Be-Boppin' Around Town

I had the dog shaved down. She looks like a hound dog now, not an Australian Shepherd. Everybody thinks she's fat, until I get her buzzed for the summer. Ken doesn't like it. He said it's humiliating to her. I told him that we could avoid everything if he'd agree to brush her out and vacuum the rugs once a day, once it gets bleeping hot and she starts shedding. That's when he disappeared into the barn and I assumed he meant for me to take her to town.

What do I mean, town? We're right here in town! For decades, we lived in the country and I had to plan all my trips. Now I buzz in and out of here at the drop of a hat, everything within five minutes of our driveway. It's a really nice thing, something I try not to take for granted. But it might just be a problem, since the Trading Post, Gabe's and the Dairy Whup are constantly calling my name. And then there's Mandy's Grocery, kind-of like a Big Lots on steroids. Not because there's more stuff, but because they actually discount everything. It seems like every town has one of those. There's Lee's Discount in Douglasville, a similar establishment. It was right around the corner from our house out in the sticks. I seriously contemplated not moving because I knew I'd miss them so much. Once in a blue moon, I still drop in to see if anything's changed. Nope. You can get an old-school videotape, diapers, makeup, greeting cards, presents for everybody for the next year and then jump in the tanning bed while you're there. It puts a new spin on the phrase "one-stop-shopping." 

When we moved further west a few years back, I had a relative who questioned why we wanted to live "around all those rednecks." He obviously don't even know me. 

I love Villa Rica.

Long in the Tooth

This week's grand adventure involved the state of Alabama and one bad tooth. I don't know why I agreed to the notion of driving over an hour to submit myself to the barbaric torture chamber that is an endodontist's chair. But I did. It's been a week and I'm not over it yet.

I had been struggling with a tooth for a couple of months. I take very good care of my teeth but they still don't behave. This one was protesting every time I drank something cold or hot or bit down on it. I put it off as long as I could but the writing was on the wall. The very thought of going to the dentist scares the fool out of me. I have been subjected to some really bad dentists in my life. Or maybe they were just cheapskates. Too cheap to put that extra needle-full of Novocaine that it takes to put my gums asleep. I had a compassionate dentist in the last few years that explained to me that it takes twice as much to get me numb. I believe him. And that's ironic, since I've pushed out several eleven-pound babies with no drugs. Not that it doesn't hurt, but somehow I'm able to do that. Not so with my teeth, or my feet, for that matter. Don't mess with my feet. I might cut you. 

I told that endo-guy that me and my dentist agreed that I needed a double dose, but apparently he didn't believe me. Because when he got to tunneling through that molar, he hit something important. I don't normally cuss, but I would have, if my mouth hadn't been full of peoples' fingers and a drill. I definitely would have bitten him, if I could have. And even though I jumped and yelled, he hit that spot three times before he decided to let a little more of his precious Novocaine go. By this time, I've got trust issues and am all contorted and twisted up inside. My neck's gone turned into a vice and I'm remembering what my preacher said about earth being the closest to hell that a Christian will get. I couldn't quit thinking about tunnels, dark places, and wailing and gnashing of teeth. The dentist and his assistant were chatting and laughing, while I'm smelling the fires of hell burning up my poor tooth. Time stood still and then they were done. They unstrapped me and the helper wiped the slobber off my face, then told me I was free to go. Free to go where? I was seeing stars and feeling faint while I staggered to the desk and paid them my next IRS payment. I was somewhere in the bowels of Alabama and had to find a way to drive home. They do have Chick Fil-A's there, so I found one and broke my diet with a giant chocolate shake while throwing down four ibuprofen and a Tylenol. Those things don't work.

A week later and my travail is not over. My regular dentist told me this morning that I'm that one in a hundred patients that have these kinds of problems with this procedure. It would have to be me. So for now, I'm remembering a lot about that movie Castaway and when he had his tooth problem. I'm thinking about spending the afternoon looking to see if we've got any old ice skates in the barn...

