For Whom the Belle Tolls has Moved!

 

For Whom the Belle Tolls has moved!

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Do I Look Fat?

Last week, I had no less than three people insinuate that I am overweight. Chubby. Flabby. Rotund, if you will. Two of them are dear friends of mine and one is a family member, and all of them, bless their hearts, were well-meaning. It began innocently enough when I remarked to Friend #1 that I believed myself to look fat in a video that a neighbor had filmed of our dogs playing. I can't really say it was just the camera angle, as there were lots of them involved what with a moving film and all, and everyone else in this particular video looked like their usual self, so I have to assume somewhat brokenheartedly that I do look like the girl I saw. However, and this is what I have gathered you all here today to discuss, when I broached this subject with my friend, I did not anticipate that she would respond, "Have you had your thyroid checked?"

First of all, yes darling, I have had my thyroid checked. Twice. My doctor said he has never seen someone quite so devastated to get healthy test results. In actuality, my thyroid function is right on the border, which means it won't keep me slim but I can't get any medication for it, either. Such is almost always my luck. It turns out that even if you have a blazing, healthy, active thyroid, 30-plus years of yo-yo dieting will still seriously slow down your metabolism. One day you will eat a taco and your body will just hold onto that bad boy for dear life, afraid that it will never taste tacos again. One day you will see yourself in an innocent video of some pups playing and think you look like a linebacker for a professional football team. And then Friend #1 will ask about your thyroid. Lord, in your mercy.

Disheartened, I relayed the story to Friend #2, seeking encouragement. And this friend really, really tried. However, what I got was more than I bargained for, and I hope you will understand why. In his pep talk, which went into more detail than need be, Friend #2 told me that as long as my husband is still happy with the way I am, and I am still happy with the way I am, it is perfectly fine to be the way I am, and then he iced that cake with "you are still fabulous." Still? Despite what, exactly? 

A few days after the sting of that buxom buddy conversation started to wane, Facebook memories popped up from when I competed in the Mrs. North Carolina pageant, way back in 2010. I sat on my couch in my elastic waistband and looked at pictures of a very skinny, tan, younger version of myself and did not feel great about the current version of moi. About that time, the phone rang and I lamented my situation to a family member who was calling. "You've always been great about getting your weight off before," I was assured. "I'm sure if you put your mind to it, you can do it again." Um, thanks?

Never mind that the girl in those pictures was more than ten years younger, worked out two hours a day, and sometimes went to bed teary-eyed because she was so hungry. I'm not sure I want to go back to a weight where I refused cough drops when I had a cold because I wasn't sure how many calories were in a Hall's mentholyptus or get back into the practice of putting Preparation-H on my stomach and wrapping myself in Saran Wrap in hopes of tightening my skin (true story). If that's what it takes, I'm not sure I still have what it takes.

Here I am, in June of 2010.
This June, thanks to the support of my friends and family, I'll be swimming in my t-shirt.

Now that I've given you the background, I want you to listen carefully: the answer to anyone, anytime, who questions or remarks that they do, they may, they think, they wonder, that it is possible that they look fat is this: NO! You do not look fat! You look wonderful/beautiful/marvelous/gorgeous/ravishing...I'll allow you to take it from here, but my stars, people, I really thought we all already knew that. 

If someone asks if they look fat, do not tell them about your great Aunt Gayle with the thyroid problem, who everyone just loves anyway, especially her cats!

If someone asks if they look fat, do not tell tell them that the Dress Barn is having a fabulous sale on caftans and they have lots of size extra larges left.

If someone asks if they look fat, do not tell them about the weight loss plan that helped you lost 22 pounds in 22 days and ask them to join your team so you can help them on their weight loss journey if they will just Venmo you the money and become part of your multi-level marketing company. 

There is only one appropriate response and we both know what it is. That response is NO! It's time to channel Nancy Reagan and her 1980s anti-drug campaign and Just Say No again, because clearly we as a humanity have forgotten. I'm here for a refresher course. This is now a public service post, so if you didn't know before, now you know (or now you no, whichever). Don't say anything else, because surely you learned from my experience last week that you will just mess it up. You will step all in it. We are all our own critics. No one is seeking your fitness tips, your diet advice, your stories about some medication that worked wonders--that is not what we came for, so save it. Repeat after me that one little word: NO! You do not look fat. You look great! Wasn't that easy?

