Kids And The Pranks They Pull

I have a LOT of cousins. Like maybe 30 first cousins. Dad is one of nine kids, and mom is one of four, so there’s a lot of room for folks carrying my bloodline to be running around. One of  my cousins and I were born the same week…I am older than her by three days, so growing up we were always close. Y’all might know her mama, TrailerPark Barbie. Barbie might kill me for revealing that she is old enough (but not medicated enough) to be my mama…but there it is. And her daughter, TrailerPark Skipper, has dipped her toe into the blogging world with a guest blog over at Barbie’s Trailer Park, and a blog of her very own dedicated to pinching a penny til Lincoln begs for mercy.

There’s a point to this besides me plugging for y’all to go give her a read (though you certainly should). See…when Skipper and I were kids we went through a little prank playing phase. Flipping through the phone book and calling people with unfortunate last names (long before Caller ID rendered such phone play impossible) was one thing I remember rather well. But the best prank ever took place in the parking lot of Hills Department Store.

Skippers mom and dad had the very first minivan Chevy ever made. It was two-tone blue and had rows and rows of seats. It was like a rolling living room to a young kid used to being crammed into a Honda hatchback. And one day, myself, Skipper, and Barbie were out running around in their big ole van when Barbie had to make a stop at Hills. Hills was THE place to shop in those days…we had yet to get a Wal Mart, no one had heard of Target, and KMart just couldn’t compare. Barbie must have been running in to grab a few quick items, because she left Skipper and I in the van. (Something that would have gotten us kidnapped, molested, or taken by social services if it were to happen today, but back then, it was just fine.)

I don’t have a clue what prompted us to do it, where we got the idea from, or who instigated it (I’ll take credit to preserve Skipper’s sterling reputation) but we found a piece of paper and a pen and crafted the following note:

“Sorry I bumped your car. Don’t have any insurance. Hope it doesn’t cost you too much.”

The exact wording is lost to time, but that was the jist of the note we placed under the windshield wiper of a car within site of the van. I don’t think we expected to actually SEE the owner of the car find that note, but we did. She came out, saw the note, grabbed it, and then her jaw dropped, her hands flew to the sky, and she shreiked as she circled her undamaged car looking for the dent caused by the hit and run driver.

Skipper and I died laughing in the floor of the van, careful to hide ourselves from the view of the irate driver. I wonder if we told Barbie what we were laughing at when she got back to the van?

So Ends This Chapter…

It’s been a surprisingly tough couple of weeks. When the contract came in on the house, I felt relieved. And I very well should have been. See, the builder who constructed my Vinyl Village went belly up just as the last houses were finished. Six houses (including the two to the right of mine) have sat vacant for almost three years now. Yards neatly tended by the Homeowner’s Association, but empty, at times without utilities connected. It was a mystery to all of us in the neighborhood why six perfectly sellable homes would collect dust so long, particularly when the builder’s other unfinished homes in other developments were disposed of rather quickly. And two days after I went under contract, those six houses hit the market. At fire sale prices–at least 20 percent below what they had been previously listed at. (And a good 15 percent less than my house went for.) They were sold within days, but fortunately for me, none of them closed before the financing and appraisals were done on my house. Having those as the most recent comps would have killed the value of my house. So, I continue to tell myself how lucky I am to have found the buyers I did, when I did.

I haven’t lived in my house in over five months. I’ve spent a weekend there a few times when the former Honey was out of town. Gone by to make it show-ready when it hit the market, stopped by frequently to get mail, clothes, etc.  But while it hasn’t been home in the truest sense of the word in a while now, I didn’t realize how much it still felt like home until I started boxing it up. The little house we thought we would keep for two years ended up being home for almost five. That’s the longest I have lived anywhere since I was a child.

And it’s been tough. Every emotion that can be felt, I’ve felt in the past weeks. Sadness…for big things, that what was the overrall happiest time of my life is over, and for small things like never getting to curl up on the sofa in my study for a nap again. Doubt. Anger. What-ifs? Could haves. Should haves. And just an overwhelming sense of loss that doesn’t exactly even make sense to me. Maybe it’s just the finality.In a week, the movers will come for the last of the things and never again will the little blue house with the white picket fence be home. Another family will be raking up the leaves left by the trees we planted back when there was a “we”, they’ll curse the crappy dishwasher, they’ll freeze their feet next winter on the stone floor we spent a month putting in.

