I was browsing the used CDs at a bookstore the other day (what is this, 1996?) and found the 10,000 Maniacs album In My Tribe, which I have on vinyl. Did you see that? I just had to point out that I’m cool and old and have it on vinyl. Let me take the cool out of the equation by adding that I bought it at Wal-Mart, along with the Ziggy Marley album Conscious Party. Did Ziggy Marley bring up the cool again, or has it flatlined?

Anyway, I was delighted to rebuy In My Tribe. What I didn’t remember about In My Tribe is that the music is fine, but the lyrics are unbearable. They are so unbearable I can’t stop listening to them! Each song has a moral! It’s insufferable! I can’t stand it! I can’t stand not listening to it every day!

Enjoy.

Track One: in which we learn about child abuse
Track Two: in which we learn about beatniks
Track Three: in which we learn about chronic illness
Track Four: in which we learn about the illiterate
Track Five: finally, a regular song about love gone wrong!
Track Six: in which we learn about alcoholism
Track Seven: in which we learn that the military is bad
Track Eight: my sister is getting married!
Track Nine: in which we learn about greed
Track Ten: in which we learn about homelessness or something
Track Eleven: in which we learn about sad olds

Just a note to say that life remains wonderfully, hilariously weird: last week would’ve been my 15th wedding anniversary. Because I talk to Larry more often now than when we were married, we wished each other a happy one, and noted that we’re almost even: we were married eight years and have been divorced seven. Anyway, then a few days later I guess he was looking at old pictures in his phone and sent me a picture of my boyfriend at their college homecoming five years ago. The fact that I exist in a space where my ex-husband is like “here’s an old picture of your boyfriend, with whom I have been friends for almost 30 years” delights me to no end. Also, the picture was cute and I responded, “Aw, cute!” because look, this guy is cute.

I have this new old lady friend (she is seriously an 87-year-old lady) who invited me to her book club. I had a big time listening to the olds shriek with laughter over Andrew Scott Greer’s Less, and a slightly bigger time listening to the gossip about the other members on the way home. This one lost two husbands, and is about to marry a third; this one’s husband left her 20 years ago and she has had no interest in men since; this one is dating a widower but everyone is worried because the wife only died four months ago. The thing that is currently consuming you is going to go away. A new thing will consume you. That thing will go away and then a new thing will arrive. Life is going to continue to roll on whether you like it or not. Stuff you have no idea about is going to happen. Some of it will be awful and will break your heart. Some of it will be wonderful, and you will annoy everyone with your happiness.

I look; morning to night I am never done with looking.

Looking I mean not just standing around, but standing around
As though with your arms open.

–Mary Oliver, patron saint of everything
“Where Does the Temple Begin, Where Does it End?”

1. I read One Hundred Years of Solitude in 1994 or so, and two things stuck with me: Remedios the Beauty ascending into heaven, and the yellow butterflies that followed a couple who were secretly in love.

The other day a coworker and I were going to lunch (I forgot to tell her something important that she needed to do so I bought her a guilt lunch to make up for it) and a yellow butterfly passed in front of us.

–I’m such an English major! Did you see that yellow butterfly?
–Yes…uh, are you going to write a poem about it or something?

I enjoyed the slightly frightened way she said that.

A moment ago I pulled One Hundred Years of Solitude off the shelf to reread the chapter about Mauricio Babilonia and Meme, only to find I kind of had it wrong. The yellow butterflies don’t follow them because they are in love. They follow Mauricio because they follow him everywhere despite any love factor. Then Meme’s mother discovers their trysts and everything goes to shit. I like my version much better. Also, in my version no one is shot in the back, paralyzed, and dies alone choking on yellow butterflies. And no one else is rendered mute and never combs her hair again. This book, y’all.

2. I am a very light sleeper, which is handy if you want to know if an ant is crawling around in your kitchen, but bad if you like sleeping. As I like sleeping and also like not being resentful of people who make noise in their sleep, I have tried a variety of earplugs. These are my findings:
–The foam ones are garbage.
–Yes, even the ones that are shaped differently.
–Yes, even the ones that say THESE FOAM ONES ARE THE BEST.
–The sticky blue Play-Doh ones are the way to go. The only way to go. Did you google best earplugs for snoring? Welcome. Buy the blue ones from Amazon. However, let me warn you: they can be TOO good. I have awoken not knowing what planet I’m on. There is no sound except my own heartbeat. I think even Michael Jackson’s sensory deprivation chamber probably had a little bit of white noise. These earplugs are serious. I have had to adjust them so I can hear the fan and a little bit of snoring, which reminds me I am not, in fact, alone on Mars, but here on Earth, lying awake thinking about yellow butterflies.

