Las Vegas

Oh boy have I been doing some big thinking lately. It’s not about anything important mind you, just my usual ruminating about life but by golly I’ve got some new material and I’m very excited about it. In addition to the aforementioned blogging brain that I put on the back burner this year, I stopped reading all of my philosophical books and researching different facets of cognitive sciences. Did you know that’s what I do in my spare time? Well, did, in my spare time. I had an interesting conversation the other day that prompted me to do a little research on government systems and just like that I was thumbing through my old copy of Walden and mulling over concepts from Jonathan Haidt.

I also happened to start reading an extremely convoluted book that is less about insightfulness and more of an accidental and profane look at the absurdity of human life. It’s a fiction story, silly, and written in the name of good fun but as I read, I can only think about the complex mind of the fella who wrote it and somehow that’s become more interesting to me than the actual story. Tracking where he’s going with this tale is entirely captivating. How did his brain come up with nonsense of such an insightful caliber?

Nothing I’m writing here means anything to you does it? I’m being vague and excluding you from my jumble of good thoughts. How rude of me. I also don’t really have a point here. I’m just excited about what’s going on in my brain.

In other news, The Union clan has safely made it home from our somewhat off-putting holiday to Las Vegas. Now you know us. We have a good time everywhere doing anything, but most of us decided we could happily never go to Las Vegas again. The crowds, the prices, the fat people, the bimbos, the gluttony, the extravagance, the constant ring-a-ding-ding of the slot machines. Did I mention prices? I had half of a quesadilla and it was $20. An entire quesadilla would have been $40 which happens to be half of my water bill. For what it’s worth, it was a good quesadilla.

I’ve always been particularly inpatient in crowds of people because I take long strides and have a quick gait. Sometimes my feet are farther along than the person in front of me. This causes tripping, doubling up tiny steps, and crashing into idiots that spontaneously stop moving with the flow of things. There was a shoulder-to-shoulder mob everywhere we went which means Big Lu was irritable for three days. Also, its very dry out there which makes for sharp boogers.
Mom really hated the sharp boogers.

That said, we laughed and laughed, taught Dad a few embarrassing life lessons, had a number of tasty meals, ate gelato in the daytime, took naps, rode in a helicopter, and invented a new gambling game we called Elevator Roulette during which all participants have to run and stand by the elevator that they thought would open first. This sounds simple and boring but it provided many laughs. That means it’s worthwhile.

So that’s all. Blogging break is over and it’s back to subjecting you with posts like this one that really have no point. Brace yourselves.

And Happy New Years!

The Merits of Blogging Brain

Since officially relinquishing myself from perpetual blogging back in January of this year, my hopes for the writing break completely backfired. I thought taking my focus off of coming up with Blog material would give me the brainpower I needed to properly construct the longer stories I was writing in my spare time. I never make New Year’s resolutions (why bother?) but I told myself I was going to work on chapters this year, not blurbs or quotes or gobbets. Since rearranging my habits to promote writing productivity I wrote less this year than I have the last six years of haphazardly sitting to write when I felt like it.

It’s very hard for me to sit and write now. My brain doesn’t dance across the letters like a ballerina, like it used to. That’s my mental picture of writing and how I know when things sound ok. I watch her tip-toe, twirl, and leap from word to word while I read and if she stops or stumbles, I come to and really look at the words and figure out what needs changing. (That’s not weird, right?) These days my brain has a surefooted and heavy-set government worker, stomping across my letters in corrective shoes. She knows what she’s doing but there’s no delicate nonsense. This year I am not cutting back on my writing. In fact I’m going to set fake goals to write often, daily like I used to, before I thought not writing as much would help my writing. I need my bouncing subtitles icon to morph back into a lady worthy of Swan Lake.

What I found even more interesting than losing a bit of my writing ability is what happened to my brain. I like to think I’m an observant gal and I sure do enjoy ruminating. But since I went “off duty” my brain stopped looking for blog material. I stopped reading scenarios as carefully and analyzing my own reactions to things. I noticed this right away and at first it was relaxing. I didn’t need to remember these story-worthy moments because I wasn’t going to be writing a story. But I have not enjoyed being less observant. Being unaware of what’s going on around me has left me feeling less creative and less understood. Perhaps my main motivation to write more should be that I will live my life with my eyes much more open than they are when I’m not planning to write.

