Once upon a time, there was a door here that opened onto a long country-style back porch, where my great-grandmother Edith kept her old wringer washing machine, and where she hung clothes to dry out of the scorching sun. Sadly, Mom had to tear down the porch nearly 20 years ago, when it had rotted beyond repair. The doorway's still here, though, and it boosts airflow through the house. Opening this door and the front door at the same time creates a very gentle, almost constant breeze through the front part of the house. Most hot, humid evenings, Oliver lies quietly behind the window screen and hardware cloth that cover the opening, and listens to the Outdoor Frog Colony Summer Concert Series playing in the rain buckets under the eaves.
I'm glad to see some quality tampons (for once!) offered in this low-tech machine. O.B. tampons are famous, or perhaps infamous, for their no-applicator packaging; just remove the plastic overwrap from the individual 'pon, unfurl the string, and literally put it where the sun don't shine. (I think O.B. used to feature a paper overwrap many years ago, but I could be wrong.) Without a bulky, clunky plastic or cardboard applicator in the way, lots more tampons can fit into a carton. Or your purse. Or a vending machine. And any woman will tell you: when Aunt Flo pays you a surprise visit—because she's a stalker like that, she'll find you no matter where you are—a 75-cent tampon from a bathroom vending machine is a small price to pay to save your favorite white pants.
It's also nice to see they're still offering condoms in these vending machines, too. "Hygeia" is the Roman goddess of health, so the name is appropriate (though misspelled). And the fact that at least some of these condoms are flavored still gives me a giggle fit. Until my laughter subsided there in the restroom, I was rummaging through my purse for three quarters just so I might experience for myself the gustatory horror of the banana and chocolate flavors.
In the summer of 1988, my sister and I encountered our first-ever condom machine in an Aynor, South Carolina, gas station restroom. Sure, we had heard about the contraception contraptions in Sex Ed class. Mom had even confirmed for us that there really was such a thing as a vending machine for condoms. But we still hadn't seen one for ourselves, and didn't think they actually existed. All we'd ever seen for sale in a bathroom vending machine were maxi-pads and tampons.
But there the machine stood, fixed to the wall in all its mute, naughty glory. I say "mute" and "naughty" because the mostly-silent implication was—and still is, to some extent—that women who plan for sex are sluts. (And those who don't plan for sex are pregnant. Mm-hmm, definitely non-slutty.) But since this was South Carolina, where of course in the late 1980s they didn't have a teenage pregnancy epidemic or people with STDs or anything like that thankyouverymuch, the condom machine's offerings were concealed by a large metal flap bearing a sign in bold letters:
THESE PRODUCTS OFFERED ONLY
FOR THE PREVENTION OF DISEASE.
ANY PATRONS WHO MAY BE OFFENDED BY
SEXUALLY ORIENTED MATTER
ARE ADVISED NOT TO LIFT THIS FLAP.
Which meant that Pixie and I were straightaway going to lift the flap. And it made a loud crrrreeeeEEEEAAAAK as we did so. There was no way that anyone outside this one-seater women's restroom wouldn't hear the cheesy haunted-house-quality noise warning the public at large that any floozies inside were most certainly perusing the rubber selection. I'm pretty sure the creaky flap had been designed that way, state public health initiatives be damned. "Better barefoot 'n pregnant than have everybody in the store know you're gonna get laid," or something like that.
The four different types of condoms in the machine nearly scalded our scandalized teenage eyes. There were plain, standard condoms; condoms bearing the dubious claim that they were "ribbed for her pleasure;" Stallion's Pride condoms "for the larger man," secreted away and SORRY, SOLD OUT; and the usual wonky fruit-flavored varieties. Creativity must have died a slow and painful death when the latex process engineers met up with the marketing team in Rubber Flavorings 101. Time after time, it's the same old boring fruits, banana jokes notwithstanding. Why don't we ever see any new flavors for condoms? Why not licorice, or root beer, or cornbread, or Slim Jims?
