turn.

I have a dream that people never stopped asking questions.

I have a dream in which nobody has to bury their children.

I have a dream that cars could run on baby giggles…

Okay now I’m just getting ridiculous. I mean, they’re all true, but there are only about 15 in here that I really honestly would die to have become a reality.

Liz Pardue-Schultz

I love those moments in my marriage when I can honestly say “This one is going to last a while.” And this sort of thing is always borne of evidence with absolutely no romantic merit whatsoever.

I’ve kinda always (or, since I was 18-ish) believed that Valentine’s Day was honestly a bullshit Hallmark branded holiday but, as I’ve gotten to be in a marriage that includes a child, I’ve realized the importance of taking advantage of and ignoring the whole overcommercialization of it. While we make it a point to say “I love you” every day and give each other a meaningful “Goodnight Hug-n-Kiss” we don’t nearly put as much focused, streamlined energy into “us” as we would if we had less stress and a little more time. (I know, a pathetic excuse but a reality I’m accepting and working with.) So, for V-Day this year, I found an overnight babysitter for the Bear and spent all day cleaning the house and making it look like a cozy romantic bungalow with candles and white Christmas lights and massage oil and wine and no evidence that there is a screaming, dependent toddler wrecking the sanctuary of the space on a moment-to-moment basis… (I even bought spring water, chilled it and put it in a glass bottle by the bed for um… late night refreshment. And I laid out a palette and fancy massage tools for a full-body experience. And I laid out pajama bottoms and a comfy t-shirt for the minute he came through the door. I was thorough!) I splurged on a fancy steak that I marinated and made a big fancy adult dinner for two and surprised my husband with a quiet, slow-paced evening when he got home from work. (The gently-falling snow outside was just a happy coicidence.) While images of lustful, sweaty lovemaking may immediately spring to mind, the best part of the evening was the couple hours we sat in front of the fire and just talked about nothing but ourselves and each other and what we wanted to do with our lives. I know that sounds ridiculous and somewhere my inner 15-year-old-romantic is snoring but there was something in the comfortable security of the moment that I really cherished and appreciated. Sure, torrid, dramatic relationships always have incredible highs but there’s so much more to be gleaned from a solid, trustworthy relationship with someone in which you’re allowed to be comfortable enough to grow and flourish. I much prefer the latter, to be honest.

Anyway, it wasn’t so much the boring things we talked about that I enjoyed but what those particular topics meant. For example, for a while now it has become apparent that we rely entirely too much on the television to fill our time. It’s not like we’re one of those couples who has “Our Show” every night of the week but, too often, we’ll turn it on just because we’re tired and we’ll watch whatever crap is on just because it’s on instead of going out and doing all those things on our “To Do List” that we’ve been meaning to get to for forever. It’s just too easy for us, at the end of a long day, to say “Schmeh, let’s watch this crappy, pointless, self-indulgent reality show to get our minds off our stressors for the next hour and then go to bed.” instead of challenging ourselves to get off our asses and do something productive. I’ve been battling this notion for a long long time now but, often, I find myself just hopping on board with the same routine at the end of the day out of habit and exhaustion. So, when the hubs suggested that we cancel our cable subscription I was elated for a number of reasons - primarily the realization that there’s someone else on my side who wants to change our family and the way we’ve been conducting our day-to-day. I know, it’s something tiny and it’s not really a sacrifice to be honest, but it will create a change in our personal habits and cause a chain reaction as to how we spend our time and where we invest our energies. Knowing that he wants to enrich our family time as much as I do is huge to me and gives me a renewed energy to keep making positive changes.

Additionally, we started talking about the new house that we’re in the market for. To my joy, he reiterated (without prompting) that he wanted a large piece of land, preferably outside a subdivision with a HOA and he wants to use the land for mini-camping trips with the Bear, building our varied art and science projects, holding Christmas-caroling bonfires in December and moving our lifestyle to one of a more self-sustaining style. A lot of times I feel like my crazy ideas for an off-center, bohemian-esque homestead is one that I’m just sort of forcing on him, so when he excitedly talks about wanting to build solar panels for our roof or finally starting a composting cycle in the backyard, I get relieved and happy that I’m in good company. I know it’s wrong to rely on someone else to fuel my energy for change but there is a great amount of energy generated when the other person in my marriage is as excited about moving forward and upward as I am. It makes me feel more confident in the things I want for my life and our family and gives me excitement about the fact that I get to share all that with someone else, even if everyone else in our lives thinks we’re nutty hippie freaks.

So yeah. New house and no cable. Step one.

Oh, and I’m getting back to this Pronoiac Month thing later on. It’s been busy ’round here.

‘Pronoia’ p.271 #1: Have you ever had permission to indulge in a marathon of braggadocio? Have you ever gotten an invitation to bluster on endlessly about your own charms without feeling even a touch of guilt or inhibition? I hereby grant you such a license right now.

To whet you imagination, read an excert from the boast of Eric Baer, a participant in a Brag Therapy session hosted in Milwaukee. “I have opposable thumbs, ” Eric exulted. “I can read. I breathe all the way through the night even though I’m asleep. I have access to emporiums where I can choose from 25 different brands of toilet paper. I know how to turn food into energy. I live where knuckleheads run everything and yet nothing ever blows up.”

NOTE: I’ll be honest, it honestly took me a couple days to muster the gumption to do this exercise. But what the hell? You only live once. Here we go:

