2010

Man, I never imagined being in this year.

When I was a kid, I used to think about 2000, and marvel at how I'd be 36 on that fateful New Year's eve. I used to ponder who would still be alive; never considering who would be new in the world, like my own son.

I didn't even get crazy last night, and I slept from about 3 AM to 12. I fell back asleep when Tripp took a nap about 3 PM and slept 'til six. I guess my Hell-raising days are behind me now!

I have not made any resolutions. Really never have. I hope this year is better. I plan on visiting a psychiatrist this year to get on the right drug or mix of drugs to straighten me out once and for all. What had worked for a long time is no longer helpful. I've been dealing with emotional illness, depression, and anxiety disorder for over twenty years and I don't intend to spend the rest of whatever time I have left feeling the same ways.I owe it to myself and my family (especially my son).

God bless my Daddy on this day. He is 84 years old, and volunteered for the Army in WWII. Shot 8 times while in the Philippines, crept own his own to the field hospital, left with the dead and dying once he got there as he was injured so badly, finally transported down a mountain on top of a truck, under sniper fire, and spent 8 months in an Army hospital in New Caledonia, only to return to the field of battle and occupy Japan after the war. I love you, Daddy! From a hillbilly farm boy to a warrior to a cotton mill worker to my father; you represent what America truly is.

WELLLLLLLLL, snap-a-dap-dap!

There's more drama at my son's high school than an amateur Shakespeare festival. I won't go into details because I kinda like getting a paycheck but it ain't nothing you can't read in the paper.

A meal from the Value Menu at Wendy's has quelled my hunger, but now I want chocolate. Woe is me.

Cleaned out one of the storage rooms today to glean stuff for a yard sale we're having next weekend. A lot of stuff from the beach house. When the first of it started moving out, I had myself a little cry and got that over with. Some things I won't part with, like the lamp Daddy made from a cypress knee, and the tiny little picture of a guy at a ship's wheel and Jesus resting his hands on his shoulders. Those things were in there for over 30 years and I can't bear to part with them. If I ever get another beach house, they'll go in that.

Tomorrow we start on the other room. This is hard, dirty, allergy-affecting work. I bet we won't make crap off of this. But it will be over and I can live in peace again.

Speaking of living in peace, Christmas certainly doesn't creep up on little cat feet anymore. I feel like it's already Christmas, and Halloween was just last Saturday. When I was a kid it seemed like it would take forever for Christmas to come after Halloween. Now it's like Oh, Hell. It's Christmas already?

Recovery from a flu bug bite

So I have been sitting around with the flu this week thinking, dang: I want to write something because stuff is in my head, but I really don't feel inspired to write any fiction in one of the myriad of life-long works I have scattered around in various storage areas on the internet. Then today I was like, well duh, forget about your blog much?

Duh.

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Rain smells like

dreams I have had

purple violent skies

my elementary school

the occasional tornado that

I miraculously outrun

driving through deep water that

never quite makes the car flood

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I dunno what that is, poem or prose, but it's been tumbling around in my head since Thursday so I thought I better get it out before it either gets flushed or takes root.

I'm glad to be getting over the flu. The older I get, the harder these things hit me. I had to miss four days of work which to be perfectly honest, made me feel guilty. I know things like this happen, but I am not one of those lay out of work types. When I fell in 2005 I had about 25 sick days built up.

New cat introduction continues to be in the yellow alert area. Oliver occasionally chases Zooey but he does not seem to be trying to kick her butt. Zooey hisses and acts all mountain lion with him, but all it really amounts to is a lot of nostril flaring. I guess eventually they will get over one another and get on with life. I'll be glad when I don't hear the panther scream in the night as Zooey asserts herself when Ollie decides to take a little midnight stroll in her 'zone'.

Zooey is also one of those cats that will meow that throaty, God-awful loud " 'Ello! 'ELLO!" meow. She sounds like she's Cockney: 'Ellow, Guv'ner.

One more dose of zithromax and six more of Tamiflu. I ought to have the most germ/virus/bacteria - free blood in seven states by the time all of this has transpired.

Vacation, all I ever wanted...

Vacation. A word that strikes a chord of hope and a pang of fear in the hearts of humans. Vacation means seeing new things, or returning to things we love and want to revisit. Vacations mean eating out a lot and spending money a lot. It exceeds and falls woefully short of our expectations, but it is always over much, much too soon, and as soon as we come home we begin thinking about next time, next year, whenever we can get away again, and touch that sacred feeling again.

I think most people try to cram too much in to a vacation. Back when we had the beach house, we were just 'there'. We might go to Wilmington every once in a while, or Myrtle Beach, but pretty much being at the beach was it: you got up, you went on the beach, you swam, you sat in a lawn chair, your napped, you ate. It was relaxing and we all went home with faint, sleepy smiles and darker skin. Now, we take vacations that are destinations: something to do everyday. Go here, catch this bus or trolley or whatever, wait in lines, sweat, buy overpriced food, overpriced drinks, get lost, argue, shell out more bucks, trudge for miles in the Sahara heat. You come home needing a vacation to get over your vacation.

