Only In My Hometown

My city is totally screwy. Things happen here that do not happen in "normal" places. I think it's a combination of all the liquor we collectively imbibe, the funky art-school aura, and the damned humidity.

Here's a small example of what I'm talking about:





This photo was taken a few weeks ago at a Mickey D's in my town. Now, either the workers are a) too goofy to notice they've misspelled their own item, or b) did it on purpose, in which case they're out of a job, or c) someone else tampered with the sign. Sadly, all given choices are within the realm of possibility.

When you all think I exaggerate about life in this little burg, look at this picture, and think again....

I Finally Meet My (Non-Identical) Twin

CCW and I meet up! (While Offspring hovers in the background.)

CCW and Mr. MFBA at lunch.

CCW and I have long since discovered all the ways that we are alike, and have often joked that we must have been twins separated at birth. (How I got to be four years older than her remains a mystery for the ages.)

She and her family had to travel to a family wedding this weekend in a city only 2 hours from mine. She decided that she was dragging the entire family to HumidityLikeABrickWall for a bloggy meetup since she was within a fairly good driving range.

We met up for lunch and a quick stroll around the touristy area. CCW is just as hilarious in person as she is online. She's bright, funny, and we had no shortage of things to talk about. Mr. MFBA was a good sport, driving two hours out of the way for lunch and being Nonami's nap spot during it. He was, poor man, having to drive 10 hours back home only to get up in the morning and head to work. What fun for him. You truly are a badass, Mr. MFBA.

Kid L and Offspring got on like a house on fire. I actually had to look to make sure that they were eating during lunch, because it seemed like they talked a mile a minute the whole time we were there. They exchanged emails, and will probably be burning up the airwaves as much as their mothers do.

Nonami and NSBH were adorable, and I earned cosmic black marks against my name by showing the two of them the candy store and pointing out the large lollipops they sold. Nonami ate his straight away, and managed to get green lollipop goo all over his forehead. NSBH showed great restraint by not eating hers right away, but bedeviled Mommy for it after lunch. Mommy wasn't so interested in letting her child eat a lollipop as big as said child's head, but I have the feeling NSBH will wear her down on the drive home. CCW spent far too much money on the sugar-crack that we call pralines, and I'm curious to see how many of those make it home. They don't last very long with me.

It was a great visit, if short. I feel that we could have talked all day, but time was of the essence. I hope that CCW and Mr. MFBA are able to make the visit they're planning in October. I also hope they enjoyed the visit as much as we did.

Now *That's* More Like It!

The heatwave here in HumidityLikeABrickWall has finally broken. We woke up Sunday to clear, but rapidly cooling weather. It went down to 37 last night, which might not sound like a whole lot to all of you who are currently snowbound...BUT -- considering that the day before, it was in the eighties, 37 is a drastic change.

Saturday night, JF and I were so warm that we turned on our ceiling fan, and only had a sheet and a light blanket on our bed. Sunday night, we had to break out our little space heater, and I had to put a comforter and a quilt on our bed.

Now, *that's* more like Christmas weather!

Just Not Right

Things are odd here in HumidityLikeABrickWall. It's all topsy-turvy. We've gone Bizarro World.

I got sent home early from school today because the nurse caught me vomiting in the bathroom. I had a migraine that would just not! go! away!, and it was exacerbated by all six of our kindergarten classes loudly practicing their holiday songs together for next week's PTA meeting. I tried to explain to her that I would be a little better now that I'd vomited (for some strange reason, it does help with the pain somewhat...) and I was going to wash my face. She insisted that I had to go home, and even sent another teacher to my room for my school bag. Oy. So, I drove home very carefully, and slept from 2pm to 6:30pm. I still feel very disconnected and fuzzy, but no longer within the throes of the almighty pounding.

