Love, Jimmie

You Met The Flintstones, Now Meet The Rubbles

04 Nov 2015 6 Comments

When I was young, my Auntie Anne swept me off on a series of trips that gave me some life experiences I wouldn’t have otherwise had. I traveled to Chicago at age 7 where I had chocolate mousse for the first time and fell asleep every night looking out over the city skyline. At 12 I went to New York and saw my first Broadway play, Dreamgirls. I was also offered drugs for the first time and remember saying to the man, “I’m 12! Are you serious?” At 19 I went to Europe. There I was transfixed by Michelangelo’s David, nearly starved to death in France because French food smelled weird, and made out with an Italian boy whom I have never forgotten. Luigi. Good grief, he was pretty.

Luigi, Jimmie, Martie, Alessandro

I look back on all of those trips fondly and while I think Auntie Anne does, too, I also think she spent an enormous amount of time rolling her eyes in frustration with me. For example, I did the following:

Turned down an opportunity to see Cats because I very much wanted to watch the movie Beat Street. No, I’m not joking.
Fell asleep in the car every time we shut the door and set off on a sightseeing tour of Europe. In my defense I had just finished taking college finals the week before and I was severely overtired. But I missed all of the castles and about a thousand mountain overlooks.
Refused all food with hair on it (anchovies). Also, Martie and I campaigned heavily for a McDonald’s trip in Paris. Paris, France. McDonald’s. Even this makes me roll my eyes.

I’m so incredibly thankful for all of those experiences, for any experience Auntie Anne offers me actually, and I’d very much like to think of myself as the Auntie Anne equivalent to Pooh and Tigger. I have not yet offered them a trip to Europe or their very own opportunity to be coerced into scoring some drugs on a New York City street, but I have offered each of them a road trip once they hit an appropriate age. That age is somewhere in the neighborhood of 12/13, and this was the year Pooh hit the mark.

Now, remember when Woney and her relatives invited me to their family gathering wherein we were scheduled to have cookouts and s’mores and parties and instead we moved furniture? It was with large apologies and assurances of no repeat furniture movings that the relatives re-invited me to a new family gathering, this time at the Rubbles’ house, wherein we were scheduled to have cookouts and junk food and parties, and I was promised that the most strenuous moving I would have to do would be 1) the placing of my air mattress in a location that made me happy, and 2) the elbow grease necessary to move the beer from a chair arm to my mouth. I was encouraged to bring Pooh who only had to perform the strenuous exercise of changing out of play clothes into a bathing suit, and since this seemed to suit us both just fine, Pooh and I took off on our first ever road trip together.

I must confess, I hoped Pooh and I would have some heart-to-hearts during the six-hour drive. Just really connect. And while we did have some of that, Pooh, in the same vein as me taking every opportunity to catch up on sleep once I was safely buckled into the vehicle, took every opportunity to catch up on her social media correspondence once she was safely buckled into the vehicle. Every few seconds she’d pluck her phone from its resting spot in the door handle and scroll through Instagram and/or watch a marching band video whilst she sprawled out in her seat that was ratcheted back into the napping position. Also, I thought she’d want to snap some pictures of the scenery we cruised through to share on her Instagram page but when I looked at her phone later, every image was one like this:

I suppose there were some moments where I rolled my eyes in frustration but mostly I found it fascinating to watch a teenager just be a teenager in the most teenager-y way, much like how I acted on my many trips with Auntie Anne when I brashly chewed my grape bubble gum and plugged my ears with my Walkman around my giants wings of hair. A whole different world than where I live right now.

Enough about Pooh. Let’s talk about the Rubbles. What a gorgeous lot of people they are and what a party we had. These are some mere samplings of what those three days entailed.

Minutes after arriving for the weekend, Pooh and I were plied with plates crammed full of food and then hustled into our swimwear for an evening in the lake. I had already met all the new-to-me Rubbles, received quite a few hugs which were polite and sweet, but in the lake I got the full family treatment which just solidified the message that I was part of the clan. Phred, Woney’s brother, came barreling down the dock and as he jumped over our heads into the lake, beer in hand, he bellowed, “Jimmie, I want to be in your blog!” He went under, beer still above water (and, despite the cannonball splash, undiluted by lake droplets), and came up grinning, glasses askew. I almost said, “You need to do something blog-worthy then,” but realized that a cannonball into murky waters while keeping a fresh beer intact was quite enough to have him canonized here.

Another family member, Cousin BamBam (he’s going to be so happy with me), was lured down into the kid-filled basement by promises of I don’t know what, and as I was checking on Pooh I kept hearing him say, “My very conservative family is going to croak when they see this. You just wait.” I couldn’t actually see him but I could hear him and eventually realized he was at the center of a wild flurry of flailing teenage arms, makeup brushes and glitter. You know that gruesome television show where a herd of wild cats takes down an antelope in one unified play, fur flying and the occasional claw and tuft of hair being thrust out? It was like that except sweeter, and BamBam emerged from the fray with a face full of makeup and a grin that split his face. The girls were enormously pleased with themselves at his glittery makeover and he seemed to be pleased as well as he destroyed his corn hole competitors with a very red, very sexy mouth yet in a very manly way. Didn’t seem to me that his conservative family was all that conservative because no one really seemed to bat an eye or hug him any less, that giant straight, furry, fun man. He and the girls were just being family, playing together and practicing their makeup skills.

Pretty, pretty

I had a few moments of concern for Pooh, wondering if she’d get along with the other kids that were there, but around bed time she was snatched away to the basement to set up camp and tell stories. She was ridiculed mercilessly for her choice in blanket (Alabama) but since the ridicule was from the kid stuffed up under a Gators blanket, no one took it very seriously. She was part of the makeup frenzy and part of clean up duty and got just as many hugs over the weekend as I did. She was never asked to move furniture but honestly, the both of us would have happily participated in that because that is what families do. The whole weekend was just gorgeous. These people were just gorgeous.

