A Memorable First Date

I'm feeling lazy; sue me.  I grabbed this from my archives.  But I promise, if you've read it before, it's totally worth a re-read.  If you are reading for the first time, enjoy.  It's one of my favorite stories.  First dates just don't get much better than this one.  

July.  1994.  Talladega, Alabama.  I had gone to visit a girlfriend from college who'd moved to Hotashell, Middleofnowhere County, Alabama, with her boyfriend.  He'd just purchased some Honky Tonk there, and I loved to drink beer.  Regardless of the locale.  It was a win-win.

Quite surprisingly, that little hole in the wall in the middle of nowhere had a booming business.  Apparently, this little town in Middleofnowhere County was the Holy land for Nascar lovers.  I had no idea.  There I was in the midst of Dale Earnhardt country.  

Unbeknown to me, Mr. Earnhardt was a god in the racing community.  Seriously.  I'm talking god as in shrines, praise, and hallelujahs.  Everyone in that bar sported the number 3.  There were t-shirts, hats, bandanas, tattoos...  This bar was his church and those folks were his congregation.  A Nascar cult, if you will.  Had I not be under the influence, I might have been scared.       

The night was a blur of beer drinking and honey creeping.  Period.  Same song, same dance, different city.  The night ended the same as many before it with me shacked up (no shagging, though; I did have some dignity) with a stranger in a place I couldn't find again if my life depended on it.  

HELL-O?  Natalee Holloway?  Are you nuts, LB?  But that's how I rolled back in the day.  Luckily, he was a decent enough guy who even invited me to the race.

What race?  Oh, yea...that Nascar shindig? 

I had to feign interest which was quite difficult.  My impression of Nascar was not good up to that point.  Having gone to an actual race, it hasn't changed much either.  Picture the cast of Deliverance and you have the Talladega 500 Super Speedway.

I knew it was going to be a memorable first date when Dude pulled up with about 20 friends, 25 coolers full of beer, and a barbecue grill secured to the bed of his truck.  I'm taking you to the infield, girl!

*blink*  The infield?  *blink*

So the 20 friends all pitched in to pay the 50 gazillion dollars for admission.  Apparently, the infield is big time.  Who knew?  I was totally clueless, and I still had no idea what or where the infield was.  I soon learned, though, that the infield is that area inside the race track.  It is filled with RVs, tents, pick ups, rebel flags, and some things, frankly, that can only be appreciated in person.

Far too many of these guys...

The ever-popular swimming pool made of Visqueen...

 

The official beer of Nascar...

Live sex acts Mud wrestlin'...

It was like Mardi Gras for the inbreeding community!  On race day, all the churches and the Klan meetings are canceled.  Everyone puts on their Dale Earnhardt paraphernalia and hits the track.  Numbered flags are flown high on every front porch leading to the track. 

Although we headed out early in the morning, we waited in the infield line for what seemed like hours.We finally got in and found a good spot on Turn 2.  Like me fluent Nascar lingo?

 

It was 185 degrees.  At ten in the morning.  The redneck swimming pools were everywhere.  I now know why country boys prefer trucks.  Not only can they haul stuff in the back and ride through muddy terrain with the greatest of ease, they can also create an impromptu wading pool with a sheet of visqueen and a water hose.  If they weren't relaxing in their Z-71 pools, they were slipping and sliding.  That visqueen is pretty versatile stuff, ya know.

I can't just rag on the dudes, though.  The girls were just as, well, entertaining.  Though I'm pretty sure mall hair went out in the late 80s, the fashion police hadn't quite made it to Talladega, Alabama, yet.  I saw more camel toes, muffin tops, back fat, and barms than I ever wanted to see.  Cut offs with a bikini top was the standard uniform regardless of the size or amount of coverage.  Bottom line?  Lots of skanks!

I spent most of the day in Dude's truck with the A/C turned on, though.  I was too hung over and too tired for such mayhem.  The best part of the day?  As we were rolled out of the infield after the race, Dude's dad fired up the grill.  In the back of the truck.  As we sat in traffic.  I was wondering why they had that thing secured so tightly.  A new twist on the tailgate party, if you will.

All in all, it was probably one of my better first dates.

This is my contribution to this week's writer's workshop with Mama Kat.  I chose the first prompt:  describe a memorable first date.  For more memorable first date stories, check out her blog at Mama's Losing It.

Brown and Blue

I am six,
My mom's a slouch,
We're late, yes, we're late again.


It's 9:45,
We've got 30 miles to go,
And swim lessons start at ten.


I put on my swimsuit,
Brush my teeth,
And grab a hat to cover my hair.


Barefoot and flustered,
I scramble for shoes,
In my closet of ten thousand pairs.

My tummy is grumbling,
I grab the last Pop-Tart,
I feel like I'm starving to death.

I smile at my sister,
As she walks towards the pantry,
Because I know there's none left.


My mom yells to us,
"It's 9:55!
Get some shoes and get in the van."


I do as she says
And grab some Crocs
Then run as fast as I can.


