Saying Thanks

For Activity Days with the girls yesterday, we had a lesson on the importance of saying thank you. The girls made thank you cards. I got a few. It was very sweet. And it got me thinking about things for which I'm thankful. Here's the start of a running list:

• Family, friends and coworkers who tolerate my quirks.
• Nieces and nephews who let me believe I’m the best aunt in the world.
• The ability to read easily and enjoy it.
• A healthy body that rarely gets sick or breaks down.
  
• Cockroaches that are all DEAD when I find them in my house, rather than alive and spawning.
• The fact that people are usually nice to me.
• Chocolate-covered cinnamon bears.
• A job I absolutely love.
• Music. All kinds.
  
• Straight teeth and strong eyesight.
  
• A pretty good idea why I’m alive and a strong desire to stay that way.

American Idolatry

Those cheeseball pop wannabes are singing Neil Diamond tonight and I’m glued to the TV hoping against hope the Man himself will do a song or two.

So far that dredhead dude with the wispy voice just ruined one of my Diamond favorites – Forever in Blue Jeans. And what’s with the guitar playing? Come on kids. Let’s just rock the Diamond music and forget the gimmicks. And America, David Archuleta?! Puhlease.

If someone sings/slaughters Desiree tonight I just might have to swear off all future American Idolatry.

To Hillary with Love

Wouldn't it be ironic if I vote for a woman to be President because I think one of her spokesmen is sexy? I don't even like country music but tonight Hillary Clinton had Ty Herndon perform at her rally in Charlotte and if there'd been a ballot box on hand, he'd have gotten my vote!

Seriously though, Hillary has some very good ideas if you can get past her grating voice. North Carolina's primary is next Tuesday, in case you haven't heard. We share the day with Indiana and both states are a little starstruck at all the attention. Usually nobody gives a hoot about our votes when May finally rolls around.

The Clinton/Obama circus has changed that for 2008.

And that means we're getting all kinds of visits from the Obamas and Clintons and their sidekicks (hello Ty Herndon!) So I've had the privilege of hearing both Barack and Hillary in person here in Charlotte.

This is going to make my mother scream aloud, but I think I'm voting for Hillary next week. Of course, that's not to say I will go that way in November - I'm officially unaffiliated, you know. McCain will be here next Monday and he'll have ample opportunity to convince me he's the man for the White House. I suggest he hire a hot country singer.

I'm Home

It's amazing how quickly my body seems to have acclimated to the southeastern climate. After only three months here, I went back to Utah for a quick visit and nearly went mad itching and chafing in the dry air. My skin crawled the entire time. And the one time I attempted a serious jog I got so winded I had to walk. How is it possible that I spent most of my 33 years at 4,000 feet above sea level and after three measly months my body can no longer function as well at that height?

The mild, moist air that met me on the tarmac in Charlotte tonight made my skin tingle and I forced me to breathe deeply in relief.

On a related note, the direct flight between Charlotte and SLC is slick and so worth the extra money to avoid layovers.

Paying Homage

I visited my trash yesterday. It's being stored under a big pile of clay and rocks in Clive, Utah - about 40 miles west of the SLC Airport. This is no normal trash, though. It's the low-level leftovers from the nuclear energy I use everytime I flip the light switch out in Charlotte, NC. It comes all the way to SLC by truck and train to the dry and desolate desert right here where I grew up. Such strange synchronicity.

I got a snap shot of me and my nuclear waste, but I haven't been able to load it up yet, since I'm still in Utah visiting the folks. Yeah, I figured since I was here, I may as well visit the family and not just the waste dump. You can probably guess which visit has been more fun!

A Custard Pie for Jan

My Grandma Jan is amazing and today she's 80. So Grandma, here's to you! I regret that I didn't get a custard pie off in the mail to you. I doubt they have very good custard pie on the Big Island.

I've never told you how much I respect that you had the nerve to convince Grandpa to let you sell all of your SoCal belongings and set up house on Kona where it's warm enough to suit you. People say "I'm not getting any younger," all the time, but very, very few add "So let's go today, instead of tomorrow."

