Love, Jimmie

Oh, Yes I Did

11 Sep 2014 2 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in In Which I Throw Myself Under The Bus, Lost Stuff, Outings, Pets Tags: Fair, Humor, Monkey Rodeo

“Can you point me in the direction of the pig races?” I asked the police officer standing next to the information booth.

Daisy and I were at the fair, and currently she was standing somewhere behind me, looking earnestly off into the distance, pretending she didn’t know me.

“Did you really just ask me that?” the police officer wanted to know. His eyes were crinkly and he sort of laughed but sort of didn’t.

“That’s what my friend said!” I said, pointing to Daisy who was sneaking a look at me but then whipped around with her arms crossed like she didn’t know me again. “But you are standing here next to this information booth and I thought you might know.”

He continued to almost but not really laugh at me, and then headed over to someone more knowledgeable that the three of us to ask where the pig races were. As I waited for him to amble back, I said to Daisy, “What is that smell? It’s awful, isn’t it? Gross.”

She hissed from the side of her mouth, her back still turned towards me, “Yes, and I told you not to ask him that. I can’t believe you asked a police officer about a pig race!”

I wanted to see it, although not as desperately as I wanted to see the monkey rodeo. I’d heard from Woney that the piggies run for Oreos, and how can you not love a pig that runs for Oreos? And then Capuchins wearing racing gear whilst riding dogs around a race track? Come on, that’s genius! I had a plan at the ready: we would see the monkey rodeo and we would top that off with the pig races, and while we were at it, we were going to eat corndogs as big as our heads and some roasted corn. Perhaps I would cap the night off with fried banana pudding on a stick and then take some boiled peanuts home for later. In the midst of all that, we’d wander around looking at the rides we used to ride and lament the fact that those rides now make us barf due to age-related motion sickness. We’d check out the cloggers and the guy who carves bears out of logs of wood with a chainsaw. If we did all of that without getting food poisoning or an injury, it would be the best night of our lives.

Unfortunately, Daisy and I were having difficulty having the best night of our lives because we could not find the pig races. We walked around the fairgrounds multiple times looking for that race track, literally from one end to the other. We found the corndogs as big as our heads. We found the roasted corn. We found the clogging stage and the sweet shop. We found the giant potato on the back of an 18-wheeler that they drove up and down interstate. What we could not find were the pig races.

“What is that smell,” Daisy asked as we walked by the police officer again, wrinkling her nose. “My gosh, it’s terrible!”

“I know,” I said. “We’ve smelled this before. How do we keep ending up here?” I noticed the police officer eyeballing us, so we scuttled off quickly. We lurched around, a little lost. The fairgrounds were beginning to look the same what with the barnyard animals and tractors everywhere.

“Let’s just go back to the monkey rodeo area. At least we’ll get to see that, and honestly, if I don’t get a good seat, I’ll whine.” Daisy, humoring me, agreed and off we trotted, passing the sewage-like area again.

“Man, that really smells bad,” I said. “What IS that?”

Once we arrived at the monkey rodeo area, and I have to tell you, it’s officially called the Banana Derby, I ran squealing over to Gilligan the monkey and dug a dollar out of my pocket to give him. In return, I received a crappy postcard and a handshake from Gilligan who, quite frankly, could not give a shit. He took my dollar, threw it into the bucket, snatched the postcard from its resting place and walked it over to me. He was not nearly as moved by the handshake as I was and stared off into the distance, dreaming of mango. The race, which we sat 30 minutes on the bleachers in advance for, lasted about three minutes. The crowd was packed in around the racing fence and cheered in a collective holler. It was the best three minutes of my life and even Daisy, who had originally questioned my desire to see the racing monkeys, was enamored, I could tell.

Once the Banana Derby ended, the crowd shifted over to the next trailer, and much to my chagrin, I realized that the pig races were less than 100 feet from the monkey rodeo. Good grief. I don’t know why you people let me drive anywhere.

The pig races were much more exciting than the Banana Derby, and it turns out that piggies run for Oreos in California, not in Tennessee. In Tennessee, piggies run for cheez doodlez. So do ducks, goats, and baby piggies. See how fast they run? Not a clear shot in the bunch.

Daisy and I had eaten the corndogs as big as our heads already, but after all the racing excitement, we realized we were far too full for roasted corn, fried desserts on sticks, or cotton candy. The sweet shop was going to soldier on without our money. The boiled peanut vendor would not see our faces at all. It was a sad moment to think of all the fair food we were going to leave behind, but we perked right up when the roasted corn vendor assured us he could wrap some up for us to take home. We collected our corn and walked tiredly to the exit gate, the same gate where I had nearly gotten arrested by a police officer, and the same gate that was near the awful smell.

