Nuggets of Gold!

BUN IN THE OVEN

It was a busy summer, as it turned out. We took a way overdue trip to visit friends in Charleston and Savannah, we made a trip home, we saw some great concerts, and, OH! We made a baby.

You see how the design of this Web site has NOT magically transformed into duckies and teddy bears? Yeah. It won't. Because I don't believe in mommyblogging. I want to write about my life, which, yeah, will be taking on a distinct "mommy" theme come April 4 or so, but I reserve the right to -- gasp! -- not write about the kid sometimes. Look at that. I'm a failed American mom already.

That said, I'm gonna write about the kid now.

I think I might have felt the first kick last night. I'm 16 weeks along and kind of new at this in general, so it's hard to say whether it was really a kick or not. I happened to have my hand on my belly (only very slightly protruding so far) and I felt a flutter in the bump. Of course, it could have been just a belly gurgle. But I prefer to think I was being kicked from inside. Because, whoa.

GO 'CANES, I GUESS.

It's Game 7 of, um, some playoff leading up to NHL's Stanley Cup. There are 41 seconds left in regulation, the 'Canes are tied 2-2 with the Boston Bruins. I think probably this is supposed to be exciting, but I am bored to tears.

I thought I'd have a pretty easy time adjusting to life in North Carolina, seeing as how I was raised in Georgia and spent many early adult years in South Carolina. I know that all I have to do to order sweet iced tea in any restaurant is say "tea." I know that Krispy Kreme is the superior doughnut. I know that it's fully appropriate for a man or woman of a certain age to call me "darlin' " or "hon" or possibly both.

I've got the hang of it all -- except the sporting scene here. I hate basketball, and I find hockey boring. They say  you are never really alone in how you feel. But here, I am alone (well, OK, Geoffrey and I are alone). It's not sports in general that turns me off. I love me some college football, particularly SEC. Because THAT is a sport, with action and scoring and backstory and crazy plays and fans who have a reason to root for who they are rooting for.

Clearly, there's substance to hockey, because a lot of smart people whom I respect like it a lot. Like, a really lot. But I just don't get it. I wonder if I ever will?

That's why I'm forcing myself to watch this game tonight, to try to get it. So I can follow the conversation tomorrow at work (or at the grocery store, or on the news, or ... or ... or ...) and maybe become slightly more of a Carolinian.

But I don't think it's working. I'm pretty sure I'm going to give up right now -- just as sudden-death overtime is starting -- and go listen to some music or something.

I gotta be me.

(And thank God I don't gotta be me in Charlotte -- I can't even imagine trying to force myself to like NASCAR. Shudder.)

FUN FACT

Many of you know my abiding love for "Melrose Place," at least as it existed before the loathsome Lisa Rinna showed up and ruined it all. I know a lot of things about MP. I know that there's a remake in the works, a la the new "90210," and I know that I refuse to watch or even acknowledge it. I know that many of MP's stars went on to further greatness, like Marcia Cross to "Desperate Housewives" (OK, so that was a step down), Kristen Davis to "Sex and the City," gay Matt briefly to "Firefly," Grant Show to "Swingtown," etc., etc., amen.

But what I did NOT know was that Jack Wagner (Dr. Peter Burns from "Melrose Place, duh!) had a music career. And that he was, in fact, a one-hit wonder, producing a song I've heard a million times, regrettably, without knowing its origin. Until today.

(Click on the photo for the song, and a video heavy with feathered-hair splendor. Prepare to die.)

Awesome. Just, yeah.

SAVED

It felt like standing on the edge of a cliff.

Behind me was a 10-year career in newspapers, a career I'd worked hard not only to nurture but also to nudge ever forward. Ahead of me, far below, was an uncertain future. And I wasn't about to jump. But until yesterday there was the strong possibility I'd be pushed by the company I work for, in a third round of layoffs in the year and a half I've worked there.