I was super frustrated at this time last year and decided to restructure things in an effort to find peace. I’ve never been the type to make goals or have actual obtainable dreams (a summer home in Italy anyone?). Instead of making any progress on what I set out to do, a whole new world of ideas and opportunities floated up to the surface due to my own strategic avoidance of my “goals” and frustrations at sidestepping that to-do list. So now I have solid evidence that making plans means and guarantees nothing. Self-awareness and self-discipline are much more effective tools than plan-making. Write that down, kids. (Keep in mind this is coming from someone without an ounce of self-discipline but my self-awareness keeps me informed on these things.) Also this is really more for inner-peace and your own search for happiness. Workplace goals and business for The Man require lots of plan-making. There's a time and place, kids. Write that down too.

In short, because I have no self-discipline, I avoided my writing goals and spent more time on other things and the more time I spent on other things, the more I realized lots of really new things and my thinking was consumed with new ideas which, when mixed with immense frustration, led to barreling forward on a near-whim plan, in a fashion I would normally not entertain. (That's Lux, by the way. The near-whim plan. (There was some plan-making involved.)) So maybe my writing plan only half backfired. I definitely did not write as much (or at all really) but avoiding the writing gave me time to come up with a different way to make me happy and that's all I really wanted in the first place.

A Jones Family Christmas

Last weekend I went out to my beloved Boone Hall to take portraits of my most beloved boss. I’ve told you how much I loved my boss at the hotel (her name is Elizabeth) and that I will force her to remain friends with me forever. Three years ago, she got married at Boone Hall and has her favorite wedding picture in front of the Avenue of Oaks as the background on her computer. She just loves Boone Hall.

After she had baby Charlotte back in April she voiced a deep, longing desire to have family portraits made at Boone Hall right where they got married. This seems easy enough except for one thing. Boone Hall has a lot of requirements (and a really hefty price tag) for having photoshoots on the property. So much so, that 95% of photographers in Charleston don’t do shoots at Boone Hall.

“Let me make some calls.” I smugly told Elizabeth with one eyebrow raised. Insert here my Mexican Loves (and another beloved boss of mine, aptly named Laura) and I was able smuggle us into the happiest place on earth and take the first ever family portraits of the new Jones family. I’m truly honored.

Probably Elizabeth wouldn’t want me plastering these photos on the interwebs. She’s kind of anti-social media (doesn’t she sound great!) and doesn’t like people staring at her or minding her business. I’m choosing to ignore her preferences because I’m really excited about her pictures. Other than stealing candid shots of family and friends, I’ve never shot ‘subjets’ I’m close to personally and it’s surprisingly different. Normally I’m looking at lots of things. How are they standing? Are there hairs out of place? Are they slouching? and I direct these people to look their best and stand at flattering angles. They are objects for me to style.

In this case, I thought everything baby Charlotte did was adorable when I would normally have stood waiting around for the baby to look the right way. I thought Elizabeth looked so beautiful bouncing Charlotte up and down when I would usually wait for a person to stand still. Little things you see. I thought Brent looked most endearing when he was watching Elizabeth and Charlotte instead of looking straight at my camera and smiling. It was hard to be critical because I love them too much. They also brought their pup, Ella, who dutifully sat where they told her to and only once became distracted by an enormous stick that she stabbed a little boy with.

The other thing that made this great was Brent and Elizabeth’s laid-back and lighthearted dispositions. When Charlotte put the Christmas lights in her mouth and bit down, they did not rush to her rescue. Instead they stood behind me making electric shock noises and laughing at the caliber of the other one’s quick “ddzziitt” sound.

(*Editors note. They are great parents. The lights were run on batteries and were not plugged into an electrical power source. Please do not call child services.)

Government

In a notion completely unrelated to my and Hilary Clinton's political views and where they do and do not overlap, I was distraught by the idea that if Hilary won I would have to completely restructure my most effective pick-up line;              I haven't thrown up since the Clinton Administration. Hilary would have really thrown off my game.
In honor of our upstanding and flawlessly engineered government system, I'll tell you a really long story about state and local government requirements.