We neared the pathway and Daisy said again, “How does anyone stand that smell? It’s the most gruesome thing I’ve ever experienced in my life!” We walked around the curve, into the foul odor, and down the same path we had traveled three times already. Just as we neared the exit, we heard an announcer, right in that curve, holler, “Pig Races Countdown begins now!” Yep. We’d missed the big race, the one where the piggies probably run for Oreos. Oh, we’d seen the little race, the redneck one, the one over by the monkeys and the giant potato. Three times we’d walked by this pig arena, three times we nearly threw up our corndogs because of the pig smell, and three times we didn’t even see the sign, didn’t understand that the eau de manure was the pig pen. Good grief, I don’t even know how Daisy stands me, do you?

I Know You Want To See Me Naked, But Why?

27 Aug 2014 2 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Health, Philanthropy Tags: ALS Challenge, Humor, Philanthropy

When I was in high school, I was asked repeatedly by all the boys “to please, pretty please, I’m begging you, please enter a wet t-shirt contest and let me be a judge.” I was breastacularly blessed, remember.

Then when I was in college I got myself and all my friends free admission into an all-male review by promising to enter the wet t-shirt contest they were holding before the show. Not only was our admission fee waived, but we all got free t-shirts. Somehow the one they gave me was a size too small. I’m sure that was an honest mistake on their part.

A few years later I had breast reduction surgery which took my hoots down from “don’t lie on your back for any length of time or you’ll expire from suffocation” to “still larger than normal but no longer a freak show.” I’ve been thrilled with that change ever since as I like air and not having a hunchback.

Now that I have reached the age of 42 and gravity has begun its work and my hoots are of a size that allow me to breathe regularly, we’ve cycled back to the “please post a video of yourself in public in a wet t-shirt, I’m begging you.” I don’t know why everyone wants to see that but it seems they do. Sort of.

I was nominated for the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge. And like I’ve done every single, solitary time I’ve been asked (I lied to those people at the all-male review – I never entered the contest), I’m denying you your wet t-shirt.

I’ll give you instead $100 spread over five charities that can really use the money.

ALS – because they started the whole thing

Parkinson’s – Robin Williams, I’d take every laugh you ever gave me and give them all back to you if it would have made you happy inside

Ovarian Cancer Research Fund – for Erica, a woman I never met but one I called friend

MS Society – because my ex-Roomie who is also my still-Cousin is pedaling his ass off for this

San Diego Children’s Heart Institute – for Emily, Woney’s daughter, who died at age eight

I won’t challenge anyone for the ALS Ice Bucket but only because I want to challenge you for other things. Find something you are passionate about and give your time and money there. No matter what your story, you are better off than someone else. Prove it. Go give a donation. Go make someone’s day.

How I Take A Pill, By Jimmie

26 Aug 2014 2 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in In Which I Throw Myself Under The Bus Tags: Health, Humor

Step One: Notice prescription lying on bathroom counter.

Step Two: Notice lack of water glass with which to swallow pill.

Step Three: Walk into kitchen to retrieve water glass.

Step Four: Notice granola box sitting on kitchen counter.

Step Five: Remember that lunch needs to be packed for the next day.

Step Six: Realize that lunch bag was left in vehicle in the garage.

Step Seven: Retrieve lunch bag.

Step Eight: While filling tiny container with granola for next day’s snack, have discussion with roommate about painting class we want to take.

Step Nine: Realize that dishwasher needs emptying in order to have enough containers to transport next day’s lunch.

Step Ten: Unload dishwasher while continuing to chat with roommate.

Step Eleven: Sigh a frustrated sigh when realize that all glasses were put into the cabinets in cleaning frenzy, not leaving a single one out with which to take a pill.

Step Twelve: Retrieve glass.

Step Thirteen: Trip over Murphy (Murphy!).

Step Fourteen: Give kitty-varmints treats because Seamus looks so cute as he fake winds himself around my legs and because Murphy won’t shut it.

Step Fifteen: While putting treats away, realize that that the dining room table is disgraceful in its messiness.

Step Sixteen: Busily remove things from dining room table, leaving a pile of stuff for roommate to take upstairs when she goes.

Step Seventeen: Decide to run the stuff upstairs myself so I can retrieve painting from the last painting class I took and show it to roommate.

Step Eighteen: Roommate and I look over painting class offerings for the next few weeks.

Step Nineteen: Wind down conversation with roommate and make noises about hitting the sack for the night.

Step Twenty: Roommate and I retire to our respective bedrooms.

Step Twenty-One: Select book for the evening.

Step Twenty-Two: Fluff pillows and smooth sheets.

Step Twenty-Three: Crawl into bed and lie on fluffed pillows, comforter pulled up to the neck.

Step Twenty-Four: Adjust position in bed so that Murphy can hog an entire pillow.

Step Twenty-Five: Move to other side of bed when Murphy decides he wants entire left set of pillows to hog.

Step Twenty-Six: Read two chapters of selected reading.

Step Twenty-Seven: Read two chapters of the Gospel of John.

Step Twenty-Eight: Turn off light when eyelids get heavy.

Step Twenty-Nine: Snore.