Pixie and I tried not to laugh, but the harder we tried, the funnier it was. The whole if-we-can't-see-it-then-it-doesn't-exist mentality of the condom machine warning flap was so silly. Pixie was 12 and I was 14, but we could see past this attempt to fool the public with high-and-mighty moral smokescreening. (It works, too. Note public outrage whenever the topic of free condoms for high school students appears in the news.) Keep in mind that this was in the days before disposable 35mm cameras, and before inexpensive digital cameras and camera phones that people could take everywhere with them. Hilarious as it was, we couldn't get a photo of the prophylactic tomfoolery before our eyes. We also needed to get back to the car before Daddy started wondering if we'd tumbled off to Wonderland via a public toilet rabbit hole.
So I gathered my purse and was washing my hands, still snickering, when Pixie said, "Don't look!"
"Don't look at what?"
She broke up laughing again. "Don't turn around until I say so."
"Okaaaaay." I finished washing and then dried my hands, and just stood staring at the floor with my back to my sister. "What are you doing?" I heard Pixie rummaging through her purse, the crrrreeeeeEEEEEAAAAK! of the condom machine flap, the quick light ffffrrrppp of a stack of notepaper, the small skrrrtsksksksk of a lone mouse scurrying across Celotex on a Friday night, and at last the crrreeeEEEEAAAK-THUNKTHUNK-dddttt! of the metal flap finally settling to rest. "What are you—"
"Okay! Let's go." Pixie stood bright-eyed with her hand on the restroom door, purse snapped shut and in hand. She was trying very hard (and failing) not to laugh again.
I took one look at her face, then at the condom machine. Lifting up the big metal warning flap, I spied a lavender Hello Kitty sticky-note pressed right over the condom logos. Scrawled upon it, in my sister's inimitable pre-teen handwriting:
DON'T BUY THIS GUM!
IT TASTES LIKE RUBBER!
The self-possessed tortoiseshell cat explained the bowls of water and dry food we saw outside the store entrance. The young trucker-hatted hipster at the cash register told us the kitty's name is Sukie. Judging from her belly, she has nursing kittens somewhere, and perhaps was taking a break from her babies on the dusty back counter, semi-hidden from customers by the microwave oven. She didn't bother to look up until I was almost close enough to pet her, and then interrupted her bath long enough to stare right at me: "What are YOU lookin' at?" Then she resumed bathing.
I've never seen a tortoiseshell cat with Sukie's patterning. Her forehead seems to have a headlight on it. Or perhaps she ran headlong into the end of a roller dripping with orange paint, and got a little color on her chin while she was at it.
The cabin is just high enough in the Blue Ridge Mountains so that our ears popped a little on the drive up the narrow gravel road. Blue Ridge is a three-hour drive from Small Town, but the difference in weather is amazing. The highs here average in the high 80s, while back home the thermometers stay at or above 95 most days. Here in the mountains, there's also the benefit of actual wind to cool everything off; the rest of the state has no such meteorological luxury, and spends the hottest months in a funky, sweaty, sticky, humid stew. Those of us near the southern edge of the Piedmont Plateau just have to fart if we want a June breeze. Happily, the mountains have fairly pleasant weather conditions in summer.
After breakfast this morning, the Colonel stepped out onto the deck of the cabin and decided to sunbathe. Those are his discarded clothes on the two rocking chairs. Yes, it's wonderful when the woods surrounding the place are very thick, and your nearest neighbor is 1/8 mile away. While I'm rather fair-skinned and do my best to avoid the sun, I've joined the Colonel every chance we've had to hop into the Jacuzzi on the deck overlooking the little hollow below the cabin, and pointed toward the mountains. We sat in it Saturday evening during a huge rainstorm, watching sheets of rain sweep through the woods and across the lovely mountainscape before us. (Tip: A broad-brimmed hat is very handy in cases like these. Your body is warm beneath the water, and both your head and your eyeglasses stay dry while the cool rain falls all around you.)
There's a reason this cabin's called Million-Dollar View!