There once was an obnoxiously content girl from South Carolina. She had long dark hair, a bashful disposition, and very large front teeth. Her name was Laura. After years of abuse and neglect Laura decided to bring happiness to her small, Yankee filled Southern town by opening a flower business. She would decorate weddings, encourage brides on the brink of meltdowns, and sell flowers by the stem. She did market research, created a business plan, and set off to make things happen. The first thing she did was acquire a business license from a beautiful woman named Iona who works for the city's licensing bureau. Iona was helpful and friendly and sent Laura off feeling hopeful and wrought with power and thus Laura was open for business.
One month later, Laura learned from an online business forum (can you believe she reads those?) that the State of South Carolina requires almost all business to also have a retail license, for tax purposes. While filing taxes is very important to Laura, she did not understand why her business license "for retail services" was not enough to file taxes with but since she's afraid of going to prison, she set off for another retail license, just in case, for Laura would last two minutes on her own in prison. No doubt she would wander those cement hallways holding on to another woman's pocket liner.

So she Googled and Googled and could find no clear way to get a retail license. Everything led her to one particular government website. A South Carolina tax filing website. Nothing on this site ever mentioned retail licenses and the only page of "relevant forms" would never load in her browser, or her fathers, or her friends. For two weeks she researched and tried to download the relevant forms to no avail. Her only other option was to create a login for a fifty dollar fee. She had read that a retail license costs fifty dollars and after weeks of this nonsense, she decided that creating a tax filing login for her business must be the first step. So she filled out a bunch of forms, paid the fifty dollar fee, and was granted access to the government tax website. Again she searched for a retail license form and there was no such thing. She waited one week for a piece of mail the website was sending her. She hoped it was her brand new retail license. It turned out to be a worthless piece of mail that told her that she had signed up to file taxes. This irritated Laura because she knew this already. She was there when it happened.

Back on the hunt but with a new sense of rage, Laura called the Capital. She dialed the contact number for SC taxes and it was FAKE NUMBER! Enraged, Laura bypassed all lower level employees and called the Director of SC Revenue Services in Columbia and got his surly receptionist on the phone.
"Hello." Laura said calmly, "I've been trying to get a retail license for my business in Charleston and I'm having some trouble finding the forms. Can you tell me how I can get this done?"
"We don't give out retail licenses here. We just work with taxes." Secretary responded. "You get licenses through your city.
"That sounds logical," Laura retorted, "but the city website pointed me to your tax website."
"Well I don't know why." Secretary sneered. Then there was an awkward silence. "Do you need anything else?" she asked.
"Well, I need a retail license." Laura said.
"You'll have to call your own city. Good day." and Secretary hung up. Laura was not happy. Laura nearly spilled peppermint tea in her white Morning Chair where she sits to say her prayers, make lists, and hold warm mugs of liquids first thing in the morning.

Laura went back online and found the number for City Business Services and spoke to a girl we'll call Jen. Jen talked like this? And breathed heavily into the phone a lot?
"Hi Jen, I'm trying to find out how to get a retail license. Is this something you can help me with?"
"A retail license?" Jen asked.
"Yes." Laura replied.
"Umm... I... like I'm not sure." Jen said. "I think you can get one down where they give out business licenses?"
Laura had this thought at one point too but then she thought that Iona, beautiful helpful Iona, would have definitely told Laura that she also needed a retail license and would have given her the forms for that while she was there.
"Well, I have a business license and they didn't mention a retail license." Laura said. "Can you connect me with someone who knows about this?
"Yeah for sure but like, a business license basically is a retail license right? Here's the number for the Business Bureau..."

Laura thanked Jen and dialed the new number. No one answered her call. So Laura left her cozy white Morning Chair, put on pants acceptable to wear in public, and made her way back to the Licensing Bureau. Iona wasn't there but another beautiful woman named Mary called Laura when it was her turn and Laura told Mary the whole story.
"I'm sorry to hear all that." Mary said genuinely, "But actually, we don't give out retail licenses here. You have to go to South Park Plaza in West Ashley to the Department of Revenue. They handle all other licenses. I'm really sorry." Mary said.
Laura could not be mad at Mary so she thanked her, walked back to her car and made the trek to West Ashley. Laura started to wonder if she is an idiot. Surely every business in Charleston has not done this monkey dance. Is information about retail license requirements and methods posted somewhere that she doesn't know about? She knows a number of morons that own businesses. Surely it can't be this hard?

