Sometimes I wish we were more like cars. Because I desperately need a tuneup.
If I were a car, I would say I've hit 50,000 miles. The warranty's expired and I am halfway through my projected usable lifespan. Things are starting to get a little worn, a little rattly, a little rusty.
I'm lucky that I am pretty healthy. The only chronic health problems I have are minor and since they are cancer-treatment related, they are checked on twice a year by knowledgeable doctors who know me very well. But as I get older, other small things, the little aches and pains, are starting to pile up. By themselves, these small complaints are nothing; most can be driven away with a couple of Advil or a good night's sleep. When they all flare up at the same time, though, it makes life miserable and it's harder to justify putting off a visit to the doctor. Though I do try.
This week I've had some things pile up in just a big enough heap to turn on my "check engine" light. Among them is a return of the vertigo that plagued me for over two weeks this spring and which seems to be the result of inner-ear wackness; another is a tooth I've neglected for years and which now throbs after contact with any food or drink not at exactly room temperature. I have been scheduled for a root canal. I was actually ashamed to go to my dentist for this yesterday; when it's been 15 months since your last checkup, you pretty much feel like you have it coming and deserve a little scorn and "I told you this would happen if you didn't get that followed up."
I am so diligent about the health of my child; if Ains so much as coughs or gets a little warm after a day outside, I am all over it with thermometers and calls to the doctor. I am so much more "wait and see and then wait some more" with myself. Mostly this serves me well and these little minor irritations work themselves out; sometimes, like with my tooth, the mole hill darn near becomes a mountain before I feel I can take the time off work or time away from Ains to ask my doctor to fix me. With my medical history, I really and truly should know better. You all know what it's like, though; until a body part falls off, or a minor ache turns into the pain of the rack and forces you to take immediate action, it's all too easy to find more important things to do than to do routine maintenance on your own body. Truly, we take better care of our cars.
A couple of weeks ago my church had a holistic health fair for the women of the parish. For $15, we were treated to a light lunch and blood pressure screenings, cholesterol screenings, 10-minute chair massages, healing touch therapy, mini-facials and manicures, and information sessions about accupuncture, hypnotherapy, chiropractic medicine, and something called craniosacral therapy which boggled my mind with its new age-ness. Prior to that day, I had been having some muscle spasms in my neck, and some joint stiffness, and fatigue, and a general case of the blahs. But by the time the day was over, after having been massaged, touched by healing hands, having a chiropracter hold a heated magical massage pad over my lower back, been told that my blood pressure and cholesterol levels were good, and even volunteered to have a couple of accupuncture needles inserted to show the others at the demonstration that it didn't hurt (and it really didn't; I just felt a little full-body warmth after being pin-cushioned) I really did feel better. Some of those little aches and pains went away for a while. I was both more energetic and more relaxed at the same time. I slept like the proverbial baby that night. Whether alternative medicine works for the reasons the practitioners say it does (energy fields, meridians, and so on) I really don't know. Maybe it's just that little bit of time for ourselves, time for our minds to focus on our own bodies for a change, that heals our pain.
Whatever it is, I am willing to give some of this a try. Except that, like trips to the doctor, it requires time. And that's something I just don't have a lot of.
But if going to an accupuncturist, or a massage therapist, or a craniosacral whateverist, on a semi-regular basis would be the equivalent of an automotive 10-point safety inspection and oil change...well, that might make it worth it.
Have you ever tried "alternative" medicine? Would you ever consider getting turned into a human pincushion if it would make some of these holy-crap-I'm-in-my-mid-30s aches and pains go away?
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
The Only Good Spider is a Dead Spider
I am happy to report that the creature is dead. Jason is a most excellent spider slayer; when we ventured down to the laundry room together after work, spidey wasn't where I had last seen him. Spiders seldom stay put. Knowing that I may never have washed socks again if Shelob was still down there, Jason rustled around the area where the thing was last seen and sure enough he got it to come out.
