Love, Jimmie

Oh, For Crying Out Loud

18 May 2016 9 Comments

Madre was here for a Mother’s Day celebration which involved attending the Sounds game to consume hot chicken. Not to watch baseball, mind you, but to eat some hot chicken.

An aside. When Woney and I were returning from Ireland via the Dublin airport, we met some strangers from Minnesota who were perusing an Irish-published travel magazine and found an article on Nashville’s latest phenomenon, hot chicken. When they discovered that I hailed from Nashville, they invited themselves to my house so that they could try hot chicken for themselves. I had no idea what they were talking about. That’s just like me to go halfway across the world to discover what my city is known for. Anyway, hot chicken is just chicken coated in a batter than contains hot sauce and fried in oil, either pepper or regular. Some places will drizzle more hot sauce-type stuff over it and some will not. All of it should come with a pickle. I imagine that hot chicken, complete with pickle, has been a menu staple in numerous soul food-type kitchens in numerous cities for numerous decades yet some genius in Nashville coined the phrase, and waalah! We are famous.

From The Row, because I don’t have a picture from The Sounds

Also an aside, Madre prefers the Sounds’ version of hot chicken over say, The Row or Party Fowl, and I prefer the tight bums of baseball players over, say, the less tight bums of men at McDonald’s, so the Sounds game it was!

Once Madre and I commenced celebrating we hauled all our stuff into her truck so that we didn’t miss a minute together of our party, and only after we got done did I haul all my stuff back into my own car. When we finally parted ways we hollered all of our “I love yous” and “arrivedercis” back and forth through our respective windows and then I drove off into the sunset. The point I’m trying to make here is that I didn’t spend much time in my car and when I did, I used a lot of that time to yell out the window to Madre. The other point I’d like to make is that all that yelling didn’t let me fully hear what was going on with my engine when I tried to start it so later, on Tuesday, when my car croaked at the Greenway it was a total surprise. Daisy and I had been walking and since we don’t often holler “I love you” or “arrivederci” out our respective windows as we leave the Greenway, when my motor went rowh-rowh-rowhhhhh, tick-tick-tick, I noticed. And then when it made this sound –> *crickets*, I really noticed. Frick.

“Do you want to try to jump start it?” Daisy asked.

I knew it was the alternator because I was due for a new alternator as it’s been almost a whole year since my last one croaked. “No,” I replied. “I’ll have it towed over to Austin’s (plug for 5^th Gear Automotive) and get him to replace the filth flarn alternator. Again.”

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“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Totally sure. I know this sound. I have, against my strident and strong will, become a mechanic you know. This is just going to require some planning. Frick.”

Daisy drove me to dinner and then home and then I made all my ride/tow plans with Pee-Tah and Katniss and Austin (another plug for 5^th Gear Automotive) and a tow truck driver named Brad.

When I called Pee-Tah, he queried, “Do you want to try to jump it, just in case? I can meet you over there.”

“No, it’s the alternator,” I sighed. “All that money that I saved for my cookie doctor cell burning procedure is going to be spent on my new used alternator and I’m annoyed. Plus I took off my bra and I’m in pajamas. So, no, thanks.”

The next afternoon when I met tow truck driver Brad at my car on the Greenway, he backed his big flatbed up to me and said, “Have you tried to jump it?”

“Nope,” I replied. “I have it scheduled for an alternator replacement tomorrow morning. That’s what is wrong with it.”

“Okay,” he said, and then hooked up my battery to his jumper machine and my engine started right up.

“Alternator’s fine,” he hollered over the engine. “Runs great! You still want a tow?”

Well, shit.

As it turns out, I am not yet certified as a mechanic and as it turns out I only needed a new battery. Still pisses me off, though, because that battery was only two years old. Things just don’t work like they used to anymore. Also, as it turns out my favorite people over at Advanced Auto Parts (not a plug for Advanced Auto Parts) went way up on their battery prices and no longer rush out to your vehicle to replace said batteries. (Currently reevaluating my system for determining favorite people.)

“There’s going to be a thirty minute wait,” the clerk said. “There’re only two of us here right now and we can’t leave the store like this.”

“Tis fine,” I said. “I already waited two hours for Brad the tow truck driver so what’s another thirty minutes? I’m just going to drape myself on your curb out here until someone can help me because despite the numerous times I’ve had this battery replaced, I still don’t know how to do it myself.” Mechanic, my arse.

I draped myself and watched people for about three minutes until a customer who had been in the store walked out and offered to change my battery for me (plug coming! This is called foreshadowing!). “It won’t take but a few minutes,” he said. “I’d be happy to do it,” he said.

*Dun, dun, dunnn (foreshadowing music)* Y’all, I would like to introduce you to Brandon, my new favorite person. Ta da! ⇓

It didn’t take me a moment’s hesitation to yelp my yes to Brandon’s offer of help and he responded in kind. He was already waiting at my car with his tools at the ready before I made it outside with my big ass battery. It took him approximately seven minutes to change that thing out and in that time he reassured me that I really do have a good car. He explained why that big bolt is in front of the battery and why I need to make sure it’s tightened. He also explained that he has a mobile auto repair business (FORESHADOWING COMPLETE: Plug for Brandon’s auto repair business!) and I squealed over the good fortune of me and all my non-mechanic friends who now have the number of a great guy who will rescue us when needed (and, I feel like I should say, when he is available). Then he carried my grungy old battery into the store for me so I wouldn’t get dirty. Sigh. It was just so great.