The South Park Plaza building had no directory. Laura drove around it for seven minutes before seeing a tiny sign that said, "SCDR will be closed for Veteran's Day" on a corner window by a door. This must be it, she thought swinging open the big door. Laura had to walk through a metal detector on her way up to the teller window.
"What do you need?" an angry blonde asked her from behind the bullet-proof glass.
"Fine thanks. I need a retail license please." Laura was loosing patience for rude people.
"Do you have a business?" she asked.
No, I just thought it would look nice on the wall by my family portraits.
"I have a floral design business." Laura told her.
"Floral design?" she said raising both of her eyebrows. "What do you do then?"
"I make arrangements for weddings and events."
The blonde left her eyebrows raised as she handed Laura a yellow form and asked for her ID. Laura wondered if the idea of floral design had shocked this woman. The expression on her face suggested unfathomable awe or else a disheartening premonition that she saw the floral business go up in flames.

Laura spent ten minutes filling out forms before bringing them back up to the window. Blondie read over her forms, gave back her ID and said, "It's fifty dollars for a retail license."
Laura offered her a credit card and the blonde said, "Oh we don't take cards. Cash or money orders only."
Laura stared at her. "Well do you have an ATM?" Laura asked.
"No. But there are a few nearby. I'll run this through while you get the money." she said, pulling the form through the glass again and heading off to her desk. Laura huffed back to her car and drove to a Heritage Trust bank and the ATM was broken. She drove to a Bank of America and had to pay $3.00 to hold her own money. Laura finally made it back to the Department of Revenue with fifty dollars and when she got back in front of the window, Blondie said, "I ran this while you were gone. You already did all of this online."
"Yes." Laura told her.
"Well you don't have to do it again." Blondie said.
"The website had no information about retail licenses and never sent me one after I filled out the forms." Laura said.
Blondie shrugged and said, "Yeah Columbia won't print things out." Laura wondered what the hell that meant.
"So why do I have to pay for this again then?" Laura asked.
"You haven't paid."
"I have paid."
"It says you haven't paid."
"Just take it." Laura said pushing fifty dollars forward. Blondie took the money, wrote out a receipt, and printed Laura a retail license on light yellow government paper.
"File before the 20th of each month." Blondie shouted as the door closed behind Laura.

Crapacity

Lately I've been throwing out crap. It's a wonderful sensation.

I don’t like clutter one bit. Like most humans, I acquire things constantly. I’ve decided it’s simply another effect of being alive. I don’t even know where the crap comes from. It’s just there when you come downstairs in the morning. I was also raised by two people from the “Rinse Off Your Tin Foil and Use It Again” era so I have a hard time getting rid of things that are not entirely repulsive. Sometimes, when I throw away something that isn’t broken or overipe my brain says, "Mom would really hate this.” and I walk away from the trashcan with a sense of guilt and shame.

A hatred for clutter and a conviction to hold on to anything that scored better than “mildly unpleasant” on the scale of Off-Putting Things means I make small piles of crap that I don’t like that I pack away with immense precision and discretion. I’m a very efficient packer. You will not find my crap piles. You will not realize the volume of crap tucked in the dark recesses of my light and airy home.

I’ve been going through my crap piles. In addition to the crap piles, I’ve been going through clothes and tossing out lots of my sad-sack, “I’m a depressed art student” shirts and the enormous pants that fit me in high-school when my affinity for sugared cereals cared not the hour of night. I started a Goodwill pile back in March when Brett noticed that most of my shoes had holes in them. He was truly appalled when he hastily barged into my closet. He insisted I throw out all five pairs of my blown-out, rubber shoes that I wore hiking across Scotland, into sterile lecture halls, and countless trips to the Surf Bar. “But all my memories are in those shoes!” I argued.

“Why do you have them on your shoe rack like they’re still an option?” he asked, ignoring the sentimental value of shoes with no soles. All the shoes he said I had to throw out sat in a bag by my door for weeks. I did finally toss them (and I haven’t thought about them since) and felt somewhat liberated. I had five new cubbies in my shoe rack. So I started a clothing pile and then space started appearing in my closet. I called Ari.

Ari told me about an article she happened to be reading about decluttering your life. (Ari and I have what we call ‘parallel lives’. We often find out that we’re listening to the same song, cooking the same dinner, reading the same article, or one time, buying the same dishes –all at the same time but in different cities.) She told me the key is to be brutal. “It needs to ‘spark joy’” she said, quoting the article, “…otherwise, get rid of it.”