The first photo is from Blue Ridge, Georgia, same as yesterday's photo of the PBR. The Colonel said, "Awwww, lookit dese wittle bebeh Coors Lights!" and immediately put them in the cart. (Never underestimate the power of Teh Qte. Even in the beer cooler.) The Colonel is dad to both his grown son and a little dog named Broomstick.
The second photo: yes, it's recycled from earlier in the week, the one of Mom & El Seebeno at the truck stop. It was the only one I had of Seeben in my phone, though, so I had to make do for this Father's Day post that I'm writing via cell phone from the mountains. El Seebeno is "my other Dad," and I don't think I could ask for a better stepfather than Steve. (That's El Seebeno's real name, FYI.)
And I think about my late father on Father's Day, 14 years since he passed away. All the advice he gave me--much of it helpful, and of course some of it eye-roll-inducing--still sticks with me today. For example: advice about cars.
Just like El Seebeno, my dad was gifted when it came to automobile repair know-how. Ninety-eight times out of 100, he could diagnose what was wrong with a car and either fix it on his own, or quickly determine that the problem required more equipment and/or extra hands than he had available, and would promptly take it to one of three or four trusted mechanics. He had no problem installing a new timing belt, especially not on his company car, a 1983 Ford station wagon. The third (and last) time he did so was 1996, the year before he died, when the car had nearly 400,000 miles on it and was awaiting an engine rebuild. (Despite his automotive prowess, Daddy recognized the fine art of rebuilding an engine as such: "Hell, I take it to this place outside Athens, where all they do is rebuild engines. I ain't got the time or equipment or patience to fool with it.")
I recall casually mentioning the LTD's new timing belt to a college classmate who enjoyed fixing up old cars in his spare time. "Whoa! Your dad put on a new timing belt HIMSELF?!?"
"Yeah," I replied. "He's done it a bunch of times: my car, my grandmother's car, his work truck. This is the third one he's put on the station wagon." It didn't occur to me that this was anything out of the ordinary, something that took exceptional skill to do correctly.
The guy shook his head. "Man, he must be good. I've been working on cars ever since I could hold a wrench, but when I figure out it's the timing belt? Pffft. Close the hood and call a professional."
Later, I asked Daddy about it. He just shrugged. "It's not a big deal," he said. "Just takes longer than a lot of other repairs. And you have to pay attention, else you'll shit up a $250 part in 15 minutes."
But the car advice I've most cherished from my dad is much more general. "Kitty, a car is a machine. Always remember that. It's a machine—it's NOT perfect—and machines break. All you can do is take care of a car as best as you can, and remember that as it gets older, things are going to go wrong. That's just how it is."
Every time something needs repairing on my '96 Mustang, or on the '91 Ranger I bought from my sister—the same little truck that Daddy gave Pixie for her 16th birthday—I feel much better remembering his words. Fifteen- and 20-year-old cars are going to need new parts at some time. With proper maintenance, that time will come later rather than sooner. But cars are machines; there's no escaping that fact. They're not perfect or invincible. Believing otherwise is just setting yourself up for bitter disappointment.
Here's wishing all you dads out there a very happy Father's Day.
On today's agenda is a Corvette show taking place in Blue Ridge. The Colonel is out hiking right now, and (other than updating E&P via BlackBerry) I'm working on my statement of purpose for one of the graduate programs to which I'm applying. Of course, we'll be taking frequent dips in the fancy Jacuzzi out on the deck with a full view of the Blue Ridge Mountains, but mostly we'll be relaxing. And I'll make some progress on this statement, and perhaps my novel.
The photo is from the walk-in beer cooler at the Ingles supermarket in Blue Ridge. We stopped there yesterday afternoon to stock up on groceries, and when the Colonel saw this and said, "Hey, baby! Here's mah PBR tall-boys," I couldn't resist getting a photo. A 24-ounce Pabst Blue Ribbon, no less. In Tennessee you can still find the huge 40-ounce PBR in cans (and sometimes bottles), but this was still pretty funny.