There’s one more person I want to talk about, one more pseudo-family member, and funnily enough, he didn’t ping my radar at all. I have no special stories about him because he was simply no different than anyone else. I hugged him and yapped with him and listened to him ask his daughter if she had enough to eat, ask his wife if she needed anything, took the beer he offered to me. He was easy and fun and just . . . family. His name was Scott, and the Monday after we all returned to our regularly scheduled lives, Scott passed away in his home. He was young and his heart was enormous, you could tell, but it was not enormous in the way that leads to long life. When I heard the news, I was devastated like any pseudo-family member would be. What a sucky, terrible, awful thing to happen to such a lovely man, such a lovely family. Only now, three or four months later, can I see what a weird, twisted blessing that was for all of them. To send Scott home to God with a heart and head full of memories of a whole weekend stuffed full of love and laughter and family – what a nice gift to give.

In summation, I would like to say, “Hey Flintstones! Hey Rubbles! I love you guys! I’m so sorry for your loss. Thank you for inviting me in and giving me so many hugs! I’ll be in your moving party any time!”

This Is What We’ve Come To?

07 Oct 2015 12 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in A Boy, NOT a Boy Tags: Romance

I’m 43. I’m taller than the average woman. I’m not thin. I’m fun and I’m happy and I make an excellent girlfriend. Because of these things or despite these things, I have dropped off the “objects that men desire” list. That is not entirely true. I was propositioned by a man, aged 62. Maybe 62-year-old men feel like I do, like their only hope is a woman grossly outside their age range who has seemingly run out of other options.

A month or so ago I was driving my long commute to work and I noticed a pickup truck to my right that was keeping up with me. We were side by side for a few miles and no matter how much I sped up or slowed down, the driver kept pace with me. I glanced over and saw a man, a man dressed in our United States military camouflage, a nice looking man around my age who was smiling at me. He grinned and ducked his head and then waved.

My cheeks flushed pink and I waved back. We drove alongside each other until he veered off onto his exit ramp and gave one final wave to the other, smiling like idiots. It has been so long since anyone has flirted with me that I didn’t really know what to do with it other than tell my friends and laugh, embarrassed and flattered all at once. I thought about that occasionally and thought, “Jimmie, you are okay. You aren’t dead yet.”

Today I was late for work. I usually arrive at the office no later than 6:45 a.m. because traffic in Nashville is no joke. I can leave my house at 6:00 a.m. and arrive at work at 6:45, or I can leave my house at 6:15 and arrive at work at 7:30 a.m. I choose to drive in the dark every morning so that I actually get to spend a few hours in the home I pay for instead of spending all my free time on the interstate. Today was the arrive-at-7:30-am version and I was in a bad headspace because of it.

Halfway to my destination, I noticed a pickup truck to my right that was keeping pace with me. I glanced over and saw my military man grinning at me and waving. I was delighted and waved back, happy to have run into him again. Flirtations are so sweet!

The thing about flirtations – what are you going to do with them? There’s only so much you can communicate with a wave and a smile as you barrel down the interstate. I backed off to let him pass, smiling goofily that again, I am not dead and at the realization that my being late for work wasn’t so bad after all.

Wouldn’t it be fantastic if my story ended here? Just a fun interaction with a stranger on the interstate? It doesn’t end there, though. My military man stuck his arm out the window and waved me forward, asking me to catch back up with him. I gunned my granny blue Hyundai Sonata and pulled alongside his door. I held my hand up in question and with a head nod he mouthed at me, “Lemme see.”

For a second I wrinkled my brow and looked at him with a head tilt. “Let me see? See what?” And then it dawned on me. Let him see what was under my dress.

I’m going to pause here for dramatic effect. Please pause with me.

So again. I’m 43. I’m taller than the average woman. I’m not thin. I’m fun and I’m happy and I make an excellent girlfriend. And in a split second I can be reduced down to someone who will thrill that a stranger wants to see under my dress and grasp at the chance to do that because I wonder who the hell else will want me for any of the marvelous things I have to offer. Or, in a split second I can rise above that vulgarity and realize my value and wave off the stranger with a flick of my hand while I gun my granny blue Hyundai Sonata past him and make my way merrily on to work.

A true dilemma. I’ll let you guess which option I chose.

A Story My Daddy Told Me

24 Sep 2015 Leave a comment

by Love, Jimmie in Imparting Wisdom

Two men got off a plane and made their way to the airport exit. The older man saw his wife and children waiting for him and rushed to greet them. He clutched the teenager in a hug and said, “Oh, I missed you so much!”

He then hugged the middle child in a firm embrace and said, “Honey, I missed you so much!”

He took the baby from his wife’s arms and squeezed that baby as he gave it kisses. “Look at you! I missed you!”

He then handed the baby to the teenager and gathered his wife into his arms for a kiss. Passionately, he said, “My darling, I’m so happy to be back with you! I’ve missed you!”

The younger man who had gotten off the plane with the husband witnessed this and asked, “How long have you been married?”

“Twelve years,” was the reply.

“And how long have you been gone?” the young man asked.

“Two whole days,” the man replied.

The young man marveled, then said, “I’m meeting my fiancé here. I hope that when we’ve been married for twelve years, I am just as passionate for her as you are with your family.”

The husband looked him square in the eye and said, “No, son. Don’t hope. Just do it.”

A Recipe, Perfected By Daddy-O, Stolen By Jimmie

10 Sep 2015 3 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Family Tags: Family, Humor, Recipe

Guys, I don’t know what to tell you about Pee-tah’s tooth. I asked him for the story and he’s being all coy now about sharing it. I’m guessing we are going to have to give something up in order for him to share so give it your best shot. Offer him something and see if he comes up off of it. I’m making him a chicken salad. What are you offering?