I went back to my piles. “Do you spark joy?” I asked, holding up an itchy cardigan that I never wear. Suddenly, talking to my clothes, telling them whether or not they brought me joy seemed incredibly mean and I kid you not, I felt bad for my sweater. I consoled my sweater. I folded my sweater and put it back on the shelf. “This won’t work for me.” I said out loud, being sure to give an encouraging smile to the contents of my closet. Instead I threw out old paystubs and bottles of dried paint. You see, I pack away my crap piles so effectively that I forget they’re there and then I find dried paint and bank notes from 2007.

Last month, with the addition of 52 vases I had to order for a floral event, my house reached it’s crap capacity or ‘crapacity’ as I continue to call it, despite it never earning a laugh from the oblivious minds I practice my material on. I have since acquired a Lux & Union storage closet for all of my decorative bee-bobs, thrown out Taylors cumbersome fake Christmas tree box, and introduced the concept of throwing inanimate objects away promptly, before I form a relationship with them. My house feels wonderfully clean. While it always appears clutter free, I still know about the presence of the piles, those heavy, burdensome piles. Now I feel as light and airy as my living room does. How about that?

Matthew

We had a hurricane last week. While Charleston began to panic and evacuate on Tuesday, the storm didn’t make it’s way to Charleston until early Saturday morning. While Yankees and assorted transplants made a break for it, locals enjoyed a few days in town that felt like it did fifteen years ago. No traffic, no lines, and plenty of time to stop and chat with strangers. It felt like the quiet and content beach town I grew up in and for three days my childhood nostalgia came to life and I got to go home again. 

On Friday we packed a few things and drove to Ellen’s house to hunker down for the storm. There was a total of ten people, two dogs, and four cats staying in Ellen’s house, each room stored a different feline and every bed, couch, and chair was slept on that night. We spent the whole day staring at each other and occasionally going outside with the dogs to wonder where the storm was. We had barbeque for dinner, watched Dirty Rotten Scoundrels for the fortieth time, played cards, and ate ice cream. Dad, Chris, Jordan, Margie, and I stayed up until 1:30 playing Phase 10, a game similar to Shanghai except longer and even more frustrating.

Things got exciting around bedtime. I slept up in Chris and Ellen’s room. Ellen and I shared the bed with one dog and one cat. Poor Chris tried to sleep somewhat upright in a chair in the corner. It started to rain hard around now and there was an occasional blasting wind gust rustling the trees outside. Apparently I was sleeping in the cat’s favorite spot. I endured a night of the dog laying across my feet and the cat dancing around my head, stepping on my hair, and lining up their vibrating purr box with my left ear. Anytime I almost dozed off, Ellen would roll over with irritability and announce to the room that she couldn’t sleep. Sometimes I woke up to the sound of her complaining. “Who could sleep through this crappin’ storm?” she shouted somewhere around 3 am.

“I was sleeping.” I told her and she apologized. Ten minutes later she let out an exasperated groan that caused the dog to stir and kick me in the side. I looked over at Chris who was awake and playing on his phone. Sometime around 3:30 the power went out and Ellen shouted, “There it goes!” and I shouted “Will you please shut up?” and then we laughed at her inability to stop talking and so the three of us got up and checked the news on our phones. It was a miserable night, one I would probably have slept through just fine if Ellen had any common courtesy.

The power came and went all morning but we were able to bake some cinnamon rolls and entertain each other until we finally felt safe to go home. The storm was much less of a disaster than the news made it out to be. That said, Downtown Charleston was completely submerged in water again and the city lost a number of pretty great trees. I hate to say we got off easy because lots of people had trees fall on their cars and houses but it was definitely less of disaster than it could have been. I was secretly embarrassed for all the people that put on a dramatic show as they fled town on Tuesday.

For the most part, all of our houses were fine. We had one major loss that mostly offends Buddy and me. We lost the dock. I can’t say I didn’t see it coming. It’s not been in great shape for a while but it doesn’t make it better now that we can’t go out there. Buddy dashed about thirty feet before he reached a drop off. He looked back at me like he didn’t understand. Sometime last month our kayak disappeared. While the polite side of me wants to pretend the wind blew it away, I’m quite certain someone stole it. I don’t know where the wind learned to untie my perfectly executed sailors knots! So we can’t kayak this fall, our favorite season to kayak and now we can’t run out to the end of the dock chasing birds and lunging off for dolphins. 