I meet the best people, don’t I? Don’t know shit from shinola about cars, nor can I successfully change a battery by myself, but I sure do have the nicest people in my life. I’m so lucky.

Here’s The Truth Of It

28 Apr 2016 3 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in I'm Going Somewhere, NOT a Boy Tags: Humor, Jesus

Back last year Woney and I were having a conversation about taking a trip. Like, last year in May as we were training for and completing a half marathon.

“We,” I wheezed, “are going,” <wheeze> “on a cruise,” <wheeze> “right?”

<Wheeze> “Yes, because,” <wheeze> “I hate being,” <wheeze> “cold,” wheezed Woney.

“I want to go,” breezed Squash as she sped past us.

“Me,” <wheeze> “too,” wheezed Nurse Bananahammock.

Wheeze.

Planning that trip pretty much got us through those 13 miles, and as we sipped celebratory cocktails that evening, we nailed down the details for a cruise nine months out. That was where this picture was taken and the base line for the story I wanted to tell. Wanted. Not want.

Now that I’ve been wishy washy, I’m going to tell the original story I wanted to tell because everyone abhors a tease, but before any of you who will soon be perched at your desk with your mouth hanging open, kind of gaping at the words that pour forth from my fingers, fires off a salvo to me tell me how you’ll never read me again because you cannot believe I’d say something so pervy, I’ll remind you that there is more story coming. Please get to the end before writing me off as a floozy.

While we were at the port stop in the Grand Caymans, Woney and I found ourselves on the sidewalk outside an ice bar, one of those places that advertises itself as five degrees below zero. All seats are made from the ice, all walls and ceilings, and you have to wear puffy coats and Russian-style babushka hats with gloves so as not to lose your appendages to frostbite. Now just nine months prior, Woney wheezed that she didn’t enjoy being cold and I wheezed my agreement so it was a bit of a surprise that we found ourselves so enamored of an ice bar. But here’s how the story went.

“Oh, look,” Woney said, “there’s an ice bar. I’ve always wanted to do that. It is nearly 100 degrees here in the sunny Grand Caymans. Perhaps we would enjoy some below freezing temperatures?”

“Meh,” I responded.

“Yeah. Meh,” Woney agreed.

“You could watch the video,” the girl behind the counter said. “Just see what it is like. We provide the coats and gloves and these awesome t-shirts for purchase after you come out.”

“Meh,” we responded.

“We offer Big Black Dick,” the girl said.

Suddenly I was intrigued. “Big Black Dick? Is that, like, a gummy? Or, you know, a man?” Woney listened with rapt attention, also, and we both dug around our respective purses looking for the twenties we could throw on the counter to gain entrance into the place that housed the Big Black Dick.

Turns out Big Black Dick is rum, and turns out it is delicious. I wanted to tell you that this face I am making is due to the Big Black Dick and then I wanted to tell you that I scampered around the Grand Caymans hollering about Big Black Dick, and also tell you that I told everyone on the ship I had Big Black Dick and also called my mother, proud as a peacock, to say, “I had Big Black Dick in the Grand Caymans!” For the record, my mother would respond in this manner: “I am so proud!”

I wanted to tell you as I wheezed with mirth that I was a woman of the world who picked up Big Black Dick on all her voyages. I would wheeze with mirth until I realized that a missionary I love reads this blog. My father reads this blog. My old bosses and all my friends read this blog. Some of them will be all, “Go, Jimmie, Big Black Dick, woo!” The rest of them would purse their lips and make tsking noises and know that I was lying about what that Big Black Dick meant to me.

Here’s the truth of my life, the story I want to tell now. I did all those things and said all those things but I live a very different story than that. Years ago, after I got my heart smashed into a pancake by a sledge hammer, I made some significant changes to the way I do things. These things don’t necessarily make sense to the world at large and I realize that I’m bucking a lot of trends here but I really cannot care about that. For example, I read up on yoga and nixed that from my exercise repertoire because the spiritual implications of the poses and chanting made me uncomfortable. I stopped attending traditional churches that promoted their own programs and rules to a fault and instead just decided to love people. I vowed that celibacy was for me until I was fortunate enough to remarry. No matter what I say about Big Black Dick, hahahaha, and how I wheeze with mirth about it, hahahaha, I won’t experience it unless I marry it, no hahahaha at all.

All this makes me super fun at parties and on dates which is likely why I am no longer invited to any of those things anymore.

But here’s how I see it – pleasing Him is now more important than pleasing me. I’ll follow His rules because He says to do it, but by following those rules I’ve found a thousand other reasons that point to them being an excellent idea all on their own. For example, loving people was always something I’ve done, sure, but once I became a die-hard, knocked-down, dragged-out, on-fire, hardcore follower of Jesus, (mind you not religious, not a Baptist, not anything other than following my Christ) it became sweeter. Love is just sweeter.

Likely I will catch a lot of flak for this, or likely I won’t. We each get our own story to tell and I’ve never been one to tell you that your story is wrong. I doubt anyone who loves me would repay me not in kind, but even if they do, I’m strong enough to stand on my own two feet about it. No approval necessary.

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Fine

30 Mar 2016 6 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in A Boy, Health, NOT a Boy Tags: Dammit Todd, Pee-tah, Seamus, Tom Hardy

My list of things that are fine:

Seamus: Despite his new-found love of eating my hair, Seamus seems healthy. I mean, he’s as fat as a bear but since he goes nuts every time I drop a ponytail holder on the floor, all jumping around and leaping off of walls and tossing it into the air, I can’t see how his fatness is hurting him in any way. Is hairspray toxic to cats? Is it delicious to cats? I have no idea but I wake up every morning to him purring like a freight train in my ear and chewing on his selected wad of my hair.