"I don't think that was as big as the bathtub spider," he said after smacking, squishing, and flushing my nemesis. "Though he was awfully furry."
Sure you don't think it was that big. 'Cause it was all curled up in wolf-spider defense mode when you saw it. Don't belitte my fear, dude. The thing was enormous.
I had really been hoping he would get more freaked out and confirm my fear and loathing. You know the Sylvester and Tweety cartoon where Tweety somehow gets a hold of a potion that makes him blow up into a huge yellow monster, and Sylvester and his son are trying to get him, but every time Sylvester goes into the room alone he sees Monster Tweety and just walks back to his son, stuttering and gray and scared to death? That's kinda what I was hoping Jason would do. But alas, he is outwardly calm from years of pest control.
Which brings me to a question, you manly men who read the blog and kill the spiders in your own homes: Are you as afraid as we are and just try to act brave to fulfill your role as testosterone-y superheroes saving your damsels in distress? Or are your wives just a bunch of freaks?
Tell us the truth. We won't judge so long as you keep smushing.
"I don't think that was as big as the bathtub spider," he said after smacking, squishing, and flushing my nemesis. "Though he was awfully furry."
Sure you don't think it was that big. 'Cause it was all curled up in wolf-spider defense mode when you saw it. Don't belitte my fear, dude. The thing was enormous.
I had really been hoping he would get more freaked out and confirm my fear and loathing. You know the Sylvester and Tweety cartoon where Tweety somehow gets a hold of a potion that makes him blow up into a huge yellow monster, and Sylvester and his son are trying to get him, but every time Sylvester goes into the room alone he sees Monster Tweety and just walks back to his son, stuttering and gray and scared to death? That's kinda what I was hoping Jason would do. But alas, he is outwardly calm from years of pest control.
Which brings me to a question, you manly men who read the blog and kill the spiders in your own homes: Are you as afraid as we are and just try to act brave to fulfill your role as testosterone-y superheroes saving your damsels in distress? Or are your wives just a bunch of freaks?
Tell us the truth. We won't judge so long as you keep smushing.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Those Amazing Arachnids
Dear Jason,
I am writing to you to inform you that laundry operations in our home have ceased until further notice.
Should you wish for me, your loving wife, to resume washing our unmentionables, you need to don your Spider Killer weapons and search and destroy the ginormous creature (bordering on carcass!) that was stalking me this morning in the laundry room.
This thing, kid you not, far surpasses in size any of the individual specimens in the herd of spiders I rustled up in mom's yard that one day, and even dwarfs the infamous bathtub spider of 2007 which completely gave us the shivers some months ago. If the bathtub spider was, say, comparable to a Buick LeSabre, which is to say, large enough for all practical purposes, than the one in the laundry room is a Hummer. And not one of those wimpy H3s; this sucker is the real deal.
After you left to go work out this morning, I went to the laundry room to put a load in. I had this weird feeling while I was down there; I felt like I was being watched. I turned at one point, thinking maybe I would see Michael Meyers, but instead saw something even more horrifying: the largest spider I've ever seen inside but not in zoo just hanging out on a beam above my head.
It being a wolf spider, a ground dweller based on the research I have done (know thy enemies!), I have a feeling it is not long for its lofty perch and will venture downward where it will lurk behind or in a clothes basket and scurry across my foot the next time I do down there, which will surely cause my heart to stop.
So, if you love me, if those vows you took 11 years ago to honor and obey mean anything to you, you will smoke this spider out of its hole and kill it for me. It was out of reach of any weapon this morning, plus you and I both know I cannot kill a spider that big; the best I can do is scream like a little girl and curl up in a fetal position a safe distance away. If you can't find it when you come home today...make some calls. Call Orkin, call Terminex, call Colin Powell if you have to. But I am not going in that room until you have found this thing dead or alive. Preferably very, very dead.
And don't just think of me...think of the horrifying fact that we have clothes down there, clothes which a spider might find cozy.