I'm happy to report that someone else's decision to leap has left room for me to step back. But the scare will stay with me. I was near the edge of that cliff for a while, and I had plenty of time to survey the landscape. Sure, I realize, the landing might not have been so bad. Journalism would have been over for me, but maybe I would have had my fall broken by some cool new career I never thought of before. Something with normal hours, normal weekends off, a viable business plan and (this is an extended, probably tortured metaphor, right? I can dream?) maybe even an office of my own, with walls and everything. And, had I been pushed, I was willing to be open to that possibility.

But here's the snag. I love what I do. I'm good at what I do. It is, I believe even more strongly now, what I'm meant to do. Maybe I was having trouble conceiving a new career plan because I'm lazy or uncreative or in denial. But maybe it's because I've already found my path. And that path might lead me to go down with the ship. But that's OK. Someone has to. Besides, I've always been better at swimming upward to find the air than watching helplessly as the ground rushes toward me anyway.

DING, DONG

When the doorbell rings at our house, it's usually one of two things. (1) The UPS man delivering a package ... for the woman who used to live here, from her Uncle Herb, or (2) religious solicitors -- those trying to sell me their religion, that is.

Folks in the latter category unfailingly ring the doorbell early in the morning, which means they've woken up my night-working ass and I'm already unhappy. The process usually goes like this: The doorbell rings, jarring me awake, but I lie still for a second debating whether to get up and answer it. "It's just some religion folks, don't bother," I tell myself. But then I think, "What if it's a neighbor in need? Or a florist with a delivery from George Clooney?" Besides, I realize, if I stay in bed the dog's going to fuss until I'm wide awake anyway, so I might as well investigate. So I open the door, in my jammies and with bedhead that SHOULD frighten anyone away, and it begins.

They (and "they" are always infuriatingly nice -- a couple today even picked up my newspaper and handed it to me!) introduce themselves and state their purpose. I stand there and listen, exuding an air that's gotta come off as a weird cross between civility and hostility, because that's pretty much how I'm feeling, and try to think of a way out of this as the person is speaking.

Generally, I wait out the windup and then comes the pitch: "Can I give you this pamphlet?" I nicely, sort of, say no, and then -- mercifully -- the person usually says thank you and leaves. And then I try to go back to bed, but can't because it's too close to waking up time, and I'm too mad at myself for wasting three minutes of my life on this.

I mean, look, I'm not hostile to religion. Well, OK. I'm not hostile to religious people, as long as they don't proselytize in my general direction. But, dang it, it's just weird to have a stranger come to your door and talk about religion with you. Isn't that ... isn't that kind of PERSONAL? I don't ring people's doorbells and ask about medical conditions. "Hi, can I give you this pamphlet on hemorrhoids?" Or ask how much money they make, or whether they cheat on their spouse.

So it kind of pisses me off that I'm so friendly to these people, who are basically invading my physical AND spiritual space. Do I owe them that? Not really. But I guess meanness takes energy I haven't had a chance to muster up yet when I'm woken suddenly. I'm different from a lot of people in that respect.

Also keeping me awake and worked up for a long time after the religious solicitor has come and gone are all the tempting "should haves." Like, "Dang, I should have told them 'thanks, but I'm a homosexual Muslim extremist,' or 'thanks, but I have highly contagious flesh-eating disease and I probably shouldn't have opened the door -- COUGH COUGH.'" But I never do it. Maybe next time.

Sigh.

DRESS CODE

It was the first week of my freshman year of college, and the mighty Paladins were about to open their season against their Division I-AA opponent. (Ignore, please, the fact that I obviously can't remember who my team played, or, in fact, whether they won and focus instead on how impressed you are that I know what division of NCAA football they're in, and that I even know what NCAA is). I was running late to meet some friends at the game, so I didn't have a lot of time to ponder what I was going to wear. So the usual 3.6 seconds it might have taken for me to choose which denim shorts (it was the 1990s!) and which Furman T-shirt I would wear was compressed into a 1.2-second decision.

