The Second One...Kinda

It turns out I may be terrible at this blogging thing.

In my defense, I have written a very long entry reviewing two books I’ve read recently…and how much I hated their endings. But then that entry didn’t feel quite right. It was too serious and too vague in areas – my effort to avoid spoilers. My voice didn’t really seem to be present, and I think it was because I was restricting myself too much in my attempt to make my reviews accessible to all, those who have read and those who have yet to read. I actually stopped writing after a couple hours because the restraint was damming (somehow “damning” also fits here) up my brain and I got a nasty headache.

I’m going to have to re-work that entry – I want to rant about those books without giving them away, and I think I’ve found a way to do it, using a handy-dandy “spoiler button”. Unfortunately, this is going to take some experimenting and time (and technically two reviews PER book) that I don’t currently have at my disposal this week, but I also don’t want to just leave my newborn blog stagnant in the meantime either. So I’m calling this a purgatory entry – better than a blank page and something to entertain you while you wait for my re-write. We could also call it the “look at the keys I’m jangling in your face in an effort to distract you” entry. So, due to a particular incident this morning, you are now going to read about my constant battle against the insect race in my house.

The incident: One of my jobs is a morning shift receptionist at a local hotel, and, as a result, I have to get up early. Well, early enough to be functional and able to put together simple declarative sentences as I serve the shuffling zombie masses their first cup of coffee of the day. The upside is I have my afternoons off…of course, I have filled half of those afternoons with my second job slinging the fresh catch of the day at the local fish house. Instead of “Call me Ishmael” you can “Call me Fishmonger.”

Anyway, my alarm went off in the sweet, sweet darkness, and my morning “routine” began – smack the phone til it stops gleefully shouting at me, and reach for the remote to switch the TV on so my eyes can adjust to some light before I try turning on the ceiling light that lives only to stab my brain through my eyeballs. As I laid there this morning in the flickering cold light of Family Guy, I suddenly remembered there was a blood moon scheduled to start eclipsing in about 30 minutes, so that helped push me into a sitting position, legs over the side of the bed, and got me stirring faster than usual. And then I saw it in the rapid fire strobe of colors that only a cartoon can produce in a dark room. A goddamn waterbug scurrying out from underneath a framed picture next to my side of the bed.

A brief lesson on waterbugs for those who live in a blessed, fabled place where they don’t exist: to start with, I HATE them. But, of course, who really likes cockroaches. Because that’s really what they are. A lot of places in the south, especially on the coast, call them waterbugs (for no other reason, I suppose, than the stupidly obvious fact that they’re near water, and no one really wants to say the word “cockroach”). Further south, they’re usually called palmetto bugs (and grow to enormous sizes – no surer sign that there is indeed a hell). But let’s not mince words, shall we? They’re goddamn cockroaches, and they’re everywhere where I live. It doesn’t matter if your home is spotlessly clean. Every house. Every building. New or old. They’re there, twitching their horrible little antennae and plotting your demise.

While I’m not full-on phobic, waterbugs completely freak me out. My sister (K) and I actually had an unwritten agreement growing up – she is arachnophobic, whereas spiders don’t really bother me. So, if any spiders were in the room, I’d take care of them (before K broke my arm in terror), and if there were any waterbugs in the room, she handled them. The spiders usually got the better part of the deal as I would carry them outside most of the time (unless they were of nightmarish proportions or horrible little wooly jumpers – I do have a limit to my mercy). As for the waterbugs…K SMASH. For me, the first sign of adulthood was not going to college, being able to legally drink, having my own place, or paying bills. Nope, it was having to deal with waterbugs on my own. And I generally did not do well in those early days. I once attempted to smack a waterbug off a lampshade with my hand wrapped in duct tape, sticky side facing out. Logic, you ask? Because if you don’t hit those fuckers in one confident, fell swoop, they not only survive to run away, but generally run, or worse FLY, at you first in what I can only assume is a display of their full ownership of you. So, as a lampshade is a tenuous perch at best, with no solid support behind it to back my swing (Also this particular lamp is an antique and I had no desire to break it – had it been a cheap thrift store find, I would have just smashed the whole works with a chair. Logic.), I needed to find a way to immobilize that asshole before it could go scurrying under my bed and keep me awake all night dreading its horrible revenge, which would probably involve crawling inside my ear. Unfortunately for me, the duct tape strategy did not work because I could not put my hand near the waterbug without my resolve weakening, so there was no “confident, fell swoop” to speak of. It scurried around the lampshade, jumped to the wall, and disappeared behind my headboard. *shudder*