I have several Christmas-themed sweaters and sweater vests, and I like to wear them to school for the holidays. The kids always get a big kick out of them, and they help me be in a more Christmas-spirited mood. I decided to wear one of my favorite vests this morning -- it's navy blue, and depicts Santa in his sleigh, flying over the night sky to deliver presents to the houses far below. It was slightly chilly this morning, but not enough so that I needed a jacket, since I had a white t-shirt on under the vest. When we left the classroom for lunch, our thermometer said 81 degrees! 81 freaking degrees! My headache was probably not helped much by the fact that I was DYING OF HEATSTROKE!

It's hard to get into the Christmas spirit when you're sweating like a construction worker, is all I'm saying.

Rules For Living

A humorous list of rules for living here in HumidityLikeABrickWall recently appeared in the local paper. There were 99 in all, but a lot of them are location jokes that others wouldn't understand unless they were locals, so I've condensed them for your amusement.
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Complain. About anything.

Celebrate the solemn religious import of St. Patrick’s Day with clowns on scooters and wet T-shirt contests.

Mascara: Best applied at 80 m.p.h.

HumidityLikeABrickWall summers: “It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.” Actually, moron, it’s both.

Consider anyone a “newcomer” whose family arrived later than the Fillmore Administration.

Don’t mess with Parking Services. (Those meter maids are hell on three wheels.)

Tourists spend a kazillion dollars here every year. Treat them with impatience and disdain.

If a tourist asks what the rank odor in the air is, say it's the smell of money. (We have a paper plant right near the tourist district.)

Always order sweet tea.

Say you like the heat even when the air feels like Campbell's Cream of Chunky Molasses Soup.

Show your support for the troops by displaying a magnetic ribbon made in China on your Japanese car.

Talk loudly in movie theaters. Everyone around you is dying to hear your opinions.

Be sure to crank up your stereo at intersections, too. We all love hearing how to "bitch slap that ho."

Resent college kids who are "different." But love the big bucks their parents send here.

Don't bother moving your car for the street sweepers. Just for the ticket truck that follows five minutes later.

Worship the God of your choice - or else.

Too fat to wear Spandex? Not in HumidityLikeABrickWall.

Leave the Spanish moss alone. Unless you want little visitors in your undies.

Your preparation for hurricane season? Lay in some extra martini mix. (And beer. And if the hurricane misses us, throw a party.)

Turn signal: Term unknown.

Yellow light: A signal for the next seven to eight cars to accelerate.

Red light: A signal for all but the first three to four cars to stop.

Blame the weatherman when it doesn't rain. Blame him when it does.

Any store with 20 check-out lines? At least 18 will be closed.

Local spelling: "Dog" = "Dawg." And folks wonder why our SAT scores look like wind-chill factors.

It's always someone else who buys that "special lingerie" at the adult 'bookstore.'

Anyone driving 65 mph on the parkway is considered a "slowpoke." Those traveling at 55 mph (the technical speed limit) are officially "parking."

Tailgating? Shoot, hon, we're just being sociable.

Calvinism: A local religion, popularly represented on a pickup's back window by a picture of a young boy urinating.

Fire Lanes: Excellent places to park. And so convenient to the stores. Even better than those "handicapped" spaces.

The Parkway: An ambitious project launched the same week as Egypt's Great Pyramid. Scheduled for completion later this millennium (tentatively).

Curbside recycling? Obviously a hippie Commie plot.

Expect your cable to go out when it rains. Or when it's partly cloudy. Or on any day that ends with "y."

The sign at the grocery store that reads "15 items or less, cash only" doesn't apply to you. Heavens, no.

Don't believe everything the downtown tour guides tell you. The Confederacy, for example, did not win the Civil War.

Coolly walk past the celebrities you spot in town. Then excitedly call everyone with the news.

Pamper your dogs more than your children.

Those roaches that are so big you can put saddles on them? They're "Palmetto Bugs."

Let us know when you see a ghost on a ghost tour. You'll be the first.

Don't look for many flights to Paris at HumidityLikeABrickWall "International" Airport.

You call them "horseflies." We call them "teeth with wings."

If you live on the southside, your out-of-town guests will want to spend all their time downtown. If you live downtown, they'll want to visit the malls.