Daddy-O's

Speaking of offering something, I’m doing something different today. Today I’m offering you a recipe! I never do that which is a crying shame because I’m an excellent cook and also a healthy one despite what my extra hips tell you. I know that many of you are giving me the side-eye at my declaration of “good cook” and “healthy cook” all in one sentence. It’s true, though. I’m good at it but also sneaky at it so it isn’t like you’ll come over for dinner and get tofu braised in sodium free vegetable broth with a side of raw kale and wheat germ puree. Instead you’ll get something like this:

Daddy-O’s Extra Fine Massively Delicious (Relatively Healthy) Stir Fry

Teaser . . .

Oh, man, I got a little thrill just from typing that.

I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to give you an ingredients list here and some instructions but I can’t yet. First I want to wax poetic about this dish and tell you that if I get the opportunity to choose the last meal of my life, this is what I’d pick. Squash and I have talked about it often enough during our travels while we are cuddled up on squishy sofas so I’m certain in my choice. I’ve given it a lot of thought. A select few of my friends have experienced this stir fry firsthand but not too many because that means I’d have to share and while I’m happy to share a little of it, I’m not happy to share a lot. I have no idea where Daddy-O got this recipe or how long it took him to perfect it, but I know that our conversations about my visits to him start like this:

Daddy-O: “You’ll be down here for four days? What night are we having stir fry?”

Daddy-O and JiJi visited me for the Labor Day weekend, and it should be no surprise to you that I requested my father labor in the kitchen over my wok until this dish was done. I have no shame. I’m not even embarrassed to tell you that, it’s so good.

Okay, now that I’ve primed the pump, so to speak, below is the ingredient list:

Boneless, skinless chicken breast
Snow peas, threaded
Carrots
Mushrooms
Green onion
Sliced Water chestnuts, drained
Baby corn, drained
Garlic
Soy sauce
White wine (something you’d drink, not cooking wine)
Chicken broth
Cornstarch
Salt, pepper, and sugar
Cooking oil (olive oil not recommended because of the cooking temperature)
Brown rice, cooked sticky
Love – I’m guessing on this one because 1) Daddy-O’s stir fries always turn out better than mine no matter how precisely I follow his instructions and 2) I know he loves me lots

Reading that list you can kind of tell that this is more of a method than a recipe, right? I just picked those ingredients because they are what I like and this blog is all about me, so me me me. My recipe. My favorite. My ingredient list in the quantities that I like. Me.

Now, at this point I am required by all foodie blog laws to give you proper cooking instructions but again, I’m going about this differently. Because this is about my favorite food, I want to tell you how *I* cook it. First, about five years before I make this, I ask Daddy-O for a wok for Christmas. This is an important step because not everyone has a wok lying around. Then, about four years before I make this, I ask for a rice cooker for Christmas. This step is not as important but it works for me because one of my friends has one and I am jealous. Next I asked Daddy-O to sharpen my knives over Thanksgiving. This requires some planning as I have to pack them in my suitcase to drive them down to Florida but it is successful in that I get sharpened knives AND a knife sharpener because driving my three dull knives to Florida every time I need them sharpened is ridiculous. It is at this point we can begin the proper cooking process.

With your super sharp knife, begin by cutting the chicken into the bite-sized pieces and place them into a bowl. (If you are grossed out by raw chicken like me, have someone else cut it for you.) Mince some garlic (those of you battling vampires can feel free to use as much as you like – I’ll stick with a clove or two) and toss on the chicken. Add some soy sauce (depending on the level of sausage fingers you like, add as much or as little as you prefer), some wine (a ¼ c or so), and then stir the whole raw concoction. Set aside.

This is not appetizing. I am aware. Just wait.

Cut all vegetables into bite-sized pieces and place into a separate bowl. (If you are like Daddy-O, you will have a separate bowl for each vegetable. This makes JiJi happy as she has to wash all the dishes he dirties.) The items that need more cooking time (carrots, onions) should go on top and the easier cooking items on the bottom (water chestnuts, baby corn). Or, in Daddy-O fashion, like the below.

Heat a good amount of oil in the wok on medium high heat. Let it get really good and hot and then throw your vegetables in. You can stagger them if you like which is made easier if each vegetable has its own bowl (Daddy-O sounds pretty smart right about now, don’t he?) so that the cooking time is perfect but either way, in they go. Stir it around while it sizzles and get each vegetable coated in oil. When the heartier vegetables begin to turn bright green and orange, toss in some salt, pepper, and a pinch of sugar. Add some wine and some chicken broth, whatever amounts make you feel good about it, and let all this business cook for a minute or two. Remove the vegetables from the broth and place back in their bowl. Pour the broth into a separate bowl for later use.

I love those hands. My Daddy’s hands.

Heat more oil in the wok. When it gets good and hot, toss your chicken in and cook until it begins to turn opaque. This is when things start to smell particularly yummy because the garlic is now being cooked. Once the chicken is cooked nearly through, add the broth back into the wok. Stir a tablespoon or two of cornstarch into an additional cup of broth and mix until it sludges. Keep stirring that sludge as you pour into the broth. Smoosh all that around until the sauce begins to thicken and then add the vegetables back in. Stir, cover with your wok lid and set the table. Be quick because you don’t want to overcook your vegetables and make them mushy.

Once the table is set, pour yourself a glass of wine and plate up the stir fry over your brown rice. If you really feel fancy you can drive on over to the nearest Chinese take-out place and get yourself an egg roll beforehand but that is not mandatory.

Viola!

Y’all, I took all those pictures to show you how this is done and I totally forgot to take a picture of the final result. This is what happens when you make stir fry for me, though. I get all giddy and flushed of face and leave my phone next to the empty wok. This half-eaten plate is all that was left by the time I retrieved my phone. Still delicious.

The love was right there, but I ate it.

So that’s it, guys. My Daddy-O’s famous stir fry recipe that I love more than chocolate. If you make it, I’ll happily give it a taste test to see how it measures up. I’m a giver like that.