Step Thirty: Wake up from a dead sleep, fling covers back disrupting Murphy from his sweet, sweet slumber as he hogs all six of my pillows, holler “You’ve GOT to be kidding me!”, stomp into the kitchen, retrieve glass from counter, stomp into the bathroom, retrieve water, retrieve pill, swallow pill with water, stomp back to bed in a huff, fling covers over self and curl up in angry ball because realize self is a moron who can do nothing in a linear fashion. Ever.

Thirty short steps to good physical health. Easy Peasy.

The end.

Mississippi Woney

21 Aug 2014 Leave a comment

by Love, Jimmie in I'm Going Somewhere, Outings Tags: History, Vicksburg

Woney used to live in California. Remember that? Remember that she used to work with her hottie hot hot trainer, Tony, who incidentally is no longer enlisted in the Navy? That means he no longer wears that hottie hot hot uniform and I no longer wish to speak about him. What a disappointment.

Anyway, Woney used to live in California and I used to visit her with some regularity. This is what a visit to California Woney looked like.

Now Woney lives in Mississippi and I still visit her with some regularity. Mississippi is a far cry from California and now our visits look like this.

The only non-blurry picture of Boo

Accessorizing your home with a vehicle of matching paint is important.

Visits to Mississippi Woney also look like this – a much better representation of her new city.

This is the Vicksburg Military Park. The Battle of Vicksburg was fought here, and that combined with the siege for the city served as a turning point for the Civil War. It was here that the Union Army gained control of the Mississippi River and the Confederate Army lost all communication with their Confederate forces. You can read all about that in any American history book but what you cannot experience is how it feels to walk on that land. Woney and I did that twice this visit, and I spent a lot of time afterwards feeling somber and heavy. A lot of lives were lost there. It wasn’t just sadness I was feeling – it was reverence, too. Those men – oh, it just makes my heart ache.

If you can take the oppressive heat and humidity, try going to visit Vicksburg on July 4th. It’s impressive what that city does to honor those lost lives. It will break your heart.

Because we forgot to take a Mississippi selfie on the battlefield or at the pool, here’s an old California selfie of Woney and me. We are the cutest.

Stuff I’ve Read and Stories I’ve Heard – Snippets from Jimmie’s Life

07 Aug 2014 Leave a comment

by Love, Jimmie in Aack!, Home Improvement, This Will Probably Get Me In Trouble Tags: Fashion, Fires, Humor, Spiders

A couple of weeks ago, I received a phone call from Thor.

“Jimmie, I was thinking it’s time to take better care of myself, and I remember someone saying that they cook once a week for the whole week. Is that you?”

“It is me,” I said, “and if you like I can tell you about it or you could just come over and cook with me one Sunday afternoon. I’ll send you home with lots of food.”

“That’d be great,” Thor said, and we made a plan.

A week later, Thor relegated a group of his friends with the story of how he recently melted his microwave.

“I had a pan of oil on the stove, see, and I had it pretty hot. I left the room for just a minute and when I wandered back into the kitchen I saw the fire in the pan. I panicked, of course, and vaguely remembered my mom telling me that grease fires need to be smothered. With flour.”

At this point in the story everyone in the room sucked in a collective horrified gasp.

“Yep,” he nodded, “exactly. Turns out flour is one of the most flammable materials out there, and I’ve since learned that the amount of flour I used to put out my fire is pretty much the equivalent to two sticks of dynamite. So I melted the microwave and had an entire weekend of grease fire/smoke clean up. Want to see the pictures?” And then he passed around his phone with the evidence of his handiwork.

For the record, Thor has been de-invited from my house for a mass cooking lesson, and you put out grease fires with baking soda.

A few days later, I went for a walk on my Greenway, and when I was going around the last bend, almost at the end of the path, I ran across a gigantic, enormous, humongous snake. I’m not one to freak out about a snake really, but this snake was hogging almost the whole path. That snake and I stared each other down for a while and I conceded by waiting for another person to step over the snake before I attempted it. Once I was across it, I congratulated myself. “At least it wasn’t a giant spider,” I said in a soothing manner to myself. “I can handle a snake, but no giant spiders.”

That night as I checked my social media, I ran across this post from one of my friends, Chelsea.

I think everybody has that moment in life when they see a spider so big that they’re in disbelief that they’re seeing it in real life and not in a picture or through a TV screen. I just had that moment. I doused it in bug spray. That didn’t work. It just kept standing still and waited as I sprayed it. Like, “Are you done?” . . . . and then started crawling again. This happened a few times. So finally I grabbed a wooden chair and did the inevitable . . . I went to work. After breaking the chair and a fingernail in the process . . . I believe it is finished. Unrecognizable by even its own mother. Sorry, dear arachnids. I guess I don’t love you.

I shrieked, threw my phone, then retrieved it to tentatively tap out a message to Chelsea telling her what a brave, brave soul she is.

And finally, I received this text from Roxanne yesterday:

I’ve been at work for two hours and JUST realized I’m wearing two different shoes.

I seriously have like, the best friends.

