Pave Paradise, Put Up a Parking Lot

Something weird has just happened. As many of you know, my parents moved out of my childhood home a couple of years ago to the new house they built, which for all intents and purposes, is across the street. The thing is, my parents are pretty eccentric and have hung on to our original house, which my dad built (via his lumber and construction company) and designed in 1953. It is a beautiful and stately red brick house, that was once set back from a country road on seven acres of mostly pine trees. In its heyday, the house was filled with the most wonderful antiques and furnishings that reflected many lives (family heirlooms and what not) well lived. My dad took great pride in the azalea gardens and all the sprawling front lawn. Eventually that country road became a highway and then a bigger highway, and then Wal-Mart came just a hop from the house. And that once pastoral home became the cover for a new subdivision that developed just behind our property and eventually, my parents realized they weren't getting any younger. So they left our house, but our family dog, who died less than a month later was still buried under a shady tree there near the woods where he liked to sniff out squirrels. But now, the house is really gone. It has been sold to the city who will not be tearing it down--but turning it into the city library!

I suppose this is one of the best outcomes for my house, our house, but it feels strange. They won't tear it down, but it's very likely the Ladies' Bridge Club will be meeting in my bedroom. I do have a sinking suspicion that the sprawling lawns and my dad's carefully tended trees will be wiped out to make way for a terrible, awful parking lot.

"We can't live in two places at once," my mom said to me."We have to let it go."

I know she is right and that I shouldn't be so sad, but I feel like I want to take a whole roll of film of every tree in the yard. I want to roller skate in the driveway for hours or walk our family dog in the woods and come out next to the towering magnolia tree at the edge of the house. In short, I'm feeling--perhaps unjustly--that my memories have been sold. But in actuality, I think I know it's about something else. To be continued...

What's wrong with this picture?

The picture above from Yahoo! News illustrates the location of a Colorado high school that is currently under siege by an adult, strapped with guns and explosives and holding several students hostage.

So I ask you--what's wrong with this picture?

Is it that again a Colorado high school is struck with tragedy or near-tragedy and that public schools grow progressively scarier?

Or is it that there is an inset map, by necessity perhaps, showing that Colorado is the big red square in the western half of the United States?

I have to tell you, I find both theories very troubling.

Sore at You

Something's been brewing in my mouth. It's a little giant thing I like to call pain. Yes, friends, I am able to think of very little else while a canker sore, approximately the size of greater Milwaukee develops under my bottom front teeth. Last night I woke up to the dull ache which soon progressed to full-on throb while I fumbled in the dark for the orajel I had bought earlier in the evening. The problem with that is that if you attempt to apply such a gel in the dark, in your mouth, you will inevitably get it everywhere and not only will you have a light smattering of bitter taste on every oral surface, the bulk of the gel will likely migrate to your lips, tongue tip and everywhere else that is not your source of weakness. That is, your entire face will be relatively numb, while the beacon of white, searing pain in the middle of the land of happy, pink gums will go unattended while you begin to drool all over your pillow because you have no control over your face. This was my experience of last night. I have never had a canker sore this big. In my masochistic day dreams, I consider what it might be like to burn it with...um, something hot, or to squeeze lemon juice into it, or rub salt ever-so-roughly. I don't know why, but sometimes it's kind of fun to imagine writhing like that. In the meantime of course, the reality of writhing from canker doom is not really worth a nickel. In facy, I'd gladly *pay* a nickel (or $6.99 in the case of Orajel Mouth Sore Medicine in times of inflation) to be rid of this ghastly blight in my mouth section.

Do you want me to stop talking about this now?

"A Million Ancient Bees Began to Sting Our Knees"

I am obsessed with Regina Spektor, especially the songs "On the Radio" (see awesome bee lyrics in subject line) and "Fidelity." I am going to die if I keep listening to these songs (actually, her whole new cd Begin to Hope which I downloaded from iTunes. The hilarious thing was that I stumbled onto her via someone's myspace page--and I really, really hate it when people hold me hostage to their listening interests via myspace. I have added a Regina Spektor song to myspaceship now though so that I can pass along this good fortune (or maybe it's bad considering how obsessed I am) to other unsuspecting myspacers. They should be so lucky; stop listening to noisy stuff, teens! Rawr.*

*MRT has really taught me to articulate my crankiness into a series of hilarious crabby noises so the result is I am actually less crabby, but not to the point that it deteriorates my most charming personality traits. Heh. But let's all be thankful to MRT for diffusing the crank.