Bonus: This is how Tigger uses chopsticks.

Here We Go Again

18 Aug 2015 5 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in I'm Going Somewhere Tags: Car Repair, Humor

I was rummaging through the console of Pee-Tah’s car on my way to work and called him to ask, “Is this a tooth in your car?”

“Yes,” he replied. “It’s a long story.”

I don’t know about you guys, but I want to know the story.

No, I wasn’t kidding

Oh. You want to know why I was driving Pee-Tah’s car. Right. Because this.

CURSE WORD!

This is my sad, forlorn, pitiful wreck of a car sitting at the mechanic’s shop waiting for a new alternator.

Oh. You want to know why I have to have a new alternator when I just got one last year? Yeah, me too.

Before I bought my Sonata, I drove a used Isuzu Rodeo until it had 240,000 miles on it. The belt squealed every time I turned it on and the gas pedal would get gummy and stick in the rev position until you reached down and yanked it back into non-rev mode, but it never gave me this much trouble. That Rodeo set the bar for all other vehicles – how long and how far I should be able to drive one. This Sonata only has 150,000 miles on it and is being a baby about it, quite frankly. I’d give it a swift kick to the tires but I’m afraid that will just anger it further and it will retaliate by dropping the entire undercarriage on the freeway.

I suppose the good news here is that I’m pretty adept at diagnosing a problem with my car. I’ve had nearly all of the traditional car problems so I’m recognizing the signs. I was getting an oil change when the alternator made its final hurrah. I flicked on the windshield wipers and noticed they were slow so I asked the guys at the shop to check the voltage (I knew the right terminology and everything!), and then had to ask for a jump when it wouldn’t start. On the way over to the mechanic’s, my car backfired, bucked, revved and then de-revved, flashed lights and generally acted like an asshole, much to my humiliation. I like attention but not that kind.

Pee-Tah asked me later, “You knew it was the alternator before anyone told you, didn’t you?” Yeah, I did, and I’m inordinately sad that I did. I never wanted to be a mechanic. I never wanted to know so much about cars. That was never my dream.

Other car stories here, here, here, here, and here. Oh, and here. And also a weensy one here.

Sigh.

Oh, Mexico. How I Love Thee.

13 Aug 2015 2 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in A Boy, Aack!, Friends, NOT a Boy Tags: Fitness, Humor

I joined a new gym. Every three years or so I tell you that, I know, and yet my body stays in roughly the same shape despite all the money I pay out monthly for the privilege of walking miles and miles to nowhere.

Like 90% of the rest of America, I have jumped on the Planet Fitness bandwagon. How do you argue with a $10 monthly gym membership cost? I’ll tell you how – you show me the hydromassage bed and explain that the only way I get to use it is by paying $20 a month. You also show me the free tote bag I get for $20 a month. I feel the same passion for tote bags as I feel for hoodies, so $20 seemed reasonable when I perused the list of all the goodies I got for it, a list which also includes unlimited use of purple treadmills and stair climbers.

As per usual, I did not embark on this venture alone. No siree. Daisy got her arm twisted to get her own $20 a month free tote bag and use of the hydromassage beds and purple treadmill, and boy, I’ll bet she’s happy about that.

“Can you show me how to use that machine?”, I ask the stranger on the ab roller while Daisy hides behind the leg press.

“It smells like feet in here,” I say loudly so that the man next to me who smells like feet hears me as Daisy tries to climb off the elliptical and flee.

I query when the candy bucket is empty, “are there any Tootsie Rolls back there?” (Truthfully, that was Daisy. But I’d have asked it if she hadn’t.)

“This sucks. I’m tired. How much longer are we going to stay on this treadmill? This is BORING.” I like to ask that right in the middle of a HIIT workout. I mean, between the huffs and puffs as I check my heart rate on the downside of the interval, of course, because talking during the upside is not an option.

Really, though, I like Planet Fitness, and I like working out with Daisy. It’s not a high intensity gym. No Cross Trainers. No Insanity. No Boot Camp. Unfortunately, there are no hottie, hot, trainers like Woney has, and no spin classes with Lynnette, but overall it is a good experience. Everyone is nice, the massage beds are glorious, and Daisy is really funny. And there is a Mexican restaurant next door.

What, you don’t eat tacos after every workout?

I didn’t used to but it seems lately that Mexican food and I belong together. It calls to me, that sultry plate of refried beans and rice with cheese. It is destiny. And a pattern. A habit?

For example, we celebrated our maiden voyage to Planet Fitness with a plate of tacos. The restaurant was right next door! And then the following night, for example, we signed over the next year of our lives to Planet Fitness and celebrated with burritos at the Mexican place just down the street. Then, and this will shock you, we celebrated the first “Official Planet Fitness Workout” with some chips and salsa and Diet Cokes at the Mexican place on the corner. By recent count, Daisy and I have sampled chips and salsa at five different Mexican restaurants and only one of them wasn’t up to snuff. You’ll thank us when you ask for suggestions for the best guacamole in town. We are knowledgeable. Never mind the fact that we are retaining water from the sodium content like crazy, this is scientific research that must be done. For the good of humanity. (For the record, Los Compadres, over in Mt. Juliet has the best guacamole. Mazatlan has the best fajita taco salads. Las Palmas the best salsa. Get all that with no onions. Delicious!)

I told you that whole story so that I could share one thing. Two, actually, but the second one is just a close up of the first one so that you can really get the full effect.

The last time we had tacos to celebrate a workout, we were seated at a table that had that ^ painted on it.

Here’s the close up, the view directly underneath my chips and salsa.

