I would like to go on record as saying the iPod nano sucks big fat donkey.
Have you ever been at one of those places in your life where you don’t really have much passion about anything? You know, you’ve got your hobbies and your interests and your people and the things you do. But sometimes you come to a place where you just don’t care. Kind of like you’ve outgrown everything. Well I’m there. In that place. Right now. And I’m making an effort here, I’m branching out and trying new things. Japanese class… different genres of music… teal eyeshadow… I know. But I like to think I haven’t stepped over the line until I start in on plastic surgery and a weave. I’ve even been thinking, “you know, Judaism might be fun.” Am I embracing my inner celebrity here? Having a (very early) mid life crisis? Just plain wiggin’? Is this just a normal phase that everyone has every few years? I don’t know but I would like to feel really into something again. Have a crush, find something that creatively fulfilled, fall into a very large amount of money so I can quit my job and sit around overanalyzing things all day.
You know what I need? Something to clean. I mean really clean. And organize. The kind of project where you end up with ten bags of crap to take to Goodwill. I can’t do it to my own apartment because, alas, I do it so often here I don’t have any clutter really (Virgo, ENFP). Anyone looking for a good clean?
I went to Christmas Village last weekend with my mom and aunt and a very distant cousin named Pam. Christmas Village, in case you don’t know, is basically a Christmas flea market held at the fairgrounds. Nothing for Hanukkah or Kwanzaa there. This is Christmas Village, by god. Booths of stuff for gifts and decorations with which to white trash up your yard for the holidays. Oh, and The Food Booths. When we got in the car to head over there, I said, “hurry up, I haven’t eaten breakfast yet and I need to my sample on.” It’s amazing how stuffed you can get on tiny cups of pastry and mulled cider.
In the car on the way home, my mom and aunt started talking about the family again, like they do. This time they rehashed the story of my grandfather eating their pet rabbit when they were kids. I’ve heard this story a billion times, and they laugh every time until they cry, like it’s a huge secret they’ve never dared share. They have a lot of stories like this that have been repeated over and over and over again. Mostly involving my grandfather or extended family (see: Aint Rene or Aint Faye). I have decided that if I ever have kids, I will continue this tradition of telling family stories over and over until they’re not funny anymore for the stories themselves, but they’ve become funny because you’ve heard them so many times it’s just become comfortable and familiar and makes you feel safe and like laughing, like when you’re at home. If you are lucky enough to feel safe in your families’ homes. Some aren’t. Point is, family stories = two thumbs up.
In case you’re wondering about the rabbit eating incident, my mom and her two sisters kept this rabbit named Buck in the back yard. Actually, my grandfather brought it home, so it was officially his pet. But you know how kids are. They consider all animals in the house theirs. Well Buck kept getting out of cage, so my grandfather told my mom and her sisters that if they didn’t keep him penned up, he was gonna eat Buck. Buck got out again. One evening they heard a commotion outside and ran to the back porch to see Grandaddy chasing Buck around the yard. They knew this was the end, so they stood there yelling, “run, Buck, run! run, Buck, ruuun!” And they tried to catch him before Grandaddy did, but he found Buck first. And into the dinner pot he went. And my mother and her sisters just sat at the dinner table that night and watched mournfully as my grandfather ate Buck the rabbit. I actually can’t believe my grandmother skinned and cooked that thing. If my husband did that I think he might be greeted with a hearty “oh no you di’int” But my mother pointed out that they ate rabbit all the time, as well as, and I think this will tell you all you need to know about my mother’s people, squirrel. And although I have never posed the question, I assume their dinner table was also graced by, but not limited to, the following: possum, deer, crawdaddies, skunk and random pig parts. And actually I can confirm that last one there. My mother has told me many times that “you can eat everything on a pig but the squeal.” Also, my mother didn’t have indoor plumbing until she went to college.
My mother and father were the first ones in their families to go to college. I walk a fine line between being terribly impressed with them and laughing until I cry.