The Cutest Boy In The Whole World: Or, Why You Should Lay Off The Water Consumption In Times Of Crisis

01 Aug 2014 Leave a comment

by Love, Jimmie in A Boy, I'm Such A Girl, In Which I Throw Myself Under The Bus Tags: Car Maintenance, Humor

I had dinner with Daisy last night. She and I are on this shopping kick lately, which is weird because I love it but Daisy hates it. I figure that our shopping together should bring us to some happy medium wherein when we need stuff we don’t spend our entire paychecks at Ann Taylor Loft (my preference) but we aren’t going naked to our jobs either (not quite her preference but maybe preferred over shopping). After we shop we usually eat something because shopping really takes it out of you, dontcha know, and while I’m speaking about our kicks lately, I’m on a water one. I’ve not had a Diet Coke in such a long time that I don’t remember the last one and there’s only so much unsweetened tea you can drink without having Austin Powers teeth. Plus, we got this new ice machine at work that makes Sonic ice and I spend the better part of a day trotting up and down the hall to get cupfuls of ice water. Anyway, the whole point I’m trying to make in my meandering way is that last night I had dinner and with dinner I had a lot of water and after dinner I used the restroom facilities approximately eight times and then I went home.

On my way home I ran into a slight snafu in the form of a flat tire. I’ve never had that happen before but like every other major car hurdle I’ve encountered this year (four, not counting this one), I was prepared for it. As I am a self-reliant, empowered female, I whipped out my phone and dialed my trusty Verizon Roadside Assistance people. I ordered myself up a tire change and was promised that my wait would be a mere 65 minutes. With an audible sigh, I said thank you to Cheryl and disconnected. I then caught up with all my friends on Facebook, took a picture of a deer, and dug a book out of my back seat to settle in for a long read.

Deer

While I read and social media-ed, Daisy frantically texted me. “Should I drive out there? I can wait with you. Don’t open your door for strangers. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I assured her, and I was except I had this niggling feeling in my bladder that it might be a little too full from all the water. I ignored it because while I do like attention, I’m not particularly fond of the kind you get when blurred pictures of your naked behind appear on the 10:00 news with the headline, “Bank employee caught with her pants down after urinating on I-40 – story coming up next!” Plus I had been to the bathroom eight times already and as I reasoned with myself last night, that should have been plenty.

Seems that it wasn’t.

By the time my knight in shining steel arrived, I was about to bust a gut. “I hate water!” I moaned. “I’ll never drink it again! Stupid ice machine!” “Bring me a mayonnaise jar,” I texted to Daisy. “Open your car doors and squat down between them,” suggested my family. “Just find a bathroom already,” yelled my bladder. I am 42 years old. I should not be doing the pee pee dance on the side of the interstate, mere miles from my home. I should have outgrown that by age seven. Ridiculous.

When my RA guy came, he said with a grin, “You doing alright?”

“Sure,” I said, furiously digging around in my trunk for my spare tire in an effort to hurry him along. “I just have to pee in the worst way, naturally, and while in theory I know how to change a tire, I’ve never actually done it. Plus I’m in a dress and my nails are finally all the same length.” In the time it took me to say all that, Mike, the cutest boy in the whole world, already had my car jacked up and my spare tire at the ready, rendering all my futzing around useless and unnecessary.

Cutest Boy

“Is your parking brake on?” he asked.

“No, should it be?” I replied and when he said “Please,” I gingerly trotted around to the window to yank the brake on.

It took Mike three minutes to change my tire. Three minutes. That’s less time than it takes me to put on mascara every morning. That’s less time than it takes me to brush and floss my teeth. That’s less time than I spend on one bathroom break, of which I had already had eight and was desperately longing for another. He was frightfully efficient and very handy with a car jack and as I stated before, the cutest boy in the whole world.

Dead Tire

It took two more minutes for me to sign the necessary paperwork, get his card, tell him I was going to write about him, explain my new love affair with water and the ice machine at work, explain how that water and ice were now affecting my life in dramatic and unwelcome ways, tell him that luffed him for ever and ever for saving me, and then beg his permission to leave for the bathroom.

“Yeah, I know, it adds insult to injury, doesn’t it, when you get stranded with no bathroom,” he grinned and then ambled back to his vehicle.

I leapt into my car, cranked the motor and squealed off with the parking brake still on. I threw my hand out the window as a thank you and a good-bye and only halfway home remembered to release the brake. I cannot imagine why my car has issues, can you?

As I arrived home I hollered to the animals as I wrenched open the door, “Get outcha way, get outcha way! I have to pee! Move, cats!” I tripped over Murphy (Murphy!) and nearly died but made it to the bathroom where I peed for three minutes. Longer than it took for Mike to change my tire. As I had plenty of time for reflection while I did my business, I thought back to my interaction with Mike. He was super friendly, incredibly efficient, gracious and kind. He made it to my rescue in 15 minutes, 50 minutes faster than the time I was promised. I barely remember what he looks like but I’m certain he was the cutest boy in the whole world, just really lovely.

