the sloppy copy

The men in my family are absolutely cursed with terrible allergies. As a kid, I didn’t know exactly what “sinuses” were, but I knew that my Dad’s did terrible things that made him miserable and cranky. My brother used to get horrible nosebleeds – seemingly out of absolutely nowhere – ruining many a pillow and causing many a scene in public places. Our medicine cabinet was crammed full of allergy medications and our shelves runneth over with emergency boxes of tissues. Despite all this, I made it through unscathed.

So it makes little sense to me that I’ve somehow newly developed seasonal allergies. I’ve heard of folks becoming lactose intolerant as they age, but to gradually become sensitive to ragweed?* Or whatever-the-hell-else floats around the air around me?

I didn’t start noticing it until around 2007 when I moved to Oklahoma. There, I chalked it up to the ferocious wind blowing all kinds of shit around that my nose just wasn’t used to. All of this stuff was there all along, I figured. The wind was just never strong enough to stir it up. 

Except I continued to notice it after I moved back to Missouri, where the wind most certainly does not come sweepin’ down the plain (quite the opposite, really; the hot, festering air sits like a stagnant cloud of death upon us. Oh, summer). Thankfully, my allergies are seasonal. I’ve known folks that seem to suffer year-round, ugh.

Despite knowing that this is my new normal, I seem to forget each year until I start sneezing and itching. A few weeks ago, I was convinced that I was coming down with a cold. Except it never seemed to progress past that initial sneezy-watery-gross-phlegmy-general-blah-ness that begin a cold. And damn, did my eyes itch! Maybe I had pinkeye? No, probably typhoid. No, not probably. Definitely. I was definitely coming down with a wicked case of typhoid.** A wicked case of typhoid that mysteriously flares up whenever I go outside.

Ohhhhhhhhhh….

*Ragweed… which sounds like something you should get your money back for, not a potential allergen.
**What the fuck is typhoid, anyway? Is that like typhus? Isn’t typhus a thing? Or is that a name? Hehe. Typhus Andronicus. lolz.

Okay, I need to stay the FUCK off of WebMD because I just completely and totally convinced myself that I am dying. For about five minutes, I was 100% certain that before this day is over, I will be toast. Fortunately, I’m down to about 85% and dropping.

For those who are interested, there will be a margarita machine and bouncy castle at the memorial service.

I’m having a dinner guest, which means I’m doing the cooking. Incidentally, I’m cooking a meal for someone who is a very good cook. Don’t get me wrong; I enjoy cooking, I just don’t claim to have any special skill. I keep things simple, but manage to come up with edible end results for the most part. But my upcoming dinner guest is the kind of person who says things like “Oh, I’m just going to braise a couple chicken thighs” the way I say “Oh, I’ll just open this jar of spaghetti sauce and pour it on my noodles.”

“So what are we having?” they ask eagerly.
“Oh, chicken.” I say.
“Okay, okay. What are we talking, here? Chicken thighs? Breasts?”
I wonder to myself what part of the chicken these little strip-things came from.
“You’ll just have to wait and see,” I answer. I’m going for Coy, but it comes across more Bitch.
I immediately backpedal.
“Chicken breasts,” I say as I quickly consult the package. I wonder why they care so much. Just fucking eat this food that I will self-consciously cook for you, please.
And then I remember that they offered to bring adult beverages to complement the meal. Actually, I think I might have asked them to bring adult beverages to complement the meal.

What does one drink with Inferiority Complex Chicken, anyway?

I ran my tongue across the back of my front teeth. Well, that’s weird, I thought. That one never moved before…

And just like that, it was out.

…just snapped on out like a pop-bead, and there’s so much blood and also there’s a fucking tooth swimming around inside my mouth.

“I need a glass of milk!” I cry. Because somewhere in my brain, I remember reading that’s what you’re supposed to do. Keep the tooth in milk until you can get to the dentist.

But my parents think I’m insane. They keep asking why I’d need milk. JUST HURRY! I cry, and my Dad pours a full glass of milk, into which I spit blood and tooth. Groooooosssssss. We then discuss why this happened, and I give a perfectly understandable Dental Explanation, because once – for real, maybe 10 years ago – I was told I might need a root canal on that tooth.

Next comes the call to the dentist. It is a Saturday afternoon, and the office is closed, but miraculously someone answers. I explain what is going on, and they can get me right in! My appointment is set for 32 minutes from now, which is convenient because I just so happen to know it takes 32 minutes to get to his office. I tell them that I’ve dutifully placed my missing tooth in a glass of milk, but am corrected by the receptionist. “Do you have any caramel?” she asks.

“What?”

“Caramel. Do you have any caramel?”

“What? Caramel? Caramel. CARAMEL. Is that the word you’re saying?”

“Yes, like caramel sauce. That’s the best thing for it.”

“I’ve got a jar of ice cream topping…”

“That’s perfect. Put the tooth in there.”