I so admire your grace, your quiet strength, your nimble knitting hands and passion for Heavenly Hash ice cream. As a child I loved, loved, loved those summer days at your home in San Clemente - rising early enough to see you shuffling around the kitchen in your purple velour robe making toast and reading the tidal forecast for the day. We'd fix sandwiches, pack a few plums and head to the beach for the day.

The day the pelicans came back to San Clemente I thought something was terribly wrong. You were calling my name so loudly up there on the sand and waving your arms so frantically. I came running up from the water and dripped all over you as we watched the pelicans dip and glide way out beyond the waves. We wondered aloud how they could be so graceful with their big beaks and bellies. I smile every day at the little brass pelican on my nightstand - a gift from you.

Just now, as I remembered those times, I was fingering the tiny gold J pendant on a chain around my neck. It was yours and I can hardly remember a time that you weren't wearing it. Then last year when I came to see you in Hawaii, you brought it out for me on the last morning of my visit. Wrapped in tissue paper, it didn't look right in my hand rather than around your neck. I kept it in my pocket during the whole flight and before even unpacking my bags, I found the perfect chain for it in my jewelry. I've worn it ever since.

People probably think it's because I love my name and the letter J. I do, it's true. But really I wear it because I love you.

For 80 years, the world has been a better place. Happy Birthday Grandma.

Um, Can We Leave Now?

There's no question about it. I'm a city girl. I like to camp and hike. But I can't fathom living in the sticks where dogs, cows and chickens run wild and there's no cell reception. I went there over the weekend - deep into South Carolina for a cookout (that's what they call barbecues in the south) hosted by a coworker of a friend.

In other words, I didn't know a single soul. And they were something else. "Country folk" is what they called themselves. My friend says they're "redneck," but they may just as well have been "aliens." Very nice, friendly aliens. But altogether unfamiliar to me and while I'm not easily rattled by different folks and different strokes, I was gripping the bars of my cage out there.

I also don't think I stopped gaping. And I didn't touch any of the pork or chicken they'd slaughtered and cooked up for the occasion. I'm sure it was tasty - I just didn't like the look of it. And that's saying something, since I've no problem picking stuff I've dropped off the ground and popping it in my mouth. I think I was just too out-of-my element to feel like eating.

Maybe it was the dogs. I think there were at least 50, but I lost count. All I know is I didn't see the same one twice all night. They barked from a dog run along the driveway. They pawed and snarled from inside the screened porch. They ran wild underfoot.

Did I mention this was an engagement party? Some friend from a few towns over came in her minnie Winnebago and set up a full bar under the RV awning - complete with an enormous keg and her special martini featuring pickled green tomatoes in the place of olives. I'm no expert, but do tomatoes and martinis go together under ANY circumstance? That's what I thought. Yet again, I was pleased to say "I don't drink" and head for the soda at the kid table.

Incidentally, this bartender lady with the Winnegabo had on black stretch pants with peek-a-boo slits all the way up the sides of her legs. Everyone else was in jeans, flannel and work boots. I guess party protocol in the country allows you to dress like a flash dancer when when bring the drinks. Same rules apparently also apply to portable karaoke machines, which she also pulled from the RV so she could sing off-key all night long.

Aside from drinking and gossiping and a brief episode of gift-opening and toasting under a crepe-paper banner - the real entertainment was four-wheeled. Seems Bring Your Own ATV is an unwritten rule for these kinds of affairs. There were half a dozen, and a few hours after dark, they finally coaxed us city kids into a ride.

We stuck to a dirt road that ambled around the host's property past several pastures of mangy horses and stubborn cows. I didn't see much with all the the dust, bugs and pollen whipping my face. I needed goggles for the ride and a toothpick afterward to clean the bugs from my teeth.

There was no mirror in the port-o-john for guests, but the host let me use the bathroom inside her glorified double-wide. I glimpsed a couple of rooms nearly bereft of flooring. Such a humble life. I should reiterate at this point the people were VERY nice. Friendly and generous. But their world is completely beyond me.

No disrespect to John Denver, but Thank God I'm NOT A Country Girl.