Honk your horn when you're stuck in traffic. Repeatedly. We're sure all of those cars in front of you will magically disappear.

Synchronized traffic lights? Dream on ...

Hang out in the left lane of the interstate if you're older than 80 and can barely see over your Cadillac's steering wheel. Be sure to leave your turn signal on.

No bathing suit is too tiny for the beach. Especially if you resemble a sumo wrestler on steroids.

The editorial page at the paper isn't really conservative; it's just opposed to "change for change's sake" (like those new-fangled horseless carriages).

A fistful of quarters comes in handy when you finally find a parking space downtown. We hear they make excellent brass knuckles too.

Nothing says HumidityLikeABrickWall like a debutante with a tattoo on her ass.

Anyone standing in front of you in line at Wal-Mart will need a price check.

Stop signs are for sissies.

Watering restrictions are for that guy down the street. It's OK if your lawn looks like a tropical rainforest.

Yield when you enter a square. Unless you don't feel like it.

Appomattox?: A temporary setback.

Being Southern: A Practical Primer

Stolen shamelessly from Coffeypot, a how-to manual on everything Southern:
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There are some great things about being Southern. For example, every Southerner loves grits. It is required, or you have to leave your family behind and move up North. Grits also has a meaning other than pure breakfast nirvana. It is also an acronym for Girls Raised In The South.

Southern Women are made different than those from other areas. For example:

Southern women appreciate their natural assets:
Clean skin.
A winning smile.
That unforgettable Southern drawl.

Southern women know their manners:
"Yes, ma'am."
"Yes, sir."
"Why, no, Billy!"

Southern women have a distinct way with fond expressions:
"Y'all come back!"
"Well, bless your heart."
"Drop by when you can."
"How's your Momma?"


Southern women know their summer weather report:
Humidity
Humidity
Humidity

Southern women know their vacation spots:
The beach
The rivuh
The crick

Southern women know the joys of June, July, and August:
Colorful hi-heel sandals
Strapless sun dresses
Iced sweet tea with mint

Southern women know everybody's first name:
Honey
Darlin'
Shugah

Southern women know the movies that speak to their hearts:
Fried Green Tomatoes
Driving Miss Daisy
Steel Magnolias
Gone With The Wind

Southern women know their religions:
Baptist
Methodist
Football

Southern women know their country breakfasts:
Red-eye or Sawmill gravy
Grits
Eggs
Country ham
Mouth-watering homemade biscuits with momma's homemade jelly and butter.

Southern women know their cities dripping with Southern charm:
Chawl'stn
S'vanah
Foat Wuth
N'awlins
Addlanna

Southern women know their elegant gentlemen:
Men in uniform.
Men in tuxedos
Rhett Butler

Southern girls know their prime real estate:
The Mall
The Country Club
The Beauty Salon

Southern girls know the 3 deadly sins:
Having bad hair and nails
Having bad manners
Cooking bad food

But being Southern isn’t only for women. No, sir! Everyone born and reared in the South is taught many things that baffle the interlopers from the North. It is things only Southerners know, such as:

Only a Southerner knows the difference between a hissie fit and a conniption fit, and that you don't "HAVE" them, you "PITCH" them.

Only a Southerner knows how many fish, collard greens, turnip greens, peas, beans, etc., make up "a mess."
Only a Southerner can show or point out to you the general direction of "yonder."

Only a Southerner knows exactly how long "directly" is, as in: "Going to town, be back directly."

Even Southern babies know that "Gimme some sugar" is not a request for the white, granular sweet substance that sits in a pretty little bowl in the middle of the table.

All Southerners know exactly when "by and by" is. They might not use the term, but they know the concept well.

Only a Southerner knows instinctively that the best gesture of solace for a neighbor who's got trouble is a plate of hot fried chicken and a big bowl of cold potato salad. If the neighbor's trouble is a real crisis, they also know to add a large banana puddin!

Only Southerners grow up knowing the difference between "right near" and "a right far piece." They also know that "just down the road" can be 1 mile or 20.

