Southern bachelor nights

Went swimming tonight. I’ve lived in this town for almost a year and had never been to the city pool. An old friend, we’ll call her Jamie, asked me to go. She reads my blog occasionally but says since I use fake names she can’t ever figure out who’s who.

Basically it was me, Jamie, fifty kids between the ages of three and sixteen, about fifteen parents, and one very cute (hopefully) eighteen-year-old lifeguard. As stated before, I’m no good at ages, so she could have been anywhere from twenty-one down to embarrassed-I-was-looking-at-her.

She kept looking at me, but it was probably more of a where-is-that-guy’s-kid or an I-better-keep-an-eye-on-this-old-guy-who-keeps-gasping-for-breath look. I thought about yelling at some random kid from time to time. “Connor! Behave!”

All in all, I must admit it was a lot of fun. There were a couple of diving boards, a regular one and a high dive, a couple of slides. And I am sure I will have more than a couple of sore muscles in the morning.

And now it’s time for more bachelor tales.

The other night, I was hungry, and began rummaging thru the kitchen for something to fix for supper. My first idea was to fix some fish sticks, macaroni & cheese, and green beans.

But I realized that I only have two pots, and one of them was dirty. I used to have three, but I think the handle broke off of one, or I used it to drain the oil out of my car or something.

Rather than quickly washing the dirty pot by hand, which I seem to have forgotten how to do, I decided to put it into the dishwasher. Along with the other dishes that were piled in the sink. So that idea was out, because I’d need two pots for beans and macaroni.

Back to square one, I remembered I had bought a big pack of Butterball sandwich meat, chicken and turkey, the last time I was at the grocery store. I decided to have a sandwich and a big glass of chocolate milk.

The sandwich meat was fine. However, my bread was two days old. And the chocolate milk was three. Right on that line of it might be OK to drink, but there’s a fair chance it could make me sick. This, my friends, is an all too common situation in the life of the bachelor.

Remembering that I have a five-year no-vomit streak going, I decided not to chance the milk. So I put it back in the fridge. Then examined the bread. While it was definitely not what I would call fresh, there were no greenish or other abnormal growths visible to the naked eye.

Therefore, I went with the turkey and cheese sandwich. On two-day old bread. With a soft drink. I may run out of fresh bread and milk, and… clean pots. But I always have the fridge stocked with three or four different kinds of cokes. That’s a staple.

A couple of nights later, my sister called out of the blue.

“Are you watching CMT?”
“No. Why?”
“Turn over there. George Strait is on Hee Haw.”

Now there’s something you don’t hear everyday. Unless I unknowingly hit 88 miles per hour in a Delorean and this is indeed 1985. In which case I’m going back up to the pool to check out the lifeguard.

Does anyone remember Hee Haw? I can’t even believe I’m typing Hee Haw. I’m sure at least a few of you do. As I recall, it came on here Saturday nights at 6:30. And my parents made me watch it every single week. I hated that show. And I got so sick of that stupid donkey.

Well apparently, I like it now. The show, that is. Not the donkey. I turned over there and George was singing “Amarillo By Morning.” I watched the rest of that episode and part of another. And I’ve caught it on a couple more times since then.

As I was sitting here tonight, thinking about what I was going to post, Shane called.

“What are you doing?”
“Nothing much.”
“Are you watching CMT?”
“No.”
“Turn it over there right quick.”

Yep. You guessed it.

Nothing says southern more than Hee Haw. Except maybe some fatback, fried flat potatoes, and blackeyed peas.

And nothing says bachelor more than two-day old bread. Except maybe globs of dried toothpaste in the sink. I don’t know why they make it so hard to keep it on the toothbrush.

“Night swimming in her diamond dress. Making small circles move across the surface. Stand watching from the steady shore, feeling wide open…”

Woven

She called today.

Someone emailed her. Someone who reads my blog. To tell her I might not be doing alright. And she might want to check on me.

She did.

We talked. For an hour or so. At first it didn’t help. Then it did.

She knows me. She told me things I didn’t want to hear. But I needed to hear them.

Something about her grounds me. Reminds me where I’m from. Who I am.

By the end of the conversation, I felt better. Stronger.

Knowing that someone cared enough to pick up the phone and call when they heard I was down.

As the conversation faded, we talked about having dinner one night this week.

Maybe we will. Maybe we won’t.