And I’ll be asking myself what the next chapter is…

Yard Sales and The People Who Attend Them

So I had a little moving sale at the ole Vinyl Village this morning. As the old Honey and I were cleaning out the place, I put a price tag on anything that would stand still, reasoning quite correctly that people will buy anything.

And they did.

Half empty bottles of spray paint.

Used shoes.

A dog harness for a woman who wanted to walk her cats.

A copy of “Waiting To Exhale” to a woman who got back into her car and put her oxygen tube in. (Am I wrong for finding that hilarious?)

Two ugly ties to a woman who was buying them as a birthday gift for her husband.

A wax toilet ring to a man who said “Ya never know when you’ll need one of these.” (are there many occasions for needing a new toilet ring?)

And, highlight of the day, the woman who bought my house and her daughter stopped by. Turns out their baby sitter lives in my neighborhood and the way the house was decorated was their top selling point. The little girl (maybe two or three years old) told me “This is my new house!”

I Puked on a Drag Queen’s Pickup

This is one of those stories that could wind round and round itself if I let it, so bear with me. We’re going to rewind to my college days. Now, it might be easy to come to the conclusion, based on a few stories here, that my college days were a period of reckless drinking, acts of questionable morality, and irresponsibility. Nothing could be further from the truth–I graduated at the top of my class, with honors and glowing recommendations from my professors. I worked hard in college because I really loved what I was doing there. So most nights would find me studying, working on projects, or drawing.

Most nights.

Not this one.

I don’t recall if there was an occasion, but probably not. It was just decided that we would go out. And, as college kids with budgetary concerns, that meant we would tie-on a pre-going-out buzz with a bottle or two of wine and maybe a little rum and Coke. (or, technically, rum and Sam’s Choice Cola–we watched our pennies in those days, friends.) Our small little college town had a number of bars. But take away the ones that  were crawling with underaged kids, fake ID’s in hand, who would get knee-walking drunk from two shots of watered down well vodka and the ones that played terrible music or, worse, no music at all and just blared sports from the TVs, and you didn’t have a whole lot of options.

And so, when a new place opened, we were always eager to check it out. And that’s what we were doing on the night in question. A new bar had opened that promised good music, drag shows (which, if you have never seen one, are always entertaining), and inexpensive drink choices for their grand opening. Off we went (names changed to protect the innocent). Myself, already a bit tipsy, Nurse Boy (who would clean our entire ten room duplex in exchange for a pack of cigarettes), Gap Boy (who worked out all the time, the better to attract the folks he met on the internet), and Theatre Boy (who was sortof living with us as a third roommate at the time). My roommate, Psychology Girl, stayed in that night to speak with her internet boyfriend from Australia (the internet was new in those days and love could be found by anyone patient enough to wait for dial up.) A few other randoms were no doubt with us, but their names and places in this story are lost to time.

The new bar was a disappointment. Small and dingy, and might have passed for a Bingo parlor were it not for the thump of dance music and the occasional appearance of a low budget female impersonator. But the drinks were strong and cheap, and I had a few.

A few too many.

My first clue was when I went to the bathroom. There were two stalls and a urinal. Now, I don’t do urinals. They creep me out for some reason. So I entered a stall to do my business. And in the next stall was a poor fella who had even more to drink and was on his knees paying homage to the porcelain goddess. On his knees may be a generous description of his position, as his legs were completely limp and one of them had strayed under the divider into my stall. As he heaves, I’m seeing double and trying, but failing miserably, to aim for the toilet. I end up peeing on the seat, on the floor, and in the process, on the pants leg of this poor puking person whose leg is laying in my stall.

“Might wanna have him just burn those pants tomorrow.” I said to the friend helping him. And back I went to our table to order another round.

A short time later, I was feelin’ it. I had crossed the point of no return. I leaned forward on my hands. “Just resting my eyes a minute.” I assured those who asked if I was OK.