Pat: Pat, of my senior citizen dining companion group, got out of the van to enter our chosen restaurant last month and promptly fell off the curb. She’s not a good listener, to her own inner safety voice or the outer loud voice of her driver telling her to wait before stepping onto the curb, but bless her heart, she put one foot on the curb and went down like a sack of potatoes. I gasped and ran over to her side of the van to help her. The whole group of us gasped and stood over her offering help. A very handsome, very single man galloped out of the restaurant to offer his assistance. He grasped her under the arms with his manly, very manly hands and tried to lever his wide shoulders into a lifting position but Pat said, “No, I’m fine.”

“Pat!” I hissed. “This man is marvelous, stunningly handsome and rugged, let him pick you up!”

“I’m okay,” she insisted from her position near the tire and around his bulbous, well-defined biceps. “I can do this myself.”

Jan, me in thirty years, said, “Pat, come on, he’s here already. He’s already got you. Let him help.”

Pat said, “I’m fine, really.” So the man released his tender yet firm grip and went back inside the restaurant. A few moments later Pat allowed a young hipster wearing skinny jeans and a fluffy beard to pick her up and put her back on her feet, both of them on the curb this time. I guess everyone has a type. Also, Pat is just fine. No scratches or bruises of any kind. No date from a rugged manly hottie with wide shoulders for either one of us, but fine.

This is not Pat, but this is Joe. I’ve talked about him before.

The love lives of all those around me: ♥ Dammit Todd and Ashley broke up a while ago and we no longer love Ashley. But Dammit Todd has found himself a new girlfriend, one who is lovely and one who we like a lot. ♥ Luke also has himself a new girlfriend, also one who is lovely. He explained to her our situation of trading food for internet service yet I still wondered if she harbored any unease over our close relationship. However, the day he introduced the two of us, he didn’t warn me he was bringing her over and thus I answered the door in my favorite pajamas: a college t-shirt that I purchased when I graduated (1994) and have washed approximately once a week since then so to say it is thin and full of holes would be accurate, and some floppy shorts that are at minimum one size too big and not even remotely in the color palette of the t-shirt. Plus I had my hair up in a wad that had been Seamus-chewed. I do believe any uneasiness she might have had vanished the moment she clapped her eyes on the vision that is me in my loungewear. ♥ Pee-tah and his loved-up boyfriend broke up recently and I am sad for them. I was so hopeful for them. But I get my gay husband back so I guess this is a win for me. ♥ Also, Daniel has found himself a new boyfriend and even though they don’t speak the same language, not a single word of the other’s dialect, they get along really well. ♥ Martie and Coach celebrated 17 years of marriage the other day so I’d say they are fine, too. Love is in the air!

funky-pink-heart

Tom Hardy: This needs no explanation.

Stole this from the innernet. That mouth, tho . . .

Me: I had my follow-up visit with my new cookie doctor and despite the bad words and spectacles I hurled at the wall during my last visit (this is not written to be funny, but to be true – I really did those things), she was very friendly towards me. She withdrew from a drawer a large number of photos of cervixes, etc. and explained that I have some bad cells that are not resolving on their own, that have been there for ten years or so. She explained all of this whilst showing me pictures of what I’ve got going on and what could possibly happen if I don’t treat this. So treat this I will. One more visit wherein I don the fetching paper towel called a gown and then I get to be knocked out cold for the display of my lady parts on a paper-covered table in order to remove/burn off any offending cells. I’m not sure if the induction to mild coma is more for my benefit or theirs but either way, I won’t care a whit who has what kind of headlamp and metal rake if I’m dreaming of hot ruggedly handsome men with wide shoulders picking me up off the sidewalk next to a van. And then I will be completely fine. Thousands of women have this done all the time, so really, no need to worry.

Me in an ice bar. Story coming soon . . .

Are you guys fine? Since I’ve gotten off Facebook I’m very out of touch. I don’t regret the decision at all but I do want to note that in the first three months of my departure, I have forgotten three birthdays. If I forget you, I’m truly sorry. I’ll make up for it with a cupcake if you forgive me. Deal? Deal.

So That Went Well

23 Feb 2016 4 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in In Which I Throw Myself Under The Bus Tags: I'm Sorry

I casually mentioned to you recently that I had to have a biopsy due to some questionable cells found upon my person. I reiterate, I am fine. I know I am fine. I just have to prove that I am fine. To prove that I am fine, I had to visit a new cookie doctor, remove half of my clothing to don the fetching paper towel they call a gown, and clamber onto a paper-covered table. For this privilege I will clean out my HSA plus what remains of my emergency fund and hand it over to the nice new cookie doctor I just bawled all over.

(While we are discussing “bawling,” please note the spelling of the word “bawling.” People who write notes under the touching and tear-jerker videos you find on Facebook or Reddit are not “balling.” They are “bawling.” Unless, of course, they are “balling,” and then that’s a whole ‘nother discussion we should not have here.)

