An Affair to Forget Really Quickly

Decorating for parties is no piece of wedding cake. It's hours of exhausting labor for a few delighted glances and then a monstrous destroyal of it all just a few hours later. It ain't fabric swatches and flower petals. It's power tools and 12-foot ladders. After this past month with the decor department, there's nothing I can't do with just zip-ties and gaff tape.

This is humbling work you see. The average set up takes about six hours. We come in and we rig up lights and hang fabric billows from ceilings. We make flower arrangements, set tables, and add little details that pull the whole mess into your own personal dream venue. And then we leave. And then the catering crew comes in to serve the party patrons and everyone tells them how beautiful it looks and what a great job they did. They smugly say thank you and then at the end of the night, they rip everything down in a rushed frenzy because they just want to go home. We come back when everyone's gone and we pack up our lanterns and vases and stay up until two in the morning de-draping and unrigging our lights. Sad stuff, right?

In other decor news, I've had my arms up over my head for a month which results in sore shoulders for thirty days BUT I'm now an unlicensed lighting professional. I've made boutonnieres and floral centerpieces, mastered scalloped draping and backed 25-foot trucks up to loading docks and bay windows. My inner handyman is delighted. My girlish artsy side is content. I'm feeling used, sore and pleased all at the same time.

Just this week, for instance, I worked 53 hours with the decor gals. Last night was my last night with them and we set up for a debutant ball. Don't get me started on those stuffy people. Actually, I'll tell you one fun tidbit about them. See the drapy sections in this picture...

Those are not structures that live in this room. We spent four hours assembling these frames from baseplates and conduit and then had to strategically drape them because, get this, the party-goers do not want any hired help to be within view of their party-going. They wanted "the help" sectioned off. Can you believe that! Oh oh! And should a debutant need to retire to the restroom, her date is required to escort her there and then wait outside while she goes. I'm surprised they even acknowledge that such ladies would need to "go."

Here I have a few Deb Ball photos. The place really looked nice even though I'm against supporting such an institution.

                        

For whatever reason, most of our parties are at Boone Hall so I'm elated to be there each day. I've introduced the other girls to my sweet fellas and now they call them by name and greet them each night which I think makes the guys feel special. The fellas come in while I'm working and just talk about life and try to help out. Last night, in the midst of all the madness, Raul was up on a ladder at midnight cutting down string lights for us. I felt so terrible but I just can't get them to not help out. The first few times this happened the girls looked on in confusion, mouthing "Who is that?" to each other before I finally explained to them that I used to work here. I just love those guys.

Enough about all this. Even though I like this work very much, having an unofficial full-time job is making me nervous. I feel trapped and non-spontanteous which has led me to lots of deep thinking about how I'm going to go about having to pull myself away from my life to make a living. You know what I mean? It's suddenly feeling much less possible to spend my time traveling and then retire to my dream farm.  

So, now that the busy season is over, my small-scale construction gig will go on hold for a while. There won't be many more parties until Spring so I've got a few months to build up more muscle for the next go round. I've been invited back for the next go round. It's not because I'm great. It's because a lot of girls just don't ever come back. In true Union fashion, the lot of us are headed off for two weeks because we're snobs that can't pass up a deal. Actually, this is Ellen's fault and though I won't complain about an undeserved vacation, I do feel guilty and I wasn't even going to go! 

But who are we kidding here?

Meet Taylor

I feel extra creepy writing this post because I don't really know my new Craigslist roommate, Taylor. Also, she doesn't know I have a blog nor does she know that I'm sitting on the other side of her wall right now, writing about her.

Here she is with her Dad and her very pleasant boyfriend, Greg.

Taylor is from Spartanburg and has that great, upstate drawl. She's my age, works full time in a jewelry store and is still taking classes to finish up her business degree on account of signing up for med school and realizing halfway through that she just doesn't care. 

Taylor is a Craiglist Roommate dream. She's a happy Christian gal and Greg is a happy Christian fella who comes over on occasion to fix dinner and make witty remarks about life. Taylor is very laid back, tidy, and quiet. How did I get so lucky? 

Actually we talked about this. We decided it was The Big Guy. We were both praying for someone to live with sans fear of waking up to them leaning over our beds and drooling.

Here's the kicker, Taylor slips out quietly at nine each morning and most days, returns close to midnight. I never see her. I'm not just saying that. I've seen her four times. Twice in the kitchen, once in the driveway, and once going up the stairs. There was one Wednesday that we both had off and she took me to lunch. We chatted for two hours, so add in our four run-ins and I'd say I've spent three hours with the gal since she moved in 25 days ago. 

But I really like her. She likes dogs and being outside. What more could you need?