Back to this morning’s incident. I saw this waterbug brazenly making its way down the wall towards me, and, amazingly, I sprang into action. Normally, this involves screeching for Charles and anxiously waiting while he sedately (seriously, sedately – it’s like he wants them to carry me off) makes his way to dispatch my nemesis (which he sometimes misses). But not this morning. This morning, I leapt to my feet, switched on the bedside lamp to momentarily stun the fucker (that whole idea about cockroaches immediately scurrying away when you turn on a light is mostly accurate – they usually freeze for a second before they take off pell-mell for whatever exit to Hades I apparently have lurking in my walls), grabbed the first solid object I saw, and WHAM! For a moment, I was sure I didn’t hit the waterbug hard enough. It fell to the floor and disappeared, behind my bed or table I couldn’t tell. And then I looked down at what my weapon of choice had been. Full Dark, No Stars by Stephen King…and the back cover was besmudged in insect entrails. My eyes trailed up the wall, and there it was. An oval shape ringed in an explosion of bug goo. I was simultaneously disgusted and ecstatic. I even momentarily thought about leaving this foul waterbug negative on my wall as a warning to all others that may dare enter my bedchambers. Momentarily. My wall and book were scrubbed clean a minute later. In retrospect, I think the only reason I was able to attack that thing with such single-mindedness is because I wasn’t fully awake yet. Exhaustion is a pretty effective dampener of fear.

Unfortunately, this is a regular event in our household - not me taking on waterbugs like I’m Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons, but being constantly accosted by them. And, somehow, it only ever seems to be me they come at, and Charles never sees the rusty machetes they wield. They’re also not our only insect problem (although, I would argue they’re the most awful). We rent a very old house. It has character in spades, and sometimes when I say that I mean “character”, as in I sometimes find myself wiping mildew off the ceiling after a particularly humid day. In all actuality, I like our house. Well, except our kitchen. Our kitchen needs Jesus. The crowning “jewel” of our kitchen is the old mustard yellow formica counters that have lost their sealant in large swathes and, as a result, look disgusting even when they’ve been doused in a gallon of bleach. But I digress…

Due to the house’s age, pretty much any bug that feels like it can move in. We have spiders in almost every ceiling corner. The spiders I generally let alone. The unspoken agreement is as long as they take care of the other pests and don’t wander down from their perches, they can stay. I’ve been known to say out loud, “Sorry, buddy, but you broke the pact,” as I swat spiders that have made the journey down the Wall. For a while, we even had Shelob living in the upper half of one of our living room windows (between the glass and the screen – a spider that big doesn’t get to be actually in the house). 

Last year we had a huge pantry moth infestation – I had to toss out almost every dry good in the house. They could even get into unopened packages and Ziploc bags. Now all shelf-stable food is in some kind of vacuum-sealed force field. Of course, with the pantry moth problem in check this year, it was only natural it would be replaced with another pest: ants. It has been the year of the ant, and the only silver lining is it’s not just me – the whole island has been infested with them this year. So even when the kitchen is spotlessly clean, these tiny ants (my uncle calls them piss-ants - he does so without irony, but I like that there's the option for a pun there) march their way back and forth across the counters and over the trash can. 