Hi Peops

I haven't been blogging much here lately because of what is rapidly becoming an obsession with finishing up the wedding planning. We're just outside of two weeks right now and there are a lot of random things to do like tell people where to put tables. (Can I just say: I don't care, put the tables on their legs and in the room?) Ugh. I have been blogging at my Wedding blog a bunch, but it seems weird to post that address here because then you'll know stuff about me that I try to keep private. So I'm gonna just go with no for now.

I'm coming to Houston this weekend and despite all the poetic stuff I said about how East Texas is my first language, really I need to face facts that Central Market is my preferred language. Ha ha. Seriously though, I really do like Nacogdoches, but I really miss all of you. I miss my favorite haunts and the people who haunted them with me--even the ones I didn't know that well but always waved to. I don't really know anyone here.

In other news, I got my deposit back on my old apartment, so who's up for hookers and gambling this weekend? I've got cash. Okay, fine. How about a nice coffee at Agora then? I love their cappuccino. But I hate their teens.

Why does this sound like a letter from summer camp? Oh well. I'm pretty sleepy, so I'll sign off for now. Good night.

Love,
MaryT

Shiver Me Timbers and such as that...

That festive time is here again, scallywags.

It's International Talk Like A Pirate Day!

Anyone up for an ARRRRGH-rated movie?

Maybe she's coming down with jungle fever?

Molly is worrying me. She is doing a very weird head-bob routine that looks very much like Stevie Wonder at the piano. She acts like she's going to lick her back or chew her paw, but then her head swings forward and she kind of rolls her eyes at me and looks at me sideways. Maybe I should get her some sunglasses and ask her if Diet Pepsi is the right one baby (uh-huh). But then I'd just be bringing up outdated ad campaigns, mixing up metaphors and blind pop pianists.

All day I will imagine Molly singing "I just called...to say...my ears itch."

Of course, I never saw Stevie Wonder stick his tongue out all lizardly while his head moved. That's a MollyT original. I'm thinking q-tips and ear rinse.

"I just called...to ask...to borrow some witch hazel."

R.I.P. Texas's Original Motorcycle Mama

Dorothy Ann Willis Richards • September 1, 1933 – September 13, 2006

Farewell to former Texas governor Ann Richards-- a great lady and one of the brightest, sanest, smart-mouthed voices in politics today and Texas politics ever.

Windfall!

In days of yore, I used to stash a little money or so in secret places, so when i found it, I would be so thrilled. Many good stories ended with "...and then I found $5!" Or even $1. Usually, not less than $1 though or I'd just be like "This change fell in the sofa while M! and Pens were furiously stuffing candy wrappers in it."

But today! Today! While I was in the midst of unpacking hell, in which MRT is like "do you really need that votive candle?" and I panic thinking of course I don't and I have no place to put it and dead bug bodies are trapped in the five-year-old wax, and yes OF COURSE I need it. It was $8! But then I throw it away. This is extremely difficult for me. I am not a pack rat, per se. I am extraordinarily neat and clean, but I get very sentimental and often frustrated with money I feel I have poured down the drain (see past blog on purchasing Drano for a literal example).So anyway, in the midst of this doom, I randomly pulled a wad of cash out of an old purse. $50! And mysteriously in all fives, except one ten. Who carries so many fives? A luxury stripper? I have no idea. I don't know if a past me put it in there and forgot it or put it in there as a prize for future me. So in that event--thanks past me, I guess. Unless of course someone is laundering $5 bills (which as we see, quickly adds up) and I have now foiled their dastardly plan. Either way: $50. Superb!

P.S. I just asked MRT "what in the world do I do with this?" as though I found a MILLION dollars. His response? "Um, put it in your wallet." Damn practical people. He probably has zero pairs of socks that have ever stored such a financial treasure. Banks are overrated. Whee.

The Last Outpost of Blog?