We just got back from vacation in South Carolina. We started off in Charleston, where we spent three nice days with Tripp's Aunt, Linda. She is a sweet, beautiful lady and we felt like we were in our own home. The house is straight out of Southern Living, with perfect decor and smells and a beautiful Himalayan kitty, and I felt like a huge slob! :) Tripp's Granny was 88 years old the day we got there, so we had a nice seafood dinner out with her. But after that, we got up and got out each day, going to the SC Aquarium, several historic graveyards (I am a card-carryin' Graveyard Rabbit which means I love to explore old cemeteries), Sullivan's Island to see Ft. Moultrie (not to see the First Lady of SC move back into her home, leaving her cheatin' husband the Governor back in Columbia), several trips across the awe-inspiring and steering wheel clenching Cooper River Bridge, and Gilligan's for weep-worthy seafood.

Charleston is a snarl of one-way streets and horse and buggies, narrow old houses with elaborate iron gates, historic markers, ladies weaving sweetgrass into baskets tight enough to hold water, desperate humidity and heat, and awesome atmosphere. I think I could write every day in a place as stimulating as Charleston. If you don't like the scenery, drive a few blocks. Don't like the weather, wait fifteen minutes. It rained like Hellzapoppin' on us every day, but it was okay. The cobblestones fairly sizzled when the drops hit.

Tuesday morning we regretfully left and wound our way north. we went through places named things like Seewee and Awendaw, and stopped at a plantation called Hampton in McClellansville.

Situated on the Wambaw Creek, this is a gorgeous house that dates back to the 1750's, built by slave labor for wealthy French Huguenots and visited by old G. Washington himself! The chief export of Hampton Plantation is mosquitoes. As soon as you step out of the car, the Head Mosquito sounds the air raid siren (audible only to mosquito ears) and they descend upon bare flesh like piranha on a hapless gazelle. Left to one's own devices, I imagine they would find your deflated, bloodless body within a few hours. In any event, the floors in the old house were very uneven due to the Great Charleston Earthquake of 1886. One has to brace one's feet to stay upright in a particular room. Tripp's ancestor Francis Marion hid out there sometime during the Revolution as well. On the staircase of the house, namely the second stair, John Henry Rutledge shot himself in the temple, lovesick for a girl his mother did not approve of. We went back to the slab of marble that marked his grave, and were immediately driven back by several battalions of mosquitoes. Suffice it to say that a desperate search for Tea Tree oil ensued back in the car and it still reeks of Campho Phenique lo these days later. On my scale of Mosquito Hell Levels, I rate it an 8, with the NC Outer Banks a solid 10 at the top.

Much scratching an aromatic-ising later, we reached Pawley's Island and our Holiday Inn. Here we had a fridge and a bathroom and freezing freaking cold AC and no blood - sucking, disease - carrying airborne pests. The next day, we went to Huntington Beach State Park, which at $5 a head is quite a bargain for your day-trippers. Thin crowds, showers, and bathrooms. Sugar sand beaches, life guards, and blessed boardwalks out to the beach so no slippery, hard-to-traverse searing hot sand. While we were swimming, our umbrella flew away, never to be seen again. It was small and cheap. Maybe it had dreams of something more. Dinner was late and had at Outback Steak House. A little Oz in Georgetown County.

Sunburned the next day, we shunned the beach and ventured into that Vegas-on-the-beach that is Myrtle Beach, Bryant loves this store at Broadway called RetroActive. It has 70's and 80's stuff and is located right next door to a Ben and Jerry's. Ding ding ding! We have a winner! Dinner that night was at California Dreaming, which is a glorified TGI Friday's for those of you unfamiliar with it.

After dinner we went to Surfside beach and walked out into the water. It was my favorite time of day at the shore; twilight, and a few tears glittered in my eyes as I remembered my shabby old cottage and mourned it's loss. Surfside is very much a cottage beach as opposed to the high rise crap that is Myrtle Beach now days. Refreshing, but sort of heart rending for me.

And so, we came back home to NC, but not without my having a visit to the Krystal's my son spied in Surfside. Krystle lovers, be alerted: it's right on 17, Surfside Beach SC. You have been warned.

I slept 14 hours that night, recovering.

So it's nice to come home and pick the kitty up at the vets, to wash mounds of sweaty clothes and wonder where the toothpaste is after the mad dash to get out of the room by 11 am. But I find myself closing my eyes at night and seeing giant oaks with Spanish moss, and feeling the cool sea breeze on my face.

Maybe Labor Day...Huntington has a nice campground.