Now I’m not opposed to men of color. I find men of all hues highly attractive. But I don’t care how hot you are in your loin cloth or how ripped up yours abs are, I don’t want to eat chips and salsa off your butt. Also, I will say this. If you want to pay $20 a month to get a free tote bag, a round on the hydromassage bed, and really change your body, yet you can’t seem to stop eating tacos long enough for your body to change, try eating some chips and salsa off a Mayan conquistador’s Harlequin Romance novel behind. That ought to do the trick. Put you right off of food for a good long time.

To cleanse your palate, here’s a gratitutious photo of Woney’s hottie, hot, hot trainer.

About A Boy; About A Girl

30 Jul 2015 4 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in A Boy, Friends, I'm Going Somewhere, Outings Tags: Fifty Forward, Humor, Supper Club

I had dinner with my senior citizens last week. I still do that every month in case you were wondering. Our normal pattern is while we eat, we discuss other restaurants we’d like to try on another outing, and I make a running list of places so that choosing a new one every month is easy. Jan, the woman who is me in 30 years, piped up from the end of the table. “I’d like to go to Big Bang. I heard it was fun.”

I was conveying a piece of potato to my mouth with a fork and this revelation rendered me unable to hold onto my utensils. I dropped potato and fork into my lap and then snapped my open mouth shut.

“Jan, Big Bang is a bar. A rowdy bar. Downtown. With drunk people. You want to go there?”

“Yes,” she said adamantly. “I think it would be fun.”

So I put Big Bang on the list. I once spent a lovely evening there watching my friend Miguel kill it on the dance floor to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” Seriously, he knew every move and did them all for the whole song. I’ve never particularly seen him as a ladies man but it seems that the ladies really like a man who can dance every move of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” Miguel got a lot of numbers that night. I guess I’ll be teaching our two single men at the senior center how to dance now. Turn them into lady magnets. I’m pretty sure that’s why they come to these dinners, to find themselves a lady friend.

Speaking of single men, we had a new attendee at the dinner this month. Jack was the lone male that signed up to ride the supper van full of women. He was the last to arrive at the center and as he walked up the stairs to the front door, all the single ladies pressed their faces to the glass to watch him. I don’t know if that is a common occurrence for him or what, but once he realized he had an audience he threw both arms out to the side and puffed his chest out as if to say, “Drink it in broads! I have arrived.”

I fought my way through the crowd to introduce myself and explained that he was the single exception to our hen party. “How many women are on the bus,” he asked, looking around with some glee.

“Thirteen,” I replied and then he did a fist pump victory motion whilst exclaiming, “YES!” My kinda dude.

Remember ages ago when I told you about Jim and Jane, the couple who found each other late in life? Jim is the sort who swaggers into a restaurant with his tabbed-waist pants and his pinky ring, kind of smoothing his mane of white hair in a fluid motion. Jack is nothing like that. Jack had on his rock star jeans with the designs on the pockets, his Daniel Cremiux shirt and his hipster glasses. He’d shaved his head into a shiny Bruce Willis dome and he expertly rolled his pant legs up into a look so trendy it hurts. He told us later that he’s 90 and a World War II vet. Went to a middle school last week to talk about his experience as a soldier and the kids ate it up. I think he did, too. I know I ate it up. Man, I hope he comes back. He was a treat. I’m anxious to see which lady friend he settles on, or perhaps more accurately, how many lady friends he settles on.

We also had another new person this month, Heather. I’d heard she was coming long before I ever got to the center, because Heather is what you’d call a “handful.” The schedulers wanted me to be aware from the get go that she would be there as she is legally blind, speaks extra loudly to make up for her lack of vision, and doesn’t get along with Jan at all. I mean at all.

Heather has had a pretty rough life but she’s not one to shy away from talking about it. Five bypass surgeries, sixteen eye surgeries, something in her kidney area and all the complications from a severe case of diabetes. She will tell you all about it and even show you her scars, but the whole time she’s talking she’s got the most upbeat attitude.

“I just figure that you only get one life,” she pontificates, “and you might as well like it. I take the bus anywhere I need to go and I get along. No need to complain.” She’s right but she’s also annoying in that no one around her is allowed to have a regret or a complaint or a question that might imply even a borderline problem.

For example, at the dinner one of our ladies, Beth, asked if her steak could be put on the grill for another few minutes as it was cold and little too raw for her liking. The waitress happily obliged but Beth was given such a tongue lashing from Heather over not being grateful that Margaret, another lady whose steak wasn’t done, ate her cold, raw meat in silence so as not to draw attention to herself for her own verbal tongue lashing. I don’t want any meek mice at our dinners so I had a talk with Heather afterwards who then hugged me and told me I was fantastic. Even put her head on my shoulder to rest on the ride home.

I am so lucky. I love these people. I sure do meet all kinds.

Because I’ve been remiss in writing about this lately, below are some of the places we’ve been for dinner and my review of them:

Butchertown Hall, Germantown area – a Texo-German place which means lots of meat. Yes, go. It’s painfully trendy, just annoyingly so, and it’s easy to get scared by the reviews on Yelp. It seems that the staff finds it excruciating to wait on you, the customer, and they run out of brisket later in the day. However, we had a delightful experience. It’s almost as if the wait staff got skewered by somebody higher up over the Yelp reviews and straightened out their act. We had Andrew as a server, and let me tell you, he hustled the whole night. He patiently answered every question we had about the menu, made thoughtful suggestions and kept the food and water coming. You’ll enjoy this place if you can get a table. Well worth it. The food was delicious, and I highly recommend the brussels sprouts. Mmmmm

Woody’s Steak House, Madison – old school steak house. When I say old school, I’m talking 1980’s wood paneling with heavy maroon trim, mood lighting in the form of wall sconces made to look like gas lanterns, and baked potatoes the size of your head. If you want atmosphere, this is not your place. If you want a side of beef, it is.

Cajun Steamer, Franklin – a total dive bar. It looks like nothing special inside or out. It’s in a strip mall for Pete’s sake. But when you go, order the tuna dip. That face you are making right now? Yeah, I made it, too, but then I tried the tuna dip and it changed my life. At the very least it changed my thinking about tuna dip. Trust me on this one.