I know we can rebuild it but it’s hard to imagine a whole winter without going out there. This dock was the sight of my teenage brooding, big family get-togethers, lazy afternoons, and a few cruel pranks. I learned to swing a hammer knocking those boards back into place and I attribute my knowledge of tides and seasons and weather to sitting on that dock, observing things. We had pluff-mud days, water-game days, and a day laying in the hammock with Mom trying to teach ourselves Italian. I have had so many perfect moments on that dock, my favorite one with salt dried on my warm skin and the bright afternoon sun in my eyes. I’d always planned to get married on this dock with a few twinkling lights and just the most important people present.

I wonder what Buddy’s Ode to the Dock would sound like? We’ll build a new one and I know I’ll love it and Buddy won’t notice a difference. But this one will always be my favorite.

Hashtag OMG!

This month has been jam packed with things and meetings and visits and feelings and problems and a really big jar of Nutella. I have lots of thoughts and little life lessons I've already learned about the business world but I feel like everyone older than me knows this stuff already and I'm also afraid of my little blog space just becoming a log of how I felt while I tried starting a business. I will state that I've never been ignored more in my life until "LLC" became a part of my email signature. It's like people don't want to do their job or something. For two weeks I was convinced that my business email account didn't work at all so I emailed all of my friends just asking them to respond to my message if they got it. The most disheartening part was that all of my friends responded, which means all of the companies and plugs I'm trying to work with have simply chosen to ignore me. I find that very difficult to accept.

I also had my first real night of worry. I'm not sure of the origins of my worry. It was a general panic. It was a "Why did I think I could do this?" night where I drew up a picture of my life and my personality and skills and flaws and I overlaid that drawing on my mental picture of Lux & Union and realized they are very different pictures and the only parts that overlap and mesh perfectly with my vision of my business are the parts of me I keep tucked away and don't share with people.
In short, I've always chosen to not be cool. I have few friends. It does not take me to have a party. I've always lived on the edge of the "in" crowd. They know me and like me but I'm not like them and they know it. Now this isn't self-pity. I've chosen to live there because I just can't sell myself out. I don't feel right following the crowd. I don't 'lol' and 'omg' or walk around with Starbucks cups just because. I feel exceptionally stupid hashtagging things. I think lots of people secretly cringe about these things but unfortunately, these things lead to acceptance.
Now my point, I realized my business could very easily wind up on this very line that my personal life lives on. "She does great florals but she just doesn't get it." the brides might sneer. What if they can tell that I'm not the kind of person that adapts to mindless following? Thats usually what gives me the boot.
So I have this dilemma you see, where I don't know how to be anyone but me and normally, I wouldn't make the cut. This doesn't hurt my feelings, it just scares me a little. Do I sell out for the possibility of fake but quick success? I have bills to pay you know. Or do I do it the slow, quiet Laura way, only appreciated by the few free thinkers of today and subsequently have less success at the start and hope something in me finds a way to change the momentum?

I know I know. I do it the Laura way. I just don't want to this time. The Laura way is exhausting and kind of lonely and if you had to hang out with Laura all day you'd hashtag anything they want just for a chance to talk to someone new.
I guess for the first time in my life I'm scared people will realized I'm different. Or maybe for the the first time it's occurred to me that being different won't make me better. That's a new sensation. One that calls for Nutella.

Anyways, here I am with a flower arrangement I made for an Italian themed wedding this week. This was a very special event, not at all what you think, and served as a kind of debut for Lux. I'm very excited to tell you about it but I'm not allowed to just yet. Did you know there was so much secrecy in the wedding blog world?

Bad Photos of my Favorite People

Originally I was going to write a post that rambled off a list of all the things I'm thinking about now that I'm technically unemployed, self-employed, hopeful, distraught, and abundantly free.
Then I realized that I've waited so long into the month to do the first of my bi-monthly posts that it's nearly Ellen's birthday. So I started digging for photos of Ellen and I found these two...

As I continued the dig, I realized how many photos I have that make me laugh every time. So forget job woes and Ellen's twenty-eighth birthday. Here are pictures that make me smile. You've got to spend a little time with each one to really appreciate them.

The longer you look at this one of Budds, the more enormous he becomes.

Ain't I a lucky gal to have these great people around? 

I'll do you a more informative post next week. I've got big things coming!

The Union Brief

Mom had an enraging and amusing encounter last week when she visited the doctors office for a check-up and the nurse added thirteen pounds to her weight for no apparent reason. Though the scale read a number closer to the Charleston heat index, the nurse wrote down a number indicative of the temperature in Saudi Arabia. Mom remained silent and angry throughout the duration of her doctor's appointment, weighed herself again on the way out –just to be sure, and came home festering. “I know why she did it.” my sweet mama said, “Because she’s fat! And I’m not!”