Call these people if you often get stranded

Mike, if you ever read this, thank you. Thank you for being so nice and for not making fun of me to my face for my pee pee dance and for changing my tire like a boss. If we ever run across each other, you’ll have to reintroduce yourself to me, though, because while I am certain that I am 100% accurate in calling you the cutest boy in the whole world, I have no recollection of your face. It’s the water. I cannot help it.

Special thanks also to Cheryl at Verizon for being so nice to me, to the good Samaritan who backed his car half a mile down the interstate shoulder to check on me, and to my friend Casey who offered to rescue me. What fabulous people you are!

Naw

24 Jul 2014 4 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Health Tags: Humor, Juicing

Did I ever tell y’all about Boss’s eating habits? Probably not, because the man barely ate unless I reminded him. He was good for breakfast, only ate lunch when someone put it on a plate in front of him, and had dinner on the rare occasions that we traveled together and I put my foot down. Once he flew out to Texas to pick up a guy for an interview. The two of them were flying across the country so that the interviewee could meet the big dogs in each of our offices. It didn’t occur to me to remind either of them about getting some lunch and/or dinner and by the time they got to Nashville, the poor guy had gaunt cheeks and a hangdog look. He said to me, “Jimmie, I finally learned to grab a hamburger in the airport and I’d eat it behind a pole in about four bites. I thought it was some kind of test or something and that eating was forbidden.” Boss calmly worked on his laptop while this poor guy nearly choked just trying to get a meal down.

Also, I once saw Boss throw a chocolate cupcake away. He took a couple of bites and then was done with it so he threw it in the trash. We didn’t speak for a week.

Representation of the cupcake Boss threw away

I moved on from working with Boss to working with MJ-Love, and I have to tell you, she wasn’t much better. Being female, she did find some enjoyment in chocolate but her lunch usually consisted of peanut butter crackers or possibly a single taco if we all went out as a group. I don’t get these people.

Representation of a single taco

I now have a new boss. She’s just about the nicest person I’ve ever met (next to all the other nice people already on my list) and to my knowledge, she eats regularly. I heard a rumor that she once participated in an office eating contest featuring Krystal burgers. I don’t dare ask how many she ate because if she says, “Two, and I was stuffed!” I’ll have to quit on the spot.

What gives me hope about her is that I’ll often send a catering menu and ask for her selection to which she responds, “I have GOT to stop obsessing over this menu. Everything looks so good!” She also accepts my offer of sugar free grape minty gum and ate an entire bar of chocolate I got her for her birthday. Despite her whippet-thin figure, I think she eats and likes it.

Picure of an actual whippet

I mean, until this happened.

One day last week, New Boss came to my desk and plaintively asked, “Would you do me a favor? You don’t have to, please say no if you wish, I really mean that, but I feel as if I have no blood in my body and there’s a juice bar down the street? Would you get me a super greens with ginger and then buy something for yourself, my treat?” As if I wouldn’t take the opportunity to scamper to that juice bar asap, hello. I assured her that I would gladly head over there, to never worry about asking me for that sort of thing as my job is to make her life easier, and off I went.

I’d never been to a juice bar before and y’all, what a wonder that was! The whole place smelled like herbs but not the spicy kind. It was more like grass and cilantro, very fresh and if I may, wholesome. I ogled the juices already zizzed up into cups. Pretty beet reds and bright orange and green. There were plastic shot glasses filled with all kinds of emerald liquids, and the salads were the most gorgeous creations I’d ever seen. I could feel the cholesterol just pouring out of my veins as I stood there and inhaled.

I ordered New Boss’s juice and the asked for a recommendation for a shot of something. I may find the juice bar visually appealing but no way was I going to waste any money on something that might taste like slimy grass. The juice specialists recommended a shot of wheat grass juice for energy and whizzed it right up for me in their juicer. They capped it, I paid and they sent me off on my merry way.

New Boss loved her juice. She said the ginger flavor was strong and that nothing was sweet which was exactly what she wanted. She’s been peppy since then so I’m assuming the super greens jolted the blood back into her body and she’s going to live.

Juice for New Boss

I thought that since she had such success with her juice, I would try mine. I couldn’t tell if there was any kind of stirring needed before indulging so I kind of swirled the liquid around with my finger and was horrified to discover that upon removing, my fingertip was completely green. Green, I say. Like Elphaba green.

Shot o’ wheat grass

“I like green,” I thought to myself. “There’s not a green vegetable I don’t like,” I reassured myself. “One ounce will not kill me,” I reasoned. So I swilled it down.

Y’all. I can’t even. Have you ever eaten grass? Just picked up a handful and chewed it up and swallowed it? I think that’s what I did except in liquid form. Why?! Why did anyone ever decide that this was okay?! Who ever thought, “You know, I see that green grass over there and ima get me some of that, yum.” Oh, gak! It tasted just like liquid grass with some sugar thrown in it. In case I’ve not been clear, it was gross.