Okay, everyone has outgrown blogging except me apparently. M!, Pens, Lekker Noonan, and Dr. N.N. Mind have totally fallen away, while Pinky von M, Mango Lassy and Bish are dispiritedly carrying the last sparks of what was once a great fiery torch of bloggery. Meanwhile, I'm riding high like it was 2003 or something. "Hey, anyone want to see my iPod? It's new. Look, I have a polyphonic ring tone on my cell phone!" I mean, I have a blog on Myspace (a crappy one, mind you), this one, and now one for my wedding. And though the myspace one has seen better days, I pretty much update them all regularly--daily even. So I have that in common now with other 14-year-olds.

Is this the end of the blog? Is my 15 minutes-cum-four years of less than total anonymity finally at an end? Fine. I will start typing this in the broom closet; but don't start sucker punching me during lunch period when you want to see what I wrote and I whine lamely "but it's my journal, you bully!" and then tell the teacher on you. I will do it, you know. I am from a proud generation of paper and pens and walking and shoes. Yes, young person, in the past we wore shoes. Now back to my log cabin!

Bad Boys! Bad Boys!

Somebody is getting arrested at the gas station next door! I'd say more, but I have to get back to watching it unfold from our porch with MRT. Monday night is crazeee in Nac town!

Oh yeah: whatcha gonna do when they come for you?!

CRIKEY! It's a slow news week.

I hate to speak ill of the dead, but can I ask why we're still hearing about Steve Irwin's death? I mean, sure, I enjoyed watching his show sometimes. Although to be quite honest, I enjoyed M!'s imitations of him saying "This one looks peesed awwf! I think O'll poke 'eem in the oye!" much more.

But seriously--peops are making a HUGE deal of this and are acting shocked that a man who regularly stuck his head in the mouths of dangerous, wild animals has died of an animal attack. How did they THINK he was going to die? Raise your hand if you thought it was obvious that it was not going to be in his old age in his sleep? Um, right here.

I was just in the grocery store and the cover of Us or People or one of those features Irwin on the cover and the sub-headline of "The truth about his death. How did it happen?" Umm, we all know. In fact, we all knew minutes of it happening because it was on every radio and tv station. I even know and I am hiding out in the middle of somewhere. A sting ray stabbed him in the heart. That's pretty much cut and dried right there--especially since it was on film. Is there going to be something shocking in the coroner's report? I doubt it.

"Guy who swims with sharks dies of being stabbed by shark." There you have it folks. Can we go back to talking about 9/11 some more? I mean, sure, it happened five years ago and we haven't been able to *stop* remembering the horrors of that day--BUT, it was a life-changing event for an entire country, so I'll give it a break. Irwin, however, you're out, mate.

Golden Newies

Have y'all noticed that all radio stations don't really say what they portend to play? Like last night, MRT and I were able to tune into some Houston stations when we were down Lufkin way. We thought we were listening to the Oldies station because we were singing along to "Hooked on a Feeling". But actually, it was country legends. No kidding. I'll even go ahead and give them "Flowers on the Wall" as a country song--even though it's marginally so. But "Hooked on a Feeling"? I don't think so.

A lot of Houston stations are being sneaky about it though. Like the station formerly known as KLDE (as in K-[silent O]LDE) now calls itself KHITS or KHTZ or something jazzy and dumb like that. But instead of playing your favorites from the 50s, 60s, and 70s, they now only play your golden memories from the 60s and 70s-- they say. In actuality, they play Low Rider and some early Stevie Wonder because anyone who likes music from the 50s at this point is clearly a dinosaur, right? To say nothing of the demographic that grew up listening to oldies with their parents, learning the tunes (dare I say enjoying them?), and not developing some kind of anti-Boomer agenda about how to radically alter the stations when at last we ran the circus.

That still doesn't explain how 106.9 The Point went from being "your home for the best of the 80s" to "the best of the 80s...and more" to "we pretty much just play Matchbox 20 and Avril Lavigne, though we occasionally throw in a recent R.E.M. song to keep the Class of '87 from rioting." I mean, *I'm* not too old to listen to music and patronize radio sponsors and I don't consider 80s tunes to be past their prime. Do they wish to lose my sponsorship? (I mean, if you want to get technical, most 80s songs were past their prime when they came out--but damnit, that is purely technical.)