I Love the Smell of Paint Fumes in the Morning

I come from a long line of women painters, house painters, that is. My Grandma Betty could wield a brush like no other. She assumed it was her job to coat any and everything. My MawMaw Rose could tear out a wall, put it back, slap sheetrock mud up and then paint it. As generational things go, most of us inherit these kinds of paradigms. My Mama was always the one to pull out the paint cans and wallpaper, not my Daddy. He plowed up the garden, kept the yards, repaired everything...but the women in my life were the keepers of the paint.

I used to beg my Mama to let me help her. She wasn't having any of that, but I was watching. When Ken and I married, I itched for the chance to doll up my own place. One of our early rentals was my first. I pled the landlord to let me paint it. She bought the supplies and I went to work, transforming most of the woodwork and walls in that little domicile. I was hooked. Soon after, we bought our first house and I thought I'd died and gone to glory. Through the years, as we fixed up and sold homes, my first order of business was the Sherwin Williams store. Swatches, samples, paint supplies. Heaven on a stick. I love the smell of it, the way it soothes old, tired walls, how it gives a house new life. In my job as a Realtor, I now beseech my sellers to try the magic potion that works every time. If you paint it, they will come.

At my core, I am an artist. Paint is the elixir that expresses the universe. What is it that compels the artist to try to explain to the world what swirls inside their complex brains? It's often and usually done with some sort of paint. We can't help it. It just oozes right on out. Even when my life is overwrought with obligations, somehow I find a way to the counter at Benjamin Moore or the Dick Blick website. Michael's calls me when I see those multi-packs of canvases on the sidewalk. I keep amassing those things, in anticipation of a chunk of time and inspiration. Meanwhile, I'll just go ahead and repaint my kitchen. 

I've run into lots of people who looked at my Victorian home, back when it was for sale a few years ago. Many of them tell me they didn't buy it because they didn't know what to do with all the 80s colors splashed on the walls, each room its own dark, scary entity. That was the least of my worries, and my daughter and I proceeded to patch, caulk and paint before we got unpacked good. A rolling stone gathers no moss, and my walls gather no dust because I'm painting them over and over again. I'm ashamed to admit that there are several rooms that already have their second and third suits of colors, in less than six years. I guess when the smell wears off I have to start over. Call me crazy, but it might be therapy for me. So if you want to pull up a chair, I'd love to chat while I'm trimming out the ceiling. I won't let you have a brush but we'll have a good time anyway.

Just Idling on By

I didn't plan on working this hard, this far down the line. I figured by now I'd be eating bon-bons and taking bubble baths. I also didn't know that when you finally had the chance to get a good night's sleep after raising all those kids, your body just said naw. I just love sleeping a few hours, waking up like a squirrel, only to figure out it's 3:00 in the morning. By the time I've cleaned out the pantry, surfed the internet, read half a novel and finally gotten back to slumber, it's time to wake up again. But hey, I'm still breathing. 

There's nothing like coming up with a brilliant idea and then having to wait for the rest of the world to wake up so you can tell everybody. That's why they invented Facebook. We can put all our goodies out there for everyone to see. Our narcissism has reached new heights, where we throw our private lives onto the world stage where no one's really paying attention. They're all too busy updating their own pages. But then again, I do run into old friends along the way and they go on and on about our stunning grandbabies. They really are the most wonderful ones in the world. That breeding program we started way back in 1982 is turning out pretty good. It's not fair to the rest of the world.

I'm trying to figure out how to have a summer. It's already sweltering and there's no pool out back. At night I've got three fans blowing so I can try to sleep. Meanwhile, Ken's nose is peeking out from under a quilt. The tax man is looming and I've got my nose to the grindstone. I keep a notepad by the bed so I can write all the things down that wake me up. Life's hard and then you die. If I thought that was all there was, there's no telling what gutter I might end up in. As it is, it's 2:54 a.m. My heart fills with the sweetness of God's gracious gifts as I sit here and pray and muse for my people and the others that He brings across my brain. "There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God, the holy place where the Most High dwells." Psalm 46:4. 

It's a sweet river, cooling off my hot messes.