Maybe we won’t chat again for three months. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Maybe knowing she’s there when I need her, really need her, is more than enough.

Maybe an unexpected phone call and a one-hour conversation with an old friend on a Sunday afternoon was exactly what I needed.

“Ain’t it funny how you always find just what you need. Somebody must be prayin’ for me…”

Sleep

Tonight will be the first night we won’t talk
I’ll wonder where you are
I’ll wonder if you’re wondering about me
I’ll try to sleep
But sleep won’t come

Tonight I know I’ll lie awake in bed
I’ll do my best to forget
But thoughts of you will keep running thru my head
I’ll try to sleep
But sleep won’t come

Tonight I know that time is going to crawl
I’m sure I’ll pace the floor
And notice things I never noticed about these walls
I’ll try to sleep
But sleep won’t come

Tonight will be the first night we won’t talk
I’ll wonder where you are
I’ll close my eyes and see you in his arms

And I’ll try to sleep

“And there’ll be no rest for these tired eyes. I’m marking it down to learning…”

Greetings from Boring, AL

Population, one. I’m Mayor Bone. Welcome to our town. My life.

My apologies for lack of posts. And lack of updates on my day-to-day life. A lot has been going on in my life, and in my head. And evidently the things that are on my mind have taken away any ability I may once have had to create moderately interesting posts. Recently, everytime I’ve tried to recap my day or my weekend, it ended up being about as interesting as a bingo announcer. You know, “Under the I… seventeen. I… seventeen.”

I wanted to blog about last weekend. My Dad’s birthday was Friday. I went to dinner with him and his wife, my sister and her husband. I wanted to blog about how much younger he seems now than he did five years ago.

For several years, Dad looked and acted ten or fifteen years older than his age. But now, his attitude is a thousand times better. He walks for exercise almost everyday. He’s in better shape. For years, we bought him 2XL or even 3XL shirts. But he told my sister if we got him a shirt this year to get XL.

So much of life depends on our attitude. And he’s proof of that. Now he seems younger. He has a lot more life. And he should. He’s only 56. He seems happier. And that makes me happy.

While shopping for Dad’s birthday, when shopping for anyone really, I sometimes like to reward myself by purchasing an item or two, or, six, for me. Somehow, Dad wound up two DVD’s and a cap. I wound up with two DVD’s and four CD’s–Snow Patrol’s Eyes Open, The Outfield’s greatest hits, and a couple of Tim McGraw CD’s I didn’t have.

Sunday afternoon, LJ, Wolfgang, and I drove down to Kinlock. (Thinking it’s weird looking at last year’s post that we went almost exactly the same weekend.) We rode in LJ’s Mustang convertible. When we got there and he was putting the top up, he mentioned that he’d heard a funny noise when he put the top down leaving his house. Turns out, the back window had shattered. Uh, yeah, that would be the funny noise.

Tiny pieces of glass were everywhere. It wasn’t funny. But it was. WG and I would say things like, “I forgot to get the sunscreen out of the car. Hey, LJ, give me the keys…. Oh, uh, nevermind. I’ll just climb thru the window.” That went on the whole day, cause we’re mature like that. If anyone can run something in the ground…

I also learned yet another new and astonishing fact about one of my friends. Kinlock has a falls you can slide down. Maybe fifteen feet high. The water is shallow at the bottom there. Only three or four feet. There are also at least three different ledges that people jump off of into the swimming hole. In my best estimation, they range in height from probably 20 feet up to about 60.

The water is obviously deeper where you jump off the ledges. Again estimating, it’s probably between seven and eight feet. So we all slid down the falls when we got there. LJ and I swam over, climbed up and jumped off the lowest rock. After awhile, I noticed WG was just sitting and watching everyone. I approached him.

“Why aren’t you jumping off the rocks?”
“I can’t swim.”
“Uhh, then why do you come here?”
“I have fun just watching everyone else.”

I can’t even begin to… I mean, I’m fine if you can’t swim. I can’t roller skate. But I don’t go to the skating rink and just watch.

Although I will admit, there was one kid there, in serious need of a mansierre, who was providing entertainment for most everyone. He was spry. Doing flips off the lowest rock. I’m not even sure I could turn a flip on solid ground.

Monday was my sister’s two-year wedding anniversary. Had lunch with her. She is excited about going to Atlanta next weekend for my cousin’s wedding. Because apparently, she’s never been to Atlanta! I know I raised her better than that.