Only a Southerner, both knows and understands, the difference between a redneck, a good ol' boy, and po' white trash.

No true Southerner would ever assume that the car with the flashing turn signal is actually going to make a turn.

A Southerner knows that "fixin" can be used as a noun, a verb, or an adverb.

Only Southerners make friends while standing in lines; that when we're "in line," we talk to everybody!

Put 100 Southerners in a room and half of them will discover they're related, even if only by marriage.

In the South, "y'all" is singular, "all y'all" is plural.

Southerners know grits come from corn and how to eat them.

Every Southerner knows tomatoes with eggs, bacon, grits, and coffee are perfectly wonderful; that red eye gravy is also a breakfast food; and that fried green tomatoes are not a breakfast food.

When you hear someone say, "Well, I caught myself lookin'," you know you are in the presence of a genuine Southerner!

Only true Southerners say "sweet tea" and "sweet milk." Sweet tea indicates the need for sugar and lots of it -- we do not like our tea unsweetened. "Sweet milk" means you don't want buttermilk.

Contrary to whatever you Yankees have been told, "macaroni and cheese" is a vegetable. Don't ya'll know that mac & cheese goes so well with taters and gravy, you just can't have enough starch in your diet.

And a true Southerner knows you don't scream obscenities at little old ladies who drive 30 MPH on the freeway. You just say, "Bless her heart" ... and go your own way.

To those of you who are still a little embarrassed by your Southerness: Take two tent revivals and a dose of sausage gravy and call me in the morning. Bless your heart!

And to those of you who are still having a hard time understanding all this Southern stuff, ... bless your hearts, I hear they are fixin' to have classes on Southernness as a second language!

And for those that are not from the South but have lived here for a long time, all y'all need a sign to hang on y'alls front porch that reads "I ain't from the South, but I got here as fast as I could."

Southern girls know men may come and go, but friends are fahevah !

Now...... Shugah, send this to someone who was raised in the South or wish they had been!

And, Shugah, if you're a Northern transplant, bless your little heart, fake it. We know you got here as fast as you could.

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Big sugah goes out to Coffeypot for posting this, and bless his heart for allowing me to steal it! Also, I have NEVER seen anything more true than not assuming a car with its directional signal on is actually going to make (and complete) a turn. It's more like a red herring, to keep all the other drivers on their toes.

Jumping On The Pollen-Hating Bandwagon

Several other bloggers have recently posted about the terrible spring curse Mother Nature inflicts on us each year -- pollen. Now, I understand that pollination is the process by which we get our lovely azalea bushes and the wonderful-smelling honeysuckle and wisteria vines that threaten to engulf my backyard. I still hate the drifts of pollen that coat everything. And I don't even have allergies!

But -- a lot of my students do, and they're all miserable because of pollen. We've run through an entire box of Kleenex today. And I have several with noses that would give Rudolph a run for his money.

Like CCW, I've made up a mantra to help me get through it: "Just one more day until spring break. Just one more day until spring break." Also in heavy rotation is: "Only 37 more school days. Only 37 more school days..."

Kindergarten Architecture?

I spent the day today in a workshop in an effort round off the 100 hours of continuing education credits that I have to have every five years. It was all about the history and architecture of my city. What does that have to do with teaching kindergarten, you ask? So did I. But, in an effort to finish the required amount of hours, I will often take workshops that aren't strictly within my subject material. They are always very informative, and very enjoyable. And I do get little nuggets that I can use for kindergarten. I don't think I'll have them drawing up city plans any time soon, but it was a nice day for a walking tour of some of our more picturesque spots.

Living where I do, we have no dearth of colonial mansions and "grande old Southern Ladies" (as some of the homes are more euphemistically called) to gawk at and of which to take touristy pictures. So often, though, when I drive around the city, I tend to forget about the historical significance of those buildings and parks, squares and monuments; and grit my teeth over the tourists who linger too long in the middle of the street while they gaze in rapt attention at one of our finer historical treasures. And even more too often, I find myself unaware of whatever Monument X is commemorating or why Park Z is of historical significance. This class helped bring a lot more of that into focus. We got to see a lot of neat buildings and structures along the way.