You will need to say it as quickly and as convincingly as possibly. Channel Meryl Streep and give the best performance of your life. Say it like you mean it and like your life depends on it. Say it with gusto. Because the day may come when you will need someone to say it to you, and when you ask, "do I look fat?" you will want that favor returned.

Now, if you'll excuse me, before I make my audition tape for the show My 800-Pound Life, I have a protein shake to make. I'm enjoying those for two meals a day now and snacking on ice water. Hey, I can lose my extra weight, and the good news is, I'll always maintain my manners. And in that department, some of you have some gaining to do.

Red, White, and Pool!

Apparently, we were in desperate need of a swimming pool. I know this because my husband began relentlessly hounding me about installing one about two years ago, when we moved into this house. I was forced to watch shows like Insane Pools: Off the Deep End and Ultimate Pools on an alarmingly regular basis, and as he is known to do when he gets something on his mind, the man just would not let it go. And so, the first of December 2020, some very nice gentleman appeared with some very large equipment and began destroying both my backyard and my sanity. This continued for many, many (mud-filled) months.

Here is the "before" picture of our backyard, lacking Clint's swimming pool. But wait...

I was sure I couldn't stand it another day, and then it was finished. Finally. Tah-dah!

It only took six months and about half of our life's savings, but Clint's dream has been realized. The pool was completed just in time for Memorial Day weekend, which is the official beginning of summer. To say we were ready is a bit of an understatement. On a side note, I think there is a sequel just waiting to be made to the 1986 Tom Hanks movie The Money Pit, about a house whose endless renovations gobble up money at a ferocious and endless pace. I would like to speak with Hollywood to pitch The Swimming Hole, about a very similar fate involving, er, liquid assets. But I digress. Let's focus on the fun rather than the holes in our pockets.

We invited our friends over for an opening day pool party and enjoyed some snacks, watermelon margaritas, and fun in the sun. We weren't really sure what the puppy was going to think about the new pool, and after giving him the long weekend to take it all in I can report: not much. He seems to think of it as a giant bathtub and he is no fan of baths. While he isn't afraid of the water, our big-haired bichon frisé has just decided he would be insane to voluntarily get in it, preferring instead to skulk around the perimeter giving us all judgy looks and then retreating to the safe shade under a chaise lounge for a power nap instead. We will keep coaxing him, but honestly, it saves me from lots of time bathing, rinsing, detangling, and brushing him if he doesn't cannonball into the deep end every time we go outside, so I'm fine if he is less than enthused with this new outdoor space at the moment.

Our dear friends knew that an occasion such as this calls for Chick-fil-A.
Make sure that, whoever your people are, they understand the importance of a nugget tray.
This cannot be overstated.

When your pool project takes six months,
you make a cookie cake that looks like a beach ball to celebrate its completion.

Worth the wait!

I got Clint this special t-shirt to wear this summer.
After all, he wanted a pool and every pool needs a cabana boy.

Does this look like the face of a water lover?
No, thank you.

If anyone needs Charlie, he'll be here.

Throughout this seemingly endless pool construction project, our friends, family, and neighbors have tried to encourage us that it "will all be worth it." And I have to say, it was a pretty nice weekend sunning and floating and swimming and splashing. Maybe it's slightly better than the inflatable pool from Target I told Clint I wished we had sprung for instead. 

Hello, summer. I've exchanged my straight jacket for a swimsuit and I think I'm finally ready for you.

Yes, maybe this is slightly better than the Target inflatable pool.
I'll double check again next weekend to be sure and let y'all know.

Don't Listen to Your Heart, Listen to Your Mama

I heard a commercial yesterday declaring, "listen to your heart." I don't even know what they were selling, but I can easily tell you my response: pffffft. My heart, over the years, has gotten me into some questionable places: cupcake shops when I'm trying to diet, the overdrafts of my checking account, a college guy's red Camaro when I was just a freshman in high school...oh yes, the heart will make some dubious decisions, but you know who is never wrong? Your mama. That's who you should be listening to, and I have finally lived long enough to have learned that lesson, even if it did take some trial and error along the way to figure that out.

"Susie, what is your favorite food?" 