We get to the Y 
And run to the door
It's already five after ten.


"Head to the pool," 
My mom yells to us,
"And I'll go sign us in."


Just a few feet away,
Yes, I am almost there, 
I hear my mom yell, "E!"


I turned in fear,
"What'd I do wrong?"
But she is just laughing at me.


She's giggling,
And pointing down at my feet,
I'm curious so I look too.


Oh, no!  Look at me!
These Crocs are not right.
One is brown and the other is blue!

So what do ya think??  This is my entry for this week's Writer's Workshop prompt #2:  Write a poem inspired by a picture you took last week. Share both!


To read more like it, check out Mama Kat's and all her groupies at Mama's Losing It.

Six Word Memoir

I know.  You're thinking, "Right, LB!  You've never said anything in six words.  EVER.  Even at birth, you screamed, Let me out of here before I have a complete meltdown."  I have to admit; this was challenging.  However, after 50 gazillion attempts, here it is!  Poetry.  LB style.

Infertility, God's test.
Faith.
Perseverance.
Blessed.

If you'd like to play along, hook up with my girl, Mama Kat at Mama's Losing It for her weekly writing prompts.  They rock!  And she does, too!  Real talk.

Mom, Remember That Time???

I'm probably so 2010, but I've just discovered Mama Kat and her fan-tabulous Writer's Workshop.  I like her writing prompts.  Since I'm not a writer, I don't do fiction.  Nor do I do self help stuff.  No informative nonfiction either.  I just like to ramble...um...I mean, write about me and all the craziness in my head.  Because I'm a bit of a narcissist.  And I have no life.  And my husband doesn't care to talk about all the crap spiraling around in my great, big brain.

Shit, there I go again.  Where was I???

Mama Kat.  So I'm tagging along with Mama Kat because I find her prompts intriguing.  They aren't fantasy but real questions.  More like playing Truth or Dare.  And I'm out of material.  It's been a slow week in LB Land.

My parents didn't whip my siblings and I very much.  Although corporal punishment was the preferred method in the South in 1971, I was lucky enough to have lazy parents who liked to holler instead.  However, I do remember getting a severe beating once.  My sister and I both.  We had to be about 4 and 5 years old.  Maybe even younger.

In those days, my mother was obsessed with order.  Everything had its place.  Away.  Out of sight.  There was nothing on the floor of the room shared by my sister and me.  Nothing under the bed or on the floor of the closet.  The dresser was clear of everything except for two small jewelry boxes.  Our bed was always made; our house was always clean.

For those of you who knew my mother, you can pick your jaws up from the floor now.  She was a neat freak at one time.  Real talk.

As I said, our room was immaculate.  The decor was typical of the 70s with the white dresser and matching white bed.  Our bedspread (no comforters back then) was bright yellow.  We had tile floors covered with a fuzzy little rug in the shape of feet.  Our closet doors were also decorated with decals of those fuzzy little feet.  The feet were arranged so that it looked as though they were climbing the closet doors.  Pairs in yellow, pink, green, orange.  Fuzzy.  Very 70s retro.

One morning, my mother came to inspect our room.  We were not allowed to come out until our bed was made and we were dressed.  When my mom entered, I could see her face drop.  Her smile quickly turned to a grimace with pouting lips, clenched teeth, and furrowing brows.

Who did this??  She snapped.

My little innocent eyes became as big as saucers as I looked over towards my sister.  What?  What did we do, Mama?  I had no idea to what she was referring but I was certain that my sister must have done something wrong.  I knew I hadn't done anything.  Besides, she was always getting into trouble.

She pointed to the closet doors where one of the fuzzy feet had been removed.  All that was left was the adhesive backing used to affix the decal.

Who did it???

Not me, Mama, I said. 

Well, I didn't do it either, came from my sister.

Well, I know one of you did it.  It didn't just fall off the closet door, she growled angrily.

My sister and I both stared at each other then stared back at her.  But we didn't do it, Mama!  We replied in unison.

Well, one of you is lying.  You are both going to get a spanking until I find out the truth.  She went to her bedroom and came back with my daddy's belt.  Bend over!

I can remember being so pissed at my sister.  After all, who else could it have been?  She had to have done it.  Now I was going to get a whipping because she wouldn't admit to it.  I remember saying to her, "just tell her the truth, Mi Mi."

After the first round of licks, my mom asked us again who took the decal off the door.  And again, we both denied any wrongdoing so she proceeded to give us a couple more licks.  This went on for what felt like an eternity.  We were screaming and crying and begging.

Finally, my dad came back to our bedroom after having heard all the commotion.  What's going on back here?  Why are you whipping them?  What did they do???

My mom told him the story about how the fuzzy decal was pulled off our closet door and how we refused to tell her the truth.  She was so angry.  My sister and I were inconsolable.


You mean that fuzzy decal?  He pointed to the spot where only the adhesive remained.

Yes, my mom replied.

My sister and I were unable to speak through the hysterics.  Our butts were on fire from that leather belt.