And finally, think of containment. Do you really want to leave this thing down there where it could eventually wander out into the habitable areas of our home?
So, Jason, please be my Marlboro Man, my Bubba, my knight in shining armor, and slay this beast, or at the very least lasso it up and ride it off into the sunset.
In the meantime, I will be sleeping with a can of Raid.
Sincerely,
Cranky
Like cryptonite to Superman, like Newman to Jerry...this is what spiders are to me.
I am writing to you to inform you that laundry operations in our home have ceased until further notice.
Should you wish for me, your loving wife, to resume washing our unmentionables, you need to don your Spider Killer weapons and search and destroy the ginormous creature (bordering on carcass!) that was stalking me this morning in the laundry room.
This thing, kid you not, far surpasses in size any of the individual specimens in the herd of spiders I rustled up in mom's yard that one day, and even dwarfs the infamous bathtub spider of 2007 which completely gave us the shivers some months ago. If the bathtub spider was, say, comparable to a Buick LeSabre, which is to say, large enough for all practical purposes, than the one in the laundry room is a Hummer. And not one of those wimpy H3s; this sucker is the real deal.
After you left to go work out this morning, I went to the laundry room to put a load in. I had this weird feeling while I was down there; I felt like I was being watched. I turned at one point, thinking maybe I would see Michael Meyers, but instead saw something even more horrifying: the largest spider I've ever seen inside but not in zoo just hanging out on a beam above my head.
It being a wolf spider, a ground dweller based on the research I have done (know thy enemies!), I have a feeling it is not long for its lofty perch and will venture downward where it will lurk behind or in a clothes basket and scurry across my foot the next time I do down there, which will surely cause my heart to stop.
So, if you love me, if those vows you took 11 years ago to honor and obey mean anything to you, you will smoke this spider out of its hole and kill it for me. It was out of reach of any weapon this morning, plus you and I both know I cannot kill a spider that big; the best I can do is scream like a little girl and curl up in a fetal position a safe distance away. If you can't find it when you come home today...make some calls. Call Orkin, call Terminex, call Colin Powell if you have to. But I am not going in that room until you have found this thing dead or alive. Preferably very, very dead.
And don't just think of me...think of the horrifying fact that we have clothes down there, clothes which a spider might find cozy.
And finally, think of containment. Do you really want to leave this thing down there where it could eventually wander out into the habitable areas of our home?
So, Jason, please be my Marlboro Man, my Bubba, my knight in shining armor, and slay this beast, or at the very least lasso it up and ride it off into the sunset.
In the meantime, I will be sleeping with a can of Raid.
Sincerely,
Cranky
Like cryptonite to Superman, like Newman to Jerry...this is what spiders are to me.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
The Great Debate
I do so love drinking games.
Now, now, don't go worrying about my liver or calling CompCare. I don't love them as a means of getting drunk (that's what this is for) but rather as an exercise in parody and wit. Making fun of things, if you will.
This has been going on since college. I can pinpoint my love of making "Drink when..." rules to the Army of Darkness game where we came up with the grand idea of taking a drink every time Bruce Campbell over-acted. This being a very subjective thing, someone called out, "Drink!" every 10 seconds and even though we were just drinking beer, we had to stop the movie halfway through to walk to Super America to buy Little Debbie Fudge Rounds to sober up a little and make it through the rest of the evening's activities.
Since then I've moved on to modifying the Rachel Ray drinking game (drink every time she says "yum-o," "delish," "EVOO," "I don't bake," "garbage bowl", or any of the other things she does that make you crazy) and wishing I had both the wit and the sports knowledge to update the UK basketball drinking game DD sent me a few years ago around tournament time when it was painfully obvious UK was on a downhill spiral (among the rules of that one that are still relevant: drink every time someone mentions Duke even though UK's not playing them; if Billy Packer is calling the game, just shotgun during the whole game so as to lessen the pain.)
Which bring me to tomorrow night.
