Baptism, Bacon, and Belgium Waffles

A few times a year the husband and I like to go on road trips. Some keep us in our state, and others take us through several states. These are usually the ones that are the most memorable, and by “memorable,” I mean something unexpected or just downright bizarre happens – usually to me.

Case in point: Sunday morning, Southern Tennessee and The Waffle House.

As we sat down we noticed a group of folks occupying the booths in front of the entrance to the back of the restaurant and the restrooms. They looked like they had just come from church services. The ladies were in their finest dresses and hats and the men in their suits.

As a kid I can remember my mother making sure that she and I were dressed in our finest as we headed out for church. This was back when people still dressed for church. I didn’t think anyone really did that anymore, and I remember thinking at the time it was good to see this.

We had our meals and while we were wrapping up the breakfast I thought I’d better visit the ladies room before getting back on the road. . . If there is one thing you learn quickly when traveling with my husband is – he doesn’t stop for potty breaks. He’s all about putting miles behind him so you need to go while the goings good.

In order to get to the ladies room, I had to walk through the church folks who were having quite animated conversations across the aisles and between the 4 or 5 booths they were occupying. I felt kind of bad for interrupting them, but when you gotta go …

As I made my way through the aisle saying my “excuse me’s” the church folks stood up and started testifying, praising and raising hands.  It wasn’t unusual for me to see this, as I was raised in the south and had been to church a time or two, but the unexpected timing of it all nearly made it unnecessary to continue to the ladies room. . . if you know what I mean.

As we left they were still holding services and it reminded me of something my dad used to say to my mom when she would get on him about not going to church with us on Sundays. He would say, ” you don’t need a special building to talk to the man upstairs, you can do that anywhere and anytime.”

Never was that proven more than that day.

I’m still not sure but I think I may have actually been baptized on that day – right there in The Waffle House.

 

The Devil And The Red Go-Go Boots

You know how sometimes when trying to go to sleep your brain decides you’re going to play “let’s reminisce” and it takes you to some event in your life you hadn’t really though of in years? Recently mine took me all the way back to elementary school and a pair of red go-go boots.

Long before the devil went down to Georgia, he attended elementary school with me and went by the name of, Harold Farquar.

Harold was wiry, pasty white boy with sharp features, devil eyes and a pointy nose. His blonde hair was thick especially on top, I suspect to hide the nubs of his horns and the numbers “666” imprinted on his skull. His look was never complete without the cockroach killer cowboy boots he wore – you know the type – so pointy they could be used to kill cockroaches in corners, and they had taps on them so whenever he walked you could hear “click-clack” “click- clack” “click-clack.” Personally I think he wore them because he got some perverse kick out of knowing his victims could hear him coming.

Harold wasn’t selective in the victims he chose, and you didnt need to give him a reason. If he chose you as his intended … you were it.

I found this out one bright sunny day while at recess. My little girlfriends and I were swinging away on the swings when I saw Harold. He locked eyes with me and I knew I had been chosen. He slowly walked up to the swings, walked behind me and proceeded to put his foot in the air, turning it so that when I swung back the points of those boots would land square in the center of my back.

It all happened so fast and the pain was tremendous, but I didn’t cry, I didn’t even acknowledge it had happened. Nope. I refused to give him the satisfaction.

I proceeded to go inside and on the way in I decided Harold had to go down. He had to go down… HARD.

That night at home, I firmed up my plans, and they included a pair of hard toed red go-go boots.

The next day when the recess bell rang, I knew it was time. Time to exact not only my revenge but the revenge for every child Harold had tormented the whole school year. I gathered myself up, went out on the playground and like a lioness, I hunted for my prey. Okay it was more like a little girl with a backache.. but still …

Then I spotted him. Standing with a group of his minions laughing like he didn’t have a care in the world. I marched right up to him, he snarled, I smiled and gave him the hardest, swiftest, sharpest kick I could . . . right in his crotch . . . right up between the legs! I knew in my elementary school mind this hurt boys and men, I had seen it on television, I just didn’t know how bad it hurt them.

He fell to the ground and as he did so he let out a wail the likes I had never heard before and have never heard since. There he laid crying, wailing and holding himself.  His minions and all the kids within eye shot range were laughing and pointing.

As I walked away from him I couldn’t help but think that victory was mine!

Victory was short-lived.

Soon my mother was called to the school and she in turn took me home and when my dad got home, she sat me in front of him and told him all about my exploits at school that day.  As she told him, my dad turned colors. He suddenly got a sickish pale look to his face, then he turned completely white, and as I witnessed a sweat bead roll down his face I swear I saw him tremble ever so subtlety.