“Do you need to go home?” one friend asked.

“No, just let me be still for a second.”

Then came the sign. I took my glasses off. That signaled to all who knew me that I was done.

“Come on, I’ll get you home.”

“OK.” I agreed. I stood up. A wave of drunken nausea came over me. It was suddenly very hot. And the only way out was across the stage, where a plus-sized “girl” was doing her monologue. My hasty exit didn’t go unnoticed, as the performer prodded us for the reason we were leaving. I opened the door. And cold air hit me. Beautiful, soothing, ice cold air. I took a deep breath of it, and then….

emptied the contents of my stomach over the railing of the bars elevated entrance.

“You’re ok.” my friend assured me and we walked off to the car. We stopped to rest on the curb. We stopped to rest in an alley. I may have thrown up a few more times.  Once I was in my seat and buckled in, he turned.

“You know you puked on someones truck, right?”

“Oh sorry.” I said, as if it had been his, and then I passed out.

Fast forward a week or two. Psychology girl and Theatre Boy head out for a night on the town just as I am going to bed. (Neither of their lucky asses had an 8 o’clock class on Friday) I fell quickly asleep and awoke around 7 the next morning. And I smelled pancakes! I reasoned that my friends had stayed out half the night and were downstairs making some post-drinking breakfast items. I walked down from my third floor bedroom. And when I hit the hallway in the second floor, something was wrong. This was December, but every window in the house was open. A big ole fan was running in the hallway. And whatever was “cookin’” sure didn’t smell like pancakes. Theatre Boy was passed out in one of the bedrooms, Psychology Girl was nowhere to be seen. I headed for the first floor. There she was, fast asleep on the sofa, the TV blaring static and snow. A fog hung in the air. Something was either on fire or had been.

I went into the kitchen. The front of the white range was stained dark with smoke, which was still wafting out. The broiler was on! I turned it off, and grabbed a pot holder. A pizza pan full of bits of charcoal came out. Had they been chicken nuggets? Pepperoni rolls? It was impossible to tell.

I went on to class, determined to get the “story” after my friends had slept it off. Turns out they had drank the night away with none other than the headliner from the club I’d overdone it at the weekend before, Betty Holmes and Gardenias. (yes, I believe that was “her” name). During the course of their conversation, she revealed that some rude bastard had vomited all over the hood of her white pickup truck the weekend before. I feel certain my friends confessed they knew the culprit.

After arriving home, Theatre Boy found a bed to drop on, but Psychology Girl had the munchies and decided to watch a movie. So she filled a pan with WAFFLE FRIES (yes, that’s what the charcoal like substance had been) popped in a VCR tape and passed out.

Theatre Boy awakened to black smoke filling the house. He threw open some windows, turned “off” (or so he thought) the oven, and went back to bed. Psychology girl slept through it all. And so did I. (So much for those smoke detectors!).

No harm, done though. The drag queen forgave me, the smoke damage cleaned right up, and our livers survived both nights.

Ahhh…college…

R.I.P. Corey Haim

Another child star dead of a drug overdose. There’s a special place in my heart for ole Corey Haim. See, we didn’t have cable TV growing up. This is not some “we walked both ways uphill in the snow barefoot” story. We just didn’t have cable because we lived on seven and a half acres of land in a small secluded neighborhood a mile off the “beaten path” and it was just never feasible for the cable company to run lines to us. We made do with a big ole antenna (that could be turned from inside the house with a fancy-schmancy remote controller–we were just that cool) and lots of VCR tapes.

My little sister, God rest her soul, would wear a movie out. I can not begin to tell you how many times we had to watch “Pippi Longstocking”, “Cannonball Run”, “Big Business”, and “License to Drive.” The latter starring none other than Corey Haim as a 16 year old who flunks his driving test, but doesn’t let that stop him from sneaking out with his grandfather’s prized Cadillac to capture the heart of the girl of his dreams. Calamity ensues of course, but as with all good 80′s movies, it all turns out fine in the end.