Those wacky teens of yesteryear may have cut their filthy hair and downsized their giant headphones, but they have money now--anjd not just "for the mall" cash that they earned with a shift at DQ. Capisce? That cold, hard, sponsor-supporting cash was probably made in some foreign IPO--so if they wanna rock (ROCK!), rock (ROCK!) just as in olden times, your answer to that earnest plea is giving them Rob Thomas, ClearChannelwhoisthedevil?! WRONG answer.

I mean, I do realize that it's impossible for ClearChannelwhoisthedevil to add *another* radio station in which the 50s live or in which the 80s is not synonymous with Grunge/Nirvana/Third Eye Blind because that might mean (don't say this too loud) competition or paperwork or damn dirty liberals all up in their monopolizing business. But it's just a suggestion. In the meantime, ClearChannelwhoisthedevil, while you continue to play oldies and the same two Johnny Cash songs (and not his best ones, at that) on Country Legends, I have two words for you: Satellite Radio.

Boo-yah. Hello Sirius!

Re: Pudding

I must remark again how absolutely wonderful it is to have made my return to pudding. It is so delicious. And my banana pudding has been quite the hit as I let it sit a goodly amount of time in the fridge so the wafers got perfectly soggy. Served cold, it is the perfect pseudo-summertime treat to enjoy while sitting on your...get ready for it...new picnic table! Woo woo for the picnic table MRT built this weekend. :)

And woo woo especially for my mad pudding skillz.

Language Lessons

Inspired words from a man who knows how to ski.

I originally started this post telling you how I made banana pudding tonight. (It's true.) The pudding was part of a greater post about how there are some things I like better about Nacogdoches (the pervasive smell of pine trees and freshly bailed hay and cut grass, for example) and some things I prefer about Houston (the seemingly infinite supply of Parmigiano Reggiano--the undisputed king of all cheeses, you know). But then I went on a long bike ride with MRT and as I cleared my head and began to imagine myself in a commercial for Country Time Lemonade, I started thinking about another blog post.

No, seriously. A few days ago, Danny wrote a very insightful post on Stuff Is Cool about the inherent awkwardness of learning a new language and the instinctive desire to translate directly to the old language (yes, from the olde country where they serve hot, fresh loaves of blog) in a misguided attempt to improve dexterity in the new language. The thing is, you can't do that if you're ever going to be really agile in the new language. And if I may take Mr. DiP's analogy a step further, this is also how it is with moving from the fourth largest city in the country to a relative hamlet in the piney woods. For days I have been fighting the impetus to head to the city (even Dallas--blech) to fulfill my need to speak my fruity urban code. By this I mean to say I really wanted to go to Nordstrom and to the Container Store and eat somewhere that the price would shock me. Ha.

But as I breezed through the red brick streets of downtown Nac, past wide lawns that spread endlessly before brightly-lit Victorians where neighbors watering their roses waved to me, I realized I had never had a moment like that in all my years in Houston. While cruising the paths of the cemetery at twilight, MRT and I lowered our voices to a whisper to yield to the busy conversation of the locusts nesting in the towering pines.

Which brings me back to pudding.

I have become so accustomed to the marvelous desserts of fine eating establishments of fair Houston that I almost forgot how much I like pudding. And jell-o salad. And walking across cool St. Augustine grass in my bare feet and reading on the porch while it rains. I am starting to remember that though I love Houston and I will always love Houston, East Texas is really my first language.

Sorry for any readers who were hoping for something a little snappier and along the lines of poop snapple.

Accio Awesome!

Tonight MRT and I went for a lengthy stroll in our piney-fresh neighborhood. It was about 70 degrees outside and quite sensorially uplifting. The siren factor in this town is strangely high. I hear more sirens here than Houston. Maybe it's all the underage binge drinking of college students? In any case, the best part about the walk was the unexpected delight I felt when I saw a familiar sign above one of the houses a couple streets over: The Dark Mark!

Quoi?

Yes, the Dark Mark from Harry Potter. It was in the vein of Christmas of Halloween decor, but it was unmistakeable as Mary GrandPre's eerie green dark mark from the dust jacket of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.



Awesome side note: When I googled to find this image, I found out that Death Eaters is its own entry on Wikipedia!

Some of you will not find this cool at all, but I know at least a few of you will be in full agreement of this awesomeness--even if the Dark Mark itself is a sign of old Voldey.

So now I totally want to get a Dark Mark for my house.

Accio cheesey decoration!