"Macaroni and NO! No, no, no, no, no! This is for a pageant application, isn't it?!"

That is literally all it would take to set me off, screaming and crying and running from a room in what we in the South refer to as a hissy fit. For years, my mother tried to convince me to enter beauty pageants and for years, I not only refused, I refused with meltdowns, tantrums, and complete and total panic at the thought. When she finally convinced me to give my first pageant a try at age fifteen, I discovered I got beautiful dresses, trophies, and tiaras! Oh, how I loved those tiaras. People will tell you that you also gain things like poise, confidence, stage presence, public speaking skills and what not, but the best part is always a bedazzled crown, let's not kid ourselves, people. As someone who has always had a competitive nature, I loved it. What took me so long? Why didn't I listen to my mama and then we could have taken the world of toddler modeling by storm all those years ago? 

As it turns out, my mama was right. I didn't hate it.

Several years later, I had turned the page on my high school days and set off to college with a brand new chapter in life ahead of me. Imagine my mama's dismay when a high school boyfriend reappeared in the picture. She all but begged me to move on and not waste good time dating That Guy again--wasn't the first time more than enough wasted time? A good rule of thumb is to never go back to an old flame, period, much less a high school heartthrob once you are in college--college is for bigger, better opportunities in every way. My granddaddy used to emphasize, "Don't look back, you aren't going that way." 

 I didn't give much thought to how right my mom was about not dating That Guy again until a few months ago when, thanks to the fact that his Facebook page is public, I saw that he took his wife to Medieval Times for their wedding anniversary. Yes, that Medieval Times, the dinner attraction with the horses, sword fights, and lack of any dining utensils. After I fell off my couch laughing, I had a deeper appreciation for my mama, wanting to save me from a life of romantic outings which clearly consist of jousting tournaments and eating a chicken carcass with your bare hands. Listen to your mama, because your heart will go Medieval (Times) on you, y'all.

I can do Medieval Times as a family outing, just maybe not for a milestone anniversary.
I can be high maintenance that way.

Another long-told piece of mama advice I heard my whole life was to pretend you're pinching an aspirin between your knees when you're wearing a dress. This will help you avoid flashing your unmentionables to the world whilst give you the appearance of being a demure lady as you keep your legs closed together. Not listening to your mama on that one can be bone shatteringly catastrophic, as I discovered in October of 2016. My beloved Clemson Tigers have a football tradition that, after a victory, fans rush the field and gather on the 50-yard line to sing the alma mater and celebrate with the team. (Actually, they used to have that tradition. Now, after my incident and the ER visits of several others, we calmly wait to enter the field in an orderly fashion at a designated time so as to avoid bodily harm, but I digress). That particular evening, wearing an adorable orange and purple dress, I forgot to pinch the metaphorical aspirin between my knees, threw caution to the wind, and jumped over a retaining wall to access the field. My long-suffering but ever-chivalrous husband offered to help me and said my last words, pre-accident, were, "I can do it myself! OUCH!" And then I fell and broke my fibula and wound up in a bright orange cast for the rest of football season. Then, ironically, I could have used that aspirin for real. Mama was spot on about that one. 

Pinch that proverbial aspirin between your knees or you, too,
could get a cast in your favorite team colors.

It has been many years ago now that I was waiting in the checkout line at the Harris Teeter with a tub of Palmetto Cheese pimento cheese in my shopping basket. Another lady approached me and, noticing that cheese product in plain sight, asked me if it was any good. To which I candidly replied, "Ma'am, I haven't tried it yet, but my mama told me it is, and she's been right about everything else so I am just buying it without question." She nodded without another word and I watched her walk over to the case and put some Palmetto Cheese in her basket as well. That lady knows just like I know about listening to mama, and now she has the delicious pimento cheese to show for it. 

Don't run with scissors, sit up straight, mind your manners, don't act ugly. Beauty pageants are fun, that boy is bad news, act like a lady even when your team has won a doozy of a football game. Your heart can want what it wants, just listen to your mama. This is coming from a woman who calls hers about important matters such as: should I get these throw pillows in khaki, cream, or gray? How long is chicken good in the refrigerator? Do I have to take a hostess gift to a party I really don't want to go to? Even if I really, really don't want to go?