Unless one of the guys doesn't, you know, show up, there's supposed to be a presidential debate tomorrow evening. Even though you know at this point which of the two candidates I favor, I am not so close-minded as to believe that he's perfect and off-limits in the poking fun department. So I am coming up with some bipartisan rules for a 2008 debate drinking game. Feel free to add your own.
Drink every time....
McCain starts an answer with, "My friends..." or Obama starts an answer with, "Look...":
McCain says "inexperience" or Obama says, "more of the same" or "Washington establishment."
Obama says, "Change" (with a capital C) or McCain says, "maverick."
Obama says, "Community organizer" or McCain says, "POW."
Either candidate says, "um..." or "uh..."
And then be on the lookout for tics. Everybody's got one; Bush blinked more than normal humans do, and Gore sighed and rolled his eyes. The first time you notice an interesting nervous habit from one of the candidates, shout it out and add it to your party's list.
Finally, if anyone, and I do mean ANYONE, says "lipstick on a pig," in any context, even if it's a moderator's question, even if Miss Piggy makes a cameo, then we are truly on a road to chaos and you should just walk yourself to the kitchen, get yourself a fresh drink, and chug it until you are able to pass out comfortably in your bed.
That's the beauty of the great American drinking game; it's a living, breathing, adaptable thing. Much like our constitution! See, it's perfect for a debate.
Chime in below with any new suggestions...
Now, now, don't go worrying about my liver or calling CompCare. I don't love them as a means of getting drunk (that's what this is for) but rather as an exercise in parody and wit. Making fun of things, if you will.
This has been going on since college. I can pinpoint my love of making "Drink when..." rules to the Army of Darkness game where we came up with the grand idea of taking a drink every time Bruce Campbell over-acted. This being a very subjective thing, someone called out, "Drink!" every 10 seconds and even though we were just drinking beer, we had to stop the movie halfway through to walk to Super America to buy Little Debbie Fudge Rounds to sober up a little and make it through the rest of the evening's activities.
Since then I've moved on to modifying the Rachel Ray drinking game (drink every time she says "yum-o," "delish," "EVOO," "I don't bake," "garbage bowl", or any of the other things she does that make you crazy) and wishing I had both the wit and the sports knowledge to update the UK basketball drinking game DD sent me a few years ago around tournament time when it was painfully obvious UK was on a downhill spiral (among the rules of that one that are still relevant: drink every time someone mentions Duke even though UK's not playing them; if Billy Packer is calling the game, just shotgun during the whole game so as to lessen the pain.)
Which bring me to tomorrow night.
Unless one of the guys doesn't, you know, show up, there's supposed to be a presidential debate tomorrow evening. Even though you know at this point which of the two candidates I favor, I am not so close-minded as to believe that he's perfect and off-limits in the poking fun department. So I am coming up with some bipartisan rules for a 2008 debate drinking game. Feel free to add your own.
Drink every time....
McCain starts an answer with, "My friends..." or Obama starts an answer with, "Look...":
McCain says "inexperience" or Obama says, "more of the same" or "Washington establishment."
Obama says, "Change" (with a capital C) or McCain says, "maverick."
Obama says, "Community organizer" or McCain says, "POW."
Either candidate says, "um..." or "uh..."
And then be on the lookout for tics. Everybody's got one; Bush blinked more than normal humans do, and Gore sighed and rolled his eyes. The first time you notice an interesting nervous habit from one of the candidates, shout it out and add it to your party's list.
Finally, if anyone, and I do mean ANYONE, says "lipstick on a pig," in any context, even if it's a moderator's question, even if Miss Piggy makes a cameo, then we are truly on a road to chaos and you should just walk yourself to the kitchen, get yourself a fresh drink, and chug it until you are able to pass out comfortably in your bed.
That's the beauty of the great American drinking game; it's a living, breathing, adaptable thing. Much like our constitution! See, it's perfect for a debate.
Chime in below with any new suggestions...