Perhaps I’ll regain my ability to be moderately interesting and engaging before I lose all my readers. But for now…

Under the O… sixty-seven. O… sixty-seven.

Please, someone bingo.

“I ain’t got many friends left to talk to. Nowhere to run when I’m in trouble. You know I’d do anything for you…”

What I miss

You know what I miss?

That feeling of security. The feeling that comes after you’ve been together awhile. When you know that no matter what problems arise, what petty arguments you might have, you’re gonna work thru it. That you’re on the same team. Fighting for love. Not fighting against each other.

Being on double dates and shooting knowing glances at each other across the table. Glances that say, “Can you believe these two” and “I’m ready whenever you are” and “Let’s get out of here.”

When she knows what I’m thinking. Even when I’m not thinking it. When I can’t figure out what type of food I’m in the mood for, and she makes the perfect suggestion. And it seems she knows me better than I know myself.

I miss birthdays and holidays. I miss Christmas Eve, after all the family stuff is done. Coming back home, just us two. And just being. Talking. Hanging out.

That’s my favorite time. When it’s just us two. Almost to the point where hanging out with other people often seems like a chore.

Tracing the outline of her face with my finger over and over and over. So that if I ever lost my sight, I would still be able to recognize her.

I miss spontaneous road trips. Her falling asleep in the passenger seat. And me watching her and smiling.

Surprising her. Seeing that look of happiness on her face. Standing beside her. Carrying her when she needs it. Stepping back sometimes and letting her shine.

I miss knowing someone will be there. No matter what each day brings. No matter what goes wrong in my life, or what goes right. She’ll be there to listen. To share in the joy and the pain. We’ll be there for each other, thru the peaks and valleys.

Falling asleep each night knowing there is someone in this world who loves me with everything she is. Knowing she doesn’t want anyone else. And neither do I.

That’s what I miss.

“I think we should try. I think I could need this in my life. I think I’m scared. I think too much…”

What I miss

You know what I miss?

That feeling of security. The feeling that comes after you’ve been together awhile. When you know that no matter what problems arise, what petty arguments you might have, you’re gonna work thru it. That you’re on the same team. Fighting for love. Not fighting against each other.

Being on double dates and shooting knowing glances at each other across the table. Glances that say, “Can you believe these two” and “I’m ready whenever you are” and “Let’s get out of here.”

When she knows what I’m thinking. Even when I’m not thinking it. When I can’t figure out what type of food I’m in the mood for, and she makes the perfect suggestion. And it seems she knows me better than I know myself.

I miss birthdays and holidays. I miss Christmas Eve, after all the family stuff is done. Coming back home, just us two. And just being. Talking. Hanging out.

That’s my favorite time. When it’s just us two. Almost to the point where hanging out with other people often seems like a chore.

Tracing the outline of her face with my finger over and over and over. So that if I ever lost my sight, I would still be able to recognize her.

I miss spontaneous road trips. Her falling asleep in the passenger seat. And me watching her and smiling.

Surprising her. Seeing that look of happiness on her face. Standing beside her. Carrying her when she needs it. Stepping back sometimes and letting her shine.

I miss knowing someone will be there. No matter what each day brings. No matter what goes wrong in my life, or what goes right. She’ll be there to listen. To share in the joy and the pain. We’ll be there for each other, thru the peaks and valleys.

Falling asleep each night knowing there is someone in this world who loves me with everything she is. Knowing she doesn’t want anyone else. And neither do I.

That’s what I miss.

“I think we should try. I think I could need this in my life. I think I’m scared. I think too much…”

Over before it began

I remember it like it was twenty years ago. The day of the big fight. Cedric King, the reigning school bully. Against Billy Lansdell. The new kid. The transfer student.

Our middle school went from 4th to 7th grade. I was never sure why. Cedric had been terrorizing the halls and playgrounds all year. He wasn’t that tall. And his eyes were not exactly straight, so it was impossible to tell if he was speaking to you. But he was built like a middleweight boxer.

Once I tripped him in PE while we were playing football. Everyone had always been afraid to tackle him. And I was sneaky like that. I was twelve. He was fifteen. His forearms were as big around as my legs. He got up and pushed me down and the PE teacher sent him to the office.

We laughed about it in the lunch line that day. He wasn’t a bad guy, I don’t think. Just a typical school bully compensating for shortcomings and insecurities.