Listen to your mama, because you still can. Listen not only to her wisdom and her warnings, listen to it all. To the mundane and the tedious, when she tells you what she's making for dinner or who she talked to at church or all the details of her day...listen and be glad. You were once a kid telling her some very long stories yourself and Lord knows, she listened to you. This Mother's Day, if you are lucky enough to spend it with your mom, listen. I may not be a mama myself, but I'm pretty sure I'm right about this one.

With my mama, and most trusted advisor, last Mother's Day.
Long may she reign!

I Am At An Age

Clint found these fantastic inflatable letters, so even the pool was in on the party.

I am at an age where I still celebrate birthday month, which means rather than confining the festivities surrounding my birthday to a single 24-hour span of time, I spread the fun throughout the entire month of April for all to enjoy at their leisure. After all, why limit yourself to one celebration when you can have a month of them? 

Many of you have asked, since we are past the midpoint, how birthday month is coming along. COVID-19 invited herself to the party last year and put a serious damper on things (I am a fun, creative person, but there is only so much even I can do whilst in the throes of quarantine). Surely this year I have made up for lost time with double the merrymaking, right? Err.

As it turns out, I am at an age where I get migraine headaches more frequently. I started my birthday month with a moderate one the first week of April and then woke up the day after almost completely deaf in my left ear. I am at an age where things like that happen. I was relieved to find out that I am not at an age where the deafness is permanent--a semi-panicked visit to my doctor confirmed it was not related to my migraine but instead, an ear infection caused by the massive amounts of pollen blowing through my fair city this allergy season. I am at an age where things like that seem to really throw me for a loop. I rallied and pressed on enjoying the month of my birth.

Happily, I am at an age where my mama still makes a fuss over my birthday. We headed to Georgia for Easter weekend where she took me out for a special lunch and a girls' day of shopping, and she ordered an amazing lemon coconut cheesecake all the way from Junior's Cheesecake in New York City, just for the occasion. As we are oft to do when we visit my mama's house, we ate ourselves into a stupor and had a fun weekend getting into the swing of birthday month. 

I am at an age where I asked for birthday money rather than birthday gifts, and I took that birthday money and bought myself something BIG. I am now at an age where I am the proud owner of a beautiful Chanel handbag, which may or may not have made me cry a little when I purchased. I have named her Karlie and I will never, ever be at an age when she is not a prized possession. 

Having impressed the importance of all things birthday upon my friends, family, and even casual acquaintances, birthday week was filled with treats and surprises. Gifts and cards came by mail and delivery, and I took great joy in opening everything from kitchen towels to shoes. A darling neighbor decorated our mailbox with balloons and other neighbors showed up with wine and flowers. I enjoyed text messages and phone calls and even a serenade of "Happy Birthday to You" while I was out walking my dog. I will probably never be at an age where I am uncomfortable being the center of attention, so all of these things thrilled me to no end. 

I am at an age where the best laid plans can and will be derailed. I am at an age where I love nothing more than getting dressed up for a fancy dinner with my husband, and very much look forward to a fun-filled brunch with my notoriously difficult-to-schedule friends the next day. These are the makings of a perfect birthday weekend for me. Sadly, I am at an age where another migraine appeared on the eve of my birthday, lingered all weekend, and refused to go away even with "rescue" medication prescribed by my neurologist. I may or may not have asked Clint at one point to kindly call the in-home hospice vet who put our ailing senior dog to sleep last year (after all, it seemed like such a peaceful way to go). He refused, but I think it was more because he was afraid she would charge us by the pound.

I still put on my new dress and even managed a high heel wedge for my birthday dinner, although Clint says I was channeling Weekend at Bernie's the entire meal (for those of you not familiar with this piece of fine cinema, Bernie is a corpse masquerading as a live person throughout the film). I drank water and took deep breaths and came straight home to bed, where I remained crying for much of the weekend. I am at an age where pity parties can and do still happen. 

Here we are, all dressed up for my birthday dinner.
I wasn't exactly feeling festive, but I am at an age where you fake it until you make it.

Birthday brunch, however, did not happen, nor did much of anything else. Mercifully, I have recovered from that wretched headache and have now enjoyed an entire week plus stretch of good health, knock on wood, so things are looking up. I am now at an age where I do not take feeling good for granted. I now roll with the over-seventy age group in the doctor's office waiting room. We are the frequent flyers and even in our face masks, we recognize one another as brethren. 