Well, I pulled it off, said my dad.  It was starting to come apart around the edges so I just pulled it off.  They didn't do it.  Besides, that foot is too high for them to even reach!

I was so mad.  And remorseful for blaming my little sister.  I could not understand why my dad would do something like that.  Or how my mom could be so pissed off about a damn wall decal.

Later on, I found my mom crying like a baby.  She had been in a blind rage, and was just then realizing what she'd done.  She hugged my sister and I both so tight I thought my guts were going to come out.  I almost felt bad for her.

That was the last time I got a spanking.  And I never let my mom live it down.  Of course, my reminders of that day were always in jest.  I picked on her a lot about it.  Remember that time when you whipped us for that??? ha ha ha... 

I suspect, though, she got an ill feeling in the pit of stomach every time I mentioned it.

Still I wonder if my dad did, in fact, remove that decal or if he just admitted to it so that my mom would stop.  I didn't consider it then, but my dad never really had a reason to go into our bedroom.  Nor was he the type to care about something as insignificant as decorative decals.

I suppose the truth will remain a mystery for all of eternity.  My sister is gone now so there will be no confession from her.  My mom is too.  And I doubt seriously my dad even remembers the incident.  It's etched in my memory forever, though.    

10 Favorite Things

Blogging is therapeutic.  It's like a nice massage when I'm feeling stressed.  It's my Valium.  Figuratively speaking, of course.

My only problem is that I lack anonymity.  When I first started, I made the mistake of creating a "feed" not realizing exactly what that meant.  I'm just a weirdo who likes to play around with crap.  Often times I create huge messes, get annoyed, and move on.  Such is the case with my blog feed.  I can't turn the damn thing off!!!

My therapy sessions are posted to facebook every time I blog.  Every single, I've-got-to-get-this-shit-off-my-chest moment I have is poured into my blog.  Which, in turn, is spewed out into facebook land.  At first, I was cool with that.  Most of my blog friends are not official followers - just check out my minuscule fan club.

No, most of my blog friends read my stuff on facebook.  Because I can't turn off that damn feed!  Don't get me wrong; I totally LOVE that my friends read and <3 my stuff.  However, as my list of facebook friends has grown so have my blogging troubles.

Apparently, Mr. OCD's fan base is much larger than mine because he found out about my plot to withhold the goods this summer.  Remember my post about him not attending our daughter's preschool graduation??  Well, he did NOT go to the graduation so...well...  Let's just say, the stand off between Custer and Sitting Bull wasn't nearly as contentious.

Lucky for Mr. OCD, I have severe ADD and have trouble staying focused.  Anger is one of those things that requires a great deal of focus.  I just can't do it.

Consequently, I'm hooking up with Mama Kat at Mama's Losing It and borrowing one of her writing prompts.  (Another side effect of ADD - I ramble on and on before actually making my point.)  This, friends, is for Mr. OCD.  And his cotton-pickin' spies...


Although I love to bitch and moan about him and his inadequacies, Mr. OCD is actually one of my favorite people.  Really, he is!  I damn sure wouldn't have procreated with his ass if I didn't like him.

Lesson #1, girls who think they want a baby:  
NEVER, ever conceive a child with a man who has no job, no house, no car, or a bad credit score.  You're just looking for trouble.  And him when it's time to pay for the care of said offspring.

Oh, where was I??  Right!  My favorite person.  Mr. OCD.  Why is he my favorite person, you ask?

1. He puts up with my crazy ass even when I rant and rave about his inadequacies.
2. He is the best damn dad in the Western Hemisphere.  Really!
3. He takes care of me and my children.  He's chivalrous like that.  Call him Ward Cleaver, but he believes that as the man of the house he is responsible for our well-being.
4. He is a saver.  Thank God!  Both of us can't LOVE to shop.
5. He does not mind doing housework.  In fact, he'd rather do it himself than let anyone else do it.  That includes ME!
6. He is not afraid to tell me he's sorry or admit when he's wrong.
7. He knows EVERYONE.  By name!  And their parents.  And their parents' parents!
8. He is always willing to lend hand.  Need your grass cut??  Just give him a call.  Jim Bob's cousin's nephew's son is stuck in a ditch?  He's on the way!
9. He will eat anything I put on the table.
10. He plays with our kids.  He will have a tea party with our daughter in a heart beat!  He's not afraid.

My admiration for Mr. OCD is really immeasurable.  The list goes on and on.  Maybe I'll dedicate another blog to the rest of it.  I don't know.

I'm glad Mama Kat provided me the opportunity to share, though.  Accolades are not nearly as entertaining, but they are long overdue.

So here ya go, Mr. OCD.  You happy now? 

Oh, wait...  He's not reading this.  He thinks yahoo IS the internet.  He has no idea how to find my blog or facebook or google or porn.  Hopefully, his friggin' fan club members will at least convey my message.  It's doubtful, though.  I live in a small town.  Not only does Misery love company, she loves the company of other people's company.