Billy Lansdell was a big hulking figure. He was country strong. And shy. And still to this day, the only seventh grader in school history who legally drove a car to school. When you’re 12 or 13, that seems cool.

Billy had transferred from a nearby school early that year. He never bullied anyone, far as I know. And always seemed a bit uncomfortable with the role into which he’d been thrust. Looking back, I don’t think Billy ever really wanted to fight. It was everyone else who wanted him to. That year, he became our hope. Someone to stand up against the school bully. We left him no choice.

School was abuzz all that Friday. From the moment Billy arrived on campus, this day had seemed inevitable. Like two superpowers headed for a showdown. The atomic clock was about to strike midnight. And my seventh grade mind couldn’t comprehend the magnitude of what might happen.

The fight was to take place in the schoolyard by the flagpole. My normal after school routine was to rush down to the 4th grade hall, and intentionally run into Keisha Cantrell. She was in my class, but would always leave that way to walk to the board of education, where her dad worked.

I lived for that blonde-haired girl to smile and tell me hi. But not today. I rushed out the main entrance and came upon a mob of students following Billy towards the flagpole. From across the schoolyard, an equally large mass of kids were approaching behind Cedric. This was it.

The two immovable objects met in the center of the school yard. Kids were yelling, cheering. This wasn’t like your typical boys room fight where someone would inevitably step in and try to stop it. No one was about to stop this.

From my position, I couldn’t hear what was said. And then. It was over.

All I could see was the crowd parting and Cedric and Billy walking away. Side by side. Smiling. Not a punch was thrown. What a letdown.

I never pondered why they didn’t fight that day. Maybe they were both a little scared. Maybe some member of the faculty showed up and stopped it. Maybe neither of them really wanted to fight. Either way, Billy had stood toe to toe with him. That was a small victory.

I didn’t stick around to think about it. Grabbed up my Trapper Keeper and ran down the sidewalk. The fight that never happened was over so quick that I knew there was a good chance I could still run into Keisha.

I don’t recall seeing Billy or Cedric the next year when we made the jump to 8th grade and high school. Sometimes you wonder what happens to people like that.

“The angry boy, a bit too insane. Icing over a secret pain. You know you don’t belong…”

Over before it began

I remember it like it was twenty years ago. The day of the big fight. Cedric King, the reigning school bully. Against Billy Lansdell. The new kid. The transfer student.

Our middle school went from 4th to 7th grade. I was never sure why. Cedric had been terrorizing the halls and playgrounds all year. He wasn’t that tall. And his eyes were not exactly straight, so it was impossible to tell if he was speaking to you. But he was built like a middleweight boxer.

Once I tripped him in PE while we were playing football. Everyone had always been afraid to tackle him. And I was sneaky like that. I was twelve. He was fifteen. His forearms were as big around as my legs. He got up and pushed me down and the PE teacher sent him to the office.

We laughed about it in the lunch line that day. He wasn’t a bad guy, I don’t think. Just a typical school bully compensating for shortcomings and insecurities.

Billy Lansdell was a big hulking figure. He was country strong. And shy. And still to this day, the only seventh grader in school history who legally drove a car to school. When you’re 12 or 13, that seems cool.

Billy had transferred from a nearby school early that year. He never bullied anyone, far as I know. And always seemed a bit uncomfortable with the role into which he’d been thrust. Looking back, I don’t think Billy ever really wanted to fight. It was everyone else who wanted him to. That year, he became our hope. Someone to stand up against the school bully. We left him no choice.

School was abuzz all that Friday. From the moment Billy arrived on campus, this day had seemed inevitable. Like two superpowers headed for a showdown. The atomic clock was about to strike midnight. And my seventh grade mind couldn’t comprehend the magnitude of what might happen.

The fight was to take place in the schoolyard by the flagpole. My normal after school routine was to rush down to the 4th grade hall, and intentionally run into Keisha Cantrell. She was in my class, but would always leave that way to walk to the board of education, where her dad worked.

I lived for that blonde-haired girl to smile and tell me hi. But not today. I rushed out the main entrance and came upon a mob of students following Billy towards the flagpole. From across the schoolyard, an equally large mass of kids were approaching behind Cedric. This was it.

The two immovable objects met in the center of the school yard. Kids were yelling, cheering. This wasn’t like your typical boys room fight where someone would inevitably step in and try to stop it. No one was about to stop this.