Some grass

I teetered right on the edge of wanting to barf and feeling energized for a good portion of the day. I couldn’t tell if the queasiness in my stomach was from the juice itself or the thought of the wheat grass. I ate some rice for lunch which helped things tremendously but I was still reeling a bit from the juice shot. It wasn’t until much later in the afternoon that I found myself fairly zipping around the office, moving files and swinging boxes around and cleaning up tables, just relishing in the amount of work I could cram in to one day, and I thought to myself, “Liquid diet – not that bad. New Boss is super smart.”

Later that night, I met Dammit Todd and Hulk for drinks. I had a different form of juice, in the vein of tequila, and after being hit on by every man 15 years my senior, or every man who poses that smoking two/three packs a day is reasonable, none of which offered to buy me dinner, I decided that maybe liquid diets aren’t for me. Questioning whether or not I want to barf from either a) ingesting slimy grass or b) the poor choices of men is not the way I want to spend a Friday, no matter how energized I feel.

Picture of an actual tequila shot

New Boss can keep her wheat grass juice and the rest of y’all can keep your tequila. Solid foods for me, all the way.

Art Is Hard

15 Jul 2014 2 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Home Improvement Tags: Creative Journaling, Humor

In an effort to, I don’t know, better myself? Become more cultured? Step outside of my comfort zone? I signed up to take an art class of sorts a couple of weeks ago. One of my friends teaches her methods for art journaling once a month at Turnip Green Creative Reuse and I’ve always liked her stuff. Plus, I keep hoping there is some latent creative gene in me that will eventually surface because everyone in my family seems to have a talent for creating things and I, thus far, got bupkis.

The point of the art class exercise was to create a collage layout, and I think the focus was supposed to be a face but being as how I was exposed to pretty paint colors and flowers and hearts and rainbows, I stopped listening the moment Michelle said, “Pick out some things from the table over there that speak to you.” I had a fistful of greeting cards and heart stencils that I placed in my spot and then went back for some scrapbook paper and calendar pages. When I had a tidy little pile of stuff that appealed to me, I took the handful of faces Michelle had ripped from magazines and passed around the table and then handed the intact pile to the next girl.

Michelle explained that we would begin by covering our journals with a layer of gesso and once that dried, we’d choose some paint colors and brush it on in a hatching motion. I happily complied with that for a while, totally content with my work until I finished and realized my pages looked a bit like gingham, just with stormier colors. “Nevermind!” I thought. “I like these colors!”

Michelle then explained that we would attach our selected faces to our pages and here I began to understand that there was the distinct possibility that I had not listened. I’m a rule follower almost always but apparently when it comes to speeding laws and art projects, I am not. Still, I began, like everyone else, cutting out phrases and flowers, painting some with a wash here and ripping pages into circles there. I fought with myself for a while over placement and color, knowing that matchy-matchy, my favorite kind of art, was not the goal.

I earnestly worked on my piece for a couple of hours. I got paint on my shorts and under my nails. I smelled like glue and glitter. It was fantastic! As I worked, I kept my eye on the ladies around me creating their own pages. These women were far more artist-y than I, and they kept using expressions like, “Oh, the juxtaposition of the emotion and the light here is what I’m trying to capture,” and “The energy of this color pattern is rejuvenating.” Since my artist-y expressions skew more towards, “ooh, pretty!” I felt slightly underqualified and a little jealous.

Kelly, the proprietor of Turnip Green, began making the rounds towards the end of the class to check out our work. I glanced at the woman on my left and eyeballed her collage. To my untrained eye, it looked a bit like she tipped over the paper recycle bin on to her pages and then glued everything onto the exact spot upon which it fell. I then glanced at the woman on my right and eyeballed her collage. She used a lot of dark color and threw it all together on her page in a mishmash. It was appealing but I had no idea why. I took a peek at Michelle’s page and then realized that I had missed the mark completely.

Lest you doubt me, and lest you want to say, “Art is subjective, Jimmie. It belongs to the artist and says only what the artist wants it to say,” I’d like for you to hear Kelly’s comments.

To the woman on my left she said, “I like very much how you’ve broken this up into sections. You clearly have growth over here and fallow over there. I love the energy in that.” This was the recycle bin collage. I didn’t get it.

To the woman on my right she said, “The flow here is perfect! What a fantastic use of color and theme!” I was drawn to it but why?! I didn’t get it!

To me she simply said, “It’s so pretty.” That I got. And that also explains why I will never be an artist.

If you’d like to sign up for your own Art Journaling class, you can. Its $20 and everything you need is provided. Clearly there will be no judgments made as to your ability. There will be only be encouragement to spread your wings, to embrace the paint and glue, and to have fun. You can try like I did to claim that you are a better person for having taken the class, and that may be true. But even if you are no better for it, only messier, so what? It will give you a conversation piece to place on your coffee table and when your friends come over for dinner, they can eyeball it and say, “Oh, it’s so pretty.”

Jimmie’s Art

Real Artist Art (or, the woman to the right of me)

To sign up for the Creative Art Journaling class on July 26, email Kelly at info@turnipgreencreativereuse.org

And check out Michelle’s work at Studio B.