Really makes one want to come visit us, huh? Despite how it sounds, I don't actually live in Norman Pfister's house, and both my cats and dogs have a grand time keeping pests in their place (I actually came across my cat Hadji dissecting a cricket in the bathroom this afternoon). All in all, I've come to realize that as long as I live in a house where the floors buckle and sag with the seasons, I have to pick my battles in terms of insect warfare.

Except waterbugs. All waterbugs must be killed on sight.

Til "tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow"
Chrisi

The First One

I follow a lot of blogs...primarily cooking blogs. I love to cook, bake, and eat. About two years ago, though, I started reading Hyperbole and a Half, and I distinctly remember thinking, "Holy shit, either Allie Brosh and I are like nega-twins," -- aside: I use "nega-twins" liberally to mean we look nothing alike, but we have the same sense of humor, the same goddamn dogs, and "The Year Kenny Loggins Ruined Christmas" is a foretelling of exactly what my boyfriend's (Charles) and my inevitable child will be like -- "or my parents had another child, and were so terrified of our joined forces (think Keymaster and Gatekeeper, but without the weird sex, which in this case would be even weirder as it would involve GoT-like incest) that they separated us at birth."

Then I discovered The Bloggess, aka Jenny Lawson - specifically through her entry "It Doesn't Take Much to Make Me Happy." I was at work, and, thankfully, alone, as I almost peed myself cackling into my desk. Not that it would have mattered if people had been in the office with me. I still would have been cry-laughing into my palm, but someone probably would've taken my fit of hysteria as the other definition, as in a nervous breakdown. I bought her book that day, and read probably the first third in two hours (finished it all within a day). It would've taken less time, but I would read a chapter, die laughing, and then go back and re-read it aloud to Charles (who sat through it all with a pained expression, as he was trying to read a different book at the same time - he often says Victor [Lawson's husband] and he need to start a support group. I'm assuming a support group for men whose significant others are just too awesome for words.)

Where am I going with all of this? (To be honest, it took me a minute to remember my point. Reader beware: this shit'll happen.) Between Brosh and Lawson (and many others), it occurred to me that maybe I should join the legions and start blogging. I have a BA in Starving-Artistry, otherwise known as an English degree, and I haven't "had the time" to write in ages. It's fair to say the first couple years after college I was too burned out to write. But that was seven years ago. I could make excuses, but it all really just comes down to my fear that I'm not all that good at writing to begin with...and my laziness. So it's time for me to get off my ass - well, really to get on my ass and start writing, rather than using it to further cushion the couch while I meld with the TV. 

I guess that counts as an intro, but I'm still left with my blog's title. It's not exactly something one reads and says, "Ah, yes, the magnolias," while stroking one's chin pensively. It has nothing to do with Steel Mags, and I'm certainly not "anti-South." I'm from the South, I live in the South, I AM the South. I have bourbon on my breath and butter in my veins. No, my blog title is actually a quote I've borrowed from one of my favorite books - Handling Sin by Michael Malone. If you haven't read it, make it a priority now. If you don't like to read, please refer to this.

Except ignore #6 - I don't accept. I keep trying to force it on you. Although, if you don't like to read, odds are you aren't reading this blog either. Whatever - I DON'T NEED YOU.

Quick synopsis on Handling Sin via Goodreads:

"On the Ides of March, our hero, Raleigh Whittier Hayes (forgetful husband, baffled father, prosperous insurance agent and leading citizen of Thermopylae, North Carolina), learns that his father has discharged himself from the hospital, taken all his money out of the bank and, with a young black female mental patient, vanished in a yellow Cadillac convertible. Left behind is a mysterious list of seven outrageous tasks that Raleigh must perform in order to rescue his father and his inheritance. 
And so Raleigh and fat Mingo Sheffield (his irrepressibly loyal friend) set off on an uproarious contemporary treasure hunt through a landscape of unforgettable characters, falling into adventures worthy of Tom Jones and Huck Finn. A moving parable of human love and redemption, Handling Sin is Michael Malone's comic masterpiece."