For twenty-five years I have faithfully and annually donned that damned paper towel, and for twenty-four of those years I have cried like someone just ran over my dog. 2014 was the year I did not “bawl” and if I knew what was different about 2014, I’d write a novella about it. Twice in those twenty-five years I have had to don the fetching paper towel a second and third time in order to have a biopsy. Both times those doctors insisted that the biopsy, nothing you can be numbed for, only feels like small cramps. Also, both times those doctors indicated to me that they never personally experienced a cervical biopsy before. To them I’d kindly like to say, “Fuck you. After you let some person whose first name you are not allowed to use scrape a metal rake down your cervix whilst you are wearing a paper gown that ripped down the middle because your tears rendered it soggy and defunct, you can tell me how it is supposed to feel. Until then, shut your yap and bring me a new paper towel.”

You can see from my essay that this particular visit went well.

Actually, you know what? I lived through it. It is over. It only took 36 hours for my eyes to return to normal after the crying, and my boss brought me flowers because she is nice. I have no complaints. Except this.

When I left the cookie doctor’s office, I trudged down to my car carrying my umbrella while the rain poured over me. I collapsed into my car, turned it on for some heat, put it in reverse and then realized I had no idea how to get to work from the hospital. I dug out my phone and sat in my space while I fat-fingered my office address into my GPS. It was hard to see and I was still hiccupping from all the crying so I was not at my best. After a few minutes of mistyping the address, I heard a faint tap of a car horn. I looked behind me and saw an SUV with its turn signal on, clearly waiting for my parking space. It was a nice space, close to the hospital door and with less of a walk through the rain.

Instead of reacting like a sane person would, I was catapulted into a violent rage. I powered my window down, shoved nearly my whole body out the car window and yelled obscenities at the SUV while giving it multiple single-digit finger waves that would make my grandmother spank my behind a thousand times. I jerked my foot off the brake and tore out of that space at a speed not humanly possible, screaming at the SUV the whole way, finger out the window. I jerked myself all over the parking lot until I got lost in it (yes, I know), and then finally found my way back to the row the SUV was now parked in. Angry does not begin to describe what I felt.

Then I saw him. The man who climbed out of the SUV was black. He was overweight. He had his hair cornrowed back in braids and he walked with a limp towards the door. He was wearing a uniform jacket, one of the navy ones that zips up the front. He was just a man. Probably a very nice man who simply wondered if I was actually going to reverse out of the space as I was indicating by having my reverse lights on. He saw me looking at him, just sitting in my car and crying in the rain, and he looked away and kept walking.

If you thought I cried before, you’d be shocked at the tears I produced then. I can barely type this today without crying. Scratch that. I’m “bawling” as I type this and I still feel like utter shit. What if he was going to visit his wife in that hospital? What if he was having a health scare of his own? What if – it doesn’t matter. This was a human, a person of value, a man worth my love and not my hate and I just treated him in a way that embarrasses me and in a way that no one should find acceptable. Ever. I’d give anything to be able to find him again and apologize and do something nice for him so that he’d have a good day instead of the crappy awful one I tried to give him. God, please, I hope I didn’t ruin his day.

I’ll get my results in just over two weeks and I’ll happily let you know I am fine. In the interim, I’m going to find some people who look like they are having a day straight from the garbage can and I’m going to do my damnedest to turn their garbage day back into a good one. I’ll do it for that man and I’ll do it because it is the right thing to do. I’d like to act like a human for a while. Maybe it will get back to him and he will find some anonymous good in a perfect stranger who did a tiny human thing that makes his day.

Amen. Please, God, Amen.

How To Win Over and Influence Your Owner. A Guest Post by Seamus.

15 Feb 2016 2 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Guest Post, Weight Loss Tags: Humor, Pets

Hai.

Person has the treats. Did you know this? I learned it when Person bought me. I thought they appeared on my scratcher after I finished my nap under the bed. One day I got behind the refrigerator and got stuck (must lose weight) and she sat on the floor looking at me for an hour and she had treats in her hand! I wouldn’t dare eat them from her hand because then she would know I knew they came from her, plus I was wedged in there pretty tight. Some guy with a furry face had to move the refrigerator before I could get out but after that when I found treats on my scratcher, I knew they came from her.

This complicates things. I thought there was a treat fairy but it’s Person. I’m not sure I like her, really. How do I get more treats from Person?

After thinking about this for a few years, I have devised a plan to get more treats. You can use this too with great success.

Wind your body around her legs. You don’t have to get close or actually touch her, because horrors! But, if you kind of twist your way in a figure eight near her, she will see this as a sign of affection and give more treats!
Groom her. This usually involves stuffing your face into her hair but horrors! It is so close! You can trick her by separating with your claw two or three hairs from the wad on the pillow and then lick those with great fervor. She will see this as a sign of affection and give more treats!
Greet her at the door when she comes in from Outside. Meow firmly. Do not back down. When she makes noise at you with her mouth, this is a sign that she hears you and is going to give treats! In case she forgets, run from the door to the scratcher and meow firmly the whole way. She sees this as affection and gives more treats! Note: sometimes the couch gets in the way. Pay attention to it! It hurts your head when you hit it and makes you forget to meow.
When she wakes up in the morning is the best time to remind her you have had no treats in a really long time. Also when she goes to the bathroom. Also when she comes in from Outside. Also when she climbs into the bed. By the way, did you know that on the bed is better than under the bed? It’s so nice up there and I don’t get stuck!
The last trick is the hardest one. Use it as a last resort when she’s being very stingy with the treats. Climb onto the bed when she is there. Sit next to her and stare. You would think that she would see that as affection and give more treats! It doesn’t work but it’s a good start. What you have to do next is reach out with your paw and tap her arm. Murphy does it all the time and she whaps him on the head a lot when he does it which he says is affection, but lame. No treats there. Anyway, after she whaps your head a lot, crawl in between her body and her arm and purr. She sees this as affection and gives more treats!! BE VERY CAREFUL! You can be lulled into a false sense of security while lying there and go to sleep. Do not put your head down under any circumstances or you will wake yourself up by snoring too loud after a long time of sleeping. Humiliating. I was drooling. Horrors!