Drama Queen
Ainsley is now a proud member of her school's drama club.
I was a little surprised that they opened it up to 1st graders, and more surprised when the kid wanted to join. The day we got the signup in her folder, she said she wanted to think about it. When I told her that being in drama club meant participating in the little productions her school does and actually, you know, talking to people, she made the decision to not do it. Then came the day of the first meeting, which happened to be a day there was no bus service due to the big blackout so I had to pick her up after school.
"Mommy, the drama club meeting is in room 3 instead of the cafeteria," she said.
"Oh, that's nice." I was trying to navigate through the line of cars from other parents picking up their kids.
"No, it's not nice! I want to be in there! I want to do drama!"
"But you told me the other day you didn't...remember, you have to get up in front of people and talk and sing and dance?"
She rolled her eyes. "I know! I want to do it now! Can I can I please please please?"
So I turned around in the faculty lot, dropped her right back off, and wondered how this kid, who will talk your ear off if she knows you and hams it up in front of family but who will not even make eye contact with the Wal-Mart greeter and who hides behind me whenever a teacher here at my school asks her a question, would want to do drama.
As the child of two former high school musical supporting players (not High School Musical with caps, mind you) I figured she might have it in her do drama eventually, but I didn't want to push it since right now she seems much shyer than Jason and I ever were. Oh, sure, she'll go around the house trying to sing like Sharpay and has a "Look at me!" attitude around our closest friends, but when she had to sing and dance a number with her fellow kindergartners in a school-wide show last year, she was petrified and did little but stand on the risers with her hand in her mouth.
But the burgeoning drama queen is already suffering some of the side effects of rehearsing for a show. Last night after her bath she started humming a little tune that I didn't recognize from Hannah Montana or High School Musical, which is unusual.
"Ahhhh!" she suddenly sighed, exasperated. "I've had drama club songs stuck in my head and I don't know why! How do I get songs out of my head?"
Oh, Ains, if I knew the answer to that I wouldn't have had the Charles in Charge theme song running through my head for the better part of a month after a friend made that a ring tone on her cell phone.
She must be having a good time, songs stuck in her noggin notwithstanding, because this morning while we were waiting for her bus to get to my school I spied her sitting on the end of a library table, legs crossed elegantly, old and broken microphone in hand, looking like a piano-lounge chanteuse perched on the edge of a baby grand.
She was singing something or other rather loudly until she realized my assistant and I had formed an amused audience back by the office. She then put her hand in her mouth and retreated behind a book shelf for her encore.
Let's hope that's not going to be her M.O. at the fall musical.
As parents, we want our kids to do the same things we did in school and to share our interests. I think we kinda want our kids to live out our dreams. It would be easy for me to push Ains into music and drama and want her to excel there and to go further with it than I did; I didn't have the guts or talent to move to L.A. or New York to pursue it (though one of my mom's well-meaning friends has always told me I would have made a great "soap opera actress"--gee, thanks, I think.) I would be thrilled if this were her dream, but I know I can't push my dreams on her. I love that some little part of her is loving the drama club, but if she wanders off stage with a red face in the middle of a number during a show, well, I'll be okay with that too. If she's happy, I'm happy.
And besides, I don't quite have it in me to be a stage mom.
I was a little surprised that they opened it up to 1st graders, and more surprised when the kid wanted to join. The day we got the signup in her folder, she said she wanted to think about it. When I told her that being in drama club meant participating in the little productions her school does and actually, you know, talking to people, she made the decision to not do it. Then came the day of the first meeting, which happened to be a day there was no bus service due to the big blackout so I had to pick her up after school.
"Mommy, the drama club meeting is in room 3 instead of the cafeteria," she said.
"Oh, that's nice." I was trying to navigate through the line of cars from other parents picking up their kids.
"No, it's not nice! I want to be in there! I want to do drama!"
"But you told me the other day you didn't...remember, you have to get up in front of people and talk and sing and dance?"