That's the jist, but what it doesn't say is "This book is fucking incredible. It will make you feel emotions." Primarily emotions that make you laugh, but when a book is called "a moving parable of human love and redemption" obviously there's going to be some material that will make your eyeballs leak. Don't believe me? Here's what The New York Times Book Review had to say about it:

"While comparison will be made to A Confederacy of Dunces, the humor of Handling Sin is superior...Mr. Malone's twists and turns and surprises are downright phenomenal, verging on genius...weighed on the scale of laughter, Handling Sin is a hilarious success. It is worth reading just to collect the full kernels of fine humor which are much thicker in this book than pecans on a Georgia fruitcake."

(Aside: Dear NYT Book Review, I see what you did there. Comparing a book about the South to...a dessert I've never heard of anyone enjoying EVER. I mean, it's a cliche, but pecan pie would have made a hell of a lot more sense. Or "thicker than layers in a seven-layer cake" - I mean, you're restricting the "kernels" to an actual number in that metaphor, but at least it's a dessert that's actually GOOD. Did you go "fruitcake" because it also equates to "crazy"? Then you, sir, avoided one cliche only to fall into another, and you should be ashamed of yourself.
It's ok, guys, the South has always been seriously misunderstood, and this was written in the 80s, when I imagine the world still thought we ate fruit suspended in any medium like some 50s housewife.)

But I digress.

Charles and I both love this book so much, we're currently "casting" actors to be in the mini-series that we seem to think we will one day be enlisted to co-write and co-direct. My first pick was Patton Oswalt as Mingo Sheffield, but Charles pointed out that Nick Frost would also be amazing in that role, and now I can't make up my mind - they're both so damn great. They might just have to share the role in an Olsen twins kind of way.

Back to the quote: Raleigh Hayes (actor yet to be determined), his half-brother Gates who also happens to be a conman (we're thinking Mark Ruffalo), Mingo (Oswalt/Frost - not to be confused with Frost/Nixon), and escaped Jewish convict Weeper Berg (there's no way anyone but John Hurt could play him) are on the run from some goons who are after Gates, and, in attempting to shake said thugs, find themselves careening onto a Southern estate that Mingo declares to look "just like Gone With the Wind."

"Awghh," said Weeper Berg, "there's peacocks on that porch! God, I hate these lousy Southern autocrats. Spare me the magnolias, please."

In order to stay hidden on the estate - that is currently in a flurry of activity preparing for a debutante ball being held that night - Gates convinces the lady of the house that they are European filmmakers who are scouting locations for an upcoming movie entitled "Spare Me the Magnolias Please."

And there you have it! I can't really explain it, but something about that quote/fake film title just speaks to me on a cellular level. Maybe it's because everything about that chapter -- the description of the estate, the wife who is already thinking on how jealous her neighbors will be and how she'll be the talk of the town, the deb-daughter who would rather take care of the hounds than be in a ballgown -- feels like an allegory for my life. Not that I grew up on an estate, mind you, but instead an island, which, I imagine like an estate, is this fishbowl-like microcosm where everything is constantly under a microscope and everyone is worried about appearing perfect lest the rumor mill start churning out gossip that might actually have a ring of truth. It's all about appearances, appearances, appearances. And "spare me the magnolias, please" is only the most perfect way to sum it all up - give it to me without the perfume, give me what's real.

So what can you expect from this blog? I'm not Jenny Lawson or Allie Brosh, but you will find me rambling in a stream-of-conscious kind of way, which can sometimes lead to humor. And sometimes TMI.

Be prepared for food - I opened this with telling you I love making it and eating it. But I really love sharing it, usually physically -- as in, I'm-a-Southern-woman-let-me-feed-you-and-drown-your-sorrows-in-gravy -- but I'll probably like passing it on virtually as well. So you, too, can cook and eat your feelings.

And, of course, books. I'm certain Handling Sin is just the first in a long list that I will force upon you.
You've been warned.

Also, I like magnolia flowers. Ever the contradiction.

Til "tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow"

Chrisi