A few weeks ago I started thinking about the country song “You’re the Reason God Made Oklahoma,” which might be one of the weirdest and most romantic of sentiments. I have now listened to it approximately one million times, and I still think it is a weird and romantic sentiment. But listening to that song made me want to revisit some of my other country favorites, and so I have made a playlist, and through the power of random songs being played one after the other, I have discovered a secret! Ok, it’s not a secret. It is a theory. A theory that I enjoy.

First, the Tracy Lawrence song “I See It Now.” In this song, the narrator sees his former love interest at a location appropriate for dancing. He notes that she looks great, and laments that the reason for this is the hot new dude on her arm, with whom she dances about. He is not bitter; he’s happy for her, despite the fact that during their relationship, she clearly didn’t like him as much as she likes this new guy. It’s sweet!

(The video involves time travel, two Tracy Lawrences, and the plot of Carrie, so clearly you must watch it now.)

Second, the Alabama song “Old Flame.” In this song, a man is at a location, perhaps one appropriate for dancing, with his love interest. She runs into her former love interest. The narrator says, “I could tell you once were lovers / you ain’t hiding nothin’ that I don’t know.” Hmm, shaming her for past relationships isn’t a good look. Why does she have to hide the fact that she had a boyfriend once? LET HER HAVE HER PAST. Ugh, this guy. He goes on and says while she may not like the old guy as much as she likes him, she’s liked the old guy longer and then he threatens to break off the relationship.

This is the same situation, told by the two different men! I have loved “Old Flame” since it came out in 1981 and now it is ruined by toxic masculinity. I will now devote my life to writing a third country song, told from the point of view of the woman, in which she goes to a location appropriate for dancing with her jealous new boyfriend, runs into her old boyfriend, sees how the new boyfriend cannot handle it, predicts that his jealousy will only escalate, and leaves them both to go back to school and get a PhD.

For years, each time I go to DC, I visit a piece of art that I call My Lady. She is a hyperrealistic sculpture of a sad looking woman eating a banana split. I have a picture of her framed in my home. I think she is amazing and beautiful. I know how to draw a picture (albeit poorly), but I don’t know how make a lady.

“Woman Eating”, Duane Hanson, 1971

She also reminds me of this girl I went to middle school with who once wrote this in a slam book in response to the question Who do you want to do it with?: “Anyone, anytime, anywhere.”

I visited her in June, but before I went back to DC a few weeks ago, something else on the Hirshhorn website caught my eye. His name might officially be “Untitled (Big Man)”, but I call him Man Baby. I sent a picture of him to my traveling companion and said THIS IS WHAT WE’RE DOING THURSDAY.

Untitled (Big Man), Ron Mueck, 2000

We wandered around the Hirshhorn for awhile looking at things we didn’t understand, hoping for a glimpse of Man Baby. “Where is Man Baby?” we asked each other. “Where have they put Man Baby?” And then we found him, and he is literally in a corner. Someone put Man Baby in a corner! Oh, Man Baby! You didn’t disappoint. Man Baby is a big old giant naked man. (My mother asked if he is anatomically correct, and the answer is yes. His official portrait keeps his secrets, but I know them ALL.) As I haven’t visited him every year for 15 years, I can’t say I know his story yet, but he is fascinating. Why is he naked? Why is his giant scrotum resting on the floor? What is that look on his face? Why are his eyes shifty? I hope to find out, and also to write some weird fan fiction where Man Baby and My Lady get together when the museums are closed for deep conversation, hand holding, and gazing into each other’s sad, shifty eyes.

I am not a good pancake or waffle maker, but the other day I thought I’d try using the wafflemaker that I used once and then shoved in the back of the cabinet. I’d bought some gluten free pancake mix and announced to Spike that I was going to make waffles.