Even though it hasn't been all I had hoped it would be, birthday month isn't over yet. And in an unprecedented move even for me, my friends couldn't get together for that celebratory brunch until May 1, so I still have that on the calendar, too. I am at an age where birthday month consists of two migraine medications, one antibiotic, a round of allergy antihistamine cocktails, and three days in bed. Luckily, it also means being spoiled by friends and loved ones, gifts and trinkets, cake and get togethers. And I am at an age where all of that means an awful lot.

I am at an age where we focus on the highlights. Happy Birthday to me.

Bumper Crop

North Carolina just had more of our COVID-19 restrictions relaxed this week, and Clint and I were lucky enough to get our first round of vaccinations as well. It feels like the world is ever-so-slightly beginning to open up again, doesn't it? While we still can't show our faces in public or shake hands or even think about things like (gasp!) a salad bar, there is a light at the end of this tunnel, and it feels awfully good. 

Do you know what a bumper crop is? (The first one of y'all to say that I am familiar with bumper crops because my alma mater is an agricultural college where we all wear orange overalls and ride tractors barefoot will incur my wrath, so cut it out. I'm getting ready to make an analogy here.) A bumper crop is a crop that produces an usually large harvest. I got to thinking that all this time we have been spending shut in, at home and socially distanced and what not is kind of like a time of sowing, and man, I can't wait for the bumper crop we are going to reap. 

I've already referenced my alma mater, so let me just start by saying that it is my hope and my dream that college football--and by football, I of course mean tailgating in all its crowded glory--returns in the fall. Clemson has announced that as of now, it intends to allow 100% capacity in the stadium for the upcoming season, and while I have never been one to take those spectacular Saturdays for granted, I will have a special appreciation for them this year. I want to go early, stay late, feel the excitement from the crowd, and cheer until I lose my voice (again, these are not new things, just things I have missed doing and will be giddy upon which to return). I will not even complain when I arrive at my seat to find that, again this season, my seatmate is a 300-pound hyper sweaty gentleman who, to borrow a phrase from Buddy the elf, smells like beef and cheese. I am simply going to bask in the glory of being there to enjoy it all, in person, in all its glory. What a bumper crop that first game back is going to be after a year of missing out. Talk about a harvest.

Better days are coming. They are called game days.

I also want to go to a concert--any concert--and I won't even care if the artist plays only songs off his new album that I've never heard before. Not this time. I'll move my mouth and pretend to sing along and just be happy to be out in the world, listening to live music. Play anything you like and let me and 18,000 of my friends belt it out like never before. We will dance in the aisles and scream for encores and buy souvenir t-shirts when we finally shuffle out to our cars at the end of the night. And every time we hear those songs play, we will think about the night we were finally free again to go out and hear music and how it sounded better than it had sounded in a long time, because concerts are a bumper crop.

 

Here we are at a Dave Matthews Band concert in 2013. It poured down rain, he started two hours late, and barely played any recognizable songs at all. What I wouldn't give to go back. 

I have missed the movies. Not streaming movies at home, because I think we have seen all the movies possible to watch from our couch, but going to an actual movie theater with stadium seating and surround sound and all that. I can't wait to spend $38 on a small popcorn the size of a bushel basket and a medium Diet Coke that is really a two-liter bottle with a lid and straw attached, and head into a crowded theater again. I will watch too many previews that are way too loud and finish my popcorn before the mediocre movie ever starts and I will love every single second of it, even when someone's cell phone inevitably rings during the most inopportune time. I will revel in the sticky floor and the scent of that golden liquid popcorn butter with nine billion calories, and my seat which is always the one with the broken spring. What a bumper crop that will be.

Remember this? Oh, how good it's going to feel to be back again.

It has been over a year since our church held in-person worship, and oh, how I have missed it. I promise to never take it for granted again. As convenient as it is sit in my living room and watch the service on the laptop computer, I like going to the actual church. When the world goes back to normal and I get to go back, I will gladly wear shoes that pinch my feet and and Spanx up to my arm pits and sing hymns as loudly as I can manage and not look at my watch or squirm in my seat (much). When we greet one another, I might use a phrase my grandmother used to say and be so darn happy to be among people again that I tell them, "Come here and let me hug your neck." And I'll do it. Sunday church and hugging necks is a bumper crop.