I showed up outside Paladin Stadium and met my friends, one of whom was wearing the exact SAME Furman T-shirt I was wearing. We laughed, and I made him swear not to pull that shit at the Oscars, and we headed for our seats in the student section.

Now, I am from the South. I like to think I know from Southerners. But I was NOT prepared to enter that stadium to find the majority of my fellow students -- at an outdoor, late August football game in sweltering South Carolina, mind you -- dressed UP. The girls, hair done and makeup perfect, wore fancy sundresses and heels. The boys were in -- say it with me -- khaki pants, blue sportcoats, dress shirt and ties. Apparently, I gathered later, this is mostly a Greek thing. Which is to say it is stupid.

As evidenced by the fact that I can still remember all this in vivid detail all these years later, I guess I am a little sensitive to dressing appropriately for the occasion and location. And weather. I mean, look, I'm far from perfect. I've been known to wear white after Labor Day (Yeah! I have! I said it!). And half my clothes don't fit quite right. And I refuse to wear pantyhose in any situation. And maybe I don't wash my jeans all that regularly.

But I think there should be rules.

Like don't wear pajamas and slippers in public. This shouldn't even be a rule, because who would do that? Apparently, much of the female population of my adopted hamlet of Garner, that's who. A few weeks ago, I dashed out to a Chinese takeout place in a nearby strip mall to pick up some dinner, and the woman in front of me was wearing pajama pants (not good, but not SO bad), actual bedroom slippers (ummmm,no) and ... a terry cloth bathrobe. I mean, really? Really? I don't think it's necessary to dress up for the takeout line, and I would have given a pass (albeit a slightly snarly one) to just the PJ pants with, say, a T-shirt and sneakers. But GOOD GOD. You couldn't substitute a jacket for the robe? Just, no.

I thought it was an isolated incident, but then last weekend I was in a PetSmart in the same strip mall and saw a woman (not the same one) wearing pretty much the same ensemble, except she did have the decency to rock a jacket instead of a bathrobe. But actual bedroom slippers, and PJ pants. NO NO NO. No.

Another rule should prohibit flip-flops when it's cold. You make me weep. 

I could go on, but I feel a rage-induced swoon coming on. I believe I shall gather up my skirts and pantiloons, smooth my apron, don my gloves and depart.

TRIALS, TRIBULATIONS

OK. I know no one said this dog-ownership thing would be easy, and I know that dear Murray is just at a stage where he's testing us, and his boundaries, and we just have to live through it and look forward to a happy, well-balanced, at least semi-obedient dog in the near future. But the present is kind of sucking. In the last 48 hours, Murray has:

• Snatched a huge chocolate-chip cookie off the kitchen counter while I was sleeping.
• Removed cellophane from said huge chocolate-chip cookie by mangling it.
• Eaten said huge chocolate-chip cookie.
• Licked chocolate residue into the living room carpet at the site of the above, just out of spite.
• Kept one owner (me) on death watch after he ate said cookie (but didn't even so much as barf to justify said owner's fears).
• Jumped up on the bed in an unsupervised moment.
• Stared at me and started barking until I had to alpha-roll him to calm him down.
• Came in from the yard when called, only to accept his treat and then bolt back down the stairs and into the yard, where he eluded me by running maniacally for 20 minutes. During said maniacal running, he slipped in the mud several times, rendering himself now a chocolate lab.
• Immediately threw his dirty body onto the clean bed. Again. 
• Snapped at me when I tried to de-mud him.
• Snatched a hard plastic sandwich case from the kitchen counter while his owner (his dad, this time) was in the shower.
• Gnawed on said hard plastic sandwich case until little bits of plastic came off.
• Kept both owners (first his dad, now me) on death watch after eating said plastic case.

And I assure you, that's just the highlights. Gee, I can't wait to see what he does tomorrow!

'Course the problem is, amid this sort of behavior, he'll go and pull something like this:

And the sound my insides make goes something like this: Squish squish squish.

That said, if he snatches one more thing off the goddamn counter, I'm selling him for meat.