–MAKE waffles? WHY?
–Because your uncle gave us a wafflemaker and I’ve only used it once.
–Why not just make an Eggo?
–BECAUSE I WANT TO DO THIS.

Problem the first: the wafflemaker was in the back of the cabinet. It’s a bottom corner cabinet, so I basically had to take everything out. Are you missing any water bottles or random jars? It’s because I have apparently stolen them from your house and thrown them willy-nilly into this bottom corner cabinet. Related: does anyone need any water bottles or random jars? I took everything out of the cabinet and sorted it into toss/keep, but I have a small kitchen and now the countertops were completely covered in stuff. I finally got to the wafflemaker, but I had to process all the extra stuff before I could move on to waffling.

Problem the second: I read the back of the bag and got all my ingredients out. I dumped the bag of pancake mix into the bowl and dumped the other stuff in. Then I noticed it said, “Add 1 1/2 cups of pancake mix.” Not the whole bag. Not the whole, much more than 1 1/2 cups of mix bag. Huh. Ok. FINE. I threw all that away.

Problem the third: I have gluten free flour and a pancake/waffle recipe. The universe was probably trying to tell me that I don’t need to buy a MIX for something as easy as PANCAKES. I was CONFIDENT. I HAD this. And then I mixed up the baking soda and baking powder. That’s ok, I thought. I am not going to worry about that. Maybe they’ll be flat or super fat or whatever happens when you use the opposite one of whichever one I was supposed to use! I cannot be stopped! Waffles, here I come! Then I tried to crack one of the two required eggs. And the eggs were frozen. We also experienced pickles frozen in pickle juice the other day, so I shouldn’t have been totally surprised, but the AUDACITY of the eggs to be frozen after all my trials really stopped me in my tracks.

I know a sign from the universe when I see one (maybe it takes me a minute, but I get there eventually). I tossed everything in the trash and asked Spike how many Eggos he wanted.

A few weeks ago my lunch companion told me about something amazing he heard about on a podcast: that once upon a time, people used to hire ornamental hermits as status symbols. Oh, you know, so rich, what’s this on my property, a hermitage, you say? In which my hermit lives? Oh, of course! It’s perfectly natural to hire a man to live in a hut and not cut his fingernails or hair for five years. But what happens if you’re low on cash, but high on a need for an ornamental hermit? Well, you can fudge it. Just put a classical text and a pair of glasses on a table and pretend your hermit is out doing hermit stuff. I love all of this.

The natural next step after learning about an ornamental hermit is to acquire one, or at least to acquire a fake one. The only classical text I could find was a Latin version of Winnie the Pooh (sure, why not?). I put it on my outside table, open to a page without an illustration of a bear. I found a pair of my grandfather’s glasses (doesn’t everyone have a Ziploc baggie full of the glasses of their dead grandparents?) and put those on top. I texted a picture to a friend, who advised that it needed a little zhuzhing up and to add a crust of bread. I got the heel from a loaf of Nature’s Own Honey Wheat — aka Hermit’s Choice — and tore it in half. Before, it was funny, but afterwards, it was hilarious. I almost couldn’t take how hilarious it was. I actually had to go take a heart palpitation pill. And then I waited for my lunch companion to come over. Would he know what it was? Would he be impressed with my handiwork?

He saw it and did not ignore it or say “what is that” or “what the fuck” or “huh” or “why do you have a Latin version of Winnie the Pooh?” He said, “Looks like your hermit is out taking a walk!” It wasn’t a test, but he passed.

1. “I mean, this is a mute point, but…”
2. “Sometimes it’s good to have an old fart around.” — An Old Fart
4. “Is it ok if I bring my strewdriver to work? There’s just one strew I need to tighten on my desk.” (I said yes.)
4. “Have you heard of the most dangerous cheese?” (It’s this one.)
5. “Can you buy these Swisher Sweets for me? I don’t want them to scan my driver’s license. But I promise my name is Lucius P. Granberry.” — 90+ year old man at Walgreens whose name is most likely not Lucius P. Granberry, but who spoke with a Foghorn Leghorn accent
6. “What’s the name of that racist rooster again?” — coworker explaining what was wrong with her Bumble date