This will work for you. Try these plans. The end.

Editor’s Note: These do not work. Seamus gets no more treats now than he ever did although it is pretty cute to watch him try so hard for them. Also, he likes me! He really likes me!

Young New Male Roommate

27 Jan 2016 6 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Uncategorized

If you have kept up with me for any length of time, you will not need this refresher. If you are new or have the memory capacity of a gnat, perhaps this will be of use to you.

Refresher:

I have a neighbor, Luke. We have an agreement wherein I use his internet and he eats food I sometimes provide for him. We also have agreements wherein I invite myself over to his house to watch movies and I eat food he provides for me. Also, I have agreed that he will help me with my yard and in return he gets to live next to someone with a nice yard. Really, this whole situation benefits him greatly. Meet Luke.
My cousin came to live with me a few years ago and was my first Roommate. He brought with him his dog, Mini, and she peed on a lot of my stuff. Meet Roommate.
After Roommate left, Kasi Starr moved in. She brought with her Miss Kitty who ticked Murphy off enough that Murphy peed on a lot of my stuff. Meet Kasi Starr.

Fresher:

After Kasi Starr left, I got Roomie who I never told you about I don’t think. She lived with me for two and a half years and brought with her this garbage can. Meet garbage can.
Roomie moved out this summer and for two or three months I lived alone in my house with my two cats. One night I was reading a book in my puffy blue chair and I glanced upstairs. It seemed so dark and lonely up there and my house felt too quiet. I decided I needed a new Roommate.

That brings us to August. It’s always been easy for me to find someone to house share with and this was no different. I put an ad on a roommate finder website and shared pictures. In response to that, I got Daniel.

The day that Daniel came to view the house, Luke came over to “get some dinner.” Really I think he came over to make sure I was not going to be ax murdered by some stranger I met online. He would never admit that in a million years so we are going to say that he “came for dinner.” I discussed with Luke getting my own internet service because two people clinging onto his didn’t seem fair. Luke said, “Let me meet him first and then we can talk about it.”

Daniel wore a tie to the viewing and exclaimed over all the neat artsy stuff I have in my house. I have a few of the paintings my dad did, a bunch of his pottery, the knife my stepfather made, the wood carvings he made and also my gorgeous, lovely bedroom. (If you need a refresher on Felix, you can find that here.) Daniel assured me that he was 92% certain he wanted my room but he was going to look at other places first. Then he left.

Luke and I discussed Daniel after he left and Luke proclaimed him harmless. “He seems like an okay dude,” he said. “Plus he’s gay. I’ll get him the password to my internet.”

I explained gently to Luke that Daniel was not gay. He was just a year and a half out of his divorce and he’s a total hipster. Just young and fond of skinny jeans and totally straight.

“Okay,” said Luke.

Daniel moved in. Two weeks after he moved in, we were having some get-to-know-you discussions at my kitchen table and Daniel said, “Oh, I’m gay.”

Dammit.

The next night I texted Luke with the weekly menu:

Serving next week, and please let me know your choices: chili served with beer bread, chicken taco soup with cornbread, and crow with a side of salt. Daniel’s gay.

Luke’s selection:

Told ya.

This here is a bonus picture of Luke sweeping my walk during the Snow-cation. I don’t know how he lucked out getting me for a neighbor but that is one lucky dude, right there.

My Snow Day(s)

26 Jan 2016 2 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Health, Home Improvement Tags: Humor, Not Travel

I live in Nashville. This weekend I got snowed in. Well, Nashville got snowed in. We had eight inches of snow in my neighborhood while other neighborhoods got more like ten inches. I know all of you Michiganers and Wisconsiners are all, “Really? Eight inches is child’s play. Amateurs.” And of course, we are. We are ill-equipped to deal with this kind of snow. We are ill-equipped to deal with ice, too, which makes no sense because we get gobs of that mess every year.

Friday morning I awoke early and for a change had a good hair day. I was preening in the mirror, fluffing my coif before I liberally decanted a tin of hairspray onto it when I received a text from my boss. “You should probably stay home today. The roads are in rough shape.” (Everyone knows I don’t watch the weather because: no television. I have people looking out for me, y’all.)

“But I had a good hair day,” I wailed.

“Take some selfies and then go back to bed.” She is an excellent boss.

I thought about her suggestion but see above: good hair. I hated to waste it. Instead of clambering back in amongst my pillows and two cats, I opted to perch prettily on the sofa with a book until my new young roommate woke up so he could appreciate my fluffy halo of hair. That would have been an excellent plan except for the key words in that above sentence: “young” and “he.” Not being young anymore, I forget how they like to sleep: like the dead and late. And not being male, I forget that men who are not looking for a chance to sleep with you really don’t give two figs what your hair looks like. When Daniel finally rolled out of bed, he thundered down the stairs, hollered “good morning” and thundered out the door to rescue a friend who had gotten stuck at work in his ten inches of snow. As Daniel trundled off in his car for a four-hour rescue trip, I broke my Derek Zoolander pose, sighed, and put my hair up in a ponytail.

Then I got busy.

