a virtual choctaw hayride

You know how when you have a sore throat, you should be trying not to strain it? You should be speaking as little as possible and definitely not shrieking at sports teams or calling to someone across the street? Well, I've been doing okay with all that--very conscientious about my current limitations--all aided in part by the fact that I could care less about sports and the only people across the street are construction workers who do enough calling on their own. Until this morning, when all attempts at voice preservation flew right out the window.

It began with breakfast.

I was reaching for the eggs for my morning scramble when I saw the butter. And the bacon. I glanced toward the cupboard and with my x-ray vision, I saw flour. All of the sudden, I KNEW. It was biscuits and gravy time. I immediately turned to the Joy of Cooking for a drop biscuit recipe (I miss you, Pillsbury Flaky Layers), pulled out the gravy fixin's, and a few short minutes later...bliss.

(photo from The Pioneer Woman Cooks Biscuits and Gravy)
(I read this recipe post whenever I need a pick-me-up. It totally works.)

Then...here's where I lost voice control: while in the biscuits and gravy zone, I turned my itunes to Alison Krauss. I know. I KNOW. I may as well have strapped on my overalls right then and there, because I was headed down a slippery slope straight back to my Okie roots. And--as usual--Alison BEGGED me to do a duet with her. She needed my accompaniment and wouldn't take no for an answer. So the next thing you know, I'm pushing away my empty, gravy-covered plate and pulling out my air dulcimer. It was like I too was aiming for my 27th Grammy.

So yeah...now my voice is gone again. And it was so worth it, because heck.*

I may as well just get a pickup for my road trip now and call it a day.

(picture courtesy of my sister, who is selling her 1971 Ford. If it weren't for the mileage, I'd be all OVER this.)

*More of a sidebar than a footnote: Only in Oklahoma do you hear 'because heck' as an excuse for doing something. Occasionally it's accompanied by reasoning: 'Because heck, Harold, the dog was hungry! How was I to know he'd choke on the bone?' But just as often as not, the excuse is left behind and all you get by way of explanation is 'because heck' all by itself. And everybody understands. 'Because heck' can also be substituted with 'well, hell' but that's in less holy circles. We disapprove of such language in our buckle of the Bible Belt and leave that particular variation to our drinking, smoking, hell-bent brethren. Because heck!

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to drink some tea and start whittling this bar of soap into a clipper ship. And don't even get me started on the peas that need shelling.

Vampires DO exist. And I'm going to need some repellant.

I'm currently determined to do a post a day. Except for Sundays. You know, the Sabbath and all.

I've killed three mosquitos today. I don't get this. I never encountered mosquitos when I was living in San Francisco, and so had reached the conclusion that mosquitos don't live in cities. I also made the assumption that mosquitos don't like cool climates. And yet here I am, in a city not known for its warmth, and here they are. Are they breeding in all of those lush English gardens?

I'm not complaining, though. I am about to head off to Oklahoma soon, to visit the fam and apply for that there student visa, and then I will encounter mosquitos to be reckoned with. In Oklahoma, mosquitos outnumber humans three hundred to one, and come in two different sizes: one is so tiny that it's invisible and you find yourself swatting at your legs and arms in a state of high paranoia while seeing nothing there. The second type of mosquito is as big as your head, and drones like a warplane as it zooms in for the kill. This one, when successfully nailed, will leave its smeared, blood-filled carcass all over your arm, leaving you with both a sense of triumph and nausea. In the brief sprints between house and car and store--the only times you will be outside in the summer heat--you are likely to be bitten at least twenty times. If you dare to sit outside in the warm twilight of a quiet evening, surrounded by citronella candles (an activity you would think would be peaceful and calming), you will be spending the entire time swatting maniacally at the air in a state of increasing anxiety, while the humidity gives you a sticky sheen of sweat to act as mosquito bait. And no matter how wildly you bat your hands, and how many you manage to clap and kill, they WILL break through your defenses and you WILL end up looking like a leper. So today's mosquito situation could--and will--be worse, very, very soon. My three bites will be morphing into three thousand, and I will reek of the greasy repellant I'll be coating myself with eighteen times a day.

Even with the blood I will be losing when I get there, I'm starting to get excited. I can't wait to hit Sonic, Arby's, Braum's, IHOP, and the Cracker Barrel. I can't wait for Gramma's biscuits and gravy, Auntie Sharon's scrambled eggs, and my mom's enchiladas. I'm going to eat Pillsbury cinnamon rolls until I implode. I'm going to drink red kool-aid until the corners of my mouth turn pink, then switch to sweet sun tea. I'm going to get wired up on sugar, then sweat it out, then wonder why the mosquitos are seeking me like missiles. I'm going to get dressed in my Sunday Best for church, and suck in my stomach when I greet people I haven't seen in years, and then head back to Gramma and Grampa's for a giant sunday roast and a doze in front of the t.v., where a Nascar race will be competing with Matlock for my Grampa's attention.

It's going to be GREAT.

Just when you think the world has gone dark...

It gets dark here early. Like 3:30 in the afternoon early. This has succeeded in making me more of a homebody than usual; the sort of person who races home in the cold to fuzzy slippers and fleece blankets and a mug of tea and declines to go out, even when going out means making new friends and trying new places. I keep telling myself that when spring comes I'll start making an effort, but really when given the opportunity, I can completely sequester myself for months and have very little human contact with very little regret.

I did that my last semester in college when I had my own studio apartment above the garage of the chair of the university english department, a nutty old man who only charged 250/month and let me paint the walls yellow, brick red, and avocado green, a la Amelie, my obsession of the minute. It was my first time living alone and I loved it. I listened to Philip Glass, took bubble baths, tasted wine for the first time, and taught myself chess theory. I learned that I was happy eating the same thing for dinner every night (quesadillas) and increasingly found myself declining invitations to meet up with friends. However, the more I withdrew, the more antisocial I became. I lost the ability to converse easily and I lost the patience for small talk. Large groups began to irritate me, and small groups I couldn't lose myself in, so I avoided them all.

Here the weather is doing the same thing to me that living alone did back then. It makes me think, 'Why bother?'

And then a package full of sunshine arrived last Thursday. Katy, wonderful, future-wife Katy sent me so much goodness that I can't even handle it. It was a package to bring a girl to tears. And if I were back home, living in a bubble, I would've popped that bad boy just to hump her with gratitude. I really can't thank her enough for this.

Here are just a few of the goodies that have renewed my sense of life and purpose and woke me from my winter-induced apathy, goodies that brighten my perspective every time I open the cupboard door...and yes, biscuits have the power to brighten my day.

Napkins of infinite wisdom:

'Porn for Women', courtesy of Chronicle Books: each page features a male model doing some sort of domestic chore with vigor and enthusiasm, like knitting booties with a caption reading 'I'm so excited for your sister to have her baby!'

And last but not least...BLUE BOTTLE COFFEE, from Deee's and my favorite kiosk at the Ferry Building Farmer's Market and also where Katy and I would take turns doing runs before church on Sundays. Katy aptly picked the flavor 'Giant Steps,' (I don't know WHAT she's trying to say there), and it's so good I'm tempted to drop some grounds in the tub with me and bathe in it.

Now off I go to my childminding job, with a spring in my step, coffee on my breath, and porn in my pocket. Life is good.