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

So, two gushing accounts of Bear-related adorableness.

~ It is important to note that Count von Count only makes an appearance on Sesame Street about twice a month. However, when my mom gave Chloe a book in which Grover explores colors, she immediately recognized the Count on the “purple” page and laughed in the cutest maniacal laughter ever, “Ah! Ah! Ah!”

M’aawwwwwww…

~ We’ve been showing Chloe these two specific “Disney Sing-Along Songs” videos from 1986 and 1987 because those are the only years that they made VHS tapes that didn’t have pirate protection on them so we could make DVDs of them to watch at our house. Anyway, she goes over to my parents’ house a few nights ago while I’m in town and joining my meditation group and they began to show her some of the other videos from the “Sing-Along Songs” series. Apparently, halfway through one of these less familiar videos, she turned to my dad and started asking, “Hi ho? Hi ho?” It took them a minute but they soon realized that she was requesting the “Heigh Ho” video as per usual instead of this new crap they were pushing on her. When my dad gently said, “No, honey, we’re watching ‘The Bare Necessities’ right now.” her tone turned a bit more demanding, “Hi ho! Hi ho!” Needless to say, they relented.

Pah-recious.

I’ve been invited to play in the Homecoming Alumnae Volleyball Game at my old high school this fall. I’m totally excited about the chance to play again as I haven’t played in yyyeeeaaars and, aside from being really pretty good at it, I absolutely loved it.

The problem is that, while I’m already significantly older than most of the other competitors simply because I graduated 8 years ago, it’s already decided that me and my class will be the oldest ones there. This is due to the fact that my class was the first to go through this particular high school, as it opened its doors our freshman year. So, instead of counting on the really old people like normal Alumni functions, the late-twentysomethings are the geezers here.

Now, I could sit around for the next six weeks being scared out of my mind to stand next to 20 year olds in Spandex shorts or I can decide to push myself a little harder and get in amazing shape by the end of October. Since the latter definitely seems more appealing in addition to being healthier all around, I’ll be doing that. And now my workouts won’t be driven by that abstract goal of “well-being”, but something completely selfish, superficial, and generally awesome.

I’m excited. Even if that means that the next month will basically be a montage not unlike the one from the last “Rocky” movie where he’s all old and trying to get back in the game.

Luckily, there’s more going on in my life than just a weight-loss regiment. Whew.

~ The Bear had the funniest moment the other day that I think is universally funny and not just my-baby’s-better-than-everyone funny. She’s developed all these words for animals and their respective sounds (Refresher: “Kak! Kak!”= duck/bird, “Eeow” = cat, “RAAR!”= bear, “Ar! Ar!”= dog, “oooo”=cow) which she uses at every opportunity. Well, we’re eating and watching some Powerpuff Girls when a commercial comes on for Zoobooks (which I cannot believe they still make) and suddenly Chloe is going nuts trying to keep up with the melange of animals they’re flashing across the screen. She’s pointing and screaming, “Eeow! Ar! RAAR! Kak! Kak!” desperately trying to keep up and really just sounding like a crazy person mimicking a barnyard. I thought I would die with the giggles but didn’t want to interrupt the moment by trying to find the camera.

Chloe’s been picking up a new word every day and it’s getting hard to keep up as she’s still very very loosely pronouncing these things. For example, every night before she goes to bed, we settle down and watch these old Disney sing-alongs my mom bought for me when I was a kid. This one song about a train came on (Casey Jr. from “Dumbo”) and suddenly she perked up, started pointing at the screen and repeating, “Do! Do! Do!” I kind of thought she was just expressing excitement about the song until the one part when they say “Toot! Toot!” and she did it at the exact same time and then started applauding herself. It was pretty cool.