Below is my list of what I accomplished in 2.5 days of being snowbound:

I cooked:

Fried pork chops (Luke and Daniel ate them.)
Mashed potatoes (Luke and Daniel ate them.)
Roasted Brussels sprouts (Luke and Daniel ate them.)
Chocolate peppermint cake (Still sitting on the counter, getting stale – smells good, tho.)
Pizza, from scratch (A bust – yeast has an expiration date, did you know that?)
Pork roast with potatoes, carrots and mushrooms (I got to eat some of this! But Luke and Daniel ate it.)
Roasted garlic and shallots (Luke ate these.)
Hard boiled eggs (Still in fridge. Not sure what to do with them. Suggestions?)

Also, I cooked:

Broccoli (Only I ate this.)
Brown rice (No one wanted any but me.)

Later, I dug out all the skin care and hair care samples I have accumulated over the years and tried them all. My skin has experienced:

Algae face scrub (Rendered my skin green. Despite not caring a whit about my perfect hair, new young male roommates will notice when you emerge from the bathroom with green skin, so much so that they will choke on the pork roast and wheeze, “My God! Are you okay?”)
Something del Sol face wash (Made me oily.)
Philoposhy volumizing serum (Belatedly realized this was meant for hair.)
Black Pine Tar face lotion (Smells like grandma which is strangely comforting.)
Origins brightening under eye cream (Eyes still puffy – check!)
Fake tan (Rendered me streaky orange.)

My teeth were brushed with:

Crest Whitening toothpaste (Normal use but approximately five times more than usual.)
Coconut oil (Did you know that stuff is thick? Gag.)
Mixture of hydrogen peroxide and baking soda (Foamy!)
Hairspray (Liberal use too near my toothbrush.)

My hair was doused with:

Ion (Promised to make it Soft! Strong! Healthy! But actually made it look like straw.)
No other items because I felt like making it look like straw was trauma enough, plus I used up the Philosophy in one go on my face.

Also, I organized the following:

Sock drawer (Pristine!)
Hoodie shelf (I’m down to 16 hoodies. From 35. I call this miraculous.)
Cat food cabinet (They had a lot of treats. Seamus ate them.)

I read three books, cover to cover. Here are my favorite quotes:

“People mostly have it backward. They think they live by what they want. But really what guides them is what they’re afraid of. What they don’t want.” ~ Odelia, And the Mountains Echoed (Khaled Hosseini)
“Daniel Craig is James Bond. He wouldn’t have a limp little wiener floating around like that.” ~ Lula, Tricky Twenty-Two (Janet Evanovich)

You understand I had to balance out the classy with the trashy. No one can read three emotionally wrenching books in a row. No one.

Also, I vacuumed twice, did two very strenuous and vomit-inducing workouts, crunched my abs 420 times, shaved my legs and greased up every inch of my skin with some real deal cocoa butter. This last bit rendered me unable to sit on surfaces of any sort for a few hours as I’d slide off to the floor with a thunk. It takes a while for that stuff to soak in but when it does, your skin is soft for about six whole hours!

When the roads finally cleared enough for me to leave the house, I sped over to Kroger and walked the aisles for twenty minutes. I didn’t need a thing but it was such a glorious luxury to move around outside my home. Went to the library, too.

All in all, it was a pretty eventful weekend. What did you do?

Let’s Talk About Money

14 Jan 2016 3 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Health, Imparting Wisdom Tags: Humor

You guys want to talk about money? We aren’t dating so I think it’s safe.

There was a time when I would tell you that I was good at saving money. I had some moolah in the bank set aside for emergencies, and I had a nice 401(k) going. I felt pretty good about things. The day after I felt good about things, I lost my job. Then right after that, I got a new job but I made signficantly less money which was okay because it was around that time that I gave up wearing glitter eyeliner* which can get pretty expensive. I felt good about that because the day after I gave up glitter eyeliner, I paid off my car. I felt exceptionally good about that and the day after that, my car fell spectacularly apart. Nine times.

I don’t know about you but I can often feel very discouraged about money, especially when I think I’m ahead and then later in the day I find myself underneath my car on one of those rolling scooter things looking up at the new break in my bushings. Just last week I was preening over the small amount of money in my savings account when I got a call from my doctor asking me to come in for a biopsy because she found some questionable cells on my person.** This biopsy will fall into the category of “stuff I have to pay for out of pocket because insurance sucks anymore and I have a very large deductible I have to meet,” which means the money in the bank will be sent to a medical professional very soon and I’ll be back to square one. I’m thankful I have a square one because a lot of people don’t even have a square. They have negative squares.

While I’m talking about saving, I’ll also discuss spending. That goes a lot like this:

Madre: Jimmie, I found these great boots that would fit over your gladiator calves. You should look at them. You’ve been wanting some for years.

Jimmie: I don’t have the money for boots that fit over my gladiator calves. They are expensive. That is a lot of leather.

Madre: But you had money last week. Where did it go?

Jimmie: No, I didn’t have any money. You misheard me.

Madre: Is that a TJ Maxx bag?

Jimmie, as I kick the bag under the bed: No.

Also while I’m talking about spending, I will tell you that I took two trips last year I didn’t tell you about, one with Phranke and one with Daisy. And I’m booked for a cruise with My Girls in about seven weeks. After that I have a trip planned to Key West and another planned for New Year’s Eve, and then in 2017 Woney and I are going to Spain. “No money!” I whine. Well why the hell not?

I have found a sort of solution for this problem of mine. This will sound like I am selling something in an infomercial and I totally am but not in the way you think. I’m telling you about it, trying to sell you on it, because if you are like me even a weensy bit, you could do far better with your finances and you require someone being sneaky to make you do it.