DO NOT Tell My Daddy

08 Jul 2014 Leave a comment

by Love, Jimmie in Friends, I Will Cut You, In Which I Throw Myself Under The Bus, Outings Tags: Humor, Requires Medical Attention

I cut my finger open with my new pocketknife. I thought I should just cut to the chase because to know me is to know I’m going to shred my fingers with sharp things as soon as you give them to me. I’d like to tell you it wasn’t my fault but it totally was.

See, I was talking to Pee-tah who had just picked me up after I dropped off my car for the fourth high-dollar fix of 2014 (it was the bushings this time, most likely exacerbated by the rear-ending my car took from the guy with the cigarette), and I was opening some batteries with my knife. I was doing great with that until I flipped the knife around and the hinge snapped shut like it is designed to do when pressed upon. The problem was that the blade closed onto my finger and immediately made the blood gush from it. (Now is probably too late to tell you “TMI.”)

Pee-tah didn’t even bat an eye. He just sighed a little bit and clicked on his blinker for the turn lane into Walgreens. “We’ll get some band aids,” he said.

We split up as we walked into the store, me to the front to find more batteries and Pee-tah to the back to pick up the bandages. I made my selections and laid the batteries on the counter. There I chatted with the clerks as I held my finger aloft in an attempt to not bleed to death at the Walgreens counter.

The nice lady clerk said, “Hon, you want a paper towel for that?” She was eyeing my gruesome looking finger, hand and arm. No worries about my blood being too thick or anything. Runs like a fountain.

“Sure,” I said, and then wrapped the paper towel wad around my finger and resumed standing like the Statue of Liberty while I waited for Pee-tah and the band aids.

The clerks and I chatted about pocketknives and Rock Island and my need for 6 C-sized batteries (for the blower thing to inflate my float for my Rock Island trip) and waited for Pee-tah. And then we discussed chocolate and chocolate covered pretzels and chocolate marshmallows, debating the merits of each and agreeing that chocolate consumption covers a multitude of ills, up to and including gashed open fingers. After some time I began to wonder if Pee-tah was alright back there in the band aid section. It did not occur to me that he might have become exasperated with my propensity to hurt myself on a regular basis and snuck out the front door as I held my finger like a torch whilst waxing poetic about Cadbury Easter eggs, although it should have. How many times can you roll your eyes and pat me on the arm and shake your head when I flay my skin open without saying, “For the love of God, Jimmie, will you quit with the pocketknife already?”

Instead, I wandered to the back of the store, finger held in front of me, and found Pee-tah holding an armful of bandages. “Jimmie! These are on sale,” he yelped. Y’all, he had so many boxes of bandages that he had to stack them up and hold them like bricks in a wall formation, one arm underneath them and one arm over them, all perpendicular to the floor. He had at least 10 boxes of band aids and chattered excitedly about them as we walked up to the checkout counter. “These are the best bandages ever! They are water resistant and will protect your finger from the gross water you’ll be swimming in later. I know they don’t smell like the other ones but you’ll thank me, you really will.”

Those clerks watched our arrival, Pee-tah with the entire shelf contents of band aids and me with a bloody mess of paper towels wrapped around my finger held above my head. Their eyes got round and their eyebrows leaped up to their hairlines as they asked, “How often exactly do you cut yourself?”

It’s a fair question.

However, what they didn’t know is that Pee-tah is a sucker for a sale. He knows a bargain when he sees one and thus is the reason I own an iPad mini, emergency lights and now the best box of band aids ever, all of which I have already used. Having been my friend for a long, long time, he knows that having a stockpile of band aids is never a bad thing as is having a set of emergency lights and a fire extinguisher, my other favorite gift from Pee-tah.

Also, I’m asking Daddy-O for a hand mixer for my birthday this year because I broke my old one making a banana cake for Hulk. No way I can go wrong with that.

Bag o’ bandages

Checking That Off The List

26 Jun 2014 Leave a comment

by Love, Jimmie in Aack!, I Will Cut You, I'm Going Somewhere Tags: Health, Humor, Mammogram

As a single adult who is spoiled and often gets her own way, I’ve always maintained that the best way to spend a Saturday is by going to Rock Island or to the State Fair with friends. Lounging on the beach or in my marshmallow bed with a book and a movie while a storm rages outside also rank high on my list of amusing things to do. Never once have I ever claimed that spending a Saturday morning getting your hoots smashed between two glass plates sounded like fun. That never sounds like fun for any day, actually. However, two years ago I made an appointment for the breast smash and last Saturday I finally showed up for that appointment.

I had made a few plans for Saturday and had the faint notion in the back of my head that if those plans stayed intact, I’d just reschedule that mammogram. (See above: spoiled, gets her own way.) I’ve done that for two years, what is one more week, right? Well. My calendar had other thoughts and all the fun plans I’d made disappeared, leaving me with the lone option of finally, finally visiting an imaging center to fulfill my “I-turned-40” medical obligations. Sigh.