1. I paid off my student loans last week!
2. I rediscovered the John Wesley Harding album The Name Above the Title and lo, it is 1996 all over again, except good this time.
3. The person who mispronounces everything hit me with a doozy last week. Guess, if you will, what “complebent” was supposed to be. I will literally give you a million dollars if you do. This is not a legally binding promise.
4. I had a dream the other night that I went to France, and the moment I got there it was revealed that I was the victim of a known scam: steal everything from people when they first get to France. I had no phone, wallet, passport, medicine, nothing. I eventually got stressed out enough to wake up.
5. Looking in the Notes section of my phone just now, I saw another dream about how The Wave was coming to Jackson. Instead of being a dorky communal excitement experience, this was a literal wave of water. It was very stressful and once I woke up, I stayed awake for a very long time trying to plot how I would deal with The Wave. How do I get all the cats in the car? What if my neighbors aren’t home but their dog is outside? Should I take him too? Hours of plotting my course.
6. Haha, another dream in the Notes: I was a nurse and my college boyfriend came into the ward. Quote: “I believe there was some marital deceit.”
7. I just had to break the news to a vendor that my workplace is not going to go with his product after all. It was like a breakup. It was maybe worse than a breakup. “I appreciate you telling me. Obviously I wanted a different answer. May I ask which vendor you went with? Huh. REALLY. Well. That’s INTERESTING. Huh. Ok. Well. Thanks for telling me. I hope we can keep in touch.” #rough
8. gross
9. I was typing “gross” into a chat box, or at least I intended to, so I’m leaving it there.
10. I didn’t have ten things to say, but I made it.

I have had an extremely satisfying day and need to report to this you, the zero number of people who are reading this.

1. I did the NYT puzzles as usual.

2. I finished reading a book. I liked The Last Romantics, but I’ve recently read a LOT of books featuring sibling dynamics and I am full up now. There was a scene that I really liked where a woman is breaking up with a man, and she says something like, “I don’t want to eat dinner with you. I don’t want to go on vacation with you,” and I thought that about sums up when you are done with a person.

3. I went to the farmer’s market, which was stressful and paranoia-inducing, but I managed to buy two beautiful tomatoes and two nice zucchini. I don’t know why I couldn’t have had symmetry and said the zucchini were beautiful, too. They were very nice, ok? Maybe just not beautiful. I don’t want to eat dinner or go on vacation with them. Does that clear things up?

4. I went to the flea market, the kind of gross one you have to pay a dollar to get into. I considered buying a pin that said I TECATE MY BODY because I saw a similar pin at a flea market in like 1988 and I thought it was some sex thing and was very scandalized. But instead I just took a picture of it. I did buy some postcards of the Jackson Zoo and was extremely pleased with this purchase because one is of Monkey Island!

5. Then I went to see the early bird matinee of Booksmart, which was great for many reasons, one of which being that I was the only person in the theater. I also laughed my ass off throughout, which is notable because I’m not a movie laugher usually. Things can be funny! I can be amused! But “ha ha ha that movie is making me laugh” is pretty rare. Also, the movie started at 10:30 and was $7. Anyway, the growly way she says DOES NOT MATTER in the scene with the hair masks has made me laugh all day.

6. Then I came home and made a caprese salad and ate it all.

7. Then I considered taking a nap but ended up going to TJ Maxx with Gorjus. I bought nothing, but he got some new towels, a candle, and some pink salt. He is really into that pink salt. We talked a lot about that pink salt.

8. Then we went to Baskin Robbins and I got a weird sundae of lemon custard ice cream with marshmallow topping. It was amazing. Marshmallow topping doesn’t really have a flavor: it’s just SUGAR SAUCE. I’m into it.

9. Then we went to Lemuria and I bought The Immortalists.

10. Then I came home and watched 75 episodes of The New Girl, which is code for three. It feels like 75 because I’m not a binger so it feels excessive. I am so slow that I have been watching this on Netflix for the past four years and am never caught up. (I know it’s four because I remember starting it when I was dating the guy two boyfriends ago.)

11. I made a weird dinner with the nice-not-beautiful zucchini and the remaining tomato, I repotted the two night blooming cereuseseses I bought last month at a plant sale at Eudora Welty’s house, and then I took a bath. Well, I’m still taking it. I’m writing this from the bath! It’s the future!

It was a fine day, a good day.

I did not advance to the next round in that short story contest, which was not a surprise, as I am not a short story writer. However, the feedback was fair and valuable, should I choose to enter another contest to do a thing I don’t know how to do in the future. The huge upside is that I didn’t have to write another story over the weekend, which worked out since Spike had four soccer games and I was busy screaming the whole time. Today I am hoarse. Enthusiasm!

I am now in a book club, and we are reading Geek Love, and while I like the writing, I am stressed out beyond reason by Arty. Also, one of my cats knocked over a glass of water onto my copy, and being forced to read a creaky, crackly waterstained book is hurting me.

I’m pretty good at embarrassing myself, and last week I managed to do something so embarrassing I’m pretty sure I turned into ectoplasm for a few minutes before I regained my human form. To explain, pretend that you have a new friend named William who, when you met, spilled his drink on you. Pretend also that when your friends say, “What’s new?” you say, “Well, not much, I met this guy and when we hung out he spilled his drink on me,” so in texts they check up on you by asking, “How is The Spiller?” Then one day, inspiration hits, and you text them, “Hey, The Spiller’s real name is William so I came up with a great new nickname for him: SPILLIAM” except no, OF COURSE you didn’t text your friends. You texted Spilliam. Yes. You have been placed on this planet to ruin everything all the time.

In doing this, you have revealed the following to Spilliam:

1. You talk about him to your friends
2. You think his drink spilling is noteworthy
3. omg, SPILLIAM
4. You don’t know how to text

I have been watching New Amsterdam, which is like Grey’s Anatomy minus the sex and plus magical, unrealistic solutions to medical problems. The hospital across town is the only one with that special machine? Then by all means, let’s fake our identities and go over there and use it! The woman who my sister donated her heart to is now in my hospital with heart failure? WE MUST SAVE HER. AND WE SHALL. It is not stressful, it has a diverse cast, and everyone is beautiful. Recommended for people who get stressed out by imaginary people and situations.

Ok bye

I’ve developed an interest in hookworms — as one does — and just came upon this extremely descriptive passage from Thomas D. Clark’s The Emerging South (1968, p25-26):

“As the white population expanded, the incidence of hookworm became greater. Barefooted and carefree men of nature defecated on the ground, giving the bloodthirsty killer in their bowels the air and soil necessary to complete its life cycle. Pale, emaciated, tobacco-stained dirt-eaters became stock characters of the natural southern scene…As the barefooted population increased, the germ of laziness spread with enormous ferocity. No one, of course, knew that the cause was really a parasite.”

I can tell you that this is the most spirited description on this topic that I’ve found. I’m considering acquiring an enemy just so I can say this:

YOU’RE

NOTHING

BUT

A

PALE

EMACIATED

TOBACCO-STAINED

DIRT-EATER!!!!!!!!!!

Last week I was at the public library picking up two Elizabeth McCracken books (I like to burn out on an author by reading everything they’ve written in a short period of time) and I ran into my former dental hygienist, who now owns a sno-cone business.

“Hey! How’re you?” we both said.

“What do y’all do in the sno-cone off-season?” I said.

“What was that?”

“What do y’all do in the sno-cone off-season?”

“Hmm. Sno-cones. Ok, good to see you!” She walked off.

After thinking about it for a minute, I realized that our kids played soccer together a few years ago and that she probably doesn’t know shit about dental hygiene or sno-cones. I started to laugh and went back up to her.

“Oh, hi, I just realized you’re Aiden’s mom and NOT my former dental hygienist who now owns a sno-cone business!” I was barely able to say these words because I was laughing so hard.

“I was trying so hard to remember if we’d ever gotten sno-cones together!” she said.

“No, I’m just insane,” I said. “Good to see you!”

When I got back to work I looked them both up on Facebook and in my defense, I have to say, they look remarkably alike. Both have eyes and hair and everything.

• I finished Bowlaway by Elizabeth McCracken over the weekend, and whoa. My favorite books are usually those that you can describe as “weird, sad, beautiful,” and this one is no exception. It’s more weird than sad, though there’s sadness throughout. (Just not rip your heart out of your body sad. I’m looking at you, Cold Mountain.) I was flipping through to find some examples of weird/sad/beautiful, and basically every sentence was such. Here are two, though, that aren’t spoilers:

“Orphaned, taken in. Alone, married. She did not know who she was. Her soul was a goldfish, a little thing inside the bowl of her body. She always had to concentrate to find it before she said her prayers.”

“She was a tyrant. She was a thief. He loved her yet. Years later he would die with these truths upon his lips. He loved everyone he had ever loved.”

I’ve already read 13 books this year (#single), and this is by far my favorite. It also has a pretty cover, which doesn’t hurt anything.

• Bookstore employee on phone: “The Cat in the Hat? Oh, just The Hat? OK.”

• I’ve been to several flea markets and antique stores lately, which is a fun way for us olds to pass the time. Some stuff I’ve purchased:

–photo of a random German (?) family from the 30s, inscribed with their names on the back: Phili, Rudolf, Margot, and Hans

–some glasses with a hunting scene on them, one of which has a cool lodge name:

–a very cute bright blue glass creamer

–70s movie posters from a Hattiesburg drive-in. Y’all think these are family friendly or what?

• To complete my journey into spinsterhood, I have started doing the New York Times crossword puzzle every day. And maybe writing down how long it takes me to complete them. And then bragging. I started this a few weeks ago, and I am pleased to report that for the first time, I completed the Sunday puzzle yesterday! I didn’t even cheat, outside of pressing the uh-oh button! Maybe that’s cheating? I’m not calling that cheating. Googling stuff is cheating. And even then, that’s my own arbitrary rule. In case you’re interested, a Monday puzzle takes me about eight minutes, but the Sunday took me 45.

Last week I came across a pile of concert ticket stubs. I’m a pretty good archivist of my own life and thought all the concert ticket stubs were already together, so this was a treat. I was wondering where the evidence that I went to a Goo Goo Dolls concert once was, and now I have it! I was sitting next to a 10-year old, who got her tickets as a birthday present.

There were two stubs in the stub pile that didn’t seem familiar at all: one of those multi-band concerts sponsored by a radio station (featuring Live, which I don’t care for) from 1999 and a Matthew Sweet concert from 2000. The first one I immediately dismissed: totally not my stub. First, I have no memory, and second, it was Live. No. But Matthew Sweet? I love Matthew Sweet! I have seen Matthew Sweet! It was 1993, at one of those multi-band concerts sponsored by a radio station! Tony Bennett, Matthew Sweet, The Lemonheads — it was a good lineup! But I have only seen Matthew Sweet once, and certainly not in 2000.

Just in case I got roofied, I texted pictures of the stubs to a couple of friends: did we go to this? Did YOU go to this and somehow I ended up with your stubs? Nope. No one was there.

I put the picture on Facebook. A couple of people were at the shows, but they were people I didn’t know at the time.

During this, Gorjus kept asking, Do you know what Occam’s Razor is, Mawmaw? You were there. You’ve just forgotten.

Here are some of the alternate theories I offered:
1. I found the stubs at the Alabama Theatre
2. I intentionally planted them to confuse future me
3. I stole the stubs from someone I had a crush on (most plausible of all of these, tbh)

Then I remembered that I’m a pretty good archivist of my own life! And I kept a journal during those years.

You should not be surprised to learn that when I consulted the source material, it turns out that I went to both concerts. Both of them. I have seen Live, apparently. Once I read who I went with (I wrote: “the Loser Crew came to town”), I had a hazy memory of rain and homemade trash bag ponchos and being miserable and then going to IHOP afterwards.

But Matthew Sweet? Nope. I can’t remember the venue, and even when I saw that I went with a couple of the members of the aforementioned Loser Crew (who, coincidentally, were also some of these virgins), still no bells.

I haven’t had this experience before, where, when presented with a physical artifact, I still could summon no memories. The other day I listened to “Nothing’s Going to Change My Love for You” for the first time since 1987 and still knew all the words. What gives, BRAIN? IS THIS THE BEGINNING OF THE END? You let me keep Glenn Medeiros but you delete Matthew Sweet?!

I updated my Facebook post. One of the guys I went with commented, “What a great concert!”

Was it? I’d like to know.