Mere Bulles, Brentwood – a Nashville institution. When it was downtown it featured a painting of Madre on her horse, Louie. That painting is long gone now, sadly. But go there. The food is outstanding and the service, too.

Blue Moon Waterfront Grill, East Nashville-ish (I’m good with directions) – a marina bar and grill. It was pretty good. Go when it’s not so hot, though. And if you really want a marina bar and grill but you only get one shot at it, go to the one in Lakewood. It’s better.

Okay, that’s it. If any of you want to meet us at the next location, let me know. I’ll include you in our reservations. Single men more than welcome. You can have your pick of the ladies. They’ll treat you real nice.

Rite of Passage

21 Jul 2015 3 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Family Tags: Brave; Humor

At the house where Martie and Coach now live is a creek that we used to play in as kids. All of us, Brother Bear, Brother Boo, Martie and I, spent countless hours in that creek, boating, fishing, swimming, bathing, frog gigging. Yes, bathing, even though the cows peeing in the water upstream likely rendered our shiny clean hair less clean. That’s how life in the country works, and if that means we can’t be friends, just remember that you have eaten insect legs and rat hairs (it’s in your chocolate – true story – www.FDA.gov).

Creek

While we all spent countless hours in that water, the boys were always far more adventurous than the girls when it came to creek swimming. Martie and I climbed down the dock steps to tentatively feel around in the icy water before committing to a full dunk, but the boys took turns swinging off the rope tied to the tree and jumping off the abandoned bridge that covers the water. The wimpy boys jumped from the bridge itself and the brave boys jumped from the top railing, over and over again, never really swimming more than the few strokes it took to reach the bank and start all over again. I don’t remember any wimpy boys, they were all brave, and I certainly don’t remember any wimpy or brave girls. We girls liked our dock steps just fine, thank you very much, and our floats and our tentative full dunks.

Cuzz, Brother Bear, & Brother Boo jumping backwards off the bridge

Cuz, Brother Bear, & Brother Boo jumping backwards off the bridge

Actually, we liked it just fine until one day Martie got a raging wild jealous hair and decided that she was coming off that rope swing, just like the boys. Not the bridge, mind you, but the rope swing which was just as scary because if you didn’t let go of the rope in time, you’d come back to shore and smack into the tree. Plus it was kind of high above the water and you were in full swing and letting go was the hardest part because you couldn’t see what you were falling into. Martie set her mind to it, though, and expressed her intentions and Brother Bear was all in. “I’ll help you,” he said, “whenever you are ready.”

“I’m ready now,” she said, and then marched down to the creek, swimmy suit on, creek shoes tied, chin set determinedly. She clamped her hands on the rope, stepped back to get a good swing, and then faltered. For forty-five minutes. Brother Boo and I were in the creek already waiting for her to leap in. I mean, we were waiting but then we got bored so we got out and then got back in and then Brother Boo jumped off the bridge a few times and then we had a snack. Brother Bear never left Martie’s side despite the temptation of the bridge jumping and the snack having. He never walked away from encouraging her. He stood there the whole 45 minutes until Martie finally said, “screw it” and swung in. (She didn’t really say “screw it” because in our house you didn’t say words like “screw it.” You also didn’t say “shut up” or “yeah” because “shut up” got you a mouthful of soap and “yeah” instead of “yes” got you ignored.) She came barreling up out of that water with her eyes shining and pride just blazing out of her. Actually she cried for a minute when she came out of that water but after that she was a total peacock.

Bridge and rail

That rope swing is no longer there as the tree is no longer there. It died and got swept away or cut down after we all left home. The dock remains, though, as does the bridge, and this year when Brother Bear and his family came for a visit, the whole family crew built a zip line. There’s a bicycle handlebar and lot of steel cable and more bravery than I’ve ever possessed to take you from the top of the bridge to the middle of the creek. (I still like the dock steps and the tentative full dunk, thank you very much.) Brother Bear’s kids were all over the zip line, all over the bridge both top and bottom, back and forth, drop in, get out, do it again, and Martie’s kids watched from the side lines on the dock steps as they tentatively full dunked. They were just fine with that, thank you very much.

Rigging the zip line

Until they weren’t. Tigger, having watched all the fun for the better part of the day and getting a raging wild jealous hair, expressed her intention of riding that zip line and jumping off that bridge, just like everyone else. “I’m ready now,” she stated and then marched over to the bridge, swimmy suit on, creek shoes secure, chin set determinedly. She was in; we were in; everyone was in. Tigger’s daddy, Coach, jumped in first to wait for her at the bottom. Martie waded into the water from the dock steps and waited for her at the far end of the creek. The family and friends we’d invited over crowded around on the bridge, everyone encouraging with anticipation.

Zip line

Tigger stepped to the edge of the bridge, clamped her nose shut and faltered. I sat down next to her, dangling my feet over the edge, and we waited. Tigger put her hand on my shoulder, clamped her nose shut, and again faltered. This will not surprise you, but Brother Bear never left her side. He and his lovely wife Shell stood next to her the whole time she wavered, camera sitting on go, just waiting for her to let go. We all waited. For thirty minutes. (Poor Coach – do you know how cold that water is? One other word we are not allowed to say in that house: “shrinkage.”)

I was looking off down the creek at Martie when I felt Tigger’s hand leave my shoulder. She didn’t make a peep. Just let go of my shoulder, held her nose, and stepped off the edge, easy as you please. The hollers and whoops from those of us on the bridge were deafening, and I have to be honest, I got all choked up. Tigger came barreling up out of that water with her eyes shining and pride just blazing out of her. Actually she cried for a minute when she came out of that water but after that she was a total peacock. Shell captured it, and its just gorgeous. See for yourselves.

Don’t wish you were that brave? To just stand on the edge of your fear, look it full in the depths and let go? I want that. I think I’m going to try it.