 

A NEW MAN IN MY LIFE

That's right, there's a new man around here. His name is Murray, and he looks somewhat like this:

VITAL STATISTICS

He is 10 months old, and of a breed that the other man in my life likes to refer to as "golden lab and friends." He is a big galoot already at 60 pounds, but we're hopeful he won't grow too much bigger. He is quite the newshound, and thus he is named for iconic newsman Edward R. Murrow. He was a pound puppy of unknown and presumably unkind circumstances, judging by his nub-for-a-tail. We adopted him from a nice family who treated him well but wanted to place him with a bunch of suckers family who had a little more time to spend with him.

TALENTS 

Sleeping

Napping

Napping after a long sleep

Sleeping after a long nap

Requesting belly rubs

Receiving belly rubs

Farting mid-belly rub

Farting in general

Eating umbrellas

Eating window panes

Discussing literature

Butt licking (his and yours)

Blowing bubbles in his water dish*

* This is not made up. Last night I caught him with his entire nose underwater, blowing out to make bubbles. Next time I'll be ready with a camera.

LIKES

Cheese

Peanut butter

Greenies

His "Lil' Buddy" toy

Other dogs (most of all his best buddy Maple next door)

People

Sitting on people's feet

DISLIKES

Green beans (strongly)

Squirrels

Being left alone

His crate, so far

Any Cesar Millan voodoo I try to pull on him

Eating dog food

WHAT IS HE DOING RIGHT NOW?

Sleeping. And I think he just farted.

AN OPEN LETTER TO NORTH CAROLINA BARBECUE

Dear (eastern) North Carolina barbecue:

You know what? I give up. I won't claim that I have made an exhaustive survey of your offerings, but I've given you a decent try, at a variety of places.

And the fact is, you suck everywhere. You're incredibly salty, and your sauce is runny. You're chopped too finely, rendering you into a mush at most places. I really have nothing good to say about you at all. You are, I have concluded, a waste of perfectly good pork.

Ever the optimist, I will continue to look for examples of the good you have to offer -- I have to believe there's good in you somewhere -- but I will brace for continued disappointment. And I will have to be that obnoxious person who goes around telling everyone that the only good barbecue on this large earth is found in Georgia and Alabama. Don't look at me like that. It's true, and anyhow it's you who forces me to say that. Prove me wrong, and I'll gladly shut up.

I'll be waiting.

Sincerely yours,
Stacy

P.S. Thank you, at least, for being pork based. Beef brisket is a wonderful thing, it's just not barbecue.

HOME SWEET HOME

Fast-forward two months or so, and we're homeowners! It's every bit as great, and as annoying, as everyone says. It's nice to have something of your own (even if it is technically the bank's until 30 years from now), and you find yourself wanting to do stuff to make it nice. Like painting the bathroom. Or sweeping leaves off the driveway. Or digging up ugly shrubbery so you can plant less ugly shrubbery. Yay!

But of course, the downside is you have to deal with stuff when it breaks, and not just by calling the landlord. You have to call somebody, then wait for somebody, and then PAY somebody, all of which sucks. Luckily, not too much has broken so far at Casa de Chandler. But we had a flurry of "dealing with stuff" this week. Yesterday we had a dead tree taken out of our back woods. It was painful to part with the $525, but less painful than eventually (and probably not too long from now) watching it fall over and crush us or our neighbors to death. Also? It was awesome to watch a crew of five burly men take that sucker down. Especially when the top of the tree broke off unexpectedly and they all had to run for their lives. Woo!

Today was the day to deal with broken stuff. First, the stove, which had one burner that would click off immediately after you turned it on, and another that got only lukewarm at most. The repairman came right away, informed me that the knobs had been put in the wrong place (presumably when the seller cleaned it), put the knobs in the right place, and charged me $60. Awesome. Later a guy is coming to fix the not-working furnace, and I can't wait for him to tell me that it's not plugged in or something. Live and learn. And pay a lot.