When we finally get to rid ourselves of our masks, I am going to wear a bright, bold lipstick and lot of lip gloss because there will be no mask to smudge it all. I will don big, dangly earrings which won't get caught in my mask's ear loops and my hair won't get smooshed so it will be big and unencumbered and free. Okay, maybe this part of my wish list belongs more in a post entitled "Flashy Floozy" than "Bumper Crop," but it sure will feel good to look good again. In case you couldn't tell, I'm ready.

We're so close, friends. We have been through an ordeal, and we deserve all the good things that are coming our way. Hopefully, we are getting ready to end this tedious season of worry and uncertainty and enter a time to gather and celebrate and enjoy. The momentous things we loved and missed will seem even bigger and the little things won't be taken for granted any more. Our harvest is about to arrive, and I just know it's going to be a well-deserved bumper crop. I wish you an abundance of naked-face enjoyment and shoulder-to-shoulder moments of blissful, everyday normalcy. 

Happily Ever After

Sunday was Valentine's Day, and romance was in the air--well, not at my house (I had a two-day migraine, bless my heart), but I imagine it was alive and well somewhere. At least you all made it seem what way from your braggadocious postings on social media, anyway (y'all know people hate that, right?). Remember when it was possible to love each other without needing to post it online for your friends, neighbors, and sixth grade piano teacher all to see and read? The times, clearly, have changed.

If St.Valentine's left you feeling less than warm and fuzzy toward your beloved, let me offer you some words of advice for general relationship happiness: lower your expectations. There are very few men who truly care about Hallmark holidays and if they do, they are terrible at showing it. Expecting sweeping romantic gestures from a man who uses toothpicks and considers putting the toilet seat down an act of chivalry is a fool's errand, and you are no fool. Are you? 

After you lower your expectations, next I would encourage you to take all future gift giving matters into your very own capable hands. This is your chance to take charge of your fate. Seize your destiny. At the very least, get yourself something non-ugly that won't make you cry and/or depressed. If you hate the idea of shopping for yourself, present your significant other with a very detailed gift wish list. My husband and I email each other Christmas lists which contain actual web links to purchase the very items our little hearts desire. It may not make for lots of Christmas morning surprises, but it has eliminated lots of heartbreak and many an argument as well. If a list is too laborious, might I suggest cash? As my granddaddy was fond of saying, the color looks good on everyone and the size is always just right. 

Our 20th wedding anniversary is coming up in December. You don't survive nearly two decades together without learning a few tips and tricks for staying happily ever after. You know that part in your marriage vows when the preacher says, "speak now, or forever hold your peace?" Keep that hold your peace part in the forefront of your mind. (Remember that country song that says, "Now you say it best when you say nothing at all?") If you can't manage silence, then I recommend muttering. After a while, the other party will quit asking what you said and you can pretty much get away with anything, so long as it's said in a low rumble. 

In Helen Ellis's hilarious book Southern Lady Code she advises "separate bathrooms, and if you can't afford that, separate peanut butter jars." There is much wisdom in Helen's words. My husband uses the guest bathroom upstairs and I can't even clean it without wanting to pack a little hobo bindle and run away from home. I try my best not to even make eye contact with it if at all possible. Which is why I think eye contact, on the whole, is very overrated. If you wanted to stay happy in a relationship for the long haul, it's usually best not to spend inordinate amounts of time looking at things. Glance at each other, smile, kiss, keep moving. It leaves no time for disagreeing. Have you seen my wallet? I don't look around much. Did you see how dumb that was? No, darling, I don't gaze upon such things! Don't stare too long at the house and you won't argue over home improvements or clutter. See? Or rather, don't see where I'm going with this? You're already not speaking, you might as well dull your other senses while you're at it. What is a fulfilling relationship if not a virtual deprivation tank? 

Another good rule of happiness, and a delight to the senses you have remaining: the simple but magnificent taco. Tacos will go a long way to Band-Aid a situation, and I'm not even using tacos as euphemism here. I literally mean that when the going gets tough, get some ground beef, cheese, tortillas, and serve 'em up. They're cheap, and I can't think of a single time I have made tacos that Clint hasn't forgotten his troubles. It may be impossible to stay mad while eating a taco. Who needs therapy when you can buy an Old El Paso taco kit? (You will need to personally determine if your significant other's love language is hard or soft tacos, although I believe the taco is generally a universal language). 