Ellen (and Chris) have adopted a yellow lab by the name of Missy. Missy is six years old and looks nearly identical to Sonny. She however is much more sprightly and healthy looking. Missy is taking some time to get used to her new home and while Chris was out of town last week, it became Ellen’s job to take Missy for her 4:30 am walks that Chris dutifully takes her on each morning. Ellen did a good job getting up for the walks but said she was so sleepy one morning that she looked down when she was halfway into her neighborhood jaunt and she realized she wasn’t wearing any pants. She had rolled out of bed, put on her flip-flops, and stepped out into the world. She assures us she passed no other humans at that hour but scurried home as quickly as possible.

As I mentioned, Chris went to NYC on business last week and unsurprisingly had a swinging good time. We heard reports of $90 brunches and rubbing elbows with the celebrity guests of Good Morning America. Rather than being happy for him, Ellen scolded Chris for having fun without her and the whole family turned on Ellen for being a jerk. She has since apologized.

Last week I had surgery on my wrist cysts. While I had intended to only have one removed with only some local anesthesia on that hand, I arrived to a dramatic show of a hospital visit where I was to be knocked entirely unconscious and forced to wear a shower cap and neon yellow, non-skid, paper socks. Dad came with me and was equally horrified by the ordeal. We thought this was a small outpatient procedure. “Back in my day,” Dad told my doctor, “They just numbed that one spot and then bashed it with a book. It worked fine.” My friendly doctor smiled politely.

Dad had lots of fun in the hospital that day. He told the nurses I had recently been released from rehab and still had a real drinking problem. When they prattled off a list of drugs and the order to take them, Dad responded affirmatively and then asked them “and what about for Laura?”

Dad would make expressions of horror any time someone touched me, pretended to turn all the colored knobs on the machines behind me, considered giving my IV bag a hearty squeeze, and stopped mid-inhale while bringing a rubber glove to his mouth when I shouted an exhausted, “Dad! No.” Dad’s laughter at his own antics was definitely audible throughout out the outpatient wing. When it was time to wheel me into surgery Dad was noticeably less obnoxious. The nurse and I became concerned. “Are you ok?” she asked Dad. Suddenly Dad looked sad to see me go and he gathered my things, kissed my forehead, and that the last thing I remember.

I woke up in a recovery room with a bunch of other lethargic people with flesh wounds. I don’t remember much between waking up and coming back home but apparently I spoke with my doctor who told me my cysts were more complex than expected and had been growing into my ligaments. The nurses told me I spent my time in the recovery room thanking people profusely and telling other patients that they looked like angels. I was told I received “The Sweetest Patient Award “ that day.

The last point of note regarding my recovery is Buddy. Buddy the loud, rambunctious, self- focused, jewel of my heart. Anytime I come to Mom and Dad’s house Buddy goes nuts. He runs and barks and jumps on me, scratching my thighs and forearms and holding my hands in his mouth. He expects good times and we run though the yard and roll in the grass and we do NOT cuddle. Buddy only tolerates touch in the form of belly rubs and fanny scratches. Fanny scratches are his favorite. For years I’ve put my face against Buddy’s nose and asked for kisses to no avail.

When I came home that Tuesday afternoon, Buddy did not hoot and holler. He sniffed me once and he just knew. For two days he followed me from room to room, slept quietly at my feet, and licked my face fervently to try to make me better again. I can tell he knows the anesthesia has worn off and he detects only traces of the pain pills I recently stopped taking. He’s got a lot more vigor and is barely withholding jumping up on me and instead gives me loving body slams and leans on me when I stand. I’m a bit worried that I’m not healing as fast and he thinks. I don’t know how much longer he can stave off the jumping and my hands aren’t nearly ready for his enthusiasm.

My folks have been patiently doting on me and we have an amusing shower ritual that involves all three of us jamming my hands into plastic gloves and taping them closed. Dad seems to be enlivened by the potential gore and enjoys looking at my stitches and determining things. Mom has been a real trooper too, encouraging me and acting calm even though I still can’t feel one of my fingers. Sometimes I catch her feeling woozy when she watches me get woozy when I watch Dad change my gauze. We’re a real tough bunch.
Also, as I can’t dress myself, Mom put me in this shirt.