For the next few weeks as served out my sentence of being grounded and refusing to apologize I often thought about what I had done. I pictured Harold on that day as he lay on the ground in the fetal position. A crumpled sweaty, slobbering shell of his former self . . . and I smiled.

I didn’t see much of Harold around during recess after that, and he didn’t come back to our school the next school year.

I don’t know whatever happened to Harold, but I’d like to think he became a kinder, gentler Harold, and I’d like to think I played a small part in that.

So, Harold if you’re out there and by some chance you’re reading this right now, there is something I want you to know.  .  .

Still not sorry. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

 

 

Be Wary Wary Quiet, We’re Hunting Wacoons

As we’ve previously established, I’m not really what you’d call a “country girl,” I own it because it’s true.

This was never more apparent when a sickly possibly rabid racoon came into our lives.

It started out a day pretty much like any other except for the racoon we noticed sitting on top of our mailbox, in the broad daylight looking at us like it dared us to try and remove it.

When I say this thing didn’t look good, I cant stress how much it really didn’t look good. It was snarled up, its mouth looked foamy and its fur stood on ends as if  it was oiled.

The husband had to leave for work, so I’m left here with racoon Cujo on our mailbox. Eventually he made it down and was wandering the yard and straight up the middle of the road in front of our house. This thing didn’t even move when cars came up behind it, it just kept walking, and has fate would have it, it walked back into our yard.

Since we have small dogs I didn’t want to let them out with this thing on the loose, so I think – I’ll call Ohio DNR. Yeah, they’ll come out here take this thing away and all will be right in the world again.

WRONG!

I called them and was promptly told they couldn’t send someone as the only had 1 officer for 3 counties, BUT, I did have options. Each one more horrifying than the last. . .

She goes on to tell me in Ohio its legal to:
1) “Bash it in the head, double bag them and throw it in the trash.”
2) “Shoot it in the head, double bag it and throw it in the trash.”
* both of these were a NO.
3) “Live trap it, and release to a location away from us.”
* live trap a possibly rabid animal, and re-release it? HARD NO
4) “Just leave it alone and it will go off somewhere to die.”

I politely reminded her I was “NOT Daniel Fucking Boone.. not even Elmer Fucking Fud! I’m a city girl for the love of God and I’m UNDER ATTACK!”

She wasn’t moved. Thankfully racoon Cujo was as he eventually moved on, snarling all the way.

 

City Girls Should Not Go Camping

I was recently reminded of an event that happened not long after we moved to Ohio. I need to preface this by saying that my husband (who was raised in the country) has always calls me a “city girl.”

Not too long after we moved to Ohio we purchased a pop-up camper and decided to go camping.

Up until this time I only had one camping experience, when I went to sleep-away camp as a child. When we arrived there it was announced the “first years” duty was to clean the bathrooms. The bathrooms that were merely outhouses equipped for more than 2 people at a time. I took one look at that, called my dad to come get me.. and I never looked back.

Fast forward to the day the husband and I decided to go camping. Oh, the pop-up camper was nice enough, air conditioner, stove, fridge, pretty much all the amenities of home except for one important thing – no bathroom.

The husband said that was easily solved and we proceeded to pick out a very nice campsite in a state park, that was directly across the little path from the bathrooms. No problem, I thought. . .That’s what I get for thinking.

We had a very nice evening, settled in and went to sleep.

Well .. it happened. I woke up in the middle of the night and had to go to the bathroom. Any woman of a “certain age” whose ever had a child will tell you, when that urge hits, it cannot be ignored.

I was going to wake up my husband to walk with me to the bathroom, but thought – its only across that path and the path is lite.. so off I went.

When I got there the lights inside, got set down, the lights were flickering bright to dim, one light was out which only added to the overall spooky effect.

I immediately thought to myself – this is how every single horror movie starts out – a woman, in the bathroom alone .. in the middle of the night.

Then I heard it. A howling. Then another howling, then another and I swore they were coming closer and closer to me.

That did it!

I cut it off in midstream and took off back to the camper, and by took off, I mean I ran! Pants half pulled up, ass cheeks flapping in the wind and giving any other campers who happened to be awake and looking – a second full moon of the night.

As I lay in the camper the rest of the night listening to every single sound of nature outside and trying desperately not to pee the bed, one thing kept going through my mind.

. . . . . . City girls should not go camping.