And so the tooth goes from milk glass to caramel jar. This only strikes me as slightly odd.

The waiting room is dim, and strangely filled with junior-high kids. Oh, and also, it’s set up like a lab classroom: those black tables and aluminum stools – you remember the sound they make when you drag them across the floor. My entire family has decided to come with me, but there are not enough stools so we find an empty office nearby to sit in. It is filled with high-end Executive Furniture – mahogany desk and leather chairs. It appears to be vacant, so we settle in the fancy chairs.

The phone on the desk rings.

And I answer it, because duh.

It’s the dentist. I recognize his voice. He also happens to be a tow truck driver, and I can’t remember if he did both of these jobs or was just a dentist in this particular story. He asks me which tooth fell out, and I tell him that it’s one of my front ones. “Well, I’ve called in an inflammation specialist, but he can’t be here for 35 minutes. You should probably come back now,” he says.

I collect my jar of tooth-y caramel and report to the receptionist. Apparently this dental practice has taken over some sort of office/junior high school. As I set the jar on the counter, the contents shift, and the tooth becomes buried. “Someone get me a spoon!” I cry, because there is nothing worse than losing one’s tooth in a jar of Smucker’s Ice Cream Topping.

And then I woke up.

Yup. Exactly this. I haven’t yet checked with Dentist Friend, but I’m certain that receptionist was mistaken.

Today I watched a teenager who lives across the parking lot help an older gentleman – his grandfather, I think? – down the stairs from their apartment and into a waiting wheelchair below. S   L   O   W   L   Y they crept down the steps, grandson all but carrying him to the bottom. Another woman – the older man’s daughter? – spotted them from behind and steadied the chair as the older man turned himself around with halting, shuffling steps. As he sat down, the grandson patted him on the back, with not one ounce of condescension. He rested his hand on the older man’s shoulder for a brief second, and in that second, I could see – from halfway across the parking lot – pure love in the gesture.

I grew up without grandparents. My last remaining one passed away when I was about four. And even though most of my memories of him involve staying with my mother at his apartment while she cared for him at the end, when he was very ill, these aren’t negative memories. I remember sitting at the breakfast table, eating bowls of Total Raisin Bran – the purple box was kept on top of the refrigerator in his teeny-tiny apartment kitchen. I remember sitting quietly in the corner coloring with giant, fat preschool crayons while he napped in the other room. As time progressed, he spent more time in bed, and when he was awake and feeling ok I was allowed to visit with him in his bedroom. He would lay there watching television, and I would sit on the floor next to him, popping up on my knees every so often to talk with him. He promised me that when he got better, he would take me to the park, and every day I wished that he would get better because Grandpa was awesome then and I couldn’t imagine how much more awesome he’d be at the playground.

As I watched that young man help his grandfather, a thought crossed my mind: that will be me with my parents. And I began to worry – not at the thought of them growing older and feeble, but at how I’d react. Would I be so kind? Or would I be the bitch I saw at WalMart last week, yelling at an older woman with whom she was shopping to “hurry up!” as the older woman pushed a cart laden with groceries behind her? Will I run out of patience? Will I resent them for simply being old?

Of course I will (though God strike me down if I vent my frustration at them directly, or worse – in public) because I am human. But as my thoughts drifted to my Grandpa, and I saw that young man’s love for his  own grandfather, I was comforted by the fact that I’ve loved my folks since Day One, and will continue to do so for eternity, no matter what happens.

The other day I was sending what I intended to be heartfelt texts (I know, I know, that sounds like an oxymoron. I just wasn’t able to call the person at the time). “I’m so sorry” kept autocorrecting to “I’m so dirty.”

Which is horribly inappropriate, but so funny.

It’s hard to laugh and send heartfelt texts at the same time.

Also, this:
I had tickets to the Cardinals/Cubs game today but wasn’t feeling well so I skipped it. I was lamenting bitching to my brother about it via text:

Don’t quite get it?
Proceed with caution here.

with this post, I’m trying to make up for days I missed.

Huzzah!

People not from around these parts – did you know there is a river in Missouri called the Huzzah River? Only it’s pronounced HOO-zah, not Huh-ZAH. It’s uncannily similar to the pronunciation of the word “Hoosier” – which is appropriate, seeing as that’s the main demographic of their float traffic.*

In my current job, I look at a lot of maps. If you were to tell 10-year-old Me that I would grow up to have a job where I looked at maps for approximately 8 hours a day I would have been giddy with delight (oh, the simple things). I also talk to a lot of people in a lot of different places, and through these conversations I’ve been corrected countless times on my pronunciation of local towns/landmarks/surnames/every-fucking-thing else. Learning how other folks pronounce things, weirdly enough, also delights me. Some of main ones that I encounter over and over again:

Natchitoches, Louisiana (NACK-a-dish)
Kosciusko, Mississippi (Kossy-US-ko)
Dierks, Arkansas (Derek’s, like the town belongs to a dude named Derek)
Cairo, Illinois (KAY-roh)
Vienna, Illinois (Vie-ANN-a)

The list goes on…and on…

I just randomly Google’d “huzzah float” and this image came up. While it does not capture the “Hoosier je ne sais quoi” I was looking for, the bro in the sling represents another demographic not to be overlooked. $500 says he got shit-canned his first night down there and fell off something. THE FLOAT MUST GO ON, BROS!