My final piece of relationship contentment advice (for now) is to watch lots of true crime. In doing so, you will learn--as we have--that spouses kill each other, and frequently. This will give you an appreciation that the person you are coupled with has not bludgeoned you in your sleep, poisoned your dinner, or paid a hitman to take you out in all the years you two have been together. Which kind of gives your relationship a whole new kind of happy glow about it, now doesn't it? Dateline airs weekly on NBC and it's one of our favorites. Now, get out there and keep your mouth and eyes shut, your bathrooms separate, your taco nights plentiful, and walk with a I'm-still-alive spring in your step. 

And they lived happily (for the most part) ever after.

Just for your relationship bliss, I've created a Happily Ever After bingo card.
It's much smaller than a regular bingo card, because let's face it, relationships are hard enough.

This Thing Called Quarantine

 

Maybe both, to be honest.

I made the mistake of watching the news this morning, and I don't know why. I heard about the more contagious strains of this virus that have now not only entered the United States, they have made their way into my state, my city, and in fact, my county. I guess they'll be ringing my doorbell by noon wanting to sell my some magazine subscriptions or new vinyl siding. Then I heard that one mask may not be enough so we should all probably be wearing two masks, which sounds positively delightful. And then I did what I should have done all along: I got fed up and changed the channel to the Golden Girls, which I have seen so many times I can quote all the dialogue, but it does not leave me in a state of despair, so there's that. Pass the cheesecake.

What happened to "fifteen days to flatten the curve?" I did my fifteen days. I have eaten takeout and stayed home and washed my hands and worn a mask and avoided coming close to people, and still, here we are. I know it's not technically quarantine (which involves a lot more isolation than this), but it feels like it. It's January and people are eating outside on patios, for Pete's sake. I don't want to drink a margarita on a patio in January, unless I am in some far flung tropical location--which I am not going to until the world opens up again and I can do so with my whole face exposed to the sunlight, mask free, worry free, COVID free. If you want to cut a daiquiri hole in your face mask, you do you, but I think I'll just wait it out.

We learned our lesson about trying to travel during a pandemic back in December when we attempted a little weekend getaway for our anniversary. We decided after that experience that we will pause until the vaccine has been widely distributed and things are more "normal" again before we attempt any more vacations. As Clint so perfectly summed it up, "I'm not paying full price for half the experience any more. I'll wait." You can mask up and pretend you're having fun, but I think I'll just Netflix and wait until I can actually go out and have a good time. 

In the meantime, here we are in North Carolina, where it is recommended that we stay in our homes unless it is absolutely necessary that we go out (and y'all, sometimes it is just absolutely necessary, mmkay?). We have been given a 10:00 p.m. curfew (I feel like I'm in high school), been told not to gather with people outside our immediate household, and our bars and restaurants have been ordered not to serve any alcohol after 9:00 at night. Or, as someone hilariously commented online, "Our governor has challenged our state to get drunk by 9 p.m. Challenge. Accepted." You have to laugh or else you will most certainly cry. 

I was folding clothes yesterday and my husband pulled a pair of navy Adidas track pants out and exclaimed, "my dress pants for work tomorrow!" Sad, but true. Athleisure is the new office wear. Adidas is the new business suit. I haven't worn a pair of high heels in so long I'm going to have to practice in them like I did in middle school when I wore them for the first time. I miss going to church in person. And going to brunch after church. And buffets. And even crowds of annoying people. I miss it all. 

That said, I could have it much worse. I was chatting on the phone to a friend who lives on the west coast and her hair and nail salons have not yet reopened. We were lamenting the fact that at-home pedicures can be done, but do not look the same, when she dropped this bomb on me. "I tell you what I don't miss and I'll never go back to a salon for, though. Waxing." "Oh really? Which kind of waxing?" I needed to know. And then she threw down the gauntlet. Quarantine has my friend now doing her own Brazilian waxing at home, and swearing she enjoys it. Lordamercy. Not this girl. For that particular form of torture, I will gladly pay a stranger to inflict pain on my person and get the job done while I stare at the ceiling and wish it was either over or I was dead, whichever should come first. I'm adding "enjoying at-home waxing" to the alarming list of side effects people are experiencing from being shut in this long.