And so, in memory of Corey Haim, and our overburdened childhood VCR, here’s the original trailer to “License to Drive”:

A Little Health Update

Just a little update on my recent health issues, since I know a few people from “real life” want to know, and a few of you from the blog world have been offering your thoughts, advice, and prayers. (Thanks to all of you for that!)

To recap: for the past few months I’ve felt dizzy almost all the time. Turn my head, dizzy. Stand up, dizzy. Not bad, just annoying. Then, after I ate I would get this weak, shaky, sort of foggy headed feeling that lasted for hours. All coupled with often times having barely enough energy to get through the day. My regular doctor did some blood work. (I’ll recite some numbers here that mean almost nothing to me, but I trust they are abnormal.) My insulin levels were 42, well over the “normal” of 17. Fasting blood tests came back within normal ranges, and I rarely felt bad before I ate anyway.

So off I went to an endocrinologist and a nutrionist. It was speculated, and not altogether ruled out, that I have “reactive hypoglycemia”, a condition in which my pancreas over produces insulin after eating. This can largely be controlled with diet. So, for the past three or four weeks, I’ve been eating almost no carbs, no sweets, and lots of proteins and vegetables. I feel a lot better, but my blood glucose levels are still often rather low. (in the 40s and 50s.)

More tests were done. Something about cortisol (a hormone that has something to do with energy and blood sugar levels) came back “off” just slightly. So I spent all of this morning at the Cancer Center (how’s that for a scary phone call–”Report to the Cancer Center tomorrow at 9, sir.”) being poked and prodded and injected with cortisol to test how my body reacts to it. That test will either point to a cause or rule it out. If it rules it out, I have to travel to Charleston, SC to see yet another specialist and have yet another battery of tests done.

So, basically, I know nothing. I feel slightly better overall..but today, after a lunch that should have made the dietician happy, and after being pumped full of cortisol (which, I understand, should have RAISED my blood sugar levels) I feel like shit and my blood sugar is at 60 an hour and a half after I ate. (Should be closer to 140 after meals, and around 70 after fasting).

A Lesson in Naps

I love a good nap. That used to be my Friday ritual. I got home a little after noon, ate two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and took a nap. No, this was not my ritual when I was in kindergarten. This was my ritual until last year. I’d cozy up on the sofa in my study (a dark, book lined room perfect for such snoozes) and sleep a good two or three hours. I’ve always loved a nap. I nap in the car if I’m the passenger. I’ll nap on the sofa watching TV. On a chair by the pool. On a towel at the beach. And some people think I’m crazy for it. But, as the article above shows, it’s good for me. (click on the picture if you can’t quite read it) 

I can’t take credit for finding this. My younger brother, also a nap lover, brought it to my attention. Perhaps an affinity for napping is hereditary–our dad can take a nap at a stop sign.

Someone Should Either Fire or Promote the Editor…

Hmmm, really? With all the Roy Ashburns, Larry Craigs, Mark Foleys, and Bob Allens on that side of the aisle, I’m a bit surprised.

Turning a Sow’s Ear Into a Silk Purse

When I’m not tapping my fingers to the bone bringing my loyal reader (or is it readerS, I think there are two of you now, aren’t there?) stories of my crazy mama, my crazy self, and my crazy life, I spend my days drawing for a living. Mostly new, expensive, custom homes, but in this day and age, we will design a damned dog house if someone will pay us to do so. And often we are called on to, as they might say back where I’m from, turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse. Client’s will purchase a tired home in a choice neighborhood, a shack on a gorgeous waterfront lot, or simply decide that their old house needs to be brought up to date. And those are some of the most rewarding projects I work on. 

House Number One

The existing house was a 60′s ranch with a series of previous poorly-executed additions and renovations. The client’s purchased the home for it’s beautiful flat, waterfront lot with long views across a wide cove.

Before:

and after:

House Number Two

A 1980′s ranch that one of the homeowner’s described as looking like a “double-wide”, this 3,000 square foot house was in an established neighborhood overlooking the green of the local country club. What started as a desire for an extra bedroom turned into a renovation and expansion that resulted in an almost 5,000 square foot house that bears little resemblance to the original.

Before:

After: