Monday, October 27, 2014

Cue the Gone with the Wind Music

I had what I would call the most purely southern moment since I've been down here recently, and as with all things in the modern south, it happened at the grocery store. I've learned the local grocery store is at the epicenter of southern interaction. Forget the telephone! Leave emails and texts to those Yankees! If you want to have a veritable cocktail party, hit the Winn-Dixie! I don't even KNOW most people in town, and every time we've gone, I've run into neighbors, people we've seen at church, families from the kids' school. I've taken to going by myself on Fridays, because this whole thing freaks me out a little.

I'm happily filling my cart and checking things off my list, when I hit a necessary item--frozen vegetables--on sale. As is the same, north or south, the sale items were a jumbled mess, plus it was a humid day, which meant I couldn't see a thing through the freezer case. I was head and shoulders into a freezer case, trying to find my items, when, I swear, I'm not making this up, a woman's voice, veritably dripping with honey sopped up by a biscuit, announces in a loud voice "Well, I declare!" Of course, no "r" sound was pronounced. It was more "declay-ah" than anything. She was speaking to another female patron, and she continued with "I haven't seen you in I do not KNOW how long (made into two syllables, that word). Truth be told, I thought you'd passed." At this point, I'm trying really hard to keep a straight face, good thing I'm out of sight. I continued on with my vegetable search as they shared small talk, promising to catch up more soon.

The delightful elderly southern woman came over by me and, again, announced she was looking for "soup vegetables." Since I was already half in the freezer case, I offered that there was a bag with "soup vegetables" marked on it, as I handed it to her. She read the bag, made a scoffing noise that really employed her entire body, pointed to the wording on the bag, and in an accusing manner told me, "This has OKRA in it. We don't put okra in our SOUP." Feeling outnumbered and outgunned by this little woman, I went with my strengths and replied, "Glad you said that. I'm a Yankee, and I wouldn't put put okra in MY soup, either." She sized me up in an instant (I really longed for a set of pearls to clutch), and told me, "Well, then you were brought up right." I handed her a different bag of vegetables, and she sniffed and told me I'd been very helpful.

As often happens in grocery stores, we happened to meet up at the check out line, she with her half-full cart, me with my overflowing one. She was already almost through the line, when she saw me and declared she was glad she didn't have to put all my groceries away. That's when I let her know this was a week's worth of groceries for five. She immediately started taking items from my cart and putting them on the belt while the cashier bagged what she had. She told me how she used to have six to feed, but now it was just her, and she'd started calling her nephew to come over with a friend or two, just so she could keep her "cooking mind fresh" from time to time. She paid for her by then loaded up groceries, bid a lovely day to all (pronounced aw-el) and left.

It was probably the most pleasant day I've ever had at the grocery store.

Monday, October 20, 2014

The Politics of Apples

A couple weeks ago, my uncle told me he didn't really like the Gala apples I'd purchased. I made a point of finding other varieties, I think we were on Granny Smiths this week. When I was asking everyone if they had grocery requests, he told me he really didn't want anymore Granny Smiths, that the last Gala he had was quite good.


I said, "Hold on. Didn't you tell me a couple weeks ago you DIDN'T like Galas?"

He said, "Well, yes, but that was just one apple. I had another, and I liked it a lot."

"Ok, so you were willing to not eat Galas for the foreseeable future, except for the fact that I bought some anyway for the rest of us, based on ONE bad apple."

Without skipping a beat, he said "yeah, it's what we conservatives do, condemn a whole type based on one bad sample."

It's good to know that if I have to live with even more conservatives now, they're willing to joke about it.

Sunday, October 19, 2014

Patient Zero

We've all been there, where our kid looks a little tired in the morning and sounds a bit hoarse. But no fever, no complaints when asked, and hey, the family spent yesterday outdoors all day with pollen and other allergens, so you send Muffin off to school. Couple hours later, and you get the accusing phone call from the nurse at Muffin's school, saying s/he has a fever of 102, which must have been blooming as they walked away from the car. I don't judge those people.

However, I AM going to get all Judgey McJudgerson on the people who knowingly send their kids to school, for whatever reason. Megan was complaining on Thursday that a kid who sits in the row in front of her had been absent for two days, then came back with a hacking cough, to the point the teacher told him to go call his mom. Mom was, conveniently unavailable, and kid was back at school on Friday! STILL coughing! 

Guess who started being sniffly and coughing last night? Better yet, tonight, Brett started up too, and they both have low fevers. Guess what Brett was doing this weekend? Sleeping in close quarters with his Boy Scout troop, making him Patient Zero for the plague I'm sure will befall the troop. Not to mention this charter school is crazy about absences, and Megan has five already, thanks to the Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease right at the start and a stomach thing she and I got a couple weeks ago, I'm sure just because of all the new germs we encountered moving to a new town.

I want to kick that kid's mom's butt!

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Did You Hear the Scream?

It was 10:34 last night. Did I wake you with my scream? I don't care if you're reading this halfway across the world, because the question is still relevant, as I screamed my fool head off, running through the house after I saw the BIGGEST COCKROACH OF MY LIFE IN THE BATHROOM SINK! Did I put enough emphasis on that? MY LIFE I tell you! It was longer than my THUMB! And glisteny and I could see the ridges on the outer shell or back or whatever. SO gross! I was prepared for outdoor bugginess, but in the bathroom sink? That's just too close to home, that's what that is.

Scott, who in my clearly calm executive decision-making process, was elected to dispense with the creature, went with drowning, as he informed me it was "too big to squish." Like THAT will ever make me use that sink again. I don't know what he did with it, I left and went to bed.

In the morning, Uncle Bob comforted me with the information that they are slower here in Louisiana, that Chicago roaches are quick and will scurry when the light hits them, maybe up your arm, but here they're big but slow, and they are easier to catch. Mm-hmm. I'm not comforted. in. the. least.

I'm shopping for bug spray today. I don't care if I kill us all in the process. Last night I dreamt of that scene in Men in Black where Will Smith is battling the giant cockroach. Hmm, wonder why?

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

The Drop Off Area

I used to loathe the infamous drop off line with its overly intense parents who felt compelled to jam on the gas pedal to move forward six feet and had to burn out leaving after chucking their kids out into the world, as others can here a frenzied "move! move! move!" coming from the car. Conversely, the parents who seemingly couldn't get their children out of the car without adjusting outerwear for each child, giving series of hugs and kisses and reminders, causing the veins in the temples of those behind them to throb, they were annoying too. Even the park and walkers, who couldn't drop their precious little cherubs off in the LINE and had to park and walk them in, always oblivious of natural stops in the line, really endangering their children, they too raised my blood pressure. All were part of the early morning and afternoon hum of school, the price we parents pay, if you will, to send our children to public education, where teachers keep them for hours at a time so we don't. have. to. hear. the. whining.

Oh, internoodles, I now long for those days. LONG for them, I tell you. Now that the kids are in a charter school that is 25 minutes away, we were thrilled, let me repeat that, THRILLED that two spots on the bus opened up. Those near hour round trips through sugar cane fields were getting old. I should have realized things may not go smoothly when I asked where we catch the bus, and the DRIVER could only tell me the name of one of the streets. She did, however, tell me it was right by the building that used to be a rec center. This was, in no way, helpful, as there is no signage that says anything about a rec center on the building she was referring to, so as a recent transplant, any of the buildings, really, could have been the one in question. Luckily, we found it the first day.

Let me also say that to call the meeting place a parking lot was reallllly raising the expectations of those looking for the area. I passed it three times before I realized this area was what she meant as a parking lot. It's a small field of grass with a vague traffic worn path through it. There are no parking spots, so everyone just sort of parks wherever, all higgledy-piggledy, double parking, some half hanging out into the streets. It's chaos. Oh, and I don't know why but EVERYONE backs into parking spaces down here. For everything. Me, the rebel I am, I don't and I try to be organized. People look at me weird.

I'm also used to people staying to wave, and once the bus passes, we're gone. As soon as that bus rounds the corner and can be seen, people are chucking kids out of their cars and speeding off. While the backing in thing actually helps in this, there are children I've seen jump out of the path of trucks--everybody drives trucks--to get in the bus line. I stay and wave to the bus, mainly because I don't want to take my life into my hands trying to jockey for leaving position. When I waved yesterday, and I only waited until the bus turned the corner, about 10 feet away, I was the last car in the "area" for parking. Last week, we drove up to a couple kids standing by a shed that's in the area, their parents already gone.

We'll see what this afternoon's pick up brings.

Sunday, October 5, 2014

New Nickname for the Hubster!

Scott was chuckling the other night when he came home from work. One of the odious parts of his job--hey, all jobs have them--is the necessary repossession of furniture or appliances people have stopped paying for at the rent-to-own store where he currently works as a manager trainee. It's compounded by the fact his region's predecessor had been slacking on his job for many months prior to his departure. Scott said people actually get angry, thinking they were off the hook for paying for things because his predecessor had stopped calling them.

When they repossess, they go in teams, and Scott was with another employee when they approached a house. The woman was immediately angry, coming out of her house shouting and carrying on. She even tried to say the manager had told her "not to worry about it" but couldn't really define what the "it" was in her scenario. While Scott's work buddy was talking to her, he was busily moving the items out of the house and into the truck, as the woman amped her arguments up a notch, demanding to speak with the manager. Both the manager and the customer happen to be Black, as is the other employee who was along for the ride. My husband is, well, not. So when the customer had not gotten anywhere with logical arguments, she resorted to yelling "that's why [the manager] didn't come himself! He sent White Boy because [the manager] knew I'd kick his ass!"

Scott said he could barely keep a straight face as he was walking out, as obviously, my 6'2" 300lb husband was White Boy. She, apparently, kept repeating this sentiment as they finished up taking the items.

I'm totally calling him White Boy for the foreseeable future.

Thursday, October 2, 2014

Football Obsession

Gotta love the south and their obsession with football, a sport I could seriously give a fig about.

Today I was attempting to apply at local high schools, since I've been approved as not morally lacking (little do THEY know of my college years, but those records have been sealed, mwahahaha) to teach the children of St. Mary's Parish as a substitute. I'll talk about that fun process in a future post.

We (Scott was off today and acted as my chauffeur, as I am directly challenged) pulled up to a newish looking junior high/high school combo, and I approached the door, ringing the bell to gain entry. Nothing. Since it was about 1:45pm, this was odd, ring again. Nothing. Peek in, no one moving about. LAY on the ringer this time. A hesitant voice asked what I needed. I said I needed to submit my application to substitute teach. The disembodied voice--usually I've been buzzed in by now--asked if they TOLD me to come there. Um, yes, the school board told me to go to school's where I wanted to be considered and put in an application. Long pause. The voice told me no one was in the office who could provide me with and subsequently take my application, because they were "celebrating homecoming today." Pause on my part, until I said "you're kidding, right?" The voice assured me she was not. Homecoming shuts down the school. She then pleasantly told me to come back tomorrow at 7am.

I walked back to the car, shaking my head. I then relayed my odd encounter to Scott--the most enamored with football human being I've ever met--and he even said "really?" He then pondered, "gosh, I wonder what they do for mardi gras down here." THAT I was able to answer honestly, because I'd looked at the kids' school calendar, they CLOSE the school.

Sigh. The South. Tomorrow, I rise to do battle with you again.