She rolled her eyes. "I know! I want to do it now! Can I can I please please please?"
So I turned around in the faculty lot, dropped her right back off, and wondered how this kid, who will talk your ear off if she knows you and hams it up in front of family but who will not even make eye contact with the Wal-Mart greeter and who hides behind me whenever a teacher here at my school asks her a question, would want to do drama.
As the child of two former high school musical supporting players (not High School Musical with caps, mind you) I figured she might have it in her do drama eventually, but I didn't want to push it since right now she seems much shyer than Jason and I ever were. Oh, sure, she'll go around the house trying to sing like Sharpay and has a "Look at me!" attitude around our closest friends, but when she had to sing and dance a number with her fellow kindergartners in a school-wide show last year, she was petrified and did little but stand on the risers with her hand in her mouth.
But the burgeoning drama queen is already suffering some of the side effects of rehearsing for a show. Last night after her bath she started humming a little tune that I didn't recognize from Hannah Montana or High School Musical, which is unusual.
"Ahhhh!" she suddenly sighed, exasperated. "I've had drama club songs stuck in my head and I don't know why! How do I get songs out of my head?"
Oh, Ains, if I knew the answer to that I wouldn't have had the Charles in Charge theme song running through my head for the better part of a month after a friend made that a ring tone on her cell phone.
She must be having a good time, songs stuck in her noggin notwithstanding, because this morning while we were waiting for her bus to get to my school I spied her sitting on the end of a library table, legs crossed elegantly, old and broken microphone in hand, looking like a piano-lounge chanteuse perched on the edge of a baby grand.
She was singing something or other rather loudly until she realized my assistant and I had formed an amused audience back by the office. She then put her hand in her mouth and retreated behind a book shelf for her encore.
Let's hope that's not going to be her M.O. at the fall musical.
As parents, we want our kids to do the same things we did in school and to share our interests. I think we kinda want our kids to live out our dreams. It would be easy for me to push Ains into music and drama and want her to excel there and to go further with it than I did; I didn't have the guts or talent to move to L.A. or New York to pursue it (though one of my mom's well-meaning friends has always told me I would have made a great "soap opera actress"--gee, thanks, I think.) I would be thrilled if this were her dream, but I know I can't push my dreams on her. I love that some little part of her is loving the drama club, but if she wanders off stage with a red face in the middle of a number during a show, well, I'll be okay with that too. If she's happy, I'm happy.
And besides, I don't quite have it in me to be a stage mom.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
The Most Shocking News I've Heard In At Least Two Hours
Prepare to be shocked! You totally didn't see this coming, or predict it.
I heard it on the radio this morning and almost lost control of the car because it was just sooooo unexpected. Clay Aiken has officially come out of the closet!
Here's my shocked face....and, scene.
I'm not why sure this was the top headline today, or why we care, or how anybody with half a brain or one-tenth of an ounce of gaydar could possibly be surprised by this, but there you go.
I remember when I was young and was just learning about the birds and the bees and the fact that some boy bees prefer the company of other boy bees and seeing news stories about the first two Hollywood personalities I first heard talked about as gay in the dawn of AIDS awarenes: Rock Hudson and Liberace. The former surprised me; the latter did not. I liken Clay Aiken's coming out much more on the scale of Liberace.
I am not sure why we all care, or why I even felt compelled to write about it today when there are much larger, more important issues to fret over (the current state of affairs on Wall Street; human rights violations in China; why Heroes just can't seem to get back the joy of its first season). I can't help but find celebrity lives and their dramas interesting, even at times like this when the shocking personal revelation isn't really all that shocking (I had a similar reaction of not-surprise when Brit-Brit drove away with her kid on her lap. She's just from a long line of po' white trash just like me, y'all.) Especially for good old Clay, who my husband calls "The Middle-Aged Housewife" for his striking resemblance to...well, a middle-aged housewife. Though I prefer to call him "Young Barry Manilow."