I Didn’t See This Coming

25 Jun 2015 4 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Family, Health, Imparting Wisdom Tags: Growing up, Humor

I had dinner with Martie, Coach, Pooh and Tigger last night. Its summer break for them and since my hometown has zero good shopping opportunities (excepting Home Depot, of course), they came up my way for some good eats and some good spending.

Right in the middle of a story I was telling at dinner, I looked over at Pooh and noticed that she’s suddenly become a young lady. Her roundy little face is not really roundy anymore and her chin is suddenly all pointy and sweet and her cheekbones are making an appearance and she looked so grown up that I couldn’t stand it. I started crying halfway through a sentence.

Coach was astonished, although probably not as astonished as an outsider would have been. I mean, he’s been a part of Martie’s life since forever and Martie and I are what you call emotional at times. I think he was particularly torn because while he was sitting next to me as I cried into my napkin, Martie was across the table from him and suddenly crying into her napkin, too. I could see his dilemma – he wanted to race around the table to her, pat me on the arm, look proudly at Pooh but since we were all in a circle, he could only dart his eyes around in a panic. Tigger just sat there like, “wha . . .?”

Back when Pooh was a toddler and Tigger wasn’t even a two-celled being, Martie and Coach bought Pooh a swing set. She loved to swing but she hated bugs so getting her to go outside was super successful until a fly buzzed past, then she was hell bent on heading for the sofa on her squeezy little toddler legs. We all thought it was adorable because everything toddlers do is adorable, but I also thought it could be changed so I tried that.

Pooh and I were happily swinging one day when a buzzy creature whizzed past. Pooh got off the swing, covered her eyes and wailed, waiting for me to take her inside. Instead, I spotted a butterfly on some of the marigold plants in their rock-walled planter and developed a plan.

“Come with me, Pooh,” I said, taking her by the hand. “Let’s go look at the pretty butterfly. Not all bugs are scary.” She, ever trusting, took my hand and willingly followed.

At the planter, I bent down to brush the dirt off the rock wall and then curved Pooh into the crook of my arm as I sat down. As I held my hand out to the butterfly, I felt a small stick on my behind. I ignored it because the butterfly was flitting toward my fingers and I was excited to show Pooh the beauty of it.

I felt another stick on my behind, like maybe I was pressing into a sticker bush. I scooted forward. Then I felt another and another and another.

“What the . . . ?” I thought. “Do marigolds have thorns?” I looked behind me to see what I was sticking my butt into and saw the most horrifying sight. Fire ants. Fire ants! Oh, geez.

Apparently that dirt I brushed off the rock wall was their home. I just whisked it right off into oblivion which, as you know, will piss a fire ant off like nobody’s business. Whoops. In retaliation for my destruction they attacked my behind numerous, numerous times.

I stood up abruptly, knocking Pooh over, and did the only thing I could think to do. I stripped off my pants. Which, in case you are unfamiliar with how clothing works, will leave you virtually naked. Realizing that neighbors were likely now peeking out of their windows due to the loud squawking next door, and realizing that being naked in my sister’s backyard with her squeezy little toddler was in no way sane, I stuffed myself back into my fire ant-riddled pants and ran for the house. I did remember to get Pooh and as I ran, I tucked her under my arm like a football, screeching the whole way.

As we ran, Pooh very calmly touched my behind with her finger. “Ant,” she said. She giggled. “Ant,” and then she’d poke me again. “Ant, ant, ant,” all the way to the house. I set her down on the laundry room floor, stripped myself again and threw everything into the washing machine while Pooh said over and over in her toddler language, “Ant.” Har, har, Pooh. Very funny. Got over your bug phobia, didn’t you?

I’ve told that story a thousand times. Used to Pooh would ask for it, and then would tell it to Tigger in her own language which often made no sense. The two of them would cackle in the backseat of my car, highly amused at my injured behind and my naked self.

Now if I told that story, Tigger would giggle to be polite and Pooh would give me a half smile and then text her friends something that has nothing to do with me. They both still hug me tightly when we get together and we still have big fun talking about boys and clothes and nail polish, but one day soon they are going to flit off with their friends right after giving me that tight squeeze and talk about boys and clothes and nail polish with them, not me.

I’m so, so excited for them and their young little lives, truly, but man . . . . that really hurts.

13.1. Yeah, I Did It.

11 Jun 2015 8 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Health, I Will Cut You, I'm Going Somewhere Tags: Half Marathon, Humor

Four years ago I said, “Y’all, I’m going to run a half marathon.” And then I did. I totally did, except I only ran 3.1 miles of it which is practically the same thing. Then last year I told you all a story about drinking like a fish with My Girls and embedded in that story was a second promise to run a half marathon. And then I did.

Okay, that is a lie. I can’t even fiddle around with that one and pretend like I did something great. Instead, what I did was spend all my money fixing my car for the 95^th time after it kept crapping out on me and then I could not afford the trip to Cleveland for the race. (Recently spent another $450 on that vehicle getting some additional mechanical repairs; meanwhile the side piece under the passenger side doors hangs limply down from the frame in the manner of droopy drawers. Best car ever. Get a Hyundai Sonata. Go ahead. Tell me all about it when you do.)

What I learned from those two experiences is that when I tell you guys I’m going to do something, I don’t do it. There’s really no explanation for it, but I’m not so dumb as to keep telling you about my goals and whatnot and then have them not come to pass. If it’s all the same to you, I’m keeping the big stuff to myself. You can hear about it afterwards, like this:

I COMPLETED MY FIRST HALF MARATHON.

WITH MY GIRLS.

AND I WILL NEVER DO ANOTHER ONE AGAIN.

NEVER.