Go out to the Google and type in the word Digit. It should be the first web page to pop up. Basically you just connect your bank account to Digit and they take care of the rest. I stole this wording from their website: Every few days, Digit checks your spending habits and removes a few dollars from your checking account if you can afford it. Easily withdraw your money any time, quickly and with no fees. Bank-level security.

It sounds scary, I know. I read a thousand reviews before I did it. With a squinched up digestive tract, I got out my checkbook and connected the two. Ten months later I have saved almost $500. $500! Do you know how many car repairs that would cover? (Answer: one.)

Initially Digit tiptoed around in my checking account and said, “Perhaps she won’t miss 92 cents. I think we can safely take that and she will be okay.” Then they got slightly more aggressive and took amounts like $1.19 and $2.52. After a time I asked them to be even more aggressive and amounts like $33.04 were deducted. Not once have I missed that money. I’m of a mind, apparently, that if the money is where I can see it, I can spend it. If I don’t see it, I don’t spend it.

I know that this whole post sounds like I have become a sponsored blogger, a brand ambassador, but I have not. Once someone asked if they could share my Christmas post with their church and once someone asked if she could use a comment of mine to help a friend, but that is the extent of my fame with this here blog. Those two things. I’m just really excited about Digit because it works for me.

Every so often Digit sends a link attached to my balance text message letting me know that I can boost my savings by $5 for every friend I refer. While that $5 would be great (it would go towards the fund for repairing my broken air conditioner which I know is broken because the WINTER WEATHER we are supposed to be having is not cooperating and my house was 85 degrees the other day and it only got hotter when I turned the a/c on), I am not attaching that link here. I get nothing if you sign up except the satisfaction of knowing I recommended something that has worked for me and the hope that it will work for you, too.

Visit if you like. Let me know if you liked/hated it. Digit.

Also, feel free to give me advice about my money. Budgets are kind of sexy, but creating one is not and I suck at that it seems.

*Martie got me some glitter eyeliner for Christmas so I’m back in business!

** We are not worrying about this biopsy. I am totally fine. I just have to prove it is all.

I Can Totally Quit You, Facebook

07 Jan 2016 4 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Health, This Will Probably Get Me In Trouble Tags: Humor, No politics

Are we friends on Facebook? Rather, were we? Because now we aren’t.

On New Year’s Day, I deactivated my Facebook account for good. It wasn’t a resolution really, but more of a nice round date on which to make decision. My finger hovered over the “close” button for some truly anxious moments and I felt a little sick. I wondered how I would keep up with everyone. How would I know what was going on the world? Or with my friends? But after those first panicky thoughts, I pushed the button and felt an enormous sense of relief. It was done. No more would I voluntarily read things like this:

Obama, most excellent President, hated by white Christians simply because he’s black. (Not true)

You can’t take away my Second Amendment rights! Ima holster up my pistols and swagger on over to Wal-Mart and just let somebuddy try to tell me I cain’t come in. Just let ‘em. Swing through McDonald’s afterwards. This is necessary, y’all! I’ve got to prove this point right here right now! (Not true)

God took your loved one because He needed another angel! (Not true)

God took your loved one because He needed another angle! (Also not true)

This keeps happening to me! Only me! Why?! (Not true, whatever “this” is)

Jesus is weeping because you haven’t shared this on your wall nor have you typed Amen. Heathen. You’ll burn in hell, oh ye of little faith. (Most definitely not true)

Honestly, it was this coming election is what really did it for me. I know where I sit and no matter how many vitriolic memes or pictures or opinions you post about where you sit, whether I’m aligned with you or not, I’ll not change my mind or think you are a genius. No one will, really. You say you want to educate people but what you really want is for someone to validate your opinion (collective you, not specific you). So instead of being annoyed about it, I changed it. Besides, I want to continue to like the 346 people that I love and the easiest way to do that is to hold our interactions to a standard of “in person” or “a phone call away.” And now I’m happy all the time.

Also, as a white Christian, I’d like to share this picture that I love because it tickles me all the way down to my toes. I love the man in this picture and I don’t give two shits if his skin is black or white or a saucy caramel macchiato. This man, right here on the floor, is just lovely.

This man, too.

*speaking of that “I escaped” up there, Phranke and I played the Escape Game with four strangers on New Year’s Eve. At 11:55 pm the clock started its one hour countdown and we frantically rushed around our tiny little room trying to figure out clues to get us out of there. At midnight one of the strangers said, “Oh. Happy New Year,” and we all said, “Oh, sure, happy new year,” and then continued to tear the room apart for clues. My stealthy-ness won the game for us! It totally did! (not true – I suck at that game. I stood around and looked pretty and occasionally got to hold the flash light.)

It was way fun! (True)

The Escape Game

How Madre Does A Hospital Stay

11 Dec 2015 7 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Family, Health, This Will Probably Get Me In Trouble Tags: Brave; Humor

A week or two ago Madre had to have some surgery to get her gut rearranged, and that surgery required an overnight stay in the hospital. Back in April she had a different gut rearranging surgery wherein parts of her that were useless were removed. That removal opened the door for other gut items to shift around and act like brats so Madre sternly opted to teach them a lesson by having them operated upon. She’s fine, so there will be no surprise ending where I exclaim, “She’s in a full body cast for approximately three months to one year but she’s hopeful and the prognosis, while grim, can be good as long as she gets regular acupuncture and never has sugar again!”