No, the Colonel didn't buy any PBR. "Can't drink Pabst without pickled pig's feet and pork rinds," he explained. Plus, he drank enough of that stuff in college to last him the rest of his life.
But she did manage to lie down next to Clark for a little bit, and I got her to stand next to me on the bed while I took a few photos. But she flipped out shortly thereafter—she looked up, saw the 52" ceiling fan whirling above her chocolate-tipped head at full tilt, and immediately bolted for the front door.
Maybe she was terrified that she might be reenacting a scene from a bad '50s sci-fi flick. Or maybe my kitteh is a feline Luddite. Better luck next time, I guess.
OTR truck drivers also know what kind of construction delays, confusing detours, rest stations, burger joints, and truck stops are along their routes, and not just on the Interstate, either: "Y'all, there's this country buffet on US 431, south of Roanoke, Alabama. If you come by it, pull over and eat! I like't've split my damn pants there, I ate so much." The CB is the trucker's internet, in spite of of its decidedly humble origins, its low-tech equipment, and all the other communication technologies out there. After all, you can't simultaneously check I Can Has Cheezburger? and downshift through 15 gears coming into the I-10/I-610 interchange in Houston. (Not if you want to live, anyway.) The CB radio was social networking long before Mark Zuckerberg was a gleam in his daddy's eye—hell, before his grandaddy was even a gleam in his great-grandaddy's eye.
Generally, truck drivers also know how long they'll be away from home. As a result, they tend to be masters of strategic suitcase packing. They know just how many pairs of clean underwear and socks to bring along, and how many changes of clothes they'll need. Just like many tourist guides suggest for civilians, OTR truckers will "recycle" an outfit or a pair of jeans if the items aren't yet so dirty they can stand up and walk all by themselves. And they make great use of those month-at-a-glance medication containers, too; when you know you'll be away from home for at least three weeks, you make sure to take a full supply of pills with you.
Sometimes, though, an OTR truck driver's schedule gets screwed up, and he ends up staying out longer than either his stash of clean clothes or his medications will last. In the case of the former, many truck stops and company depots have laundry facilities, with detergent packets in wall-mounted vending machines just like you see at the laundromat. In the case of the latter, a driver has several options:
1) Stay out a couple more days and do his best to cope without it until he gets home;
2) Find a CVS, Walgreens, Rite-Aid, or whatever pharmacy he uses at home and stop in for an emergency refill; or
3) Ask the company dispatcher to route him close to home so a family member can meet him somewhere with the medication.
El Seebeno generally chooses the third option when he has more days than pills left in his Pill Minder. He had the good fortune to get a West Coast run, loaded both ways; truckers are generally paid only for "loaded miles," or miles driven with something loaded into the trailer at Point A that will be delivered at Point B. That's a juicy paycheck, once you add regular short runs to 5,600 loaded miles. Although it would mean his being out for four more days, El Seebeno said "hell yes" and pointed the truck westward. Never look a gift dispatcher in the mouth, the old saying goes. Or something like that.
So El Seebeno delivered car parts near San Diego, and then hauled a load of electronics to Minneapolis, making his way back Southeast once he realized he was nearly out of meds with four more days to go on this trip. Mom and I met him at a truck stop south of Atlanta, where we had an early supper at a nearby fast-food joint and brought him enough pills for the Florida-Louisiana-Texas-Tennessee jaunt he had to make before returning home.
The headlamp? That's for nighttime deliveries or breakdowns. El Seebeno got his super-bright LED setup at a truck stop a few months ago: "Ain't like I got three hands, you know." He says it paid for itself several days later, when he was looking for a map he had misplaced somewhere under the bunk, and again when he had to crawl under the truck at 3:30 in the morning to investigate a clicking noise.
AAA should employ retired truckers as travel advisors. I think that's a splendid idea.
Nonetheless, La Squirrelita Mas Fina retains her longtime title: Little Miss Universal Disappointment. She's held it since 2002, when she was born. Born disappointed, of course.