I took a few pictures. Here are two of my favorites:

The first is a gazebo. It's not of all that significant a historical marker on the tour as it is a personal memory. I got married in this gazebo in 1992. It is a very beautiful little spot of green space in the downtown area. At that time, there was no fee to use the gazebo or little park, which had become a favored spot for weddings, but you did have to seek permission from the city so there wouldn't be two weddings occurring on the same day at the same time.

The second is of a wrought-iron gate that is located across the drive to the side entrance of one of the restored mansions in the historic area. I also took a closeup shot, which is (unfortunately) slightly blurry. I thought it was gorgeous, though it must have cost a pretty penny. Of course, if you have the cabbage to live in a mansion, a wrought-iron gate for your drive isn't exactly going to break the bank.

At any rate, I may have spent more enjoyable days in the name of education, but I sure would be hard-pressed to name them.

Score One for the "Irony" Team

Some of you may have missed that October is "International Walk to School Day" in the USA. (I know! How could you have missed that?!? Never mind the fact that it's supposedly an "international" movement, but only in the US this month. Whatever.)

At any rate, some of our local schools held a big push to get people to walk to school this past week. It's promoting healthier alternatives for school kids, and truth be told, a little more exercise is most likely a good thing. Imagine the field day the press in our lovely little burg had when a child was struck by a car *ON* International Walk to School Day. It's like it was a tailor-made headline.

The scene went something like this -- the crossing guard in the middle of the street had her stop sign out, signalling to a waiting first grader that it was safe to cross. How wrong she was! (Our drivers routinely ignore such mundanities as stop signs. They tend to view them more as simple suggestions that they're unlikely to heed or obey. As in,"A stop sign? Hm. No, I don't think I feel like stopping today. Maybe I'll think about slowing down to less than a blur.") A red Camaro ran the guard's stop sign, and struck the child. It's unclear whether the sun obscured the driver's vision, or the driver is just a total bonehead. I tend to lean towards the latter.

Driving here isn't so much of a necessity or a pleasant pasttime -- it's more like a blood sport.

What Were They Thinking?

My city has only recently decided to move out of the Stone Age and construct a parkway that would quickly shunt travelers from one end of town to another. The construction on this monstrosity began, if I recall correctly, back in 1990 or thereabouts. It was supposed to be finished by 1996, but that deadline is 10 years past and counting.

JF and I have long joked that it should be called the "partway" because it is only partially completed, and looks to stay that way indefinitely. Construction on the phase near our neck of the woods was completed about a year ago, and using it makes travelling to outlying areas much easier for us. We take the partway often when we head out to my parents' house at the beach, since we bypass all of that pesky stop-go traffic in town.

The on-ramp where we begin such journeys is marked by a large retention pond. As the workers constructed the overpass so the new road would not impede traffic on the current road, a small pit was created, and this became the retention pond. This particular on-ramp is only yards away from a city park that features, among other amenities, a lake. Due to the profusion of ducks that inhabit the city lake, we've always called this park the Duckie Park, from when Offspring was small and liked to go watch the commando ducks. (These ducks bum-rush you for bread as soon as you get out of your car. It's akin to what I imagine a mugging in a rough part of New York looks like, only with ducks.) So, the Duckie Park is *right across the street.* It has a lake, complete with fish and sailboats and even a small dock. I wouldn't actually *eat* the fish you caught there, as they'd probably be of the three-eyed variety like on the Simpsons, but they're there if you're the adventurous type.

We have often marveled, mouths agape, at the many idiots who while away a hot summer's day with fishing poles, trying to catch something in the retention pond. We often yell at them as we speed by on our way to El Diablo WalMarto or to the beach. If they have yet to figure out that they're never going to catch anything there, who am I to burst their bubble of optimistic gastronomy?