Are you one of those people who reads People, watches Entertainment Tonight, or goes online to read celebrity "news" and gossip? Have you ever been shocked by a celebrity revelation? Or are you normal and worry about real issues? And why does an entertainer's sexual orientation make news?
I heard it on the radio this morning and almost lost control of the car because it was just sooooo unexpected. Clay Aiken has officially come out of the closet!
Here's my shocked face....and, scene.
I'm not why sure this was the top headline today, or why we care, or how anybody with half a brain or one-tenth of an ounce of gaydar could possibly be surprised by this, but there you go.
I remember when I was young and was just learning about the birds and the bees and the fact that some boy bees prefer the company of other boy bees and seeing news stories about the first two Hollywood personalities I first heard talked about as gay in the dawn of AIDS awarenes: Rock Hudson and Liberace. The former surprised me; the latter did not. I liken Clay Aiken's coming out much more on the scale of Liberace.
I am not sure why we all care, or why I even felt compelled to write about it today when there are much larger, more important issues to fret over (the current state of affairs on Wall Street; human rights violations in China; why Heroes just can't seem to get back the joy of its first season). I can't help but find celebrity lives and their dramas interesting, even at times like this when the shocking personal revelation isn't really all that shocking (I had a similar reaction of not-surprise when Brit-Brit drove away with her kid on her lap. She's just from a long line of po' white trash just like me, y'all.) Especially for good old Clay, who my husband calls "The Middle-Aged Housewife" for his striking resemblance to...well, a middle-aged housewife. Though I prefer to call him "Young Barry Manilow."
Are you one of those people who reads People, watches Entertainment Tonight, or goes online to read celebrity "news" and gossip? Have you ever been shocked by a celebrity revelation? Or are you normal and worry about real issues? And why does an entertainer's sexual orientation make news?
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
The Mothman Cometh
Do you have plans for the third weekend in September next year? No? Well, you do now! Meet me at the Mothman Festival in Point Pleasant, West Virginia. Leave your skeptic's hat at home, but bring your sense of humor and that part of you that's more Fox Mulder and less Dana Scully.
We did not make it to the Mothman Festival this year, but we have friends who happened to be passing through that corner of the world on the way back to Cincy from a concert and who just missed the festival themselves. These are our friends who have this way of finding things for us we didn't even know we were looking for until they pop in the door bearing unusual and fun gifts.
Saturday night I squealed with delight when they unveiled some treasures found on their latest mini-vacation.
"These were just screaming your name," they said.
The gifts were additions to my shot glass collection. I love to get shot glasses from glamorous places I may never get to go and from unglamorous places I would never believe qualify for shot glass status. The first one I opened tickled my love of irony; it was a shot glass from Mount Airy, North Carolina, the inspiration for Mayberry (at least, according to the shot glass.) Yes, one can celebrate his or her love of small town USA and simpler, quieter, family-oriented days with Aunt Bee while doing shots of one's favorite hard liquor.
And then the second glass has the Mothman on it.
Our friends learned through their GPS device that their journey home would bring them close enough to Point Pleasant, West Virginia to make a stop there. If you've ever read The Mothman Prophecies or heard anything about the Mothman legend and the collapse of the Silver Bridge in the late 60s, that may ring a bell.
The summer I was finishing chemo and starting radiation my librarian friend, the female half of this couple, checked out the Prophecies for me from her library. She had read the "true story" and recommended it as a good way to get a scare. She doesn't scare easily, so I took that as a real endorsement; for reasons I can't remember, cancer treatment just wasn't meeting my thrill quota that summer and I wanted to read a scary book. We freaked each other out one weekend night when I went to call her to find her already on my line even though the phone hadn't rung on either end. I know, I know; it was a complete coincidence and we just happened to call each other at exactly the same time. But there is something very disconcerting about someone being on the other end of your phone when you pick it up, especially when you've been reading about aliens, flying men with red eyes, and the Men in Black.