Armed with my paperwork and some vague directions, I arrived early for my appointment. Accompanying my sweaty, nervous self was my other personality, the raging snatch I carry with me for every cookie doctor appointment and for any scheduled time which involves me removing my clothing and donning a paper gown, open in the back, please. She was sitting on “go”, just waiting to make her appearance the precise moment my wait in the lobby clicked over from five minutes to six.

The receptionist who did not ensure that the building was marked well enough so that I could see from the street that it was the location I needed would be the first to encounter that heifer. The billing specialist who’d give me the total and the arm band for the procedure would be next because he was leisurely drinking his coffee and filing his nails. And the imaging specialist? Oh, she was in for a treat. I’d been gunning for her since the day I made the appointment, two years ago. She was to receive every tear, every curse, every single insult I could hurl at her without getting arrested, simply because she was the reason for my humiliation, for the fact that I have breasts at all, and because the screening process was surely designed by a man who had never had his testicles smashed between two plates in an attempt to screen him for cancer.

I was prepared.

So was the receptionist.

Turns out, the building was marked just fine and the receptionist was pleasantly chirpy in the face of my snarkiness when she indicated that I was in the right spot. Huh.

Also, the billing specialist said to me as I sat down, “I’m so sorry you had to wait. I was to be here at 7:30 this morning and I got here at 7:35 so that wait you had is on me. Let’s get you squared away so that we can get you back there and out on time, okay?” What the . . . I hadn’t even gotten my lecture about his insouciance fully prepared in my head and here he was preempting me. I was stunned into silence. This was not the normal state of things.

I still had my shot at the imaging specialist but I was feeling a little off about that. I hadn’t had a chance to work myself up into a proper lather what with the receptionist and the billing guy being fantastic, so when that poor, sweet woman called me to the back, I could only muster up the tears from my arsenal. My other ammunition had disappeared and I was adrift.

Still, tears. I blubbered, “Look, I’m not the best patient when it comes to this stuff. I’m the nicest person in the world when I get to keep my clothes on in front of strangers, but here, today, I’m awful. I’m sorry in advance. It’s just that you are going to give me a gown that is too small and is made of paper and I’m going to desperately try to cover both sides of my chest with it but that won’t work, and then you’ll have me traipse up and down the halls in a paper towel and then you’ll make me wait and I’m not good at that. This is humiliating and you get to keep all your clothes and I don’t and I hate this!” And then I said, “See?! I’m trying really hard to be nice and I just can’t!”

And bless her heart, she handed me a real gown, a fabric one, and said, “It’s not too small. I promise.” And it wasn’t. In fact, it swallowed me whole, like a muu muu, and it was the best thing I ever wore in my whole life. Plus, it was purple.

We were halfway through the procedure (and let me say here as an aside that I’ve never been manhandled in such a fashion before – I believe she is more familiar with my funbags than I am) before I stopped crying. I’m surprised it took me that long because while I’m a dreadful patient when naked, I’m also quite curious.

“Can I see what you are looking at over there,” I asked as she took another picture.

“Sure,” she said, “come on back.”

I wrapped my purple muu muu around me after every shot and trotted over to her screen to have a gander at myself. I knew she couldn’t/wouldn’t tell me anything so I didn’t ask but I was just a regular chatty Cathy over there. “Would you lookit that! I had no idea it would show up all white. Lookit how round they are! Is that normal? Is it easier to take pictures of big boobs or small boobs? Do you think if we could smash testicles in those plates we’d get a new screening method? I bet we would. I bet it would only take two weeks.”

Y’all, the procedure was totally painless. I mean, it wasn’t pleasant but it also wasn’t awful. There was a tinkly waterfall in the background, the lighting was set on “mood” and also “dim” and the muu muu smelled faintly of laundry detergent. I exited the building exactly one minute after my scheduled departure time and was never more shocked in all my life, both that I was done and that we all had survived the apocalypse that is “Jimmie, Naked at the Doctor’s Office.”

I drove to my next event which was my four mile Greenway walk with Daisy. I had partly planned that walk to calm myself down from the state of hysteria I was certain to be in, yet my non-hysteria flummoxed both of us a bit. Daisy wasn’t sure what to do with her offer of all the ice cream and all the chocolate she was sure I would need to ease my bruised feelings, and I wasn’t sure what to do with all the Kleenex I had stuffed in my car. I’m not going to say it was my favorite day, it’s not Rock Island after all, but I lived. And until next year when we do this all over again, I’ll maintain this: “Mammograms – Not That Bad.”

Love, Jimmie

Oh, Yes I Did

I Know You Want To See Me Naked, But Why?

How I Take A Pill, By Jimmie

Mississippi Woney

Stuff I’ve Read and Stories I’ve Heard – Snippets from Jimmie’s Life

The Cutest Boy In The Whole World: Or, Why You Should Lay Off The Water Consumption In Times Of Crisis

Naw

Art Is Hard

DO NOT Tell My Daddy

Checking That Off The List

Jimmie

NaNoWriMo

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