Months ago, and who even remembers when anymore as my “drinking like a fish” stories with My Girls are beginning to run together, we lounged around in our fuzzy pants and contemplated a second shot at doing a half together. Lo and behold, the next day my checking account was debited $35 for my race fee. A race in Medina, Ohio which sounds cute but also foreign and far away. I do recall Squash (the Girl who hails from Ohio) promising us that her weather would be fine and that the course would not be hilly, and I do recall some amount of enthusiasm as we each whipped out our mobile devices and our debit cards and happily signed away the fees. We clinked together glasses of rum and Coke and then merrily called Luke over for pizza and girl movies. (This happens often so while I cannot pinpoint the exact trip, they all kind of follow the same itinerary . . . .)

From left to right: Squash, Nurse Bananahammock, Woney, and your favorite, Jimmie

I realized immediately after that trip that I was really going to complete this half. And right after that I realized that I needed to train for it. And then not long after that I realized that Daisy was the perfect person with which to train because she walks like the Energizer bunny and her complaints are very soft-spoken. We began traipsing up and down the Greenway, three- and four-mile walks here and there and then longer walks on the weekends. We kept adding mileage every Saturday and eventually walked 11 miles in one go. It was awful. It was hot and hilly and our legs were so tired. We only meant to walk 10 that day, but I misjudged the mile markers (surprise) and when we finished we had walked just over 11 miles.

My Greenway

I could tell how the half was going to feel based on that one walk with Daisy. We were at mile nine and Daisy wearily turned her head towards me. She gave me a long look and said, “When we get back to the car, I’m going to beat the shit out of you.”

I looked wearily back at her and said, “You can’t catch me.”

And she wearily said, “You can’t run.” Valid.

She probably would have beat the shit out of me except we had promised each other pancakes that day, and our desire for pancakes outweighed her desire to kill me, so we carbed up and eventually forgot about our tired feet. Carbs are magical.

Don’t they look delicious?

The day arrived for the half marathon. I was excited enough to be full of hope and naïve enough to not be full of dread. I had on comfy clothes, a bra that cinched the lady bits into battle ax position, and two pigtails. There were 13 miles ahead of me and a medal and a chocolate milk at the end. I was with My Girls and the weather was fine. The promise of a flat walk was unfounded. We received an email a month before the race that was apologetic in nature – changes were made to the course so that the last eight miles were stuffed full of hills – but I live in Nashville. We are hills. I could take it, sure.

From our starting position at the back of the corral, My Girls and I trotted off. We kept a pretty good clip for quite a few miles (Nurse Bananahammock, the runt of the litter, practically had to jog to keep up with us) and even chatted while we walked. I greeted every volunteer who steered us in the right direction.

“How you durin?” I’d ask and they would cheerfully wave at us.

“I know, we *are* awesome, this is so great,” I’d say, every time we got the you are fabulous, good on you speech.

Woney said to the Girls, “I knew she’d be like this.”

And I was like that for about nine miles.

Mile nine was the marker where my feet started the burn. I could hear Daisy in the back of my head saying, “I’m going to beat the shit out of you,” and I thought, “Yeah, this is maybe not so fun anymore.”

By mile 10, I was a grouch. I was overly fond of pointing out, “That house is ugly. It looks like doo doo.”

Woney said to the Girls, “I knew she’d be like this. Just wait. It gets better.”

By mile 11, I was resigned. My dogs were barking, one of my pigtail holders had popped off, and my body was one giant salt lick from the sweat. “I’m finishing this bitch. I did not do all this walking to get swept and not get a medal. C’mon y’all. Two to go. Dammit.” Fun.

Woney said to the Girls, “Hold on. She’s coming back.”

Mile 12 was the killer. Somehow we had picked up a Negative Nelly who whined about her feet the whole last mile. “My feet really hurt. Do your feet hurt? Why aren’t you saying anything about your feet? This was a mistake. My feet are killing me.” Yes, our feet hurt. Our backs hurt. My butt hurt. Woney was drained. Nurse Bananahammock was winded. Squash was already finished but her feet hurt, I just knew it. If any of us had had the energy, we would have stabbed old Nelly over there with an ice pick. But we had a mile to go and there was no getting out of it. I really wished for Daisy at that point who would have said to Nelly, “When we get to the finish line, I’m going to beat the shit out of you.” And she would have meant it, carbs or no carbs.

Not magical enough to save Nelly.

On we trudged. Resignedly I’d respond to the clapping volunteers, “Uh huh, we are great. Yeah, this is awesome. Sure, we can do this.” Most of that came out as a wheeze through parched and lifeless lips but at least it came out.

Woney said, “I told you she’d be like this.”

As we reached mile 12.5, I said to the Girls, “I usually like to cry at the end of these types of events. I don’t think I can today, I don’t have the reserves, but please know that I will want to.” When we reached the last hill we eyed a sign that read, “You can bitch about the hill, or you can make the hill your bitch. Finish line at the top.” We heaved mighty sighs and stoically placed one foot in front of the other all the way up the hill. I swallowed a bug. Maybe it was cigarette ash from a passing vehicle. I’m not sure, but it did not help. We had to shove an old man out of our way. He was blocking the path and we did not have the energy to veer. Children ran wildly at us and we cared not if they brained themselves on our knees. We were automatons and we were going to finish, up the hill, on a cobblestone street, across the line.

As we got to the top, I held one hand out to Woney and one hand out to Nurse Bananahammock. We locked fingers, raised our arms in victory and crossed the finish line together. Turns out I did have the reserves because I cried all the way across the line, sweaty, grimy, down to one scraggly pigtail.

Done.

It. Was. Glorious.

Here is the medal. Get a good look at it because it is the last one you will ever see on this blog. I worked for it. I earned it. I am proud of it. And I never want to do anything like that again to get another. Isn’t it pretty? Tell me it’s pretty.

One tired Jimmie.

Also, you know we drank like fish after that race was over. Keep this in mind for future posts which I will not tell you about in advance because I want the plans we made to happen. But yeah, happy times are a ‘coming.