The print fabric is "Loteria," from Alexander Henry's Folklorico collection. Sadly, I think it's now out of production. But when it came out four or five years ago, it flew off the bolt in fabric stores. I have two other Best GD Dresses: one in a pink-and-black Burberry-esque plaid flannel, and the other in a blue poly-cotton gingham trimmed with red bias tape that. Wearing the blue gingham always gives me the weird feeling that I'm not in Kansas anymore, and makes me call all the critters around here "Toto," regardless of species. It's too hot to wear flannel now, but I'll probably Dorothy it up on Friday.
Chickens aside, I felt badly for not having posted since last Friday, and it's late (nearly 2:00am EDT), and I need to get in bed. So I scrolled through the photos in my cell phone to see whether there might be something interesting to put on E&P for you...and I think this artfully presented tiramisu does the trick. The Colonel and I had it for dessert last Thursday at our favorite restaurant here in Small Town.
We've been to a lot of restaurants together--and the Colonel has been to many more all around the world in his military travels--but never have we seen food as thoughtfully and artfully prepared as at this locally-owned, locally-operated place. The owners grow most of their own organic vegetables on their farm over in Bumpkin County, and they source everything else (meat, flour, etc.) as locally and sustainably as possible. The difference is amazing, and the prices extremely reasonable (more so than even chain "casual dining" places). And to think this place isn't in Atlanta...but in Small Town, Georgia. Mind. officially. BOGGLED.
Yes, the tiramisu was superb. The raspberry coulis and dark chocolate complemented it perfectly, as did the powdered sugar and cocoa powder dusted along the outer portion of the plate. I wish I'd taken pictures of our entrees, too: the Colonel ordered the seared salmon, while I had an insanely good (and monstrous) plate of chicken & waffles--yes, the soul food favorite!--with the unusual additions of bacon and mushrooms to the waffle batter, and strawberry BBQ sauce alongside the sweetened whipped cream. The Colonel took the edible orchid off of his rice pilaf and instead of nom-nom-nomming it put it atop our dessert. Voila!
So in order to (hopefully) ward off further tooth removal, Hobo's been going to Dr. Bill's vet clinic once or twice a week for low-power laser therapy for her angry-looking and painful red gums. And she doesn't like it, either. This morning, she was due at Dr. Bill's at 9:00...and she disappeared. I finally found her being sweet and quiet—and hoping Mama wouldn't find her—in the spare room. Sorry, kitteh. We're still going to the vet. [sigh]
The whole satin sheet thing started last year, when the Colonel decided he'd had enough of my two pitiful old sets of sheets that I could never seem to keep washed and/or on the bed. He took it upon himself to hit Bed Bath & Beyond—and that's how I know it's true love, because most men would just as soon have their thumbs broken as go to a home decor store—and buy me two sets of luxury satin sheets, one red and one black. I'd never even entertained the possibility of satin sheets on my own bed; mostly, I'd considered them the territory of cheap honeymoon hotels in the Poconos, not something I'd use at home.
Oh, but was I ever pleasantly surprised. The glossy slickness of the sheets, other than looking really sexy even when I'm not actually in the bed, feels cool and refreshing in the summer heat. Pretty easy to care for, too: just wash in cold water with mild detergent, and air-dry. Your sheets are dry within an hour, with minimal power usage and minimal extra clothes-dryer heat in your house (which, if it's like mine, heats up pretty easily without central air in the summer). Before long, I'd bought a shimmering gold set of satin sheets on sale at Macy's, and finally dug up this fuchsia set on eBay at a very reasonable price.
The Colonel, of course, is still delighted with his choice of bed linens. The kittehs mostly don't care; they don't read E&P, anyway. Mom shakes her head when she comes over and sees these hot pink sheets on the bed. "Tsk-tsk-tsk," she says. "Tacky! Completely tacky!" She's only halfway kidding, though—really, she's hoping El Seebeno doesn't get a bee in his bonnet and want satin sheets for their bed at home...or, worse, for the bunk bed in his 18-wheeler. Now that would be tacky.
