And the livin' is easy

I have endured the most tedious, repetitive, interminable close-of-school in the history of the universe, and today is finally the first official day of summer vacation. But mine is not to gripe; mine is to plan. What should I do with the next 82 days of freedom? I have a few ideas:

1) Shower infrequently, a la grade school summers. Sadly bereft of my parents' pool, I won't be able to offer n.o.c. airtight excuses like, "But there was chlorine! I'm bleached!" n.o.c. does not like to go without bathing; it makes him grumpy and lethargic. Not me - I feel my best when I'm so dirty that I'm almost clean again. My hair starts to look interestingly tousled and piece-y, and I can grow seeds in my bellybutton. You're really living when you achieve that state. You're fecund, awake, aware. You're basically Thoreau.

2) Work on my posture. I look like a char woman.

3) Make things with dough, then give them to others so as not to resemble said dough - you are what you eat. Speaking of (loosely), the folks who sell eggs at our farmers market look exactly like chickens. Little heads, fluffy rears, stick legs - the whole shebang. n.o.c. thinks they may actually be chickens in human guises, selling their own produce to an unsuspecting public. Inneresting.

4) Write. Blog. Read. Repeat.

5) Reupholster this chair:

Am I delusional?

6) Have callous-free feet. This effort will be helped along, no doubt, by the accumulation of natural body oils that infrequent showering allows.

7) Make macarons. These are very different from macaroons. Do not be confused.

8) Go places. More on that to come.

9) Make weekly batches of salsa. And gazpacho. An all-tomato diet should nicely counteract my dough and macaron efforts.

10) Get rid of even more stuff. Enough with stuff! (You can use that catchy phrase, if you'd like. I'm generous with my genius.)

11) Other suggestions?

In other news, my lovely Grammy stayed with us last night, and she and I played seven games of scrabble. The record is unimportant. You needn't know that I only won two games, or that her cumulative score was several hundred points higher than mine, or that she now knows all the three-letter words in addition to all the two-letter words. That sort of information would be totally superfluous.

Golden

As I was mourning Bea Arthur, I got to thinking about the woman who introduced me to her - my Grammy, a quick-tongued Mainer who does not suffer fools lightly. Below, I offer you a list of reasons why my Grammy is cooler than yours.

1) She let me watch The Golden Girls, even though it was verboten. She also let me watch Dallas, Knots Landing, Falcon Crest, Guiding Light, Britcoms, Murder, She Wrote, and The Lawrence Welk Show (hence my penchant for feathered evening wear and tiny bubbles).

2) Canasta.

3) Though I don't remember it, Grammy taught me my first expletive. And you see where that's gotten us.

4) Grammy likes lobster and Boone's Farm. She was also her senior class valedictorian and voted the prettiest girl. She has great range.

5) In an effort to ensure a life of domestic bliss, Grammy counseled me thus: "Don't hang around with poor people. You might fall in love with one." Just because I didn't listen to that particular piece of advice doesn't mean that I don't see its wisdom.

6) Scrabble. She knows all the two-letter words.

7) Grammy has superpowers. Once the cat was behaving oddly, so Grammy said, "Maybe she's dying,"and the cat died an hour later. Do not cross this woman.

8) Grammy often wears driving gloves. When a raccoon darted in front of her car one evening, Grammy did not slow down. Grammy aimed.

9) Grammy carries cheese and crackers in her purse. Not of the prepackaged, meant-to-carry-in-your-purse variety, but of the whole-block-of-monterey-jack-and-a-sleeve-of-ritz variety. You never know when you'll be hungry.

10) Grammy is a diet coke chauvinist. I have heard her say the following: "Pepsi?! Well, then I'll just have a margarita."

So, there you have it. Just a few of the many reasons why Grammy is a bad*ss.

In other news, n.o.c. is flying to Dallas for a conference, where he'll be staying with more of my very enviable grandparents. I'll be busy trying to remember how to spend an evening alone. Perhaps I'll pass some time trying to perfect this facial expression:

Speaks volumes, no?

The Devil Wears Flannel

Yesterday was my Mema's birthday. "Mema" is what I call my paternal grandmother - you know, she's The Rog's mama. She is very dear and lovely and ever-so-Southern. Our conversations generally go something like this:

Mema: Oh, honey. Your Pepa and I were going to the Walmart in Forsyth last week, and we got all caught up in the rush hour. Cars were zooming hither and yon, and I was just all of a dither.

Me: The whole population of Forsyth could fit in the Walmart.

Mema: Well, I reckon everybody was going somewhere at once.

So it was fitting when I unearthed an old Christmas gift from Mema while cleaning out my closet yesterday:


Yes, this is an ankle-length flannel nighty. I'm sure your impression of me just altered irrevocably. But, the nighty does have a funny history:

Mema: Honey, I'm afraid your Christmas is ruined.

Me: Why?

Mema: Well, I bought you something, but I'm not going to give it to you.

Me: Why?

Mema: Well, I think it might be Satanic.

Me: Why?

Mema: It has Satanic symbols on it, honey, and I'm just not going to give it to you.

I eventually convinced her to show me the Mephistophelian item, which turned out to be the above gown, and I assured her that worshipers of Satan did not generally avail themselves of flannel and snowmen, nor did they have a monopoly on moons and stars. She reluctantly handed it over, and it served me well on many a cold grad school night, particularly when I lived in a third floor bedroom that got so cold you could see your breath. But, I think it's time for Satan's sleepwear to head to the Goodwill; I just hope that it doesn't fall into impressionable hands.