We thought we'd seen everything, what with the retention pond fishers. We'd even ceased to be amazed at the fact that catching nothing for days on end hadn't dimmed their childlike hope. If they'd actually *caught* something, it would probably be a lead story on the evening news, because that would mean that fish have evolved legs and migrated from the Duckie Park across the street, and I'm pretty sure that would be news-worthy. I can see the headlines now: "Small Southern Hamlet Home to Walking Fish! Flying Spaghetti Monster, Eat Your Heart Out!"

Just imagine, dear readers, if you will, the looks of utter astonishment we had on our faces today as we pass by the retention pond to see four young-ish looking men with a yellow inflatable dinghy, going down the path to the water. I can only pray it was a fraternity initiation of some sort. That scenario at least gives me some hope that the men were not really going to take a pleasure cruise around the 15-foot-square deep puddle with a rubber raft.

The Loonies Strike Again

I would complain that the monkeys are back at the newspaper, slaving away over hot typewriters, but it's actually not the local rag's fault this time. This time.

There was an item the other day, shortly after the "kid in the trunk" episode, about a 3 year old boy (what IS it with 3 year olds in this town lately? Is it the drinking water, maybe?!?) who was found wandering alone in a not-so-great neighborhood at 1am. A patrolling officer noticed the small child, and approached him. The child said he'd gotten up after everyone in his house went to sleep, got dressed, and left the house to go to his grandmother's. The child didn't know his address, or the address of his grandmother. The patrol officer took the child to the Family Services home. The newspaper goes on to say that shortly afterward, a call came in about a missing 3 year old. The caller, a female, said she was asleep while the child's grandfather stayed awake, drinking. ( oh, yeah -- this one's gonna be a lulu!) When the grandfather turned in for the night, he locked the door, and went to bed. The reason he made sure he locked the door, esteemed readers -- wait for it -- is because a similar incident had happened at this same residence a year before. Let me repeat that. This is not the first time this child has done this. He had a history of leaving the house in the middle of the night! At two and three years old!

I've said it before, and I'm sure it won't be the last time -- it truly boggles the mind.

At a Loss for Words

You know how sometimes you see an article in the newspaper, and you're almost 100% positive that monkeys chunked it out on typewriters? How else could we explain the lack of *actual* news in most, if not all, so-called "news" stories? How can you explain the great print coverage of such earth-shattering news of Brad and Angelina's latest exploits? Or the newest idiotic thing our President has broadcast to the world at large? What so-and-so wore at the Oscars? Or the world-changing study that Harvard scientists are doing to link together the comsumption of milk and adolescent obesity? Anything at all involving Paris Hilton?

No, that can't be true! Monkeys might actually make sense once in a while.

I was reading a local paper to discover a story about a routine traffice stop gone awry. What happened was this: A man is loitering in a known drug sales area. Police see the man, and decide to stop and question him. During the questioning, which is taking place on the street, the man panics, and decides to lock the doors to his vehicle with the keyless remote that's located in his pocket. Only, the suspect inadvertently hits the wrong button, and manages to pop the trunk instead. The police, being the highly-trained, inquisitive individuals that they are, see the trunk pop, and go around the back of the car to investigate. (At this point in time, it's my contention that the suspect should hereby nominate himself for the Darwin Awards "Honorable Mention" category.) In the trunk, the police find cocaine, crack, marijuana, and a 3 year old child. The police decide, based on the evidence in the car, they have due cause to search the man's apartment. They do, and find more drugs, a digital scale, and $160 in cash. The suspect is booked for possession of a controlled substance, and possession with intent to distribute. Here's the part that boggles the mind: There is no further mention of the child! Not word one. It's like they listed him (or her -- we don't even know the child's gender!) as yet another illicit substance that was stashed in the trunk for later distribution. We don't know who he is, even if he's alive or dead. Never mind why the hell he's in the freaking trunk!

As if that wasn't bad enough, the thought remains that some editor, somewhere, probably approved that story. No wonder I stopped taking the local paper.