We were out to dinner last weekend with two friends (I know, what risky behavior!) who have daredly planned a trip to Mexico in the spring. "Do you guys have anything you're looking forward to on the calendar?" they asked. "Nope," Clint and I both replied in unison. We laughed on the way home at how grouchy we sounded, and we did explain to our companions that we meant travel-wise and not that we have nothing in life that we are anticipating giving us any joy! I mean, we have a swimming pool that will be finished in the next month or so (fingers crossed) which will provide us with some much needed entertainment once the weather warms up again. Our back yard has been leveled to total destruction, so I'm looking forward to getting rid of the red mud situation we have been living in, or as a neighbor hilariously quipped, it looks like we live on Mars, the red planet right now. We are both looking forward to getting that vaccine, even though we fall into the last category to be vaccinated, behind the felons and the group home delinquents. And most of all, we are looking forward to the time when this ordeal is behind us, when quarantine is a thing of the past, when we squeeze back into our real clothes again and take our unmasked faces out in the open world.

Until then, if you figure out a way to flatten this now infamous curve, do me a favor and stomp on it, would you?  

Here We Go, 2021

I've never gotten this excited about hanging a banner before.

 A new year is upon us, and I suppose it couldn't come soon enough. Although the arrival of 2021 isn't going to magically cure all our problems, 2020 was terrible for almost everyone, well, except for about three clueless people in my social media newsfeed who keep insisting it was their best and/or happiest year ever. I'll have whatever meds they're having. I think it's best for the lucid rest of us that we turn a fresh page.

2021 has to have the easiest job in the world: just don't screw things up nearly as badly as your predecessor. That leaves plenty of room to dance when you look at the dumpster fire of a year we just wrapped up--I will spare you a recap because you know all too well what we have been through, a completely bizarre year that redefines the word "unprecedented" and had people so out of their minds they were hoarding toilet paper and using perfectly good tequila to make hand sanitizer. Good grief.

It was a year where we were confined to our homes even for the purposes of work and school, so we baked, we binge watched, we home improved. Our dogs were the real winners, with more puppies and rescue dogs adopted than ever before and no fur baby left unattended because honestly, where did their owners possibly have to go? For walks! And more walks. 

2020 took away beloved celebrities like Kenny Rogers, Alex Trebek, Gone with the Wind's Olivia de Havilland, Charley Pride, Sean Connery, Eddie Van Halen, and Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg, just to name a few. We cancelled plans, vacations, reservations, and turned it all into a big staycation as we waited for the months to roll on by. 2021, have we all been waiting for you.

I liken this past tedious year we have endured to an old episode of Designing Women where Julia Sugarbaker gets her head stuck in the banister of the stairs in the Governor's Mansion after being dared to pose for a silly picture whilst on a visit. Much like 2020, it all starts out innocently enough, but by the end, like our dear Julia, we were all feeling trapped and panicked and just begging to be set free already. 

We were all Julia Sugarbaker in the year 2020. Cut us loose. Set us free!

So here we go, 2021. I feel like my head is still stuck in the bannister railing and I'm just waiting in this awkward position for someone to release me. I took a good look around the grocery store this week at all our little faces covered in masks, obeying the signage to limit our purchases of paper and disinfectant products so as not to overwhelm the supply chain and I felt like I was in some kind of apocalypse science fiction movie. (I would prefer to star in some type of old Hollywood glamorous film, given my druthers, but I am rarely given my druthers). 

I'm not sure what this new year will bring, but the good news is that our standards are low. A friend pointed out that this year is already a bit frightening--the mere sound when one says 2021 really does sound like "2020 won," now doesn't it?  If that's what we need to concede to get our heads out of this proverbial bannister, then 2020 won! I consider myself highly competitive, yet I freely admit I was no match for her. As for this new year we embark upon, I have just this humble plea: 2021, keep your highly contagious plagues to a minimum, kindly let us out of the house now and again, and keep on keeping those murder hornets at bay, would you? Happy New Year? I certainly hope.

Ew, 2020. Here's to a kinder, gentler new year!