Scattered Thoughts

Ellen has passed whatever big test she had to take for admittance into the teaching certification world.  Praxis, I think it was called. I'm so out of the loop I can't tell you a thing about it but she passed it and is now one step closer to being the surliest high school business teacher of all time. Ellen is spending this week training Dad's new property manager who is very quick and smart and seems a much better investment than that last girl. She and Chris are leaving for Haiti on Tuesday for a colorful family wedding that has Ellen in a dress uproar. Chris stands-by unharmed so far.

Also, she baked a cake. Ain't she somethin'.

On account of some understaffing, I spent several days as a lunch lady on the Trident Tech campus downtown and let me tell you! Those are the surliest bunch of ungrateful kids! Sensationally rude!  Remarkably unfriendly! Here I am, a smiling employee at your service and you belittle and snarl at me? Well I never! I never!! Duvall caters the food for this campus see, otherwise I'd have never agreed to such blasphemy. No, I did not have to wear a hairnet but I did have to wear the same outfit that the Zaxby's employees wear except instead of a chicken, my shirt and cap were embroidered with a big golden "D". Ugh! 

Why are they so mean, you wonder? They have chips. Lots and lots of shoulder chips and apparently people with chips cannot smile and say thank you. They can only fight you over dimes and cause a scene when you run out of provolone cheese. 

"This sandwich is too expensive." they would sneer, seeming to forget that the purchase of said sandwich is optional. Most of them would roll their eyes when I gave them their $4 total for a lunch of juice, skittles, and a granola bar. Maybe if they got some real nutrients their eyes wouldn't stick in that upright position.

I have a new appreciation for lunch ladies, not that I ever didn't. I always loved the lunch ladies. 

I don't see much of the old folks these days. I come home achy and tired and forgo driving the extra three minutes to slump on their couch and have ice cream with them. Dad continues to scurry about and occasionally I find small maintenance issues repaired without ever seeing him come up my drive way. He's like the Mask of Zorro, leaving his flaming Z in the form of brass banister caps or new, cleverly placed spigots. Moppy continues playing the piano at nursing homes and helping little ones learn to read. She's such a nice lady.

I feel like I'm barely staving off an awful cold from spending all these freezing nights outside hanging lanterns and string lights. I've been guzzling tea and Emergen-C every morning and night before bed. Next week is my last big week of weddings and then everything slows down for a while. That will be nice in a way. These wacky hours make me feel like I'm working more than a full time job somehow. And y'all know how I feel about free time.

Lastly, I have a horn to toot cause I'm just so proud. This guy...

had a paper published in Nature Magazine. This is a big deal for many reasons. Until my days with Lukas and his family of Einsteins, I did not know that scientists are very much revered by and often paid according to the number of papers they have published. It's a thing in that world they live in. And I don't really mean magazine articles. They have their own ingenious publications and educational proposals that also count as being published. Having your sciencey work published is actually very difficult and Mr. Lukas is quite young to already have this under his belt. BUT because he was published in such a popular journal, none other than BBC News came by his lab to do a little piece on his discovery.

Being a modest fella, Lukas opted out of speaking about his work and instead the department head makes an appearance and his buddy Iesten tries to explain what's going on. I've watched it four times and I keep getting distracted. Something about diamonds and tracking things. But Lukas is in there for a second or so. Him and his blue hands. Go on, take a gander. 

Diamonds Used For Drug Accuracy

Also, his brother just had a little baby boy, making Lukas an uncle for the third time. 

Meet little Oliver Payne.

Lukas is but sixish months out from becoming Dr. Payne and then he'll take over the world with nanolasers and latex gloves. I'm really excited for him! 

Paintballs and Family Dinners

A couple Sundays ago Dad, Ellen, Chris and I went paint-balling which, in case you don't know, is the act of shooting another human with a gun that fires hard little balls of paint that pop and splatter as they strike your warm, bare flesh. It's exciting and unpleasant at the same time. The four of us played all afternoon in a "battlefield" made to look like Vietnam. While we rotated teams of guys against gals or Unions vs Villards, we shimmied through barricades, slid through mud, and tumbled over dirt piles. I suffered but one real hit. A close range shot to the backside by my loving old man. Ellen however, was quite colorful when we emerged from the field as I think all of us enjoyed taking out years of Ellen related frustrations on her pint-sized body. 

Being men, Dad and Chris took this venture quite seriously and hurled themselves agains dirt piles, peeking out to locate positions and fire at each other. Chris shot dad square between the eyes. Dad retaliated by shooting Chris in the back when he was neither playing nor looking. It was a sucker shot. "Every father-in-law's dream." he said. 

The games were full of excitement and outrage. On one occasion I lost all composure when Dad lunged out from behind a barricade with the intent to cross the open field. He ran low to the ground, swiftly shuffling across the grassy plain, his gun fixed in his arms like a solider. And then he tripped. His expression changed from militant focus to utter astonishment. He teetered in slow motion, taking wide, desperate steps. He staggered several feet before his upper body tumbled forward and his legs splayed out behind him. 