Going relatively anywhere with Madre is a treat. She’s from whom I get my stunning and friendly personality so like me, Madre simply views strangers as friends that she has not yet met. Combine that personality with the increasing lack of filter that often comes in the aging process and you’ll understand what an adventure it is to witness Madre come out of anesthesia and recover overnight in a hospital bed.

Martie drove Madre up for the procedure and planned on spending the night in Madre’s room, ostensibly to keep an eye on Madre’s care but more honestly to make sure Madre didn’t loot the nurse’s cart or sneak down the hall for a midnight coffee run. After the surgery had been completed Madre was whisked off to the recovery room. We expected an hour’s wait but after two Martie and I began to get worried. Martie set off to the seventh floor to hunt her down. As it happens, things took a horrible turn for the nurses and also Madre when, coming out of anesthesia, Madre rubbed her eyes and in doing so, scraped the tape debris right across her cornea. The sight Martie found at the recovery room door was Madre sitting up in her recovery bed with an eye patch taped over her face, her mouth open and her finger wagging at the beleaguered staff.

“Did you put an ice pick in my eye?” she bellowed.

“No, ma’am, you just scratched your cornea with the tape.”

“Well it feels like an ice pick has been stabbed into my eye! Did you do this so I wouldn’t feel pain in my stomach? Because I don’t feel any pain down there but my eye is killing me! I can take pain, Martie, you know I can take pain, but this really hurts. I need some morphine for this! Have you put any pain meds in my IV? Did you do this on purpose? What kind of joint are you running here?”

It was a downhill slide from there.

When they finally wheeled Madre into her room, I got to hear this little tirade for myself. It was exquisite, how intently Madre could focus on her eye and ignore her lower body which had stitches and cuts and sutures. That part of the surgery made me squirm all in my intestines but Madre could give two hoots about that. She was pissed off about her eye.

The nurse who completed the transfer from recovery room to regular room and then recovery bed to regular bed got Madre all settled and then scooted quick, fast and in a hurry out of the room. “Here’s a cafeteria menu,” he hollered from the door, “she can order whatever she likes, no restrictions,” and then he was gone.

Madre’s ears perked up. “A menu?” she said. “Can I get coffee, do you think?”

After listening to the menu selections (because her eye was all patched up), Madre selected a quesadilla, brown rice, and carrots (for eye health – not joking). She also ordered a large cup of coffee, stat. The nurse had assured us that her eye would heal quickly and as we waited for her meal and coffee, Madre iced her eye and began to fully wake up.

“This hurts,” she said but she was no longer bellowing. “Wonder what really happened to my eye? I feel weird. How do I come in here to get my guts rearranged but leave with an eye patch? Did they do the surgery? Am I okay?”

We assured her that she was okay, and before long she was. She swilled down the coffee the moment it hit her tray and then attempted a few bites of dinner. She took a bite of quesadilla and happily chewed on that for about eight minutes. After quite a long time of that one mouthful, she said, “You know, I’m chewing but it isn’t really going anywhere.” We greased it up with some sour cream and that seemed to slide it down a little easier.

After a while she attempted to eat the carrots. They were cut into a small dice and with her patched eye and no glasses, she managed to pick up one cube. “These probably taste pretty good but I can’t see the damn things to pick them up. Am I eating them? Are there any on my fork? I need them to make my eye better.”

And that was dinner.

After a while, I left Madre and Martie to sleep it off in the room. I felt content with my mother’s care and her recovery so I slept the sleep of the peaceful dreamer.

Martie, on the other hand, slept terribly on the eggshell-mattressed cot, and was there when Madre awoke and decided it was time to go home.

“Madre,” she said, “you have to wait for them to remove the catheter and then take out the IV.”

“The doctor told me that as soon as I could pee on my own, we could leave. Get them in here so I can do that. And get them in here to get this damn tube out of my arm.” Madre was insistent.

Martie dutifully trotted off to the nurse’s station where they assured her that they would be right in. They were not, of course, because they had other patients to attend to, but eventually, after much persuasion, the catheter was removed and Madre could get out of bed. Madre did her business and then marched up and down the hall with her IV pole greeting other patients and making her rounds.

“I’m ready to go. Will you remove this IV please,” she asked every staff member.

At the nurse’s station she requested a pair of scissors. “I need to cut this line, please. I’m tired of this pole,” she explained. The nurses looked at Martie with some horror and some sympathy.

“No, ma’am, you cannot be discharged until the doctor comes in for her rounds and releases you,” they explained.

Here Madre set them straight. “Oh, no,” she said, “I was told that once I could pee on my own I could go. I’ve done that, twice, and now I need to leave. I have horses to attend to. And a dog I need to pick up. Martie, call your sister and tell her to call my doctor so that she can tell them I can be released. Do that now.”

Martie made the call and I made the call and many apologies were made by Martie and by me. Shockingly, that phone call worked. In no short order, Madre’s doctor called Madre’s nurse and asked, “Is she bucking?”

Yes. Yes, she was bucking.

“Cut her loose,” she said. “Let her go home. She’s just fine.”

Madre was quickly released from her hospital prison, much to the relief of everyone. But, like it happens every time with my mother, the staff cheerfully waved her off with almost hugs and affectionate pats, a little sorry to see her go. She was and is fine. Marvelous, even.

It isn’t often you find a 72-year-old woman who will challenge you the way my mother will challenge you yet do it in such a way that you can’t help but cheer her on. Life with Madre – it’s never boring.