She’s also making these amazing correlations that are pretty advanced. Yesterday we were watching something with butterflies in it (I swear we’re not constantly in front of the TV) and she looked down at her shirt and pointed to the butterflies along the border and looked up at me in recognition. I was stunned, actually, as the butterflies on the screen didn’t look very much like the ones on her shirt and yet she was still able to not only recognize the similarities but remember that she was wearing something with butterflies on it. I dunno, maybe it’s only impressive to me…

Oh and despite last Sunday’s debacle, she still LOVES to be outside. If we’re not outside at least once a day she goes into hysterics, pointing at the door and sobbing, so we’ve made it a habit to go for a post-nap walk, despite the incredible heat. Yesterday we hit another local park and even though we rode the swing for a few minutes and tried the slide a few times, what she really wanted to do is walk on the mini swinging bridge. And so, for the NEXT HOUR she walked back and forth across the bridge, sometimes going down the stairs and then going back up. When the heat finally got to be too much and she was covered in sweat and had rosy cheeks, I picked her up to take her to the car. Needless to say, she screamed and wriggled around frantically the entire way.

I have to admit that ultimately this makes me really happy. She’s not going to be one of those kids who plants herself in front of the television all day (we’re not doing the video games thing unless it’s a handheld thing and we use it exclusively for road trips. That’s what my mom did and she produced four well-rounded children capable of using their imaginations and easily making new friends. That’s example enough for me) and maybe I can get her into camping and hiking when she gets a little older. This is something I know her dad isn’t going to be happy about, but he’ll get over it.

~ After writing that thing about Hunter S. Thompson I sat down and wrote a blog entry about how pissed I am that what we call the 20th century American canon contains so many whiny, privileged white guys who “rebel” against this society that their fathers have created by turning into lush vagabonds and then basically perpetuating the same selfish, racist, sexist morality they were raised in. That’s not revolutionary. The other thing is that you can see this same behavior in today’s society with bands like Limp Biskit (remember them?), and Disturbed and Nickelback and all that noise. They’re just doing the same thing that Salinger and Thompson and Kerouc did but with more profanity and a different wardrobe. Meanwhile, really talented writers are given the shaft and aren’t considered neo-classic lit because the list is dominated by these carbon copies of nothing important. Gross.

ANYWAY, I wrote a rather lengthy essay about it and when I was done I realized that, with a little research and editing, it might not be terrible. I might look in to getting it published somewhere notable, which would be new and different from me. It’s scary to know you’re going to start getting rejection letters from nationally-recognized publications as opposed to just little indie ones.

~ Also, I’m having another essay published in next month’s ‘Sasee’. While I’m glad to have the publicity and the opportunity for a broader audience, I’m starting to get sick of submitting these really self-indulgent essays that focus on my overanalyzed feelings about stuff that only pertains to me. I’ve gotta start pushing myself.

~ Which leads me to this Second City writing class I’m taking. Now, before the class started, I wrote the professor and told him to give it to me straight. I’m poor and I want to get my money’s worth, so if something I submit blows, I want to know. I told him not to worry about hurting my feelings because as long as it was objective constructive feedback, I was grateful to have it. And honestly, he’s been great about pointing out my flaws and telling me how to fix them and, even though he doesn’t have to waste time on it, he’s been complimenting my strengths.

However, it seems I’m incapable of writing for stage. After a few weeks of this, everything I’ve submitted has received the message, “Great dialogue but there’s no action or showing of these emotions or events. These could be acted in the dark and have the same effect.” Even when I try to do things bigger and more adventurously, it always comes out the same way. I guess being used to writing for text hasn’t lent itself to creating real activity for people and I always feel limited by dialogue choices in a script because it’s so stripped down. I feel like my mind is just not capable of thinking that way, kind of like how I do in math. When I’m doing/writing the problem/script I think it’s okay but when the professor points out what I’ve done wrong I’m always smacking myself in the forehead and thinking, “Yes! Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?” And honestly, I have no idea.

And it’s starting to get a little frustrating, especially considering how long I’ve been involved with theatre, how long I’ve been writing, and the fact that this is just a beginner’s class.

~ I have my first audition in 3 years on Sept. 9. I’m really excited but kind of freaking out as I feel like I’m really really out of practice. I spent years upon years learning techniques and methods and all that and I still feel like they’ve evaporated from my mind over time, even though I did a lot of student scenework in my last few years of undergrad. Plus, as strange as this sounds, my voice has shifted a lot and I’m not sure where it sounds best as far as the “showtunes” sound goes. I used to have a whole repertoire from which to pull audition material but when I was trying it out this week it just sounded awful. That seems kind of weird considering I know exactly what songs I can do at any karaoke bar but I realize I can’t get up and sing “Dream On” if I’m vying for a part in “South Pacific” or “A Christmas Carol.” Although I did think about singing the first part of Green Day’s “Hitchin’ a Ride” for it as it comes across as very showtune-y.
:::sigh::: At this point I just don’t know. But I have a few weeks.

~One of the perks of our new town is that the local cable package includes LOGO! So I can finally watch Rosie’s “Big Gay Sketch Show”! Hooray!

Because I can’t leave the house today as we could have a neighborhood evacuation at any moment due to the massive forest fire lying in wait just a couple miles from us, I thought I’d take a moment to count down the unlucky 13 Best Fire-Related Songs* of all time. Enjoy!

1. Let me Stand (Next to Your Fire) - Jimi Hendrix
Although Red Hot Chili Peppers did a great cover of it at Woodstock ‘99
2. Smoke on the Water - Deep Purple
3. Fire - Ohio Players
“Fiiiiiii-yuh.” :: Sigh :: That song’s just b’dass, really.
4. Burnin’ for You - Blue Oyster Cult
5. Light my Fire - The Doors
6. Hot Stuff - Donna Summer
7. Ring of Fire - Johnny Cash
8. Heat Wave - Martha and the Vandellas
9. Lake of Fire - Meat Puppets/Nirvana
Nirvana did it better, although I’ll always be a Puppets fan.
10. Burn, Baby, Burn (Disco Inferno) - The Trammps
11. Great Balls of Fire - Jerry Lee Lewis
12. Burnin’ Love - Elvis Presley
13. Hot! Hot! Hot! - Dexter Poindexter
guh… what a rancid song. Only made worse when played on local Toyota dealership commercials.

*I refrained from including songs like “Fever”, “Boogie Fever”, “Hot Blooded”, or “Hot Legs” because those discuss biologically-related heat issues instead of just elemental fire.

Because it’s the dead middle of the week and my daughter is finally napping, I thought I’d take a moment to share some of my recent musings. Enjoy.

~ My favorite moments in “Fresh Prince” reruns are when they step outside the box and go all postmodern on us. For example, before a trip back to Philly, Will was talking about a certain former nemesis with whom he was fearing an encounter. When Jazz asked him who this specific guy was, Will responded, “He’s the dude twirling me over my head in the opening credits.” In one season premiere, Will comes out and asks, “Hey, who’s playing our mom this year?” (after the role had been handed off a couple times in the series.) Later in the episode, Will turns to Nicky, the “new baby” from the previous season (who is now speaking in full sentences, walking, and appears to be no younger than 3 years old.) and exclaims, “Whoa! Weren’t you born, like, a month ago?”

Love. It.

~ I used to think that “Eleanor Rigby” was a song about socially-inept loners who can’t connect with anyone else. And only recently did I realize that it’s about the sad, scared loner in all of us.

Yeah, I’m a little slow.

~My sister made me an incredible mix CD last summer that included N.E.R.D.’s “All the Girls Standing In the Line to the Bathroom”, which is a fabulous blend of ass-shaking beats and smooth Pharrellian lyrics. Anyway, after listening to it for months and singing along with it to my infant child, I stopped to reevaluate the lyrics.

A hundred-dollar bills? Look at’chu! Ah-choo!

I read on, appreciative of the mastery of such effectively moving language and the genius in which their deeply brooding undertones were incorporated into such a catchy, crowd-pleasing sound. 

But… um… See, with the excited beat and all I’d just kind of assumed that it was a commentary about the silly absurdities of the clubbing lifestyle. Turns out I’d been singing a song to my infant daughter about those superskinny girls with cocaine problems who waste their lives in posh nightclubs and parties and then are sad and empty during the day so they go back every night and do it all again.  

Oops.

~ Nothing really shocks me anymore and there are very few things that actually scandalize me, but, for some reason, when I saw an ad for the new Schick Quattro for Women Trim Style razor/trimmer combo, I had one of those lifted-eyebrow-tilted-head-”Barroo?!” moments.

The new razor is identical to the men’s version in that it has a basic straight razor on one end and a trimmer on the other (with adjustable combs! Assuming a man wants to put a fade into his goatee) Now, the general public can surely understand the immediate need for a hair trimmer on a men’s razor as men have to deal with, you know, facial hair and perhaps want a tool that will shave their stubble in addition to shaping their facial hair features as per their personal preferences.

However, being that we live in a society that is completely schizophrenic when it comes to sexuality, I was wondering how the company was going to address the need for a trimmer on a razor made for women. I mean, they couldn’t very well come out and say, “This part’s for your pubes, y’all.” but they had to somehow get the point across to sell a broad audience on the razor’s necessary functionality.

And ZOMG, you guys; I was NOT disappointed.  

As I’m watching, the camera wanders through scenes featuring tall, lithe, beautiful women with smooth hairless legs that would be too long for a giraffe. But, in every scenario, the camera pans past the women and focuses on a… ahem.. a bush. Yes. A bush that is.. oh, how do we say.. unkempt. And, with the buzzing sound of the trimmer, the extraneous leaves and branches magically fall away from the shrub to reveal a professionally pruned masterpiece. This alone was giggleworthy knowing the types of conservatives that dominate this part of the country who may be watching. However, what’s even more hilarious is that the bushes are pruned into very distinct vaginal shapes [although they look completely ridiculous on shrubbery] like a landing strip, or an inverted triangle. So any frigid woman who may have attempted denial as to the commercial’s allusions had her intentions completely thwarted in the strangely explicit analogy of the product’s purpose. 

Well played, Schick marketing department.

~WARNING: Unbelievably Judgmental Moment Ahead

(No, seriously, this is bad. Like, I’m probably going to Hell for this one. But I do have a point! And some musings that really aren’t rooted in evil and hatred! Just bear with me!)

Ever have a friend/colleague/lover/acquaintance who you liked for the most part but sensed that there was just something sucky and/or “off” about them? And you may have known this person your whole life, but one day you just suddenly realize that this person is certifiably white trash? Now, maybe you’d never noticed because said person didn’t immediately show symptoms that fit precisely within your personal stereotypes of this demographic (perhaps regarding location, social status, monetary history, sartorial/cosmetic implementation, education level, basic hygiene, political leaning, dietary habits, or whatever you personally typically consider a trait of white trashery… trashitude?… trashiness?) or maybe you’d just subconsciously ignored it out of personal motivations or maybe you just weren’t that invested or maybe it involved some other scenario to influence your personal perspective, but suddenly the basic characteristics are so obvious you kind of can’t understand how you couldn’t have seen it before now?

Man, talk about a total shift in dynamics and subconscious social agreements… not to mention daily perspective. Kinda makes you rethink all your relationships and if identifying objective societal labels within all your interactions might save you a lot of time and consternation, regardless of how terribly un-PC that might seem. Not that you should just stop loving your mom if you suddenly realize that the world views her as a drunken redneck and you kind of agree and also happen to despise drunken rednecks (that’s where learning to accept those we love for exactly who they are -warts and all - is put into play.) But maybe stepping back to objectively see the basic, surface-level, shallow label that someone we don’t necessarily love or cherish embodies would give us a better option as to whether or not we should spend our best energies on them. And, since that seems extremely intolerant (and I’m really just flinging out random ideas, here, people. I’m not committing to any of this so don’t take it as my absolute opinions or stances on human interaction.) and presupposing of diversities in people before you even get to know them on a deeper level, then maybe resorting to the labels and subsequent stereotypes associated with this person’s character would help us gain a better understanding on their juxtaposed perception.

For example, if, every day when you go to work you get into a heated argument with one of your colleagues because you bring a ham sandwich and she/he believes that meat is murder and screams at you about it and tapes pictures of slaughterhouses to your lunchbox and threatens to set your sandwiches on fire one day [when she can finally get office policy about that changed] and you find yourself dreading work [even more] and you feel like it’s your personal right to eat whatever the hell you want for lunch so you scream right back at her and then, over time, you begin feeling exhausted from such pointless daily emotional upheaval because of the actions and emotions of this one person who really does not matter in the general scheme of your life. Maybe maybe, if you’d just stopped after the first time she went ballistic on you to assume, “This woman is just another tree-hugging, vegan nutjob from some mountain town who feels validated and important when she continually pickets for her thousands of lifestyle beliefs in between bong hits. Apparently, she’s a little socially inept and stubborn and perhaps a little dumb. Those things aren’t going to make her a lot of friends… Poor girl. ” then maybe you wouldn’t have wasted so many of your lunch breaks yelling at her or car rides fuming because you think her actions are really attacks on your character (which is probably what she’s been working to make you think, really.) Maybe that’s your first step in learning to disengage from the dramas other people may try to bring to you and finding a steady sense of inner-peace. (At least toward the small things. The big things are another discussion altogether.)

The one problem with my potentially using this method one day is the fact that I don’t actually slap labels on my friends until long after they’re my friends, and usually only when I’m trying to describe them to someone else. (i.e. “My friend Blank is so rad! She’s this awesome clothing designer, nympho riot grrl and sometimes she’s a little flaky ’cause she’s a bit of a stoner and she listens to really terrible music, but I do love her.”) So, it’d be tough for me to start slapping labels on everyone that I meet in the off-chance that they might suck and I’d need to get away from them. 

Look, my beliefs in functioning from Love ultimately brings me back to learning to accept the flaws in other people without allowing ourselves to become personally affected by their actions. This, I feel, is the basis of happiness within ourselves and toward others. So, what I’m really saying here (finally, right?) is that perhaps flinging a basic, stereotypical label on people we find difficult from the very beginning of our interactions is a beginner’s step in learning how to recognize human differences, consider alternate perspectives or motivations, and mentally give other people permission to be exactly who they are (no matter how crappy a person may be) without allowing ourselves to waste too much energy arguing with them or taking their actions personally. Maybe that’s just how some of us have to bridge the gap between total judgment and human acceptance. 

Just a thought.

(I understand if you never respect me ever again for saying that in print, btw. I don’t harbor that many judgments or stereotypes, actually, and even when I do, I honestly have very very few prejudices toward entire groups of people. In fact, I can’t think of any sect of people I just flat-out loathe and/or whose members I wouldn’t give an honest chance in independent levels. I’m good about giving people a chance to prove themselves as likable before I fling them into one of the categories that I don’t like/can’t relate to.

But the aforementioned stereotype-in-stealth is the only one I’ve always wanted to comment on. So no, I’m not apologizing for it. )

(Here, look, I’ll show a little compassion in the next bulleted thought.) 

~ Whenever they discuss obesity on CNN, they always show stock footage of fatties walking around and I always feel so bad for those people. Because their faces aren’t exposed on camera, the network isn’t required to have these chubby pedestrians sign any form of model release. Can you imagine sitting at home (or at a friend’s home or at a bar or at the doctor’s office waiting room), watching Headline News and suddenly seeing a zoomed-in image of your ass/hips/stomach/thighs [perhaps in Hi-Def] while some nutrition expert prattles on about how we’re dying as a country because we can’t put down our McFlurrys (sp)?

Yes, okay, it’s a very important conversation to be having right now because we are a country with terrible eating habits and sedentary lifestyles that are driving us into early graves and mounds of debt in hospital bills and unnecessary health problems. But don’t we think making a public example of innocent people just out for a walk is a little “Mean Girls“-esque? Isn’t trying to get the general public to recoil and consider these specific people disgustingly unhealthy kind of perpetuating the body-image issues that usually cause obesity or starvation in the first place? Maybe instead we could show images of healthy people at the gym or those awesome old people who, due to a long-term healthy lifestyle, are still able to waterski and run marathons and all that?

Makes me thankful I’m not a morbidly obese resident of Atlanta.

~ On VH1 Classic’s series Heavy: A History of Heavy Metal, they considered KISS to be in that category. And they are NOT. (Dee Snyder and Alice Cooper agree with me.)

Any rock band who sells dolls of themselves (with 8 year olds in the commercials) among the hoards of other crap they manufactured with their faces on it and makes a rock/disco fusion album IS NOT METAL.

And anybody who says otherwise is crapping on all those guys who paved the way in metal and, really, the entire metal genre and it’s rich, colorful history. BOOOO VH1 and your ridiculous commentary!

:: Exhales ::

Thanks for letting me get that out. I feel much better now.

Long long ago, in a forgotten time (Spring 2002) and in an irrelevant place (Greensboro, NC) there lived a beautiful, enigmatic man-god who we’ll refer to as B. B was an incredible specimen of a man, standing at 6 feet tall with bold, rippling muscles that gently pressed against the fabric of his clothing and a smile that could slice diamonds. Having been raised in both London and Chicago, his dialect displayed a humble worldliness unseen in most American youth of that generation, but he kept this unique attribute as a quiet character effect, never boasting about himself or his colorful, varied life. A gifted student of theatre, he wasn’t afraid to exhibit a sensitive artistic side as he both acted and wrote in dazzling performances of subtle genius. This, of course, only added to his appeal and, thus, had women of all ages mesmerized by his intoxicating persona. (Including a not-so-subtle Voice for the Actor professor who shamelessly flung herself at him for an entire semester… to no avail.)

Liz was one of these such women. After drenching her undergarments at the man-god’s arrival to an afternoon acting class, she helplessly surrendered herself to the gentle force of his presence. Each week she would spend a little extra time readying herself to be in his company, taking hours to improve her appearance while she gushed about him to her amused roommate (Hot Liz). At every class she would find herself more hypnotized by his movements, his coy laughter, his blatant ignorance as to the acute power he held over the fawning women (and men, being that he was attending a liberal arts university) that flocked to him. 

On more than one occasion, Liz caught herself making a complete fool of herself in the wake of the man-god’s magnificence. When he noticed her dreamily (and involuntarily) staring at him, she would offer stammered excuses such as “Ilikeyourhat…” or “Sorry, I’m still grieving about the recent death of Layne Staley” before burying herself into her rucksack to hide her crimson face. Despite such mortifying moments of hopeless pining, she would always be rewarded with one of his earth-moving smiles and she liked to fantasize that her involuntary affection was somehow appreciated by someone of his godlike caliber. 

On the last day of class, the other students were talking excitedly about some silly summer film that was coming out in theatres that day (SpiderMan). Someone suggested that they all go together that evening to catch the film and, to Liz’s amazement, the man-god showed interest in joining them. As the ad hoc event coordinator, Liz bravely scribbled her dorm room’s number on his palm, trying not to lose consciousness at the soft strength of his perfect hands that seemed resonate to her very core.

Somehow, the details for this event fell through with the other members of the class and Liz found herself sitting by the phone, waiting, a bit disappointed, to tell the man-god that the plans were off. Roommate Hot Liz consoled Liz on her apparent loss and offered to fetch her something frozen and chocolate to soothe her pain. As Hot Liz was retrieving these vital reinforcements, the man-god called, right on time, and Liz spoke carefully although her hand was trembling and she felt her knees threatening surrender at any moment.

Then, as she listened, the man-god informed her of a bonfire party that was taking place that evening on the outskirts of town with students of the university’s MFA Theatre program. He would be leaving in a few hours and casually invited her along, saying that she didn’t have to ride with him if she wanted to leave early, but was welcome to stay in his tent if she wanted to stay the night.

In her incredulousness, Liz found herself plunged into a delirious euphoria, where everything in the world was magic and the cruelties of reality and society were but mere illusions. Fighting to ignore her wildly ecstatic mind’s whirring, she managed to calmly agree to call him when she’d made up her mind and hang up the phone before erupting in a crazed fit of giggles and general estrogen-fueled screaming. Hot Liz returned with her chocolates to find her insane roommate bounding up and down the hallway and was only able to gather sparse information pertaining to this incredible joy in between Liz’s screaming and panting with excitement. Immediately upon realizing the cause of her friend’s excitement, Hot Liz quickly joined in on the infectious rapture and, soon, everyone in the hallway was dancing with giddy glee at such a triumphant moment (instigated and perpetuated mostly by Hot Liz screaming “THAT HOT GUY IN LIZ’S CLASS ASKED HER OUT!“)

But soon after the high of her initial excitement wore off, Liz’s old Opponents slunk casually into her mind, smirking at her excitement and jeering at her optimism. Scoffing, they ridiculed her audacity, “Have you seen this guy’s smoking hot ex-girlfriend? You think he’s interested in an overweight brunette nobody?”

“Well, that’s a pity date if I’ve ever seen one.” they howled with laughter. “You may want to make sure you’re not part of a bet he has going on with his friends.” Unable to control their hysterical chortling, they ribbed each other and continued to shove their version of Reality in Liz’s face. 

Slowly, Liz began to see valid points in these familiar Opponents’ arguments. After all, who was she to expect someone so highly esteemed to take an interest in someone so average-looking and unaccomplished as her? Within an hour, Fear and its companions Doubt and Self-Deprecation had consumed her and Liz became convinced that she would only be making a fool of herself by following the man-god to this party. Surely, she would look like a pathetic fangirl, tagging along with him blindly and carrying ridiculous fantasies that she would have a shot with him. And, if by some miracle he did make a move on her that night, it would undoubtedly be because he would be drunk and lonely, perhaps treating himself to a little hero worship to boost his confidence.

And so, despite the desperate pleading of Hot Liz to reconsider, Liz gave in to her Opponents and never called B back, opting instead to remain nestled in the safe comforts of her fears instead of facing the hurt and loss that she felt was imminent.

Liz never saw the man-god again. At the beginning of the next semester, B sold a screenplay to a studio in Hollywood and promptly moved to LA to bask in his obvious, inevitable success. Liz retreated back into the habits of her self-loathing, finding refuge in the close blindness of alcohol and the fleeting securities of a chronic but never-ending abusive relationship.

Many years have passed since Liz last saw the man-god. Through a lot of therapy and general rehabilitation she has moved away from such intense self-doubt, finally allowing herself to feel deserving of happiness and a life she can be proud of. It took many years for her to realize that her Opponents were the culprits for her self-sabotage and tolerance for a lifestyle not worthy of her energy. These days, she has a loving, devoted husband with whom she is enamored and a beautiful, joyful little girl who both bring her more joy than she had ever thought she was worthy of experiencing.

But sometimes she remembers the man-god and the regret of not knowing what could have happened on that night jabs at her heart. 

The moral of the story is obvious, unless you’re a complete dolt (in which case, please see me after class) but the truth is that even with this sort of frustration in Liz’s pocket, she still allows Fear to cripple her forward movement more often than she would like to admit.

Slowly, however, it is finally dawning on her that the Fear of looking back on a life of missed opportunities is far greater than the Fear of being hurt in the excited chaos of being alive.

Dear McDonald’s Marketing Team:

Stop it. You’re making total asses of yourself. Seriously.

No, hear me out. Apparently, in order to try to market to the younger crowd, you’ve started using the ridiculous phrase “Nuggnuts” to denote someone who’s obsessed with your small chunks of processed chicken parts. This would ordinarily be cute and effective if not for the glaring fact that 90% of the people watching these ads are giggling with the knowledge that you, as a team, have no idea what a “nug” actually is in everyday American vernacular.

Because you weren’t smart enough to check UrbanDictionary.com or ask one of your college-aged nephews or nieces before you launched a campaign with a new phrase to check for secondary meanings of the term “nug”, allow me to cut your search in half.

—–
Nug n.

1. A high quality bud of marijuana.
2. The Dank.
3. See: ganja.

Gayle packed her last nug into the bowl and smoked it on the way to work.
—–

So, yeah… and then with the image of those as nuts… (look up “nuts” on your own, friends. I’m trying to keep some standards in my public writing…) Needless to say, it’s easy to see why literally millions of American consumers are laughing at you every time your ignorantly hilarious commercials air.

There’s a way you can save this, you know. You can act like you meant for all of this to be a big play on words and have a bunch of nug-confusion ads in response to this campaign so you don’t look completely idiotic. I don’t know, maybe a girl proposing a Nugg wedding cake (as per one of your ads) and her groom imagining a giant cake made of what appears to be made of um… superfresh, bundled oregano, until she corrects him by asking whether the icing should be barbecue or honey mustard.

Look, I’m not in advertising, I just know from experience you should ask around before you try out a “new” catchphrase. Just ask the guys who make Bone Suckin’ Barbecue Sauce.

Best,
Castallare