So stopping in Mothman central was a big thrill for her, and had she passed through just one day later she and her husband would have seen the annual Mothman Festival which celebrates all things paranormal and which the town apparently is creepily and exceedingly proud of.
As it is, they had to settle for visiting the world's only Mothman museum, getting their pictures taken by the Mothman statue, buying me a Mothman shotglass (complete with red eyes!) and getting a newpaper flyer full of all things Mothman in honor of the festival. Every ad featured the Mothman: there he was hiding behind a propane tank in the ad for the city's one place for propane and propane accessories; there he was at the Mothman Diner eating a Mothman burger; there he was driving away in a brand new Chevrolet. This town has only one claim to fame and they work it, baby.
The flyer made this annual festival thing look to good to pass up, so I think we're in next year. Though it will never surpass our annual trip to the Wool Festival.
Until next September when I can try to spot the Mothman in his old haunting grounds, I guess I will just have to make do with this. I think Ainsley might enjoy snuggling with it at night; after all, it does feature glowing red eyes which would make an awesome night-light for a small child and is not in the least bit creepy.
We did not make it to the Mothman Festival this year, but we have friends who happened to be passing through that corner of the world on the way back to Cincy from a concert and who just missed the festival themselves. These are our friends who have this way of finding things for us we didn't even know we were looking for until they pop in the door bearing unusual and fun gifts.
Saturday night I squealed with delight when they unveiled some treasures found on their latest mini-vacation.
"These were just screaming your name," they said.
The gifts were additions to my shot glass collection. I love to get shot glasses from glamorous places I may never get to go and from unglamorous places I would never believe qualify for shot glass status. The first one I opened tickled my love of irony; it was a shot glass from Mount Airy, North Carolina, the inspiration for Mayberry (at least, according to the shot glass.) Yes, one can celebrate his or her love of small town USA and simpler, quieter, family-oriented days with Aunt Bee while doing shots of one's favorite hard liquor.
And then the second glass has the Mothman on it.
Our friends learned through their GPS device that their journey home would bring them close enough to Point Pleasant, West Virginia to make a stop there. If you've ever read The Mothman Prophecies or heard anything about the Mothman legend and the collapse of the Silver Bridge in the late 60s, that may ring a bell.
The summer I was finishing chemo and starting radiation my librarian friend, the female half of this couple, checked out the Prophecies for me from her library. She had read the "true story" and recommended it as a good way to get a scare. She doesn't scare easily, so I took that as a real endorsement; for reasons I can't remember, cancer treatment just wasn't meeting my thrill quota that summer and I wanted to read a scary book. We freaked each other out one weekend night when I went to call her to find her already on my line even though the phone hadn't rung on either end. I know, I know; it was a complete coincidence and we just happened to call each other at exactly the same time. But there is something very disconcerting about someone being on the other end of your phone when you pick it up, especially when you've been reading about aliens, flying men with red eyes, and the Men in Black.
So stopping in Mothman central was a big thrill for her, and had she passed through just one day later she and her husband would have seen the annual Mothman Festival which celebrates all things paranormal and which the town apparently is creepily and exceedingly proud of.
As it is, they had to settle for visiting the world's only Mothman museum, getting their pictures taken by the Mothman statue, buying me a Mothman shotglass (complete with red eyes!) and getting a newpaper flyer full of all things Mothman in honor of the festival. Every ad featured the Mothman: there he was hiding behind a propane tank in the ad for the city's one place for propane and propane accessories; there he was at the Mothman Diner eating a Mothman burger; there he was driving away in a brand new Chevrolet. This town has only one claim to fame and they work it, baby.
The flyer made this annual festival thing look to good to pass up, so I think we're in next year. Though it will never surpass our annual trip to the Wool Festival.
Until next September when I can try to spot the Mothman in his old haunting grounds, I guess I will just have to make do with this. I think Ainsley might enjoy snuggling with it at night; after all, it does feature glowing red eyes which would make an awesome night-light for a small child and is not in the least bit creepy.
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