I let out a blasting cackle, exposing my position and resulting in a paintball to my helmet. I belly laughed as I crossed into the "out" zone and I heard Dad chuckling as he scrambled to get up, fix his gun back in his arms and continue playing like the tough guy that he really thought he was.

Bruised and dirty, we climbed back into our cars when the day was over and then we all headed to Carolyn and Dave's for Sunday Dinner. Dave continued the upstaging with a backyard oyster roast and Carolyn's outdoor fiesta setting. Even the boys came over for this meal which made us all especially happy. 

This is my picture of Jordan and Alston eating oysters and being very sociable.

We sat around a bonfire and listened to all kinds of rap music in an attempt to get Jordan to put on a show for us. He politely declined. 

After last night's Sunday Dinner at my house, Carolyn and Dave asked to be cycled out of the rotations until further notice. It think we've worn 'em out.

Duvall Events

About three weeks ago I started working at Duvall Catering as a set-up gal. Me and three other guys move around tables, chairs, and chunks of stages for various conferences and large-scales meetings. Takes a lot of bicep strength and masculine grunting noises. This is a temporary gig for the month of November, the busy season. As my arms mold into those of a malnourished bodybuilder, I soak my aching leg muscles in hot showers at night before I drift off into the most satisfying of slumbers I’ve had since my farming days. This job keeps me perpetually sore. Perhaps I overexert myself trying to keep up with the “stronger-than-your-average-twenty-year-old-girl” fellas I work with. I have to pull my weight you know but I like it. It’s satisfying hard work. And the fellas make me laugh.

At the end of my first week, Duvall’s décor department was in need of some extra hands to help set up for a wedding that weekend. I heartily volunteered my services, telling them there’s nothing I like more than creative grunt work and I’d be tickled to help decorate. So I met them bright and early at the décor warehouse which is a girly dream come true. A big building filled entirely with fabrics, pillows, candles, flowers, lanterns, and sparkly things that you stab into patches of grass. I don’t consider myself a girly girl nor the type to be delighted by numerous shelves of girlish hobbies but even I squealed with enchantment as they brought me through the aisles to the loading dock.

To thrill me further, this particular wedding was taking place at Boone Hall. Much to the confusion of my Mexican Loves, I drove down the oak alley and parked my car at the Cotton Dock, the site of countless weddings and parties that keep the Mexicans up late, waiting for folks to leave so they can lock up for the night. I’ve made many coffee runs for the poor fellas that sit in the guard house, just waiting for it all to end. Perhaps I had the home court advantage here but I dazzled the décor gals with my efficient craftiness. I hung mason jars of candles from wooden beams and created centerpieces out of old books, flowers, and oyster shells. I felt alive. Girlishness flowed through my veins and I came up with Pinterest-worthy ideas I’d never thought possible.

The next weekend they borrowed me again to help set up for a fall-themed wedding in an old building Downtown. Again, I reigned supreme. I’ve now been printed a schedule from the décor department of all the parties for the rest of the month and when and where I need to be to help set up. I’m sensationally excited. I just love doing this. I don’t want to get myself over excited though because being hired to work for décor is no easy feat. They have lots of unpaid interns and almost no vacancies. So in the meantime, while I try to bamboozle my way to a legitimate position while still bypassing an internship, I take home lots of leftover flowers and centerpieces. Now my house is a lush garden of color that smells like decaying perfume.

I have plans for this business. I have ideas for their marketing and media but I’m trying to play it cool. I don’t want to come on too strong. For now, I’m just being a “yes-man”, which a little bird told me, is something the current interns are not. Upcoming are five weddings and a debutant ball which apparently is an utter nightmare. Turns out, the Ball is a floral terror. I’m being trained in florals next week, which just thrills me. 

So that's what I'm doing these days. I work six days a week with wacky hours from say, 9am -3pm for a set up and then we come back at 9 or 10pm to tear it all down again. Sometimes this goes on into the wee hours of the night but I just find it all oddly exciting.

Folly, My Love

I had Friday morning all to myself. That's a big deal these days. I pulled my sore carcass out of bed and drove to Folly to visit my favorite place now that the tourists are gone and the hot summer sun isn't around being a menace and threatening all kinds of heat related danger. I went to my favorite breakfast spot and got a big ole cup of coffee to-go and I hopped back in my car and drove all over the little island, stopping to watch the surfers and to dip my toes in the cool, sparkly water.

