In proof there are good ole’ boys everywhere, Russia just sent up a probe, but the engines didn’t fire and it’s currently stuck in the earth’s orbit.
Okay, that’s not funny and doesn’t have anything to do with good ole’ boys. Here’s the funny, good ole’ boys part. According to the Tennessean (America’s most trusted news source) communication with the craft is SO bad, “Controllers were forced to ask people in South America to scan the sky to see if the engines fired.”
Note, it did not say “scientists” in South America. Just “people.” Like they called some buddies and asked them to run outside during a commercial break and give them a shout if they saw something shiny.
Tomorrow Russia is sending someone up to jiggle the wires.
Very excited. Have just learned that I do not have to make the trip to the next life in a boring brown or black box. Eric Kpakpo Adotey in Ghana can TOTALLY fix me up for my ride across the stars in a wooden replica of a space ship, a Coca-Cola bottle, a chicken or really anything I can imagine.
I came across this information in an article by Sarah Murray in The Week (the perfect magazine for all us kids out there with short attention spans). Sarah is the author of the book, “Making an Exit,” an exploration of how death is celebrated and commemorated in different cultures, and a book I am SO totally going to read.
So now I’m thinking, if I pick something fabulous, my funeral could be a good time to lighten the mood and show a little style! I mean, who could be all teary if there is a big wooden banjo at the front of the church with me in it? Okay, well a lot of people. Myself included. For one thing, I’d be dead. For another thing actually listening to banjo music 24-7 for eternity probably qualifies as one of Dante’s levels of hell. Maybe I’ll just go with a replica of a wine bottle.
PLEASE NOTE: I have no plans on making this trip anytime soon. I just turned 50 and am shooting for at 50 more. As discussed here
Going to be 95 degrees in Nashville today. It’s already so hot you could fry an egg on the sidewalk, which I am totally NOT going to do because right now the sidewalks are covered in cicadas and if I’m adding anything to my eggs it’s going to be bacon and tomatoes.
On my walk this morning I saw a 70-something-ish-year-old man in long pants, boots, a long-sleeved navy t-shirt on a riding mower. Cigarette hanging from his lips. He probably drinks coffee on his breaks to cool down.
I hope you are feeling better after your recent bout with the hairball. If sheer volume is an indicator, you probably feel good as new.
I’ve never had to deal with that particular ailment (knock on wood). I am sure it is unpleasant, so I certainly do not want to seem insensitive to your discomfort. If you’re feeling up to it though, I’d like to take a minute to talk with you about the different surfaces in this house.
We have a number of hard surfaces from which a hairball, even a large one, could be wiped up in less than five minutes with nothing much more than a paper towel and a little Mr. Clean. There’s hardwood. There’s stone, and a couple of different types of tile. If it’s not too much trouble, could we target one of those the next time? Carpet is manageable, but not ideal.
Probably the least convenient choice would be the bedspread. For a couple of reasons. One, it’s just gross to find a hairball on the bedspread (which is why there is no photo). Two, it’s a pain in the neck. Instead of spending 3-5 minutes with a paper towel and some Mr. Clean, the bedspread has to be taken to the Laundromat. While it is true a trip to the Laundromat can be interesting in a crazy, “wow, you don’t see that every day” kind of way, it does take a couple of hours.
Anyway, think about it. Most importantly take care of YOU. If you need me, I’ll be gone for a couple of hours.
If you’ve looked at my schedule you know I’m not telling jokes professionally in August. (I will continue to do so in my personal life). Here’s why. A couple months ago, I was sitting with Amy’s family at her Dad’s house. Conversation turned to the fact that her awesomely fabulous aunt, who is 84 and cannot drive on the highway, was determined to take a road trip from Indiana to Idaho with an 80 year old friend. I (mixing a few beers with a profound lack of knowledge of geography) volunteered to drive. Idaho is not next to Iowa as I previously thought. It is near Seattle. So first two weeks of August will be spent traveling across the country in VERY good company and gathering stories. I’m really hoping for amazing photos and commentaries on the roadside oddities we see along the way.
Second half of the month spent packing and taking our daughter to college. (I would put something witty in here about what I expect that experience to be like, or something healthy about how this is the next big step in letting go, blah, blah, blah, but mostly I think I’ll just be crying. So we’ll skip that.) Then Come September back out there telling the jokes!
When I was young, I scoffed when I heard stories about neighbors who got into crazy kind of battles over seemingly insignificant things like hedge trimming and leaf removal. I did not understand why they couldn’t be evolved like me and just let those unimportant things go. Live and let live. Come to an understanding, etc. etc. etc.
Apparently when you hit middle age, what actually evolves is the part of your brain that makes you want to put video cameras up to catch your neighbor doing unneighborly things. Things like, oh, I don’t know, DUMPING GLASS into YOUR recycle bin.
A little background for non-Nashvillians. The recycle bins are for cardboard, metal, and plastic. You have to actually take your glass to the drop-off center. OR if you’re a jerk, you can dump then into your neighbor’s recycle bins so they have to either:
Take them to the drop-off center when they take THEIR glass, because they, along with every other responsible person in Nashville makes the effort to do that.
Take them out of their recycle bin and sit them back in your driveway.
Both options are a big pain in the neck. Plus, your glass dumping has caused me to realize the awful truth that I may actually not grow more compassionate and neighborly as I age. That I may end up staring out my window in my slippers and a duster, wagging my finger at the neighbor kids who ride their bikes onto my lawn.
I cannot forgive you for that. It’s on now! So, stop it, sonny! And take care of your own glass. I don’t want to have to put up video surveillance, but I’ll do it, buddy! Don’t you think I won’t.
Now, I’m going to go watch my “stories” on the tv and bake some cookies. Tonight’s Bingo night.
Spent a lovely weekend doing shows in the land of bourbon and horses. It was so pretty it took my breath away. Spent Saturday wandering around and eavesdropping. (Well, technically, there were no eaves involved. I was just listening to random conversations around me.) Here are my favorites.
Two guys looking at the antique rifle above the fireplace in the Cracker Barrel in Georgetown.
“Got one just like that. My daddy give it to me when granddaddy died.”
At the Kentucky History museum in Frankfort
“I’d love to have me one of those weaving looms. Don’t know where I’d put it though.”
From a woman who bent down to take a closer look at an exhibit and bumped into the case, “The key is don’t hit your head on the glass.” To which her friend replied, “Like when you go to one of those all you can eat buffets.”
And finally, a mother in the hotel hallway to her two 10-12 year old boys at 1:30 am.
In proof there are good ole’ boys everywhere, Russia just sent up a probe, but the engines didn’t fire and it’s currently stuck in the earth’s orbit.
I hope you are feeling better after your recent bout with the hairball. If sheer volume is an indicator, you probably feel good as new.
Probably the 