*Don’t misunderstand. I, myself, am such a hoosier [Missouri usage].
…Hell, I guess I’m even an honorary Hoosier [Indiana usage].

Welp, I didn’t make it.

Oh well.

Anyway, quick little post. This song popped into my head this morning, as soon as I woke up. I’d never, ever looked up the lyrics until just now and was a little surprised. But you know what? I still like it. It’s almost more charming now that I know the ‘backstory.’

Well its been building up inside of me
For oh I don’t know how long
I don’t know why
But I keep thinking
Something’s bound to go wrong

But she looks in my eyes
And makes me realize
And she says “Don’t worry baby”
Don’t worry baby
Don’t worry baby
Everything will turn out alright

Don’t worry baby
Don’t worry baby
Don’t worry baby

I guess I should’ve kept my mouth shut
When I started to brag about my car
But I can’t back down now because
I pushed the other guys too far

She makes me come alive
And makes me wanna drive
When she says “Don’t worry baby”
Don’t worry baby
Don’t worry baby
Everything will turn out alright

Don’t worry baby
Don’t worry baby
Don’t worry baby

She told me “Baby, when you race today
Just take along my love with you
And if you knew how much I loved you
Baby nothing could go wrong with you”

Oh what she does to me
When she makes love to me
And she says “Don’t worry baby”
Don’t worry baby
Don’t worry baby
Everything will turn out alright

Don’t worry baby
Don’t worry baby
Don’t worry baby

Oh, what’s this feeling that I’m feeling? (Though, more importantly, How long as it been there? because even though the question’s only just been posed, it’s difficult to remember anything else). Am I ill? Because my guts are going crazy, alternately performing jump rope tricks and coiling back onto themselves, a disgusting jumbled lump. Am I sad? I must have tipped my chair back too far, because I fell out of this particular scene. Clambering back to my place within it – I look around and it’s not there. The gap’s been filled, the sound turned down. The act continues without me in it. Am I scared? In the corner – there? Do you see it? It’s hard to make out, but it’s waiting. I am not ready for this. This is going to be bad. Am I angry?  these questions ignite an internal ribbon of gasoline and whoosh: ALL OF THIS IS BULLSHIT. NONE OF THIS IS REAL. WHY IS IT SO REAL? Hate the brain, hate the body, hate everything, hate everyone.

“You seemed unreasonably terrified.” Man! That’s a good one! We all need to be called out on our own bullshit and this was my two-word bitch-slap. Unreasonably terrified. Thank you. You get it. You probably don’t think that you do, but you obviously do, because that right there? I laughed until I damn-near wet myself. And the feeling I was feeling – when was the last time I felt that way? – it’s difficult to remember; it’s quietly packing up all its shit and vacating the brain space where so many other productive and pleasant things usually live.

I could never be featured on one of those reality-home-buying TV shows. I mean, aside from the fact that I can’t afford to buy a house of course. What I mean is that my standards are too flexible, and probably too low, to make for good television.

Julie, what are you looking for in a home?

Well, it should be spacious and have plenty of extra room…
But, I mean, not too much space. I don’t want to have to, like, buy more furniture or something. Plus I hate cleaning floors: sweeping, vacuuming, mopping. Hate, hate, hate it. Um, so I guess the less square footage, the better.

I’d also like at least two bathrooms…
Well, maybe one full one and a half one would be okay. As long as there are two rooms with a toilet and a sink, that should be fine. Okay, I mean, if the one doesn’t have a sink in the room I could make do. Is there a basement? I can put a bucket in the corner.

A good kitchen with all the main appliances is a must…
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t need a dishwasher. And I’ve got my own microwave, somewhere. That’s basically not even an appliance anyway. A good gas range, though. Okay, well, electric is fine. And I guess I don’t need all 4 burners to work. I usually only use two at a time, tops. And the fridge? I mean, as long as it keeps things below room temperature, that should be fine. I wouldn’t store a lot in it anyway. Well, I guess if push comes to shove, I’ve got a cooler. And bags of ice are cheap.

Three bedrooms, at least…
Okay, okay. That’s kind of laughable. What the hell would I put in that third bedroom? An office would be nice, but that’s what I’ve got a couch and a long laptop cord for. Speaking of couches, that’s where my friends will end up sleeping anyway so I certainly don’t need a “guest room.” So yeah. I guess I just need one bedroom. Orrrr at least a place for my bed. Maybe in the basement.

Opposite corner from the bucket, preferably.