Folly's such a funky little place, especially when you get away from the main drag and venture farther down into the trees. It's a lush island with banana trees growing all around the bases of tall tall palmettos and yet there are still empty, kind of arid spaces with cactus and aloe plants. I just love this place this time of year. While I wish it was warm enough to lay out in the sun and splash around in the water, I would almost trade in those things to be able to keep it tourist-free all year long. It feels so much more personal and homey this way. Like you're let in on a sweet little secret. 

A calm and happy life kind of secret. 

A Farewell to Baxter

We put Baxter to sleep on Tuesday. He was really struggling and we could smell him rotting away. I feel a little guilty writing a goodbye post for Baxter when I did no such thing for Annabelle when she moved along a few months back. I guess it’s that Baxter had more of a household presence than Annie.

Annie was a wild woman. She spent most her time alone and outside. Annie was always hunting for critters and seeking adventure. She rarely came inside and she maintained a healthy distance between her and us. She certainly loved us and would indulge in the occasional Kitty Love Time but mostly she lived in her own adventure. Annie was my cat.

Baxter was sociable and required lots of attention and gifts. Baxter was Ellen’s cat. Baxter proudly took up most of the sofa, curled up under your legs, and yapped and meowed until he got what he wanted. He was in your face. All the time. There is a noticeable lack of Baxter where as we can just pretend Annie is out exploring.

Mom is very sad about Baxter. Ellen was also quite upset the day of and the tears in their turquoise eyes made their gazes the most brilliant shades of blue. I tried to get home before Baxter’s appointment to spare either of them the long car ride to the vet with Baxie crying in the backseat but I didn’t make it and I passed Ellen in the road. I could see her puffy blue eyes through her windshield. I feared going into the house. Sniveling Mom is not something I see often and my inability to cry made me feel like I wasn’t genuine -as a listener, comforter, or deceased-pet owner.

As I distracted Mom with tales from my day as a lunch lady (more on that later) I wondered if I'll be a Baxter or an Annie when I die. Will people go, “Well, she’ll like this new adventure.” 

I am awfully excited to go to heaven someday. Or will they be so exposed to the lack of me that they just can’t recover? I don’t want to do that to anyone. Am I a combo Annie-Baxter? That seems alright I guess. And then I realized I was on a self-focused insight bender when the only other human around was grieving. I’m such a jerk.

Were a cat-less home now. Something I think Mom is actually a bit relieved about, for a little while anyway. No more litter boxes or being pushed out of bed at night by a tiny creature. Now we just have Buddy to contend with which really, is like having a dozen kittens year round anyway. 

Maggie and the Power of Festering

At Ari’s eighth birthday party her friend Maggie broke one of my toys and then, for no apparent reason, kicked me square in the back while I was minding my own business on a little wooden swing in the corner of Ari’s yard. I’ve hated Maggie ever since.

Shortly after, Maggie moved away but would occasionally catch up with Ari and talk about life and plans. Nearly a decade later, as we rounded out our high school years, I still grumbled audibly anytime Ari mentioned Maggie.

I remember that Maggie was sensationally smart and though I pay no attention to the details of her life, I believed she went to some Harvard equivalent university and is now a brain doctor or something equally outstanding.

Probably, Maggie grew into a nice girl. No doubt she traded in her bullying days for many nights at home reading medical books. And medicine, you know. A caring profession. Maggie was probably just having a rough day way back in ’97 and took out her aggression on the one kid who she knew would take the abuse silently. Maggie is probably a noteworthy human being.

But I don’t like her.

I’m telling you this because I have a new roommate. No, it’s not Maggie. It’s a nice girl named Taylor. I'll let you meet her later. Let’s give her time to get settled. Taylor answered my Craigslist ad and we met at a Starbucks to question and judge each other. You know, girl stuff.

We liked each other right away and discussed a range of topics. As her landlord, I laid down my house rules and threw in bits about how I prefer to live. “I like it tidy.”, I told her, “ but I won’t hate you for leaving your dishes in the sink.”

We got to talking about our mutual distaste for catty girls and she said something along the lines of “But I am a girl. I’m going to get quiet when I don’t like something. “

This struck me. She went on to say that she likes to discuss problems so that grudges don’t form. This all made perfect sense to me though I’d never thought about it before. In the past I’ve whined about the fact that guys can get into arguments and still be friends after and girls often can’t. They’re only “friends” after. I’ve often wished I was a guy but in this case it would be so that I could get into a fight with a buddy, duke it out with our fists, and then go buy each other a beer or something. So simple.

Then I realized!! The only reason girls get quiet and grudgy is because we were trained to be ladies and ladies don't shout, disagree, express negative emotions, or wrestle other little girls into dirt piles. Little boys are expected to get mad and fight and then they get over it. Girls never get that closure. We're taught to let it fester. Which is precisely why I’m still mad at Maggie. If I could just punt her between her shoulder blades I’m pretty sure we could be great friends.