I sing rock songs done originally by men so well that I don’t have to pay a bar tab at most karaoke bars, and not just because I don’t drink alcohol. I put brown sugar in my tea which makes it more awesome than usual. I have the prettiest, healthiest, thickest hair of anyone I know - and the color is divine. I was curvy before it was trendy. I can say the alphabet backwards. I have hitchhiker’s thumbs. I have a soul and believe in helping people who can’t help themselves, which means that I may have to sacrifice some of my luxury to do so. Sometimes when I get on a roll I’m funny as shit. I can win debates with about 85% of people and I can level those people with calm, stealthy rhetoric. I’ve sampled more types of chocolate than most people my age. I have unbelievably dark and long lashes. I’ve rung up a $50 tab on sashimi all by myself. I can alternate reading the same 5 books and still remember where I was and what was happening in each of them. I believe in changing energies and the Law of Attraction and perform rituals to do so. I can do the best Ethel Merman impression you’ve ever heard. I can dance like a fiend. I only get about 4 zits every year. I can eat a whole gallon of chocolate ice cream in one sitting. I wrote my first piece of erotica at 12 years old. I can sing every song on Styx’s “Paradise Theatre” and “The Grand Illusion” albums by heart. I’m not allergic to ANYTHING. My child literally uses manners in her sleep because I rock at setting an example. I spoil my friends with presents, even when I can’t afford them. Actually, I love giving people things in general and have been known to make myself broke by making donations to charities, people, bums on the street, etc. I waited until I was totally ready to lose my virginity and, no, I don’t think I was too young and, no, I won’t be upset if my daughter loses hers at the same age. I’m more introspective and proactive about changing my dysfunctions than at least 70% of the rest of the people in the society in which I was raised. My nose piercing has looked the same since the minute it was done - no swelling, no infection, no redness, just adorableness. I’m the biggest ‘Sesame Street’ nerd I know. I have a fantastic alias/nom de plume. I totally pick up on social cues even though I choose to ignore a lot of them. I have five short stories I’ve been working on for a year now. My body magically knew to provide me with too much seratonin and dopamine during my pregnancy as a defense mechanism against my chronic depression. My eyes change color every day. I know how to spell. Every time that I’ve done something that someone else has perceived as psychotic, I’ve been fully aware that that was what was going to happen and I went ahead and did it anyway - sometimes just to freak people out. I’ve never ever cried to get myself out of a ticket. I look adorable in earmuffs, a furry hat, pincurls, dreadlocks, kitty-cat ears and 1950’s style A-line housedresses. I’ve had over 20 diaries and journals since I was 5 and I’ve kept all of them. I know exactly how to be annoying and I can cite the minute it happens with anyone I’m targeting. Oh yeah, and I annoy people I don’t like but have to be around because it’s totally fun and I’m thoroughly amused by it… and because I have to let my inner brat out from time to time. I pwned the 12 Steps and tools of therapy. I’m so irresistable I’ve had to put out not one but two restraining orders on people. I won a multiplication bee when I was in the 3rd grade and, because the teacher preemptively knew I’d win it, she bought me some Sherlock Holmes books ’cause she knew I loved reading them. I’m fully aware when I say things that make me look dysfunctional. I was the only one giggling when I saw both “Titanic” and “The Notebook” (I was dragged) in the theatre. Despite what my high school drama teacher (”facilitator”) said, I got my own paragraph-of-glowing-praise in the public reviews from the only two community theatre productions I’ve ever been in… and in one of those productions I didn’t even speak. I make ideal pancakes. I have over 40 mix tapes and CDs that were made by friends in the last ten years. Oh, and I make arguably better mix CD’s than most people. I saved at least $1,000 by buying all my textbooks from Amazon.com and teaching my family how to do the same. I work every day on self-betterment, even if I don’t have time for it. I didn’t marry an idiot. I have my own desk, my own computer, my own filing cabinet, my own Etsy store, my own three domains and my own two blogs. I get gifts from across the planet every year. I make the most artistically badass scrapbooks I’ve ever seen. I’ve played a 200 year old piano located at Juliette Gordon Low’s house after the tour guide said, “We only let one girl do this every year.” I’m so irresistable I’ve had not one, but three “stalkers” (crazy people who won’t leave me alone and keep calling/harassing me because they’re in love) and have had handfuls of people I’ve heard can’t/won’t/don’t stop talking about me even years after I’ve forgotten them. I live in North Carolina. I know a real enigma. I survived both jr. high and high school. I’m not a bigot. I’m a neo-feminist which means that I can enjoy baking, sewing, knitting, etc without feeling some sort of guilt that I’m backsliding or being a slave to societal patriarchy. I look awesome in red. I also look awesome with purple highlights in my hair. My guitar was given to me by a Grammy winner and Top 40 recording artist. My top half is two sizes smaller than my lower half. I can recite every line in “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” The Movie. I’m no longer envious of, threatened by or hateful to beautiful women (and not just because I’ve embraced the fact that they turn me on.) I have a Pick of Destiny. I get more excited about autumn than most [Christian] kids do about Christmas. I’ve never seen an episode of “The Hills”, “Laguna Beach” or “Jersey Shore”. I won/earned a Girl Scout Silver Award before anyone else in my troop did and I earned every Try-It that Brownie Girl Scouts could in the early 90’s. I’ve traveled abroad and have been to all but 15 of the United States. I’ve learned how to cut needy idiots out of my life once they’ve screwed up too many times instead of staying emotionally invested and draining myself for no reason. I stopped biting my fingernails. I have the cutest child on the planet who also happens to be polite, selfless, sociable and giggly. After years of apologizing and making amends for all those years I was a terrible, awful person, I’m finally in the clear and don’t owe anyone anything [for the moment]!!! I had the best wedding I’ve ever heard of in my entire life.

I honestly haven’t forgotten; I’ve just been out of time in the last couple days and, when I do have a moment, I don’t have it in me to do some sort of writing “assignment”. Plus, I’m finding that I’m enjoying the physical Pronoiac exercises more than the written ones.

And also also, I’m bummed because I just found out that Breszny reissued a new and improved (how can it be both? honestly…) “Pronoia” last year with 55% more material and, while I want it, I know that that’s just silly because I have the original and it can’t be that much different and I don’t really have money to spare on something so silly… So I’ll just live with the one I’ve got.

So yeah, I’m getting back to this. Just not today. Because I baked and wrote and cleaned house and played with a fidgety, antsy Bear all day and I’m tired and just want to go meditate and sleep. Probably at the same time.