From my position, I couldn’t hear what was said. And then. It was over.

All I could see was the crowd parting and Cedric and Billy walking away. Side by side. Smiling. Not a punch was thrown. What a letdown.

I never pondered why they didn’t fight that day. Maybe they were both a little scared. Maybe some member of the faculty showed up and stopped it. Maybe neither of them really wanted to fight. Either way, Billy had stood toe to toe with him. That was a small victory.

I didn’t stick around to think about it. Grabbed up my Trapper Keeper and ran down the sidewalk. The fight that never happened was over so quick that I knew there was a good chance I could still run into Keisha.

I don’t recall seeing Billy or Cedric the next year when we made the jump to 8th grade and high school. Sometimes you wonder what happens to people like that.

“The angry boy, a bit too insane. Icing over a secret pain. You know you don’t belong…”

The hurt

Sometimes you have to suffer before you can write. Sometimes you have to get cut so that you can justly describe the pain. Sometimes you have to bleed to remember that you can still feel.

I didn’t think it could happen again. I thought I was safely close to the shore. I thought my feet were firmly planted. But sometimes, you venture out further than you realize. And before you know it, a wave hits you like a brick wall, turns you upside down, and leaves you gasping for air.

And there’s that old familiar feeling in the pit of your stomach. The emptiness and pain. It’s been so long, I had forgotten how truly awful it feels.

I toss and turn all night long. Making deals with the devil to try and get some sleep. Because sleep is the only relief. But sleep doesn’t come. No matter how many sleeping pills I take.

I feel like throwing up, but I can’t. I feel like I should cry, but I won’t. I vow I’ll never let myself feel this way again. But I will.

It just hurts. And there is no cure. Except time. The slowest antidote ever created.

You win. I lose. But we both know you didn’t play fair.

Not that anyone ever does.

“Make you stay wide awake. This is how a heart breaks…”

Co-ed showers

Hottest summer I can remember. Seems like it’s been in the 90’s every day since sometime in the spring. The highs are supposed to be near 100 here the next three days.

The heat is unrelenting. When you step outside, it envelopes you, warming every inch of your skin. It’s like when you first get into a car after it’s been sitting in the sun. I like to bask in it. For a minute or two. Then I’m ready for the AC. Not complaining though. I’d rather it be hot than cold.

A week ago Saturday, my AC went out at home. That night, I tossed and turned, throwing every piece of cover I had off the bed, eventually winding up much like I came into this world. Naked and whining. Someone came and fixed it Monday while I was at work.

At some point over that weekend, my computer contracted a virus. Norton wouldn’t quarantine it. And by Wednesday, it had turned into like five viruses. So I had to wipe my hard drive clean and reimage it. That contributed to my lack of blogging last week. It was 10% computer problems, 90% writer’s block. According to the latest Gallup poll.

Friday night, storms knocked out the power. It went off sometime after 10:00. After about an hour, I was getting really bored. But for some reason, I didn’t want to go to bed until the power came back on. So I played games on my cell phone and even played my old Mattel football game. Some things are just more fun with two people.

Looking back, one might think it was not such a good week for me. Well, one would be wrong. Or maybe one would be right. Maybe I’ve lost my ability to be discomfited. Although by Saturday, I was beginning to wonder if I should leave the house.

In related news, the Taco Bell Corporation has seen a spike in its sales of chicken meximelts in the past week, as I have had no less than eight of the savory gustatory delights. And eight chicken meximelts a good week doth make.

Thanks to the Big Man for alerting me to the fact that I could still order them. Sadly, I never would have figured that out on my own. I had no idea chicken was so much more expensive than beef. Each specially made chicken meximelt is 60 cents more than its less tasty beef counterpart. No matter. I’m eating the extra expense and scarfing down meximelts like there’s no tomorrow.

Saturday, I went to my first ever wedding shower. I thought showers were only for girls. Apparently, the new thing is to have a combined, co-ed shower. Or maybe that’s just what my family decided to do. Taken out of context, those last two sentences are, um, odd.

At some point during the proceedings, my last remaining single cousin’s fiancee offered to set me up with her 21-year-old college roomate. As I pondered the half-your-age-plus-seven formula, she added that said roomate is a music major.

Oh yeah, that makes a difference.

“Man, it’s a hot one. Like seven inches from the midday sun…”