One day last summer I went for a walk in my neighborhood after dinner. It was the beginning of the summer, or must’ve been, because I don’t think there’s any way I would willingly stroll about in billion-degree weather otherwise. Yes, now that I think about it it must’ve been in that brief period where we all try to convince ourselves that maybe it’s not SO hot out yet and that the evenings are still coolish.

On my walk, I passed a house on a corner with a gorgeous, yet sparse, purple hibiscus-y/azalea bush in their side yard. Now this bush thing had been blooming for awhile, and most of its blooms were on the ground. I’m just setting this up so you won’t think I’m a monster. So, seeing as it was beautiful, and I was propelling myself through the universe only using the body I was given, I plucked a bloom off the bush. Pluck is not the right word. Plucking is quick, and I kind of had to struggle. I negotiated a bloom off the bush, anyway.

Across the street, at a house with lots of lovely tiger lilies planted precariously close to the street, there was someone idling in a truck that I paid no attention to, but then the truck whipped around and pulled up next to me. The lady inside rolled down her window and asked, “Are you the one who’s been stealing my flowers?”

Let’s pause for a moment and just consider the various options a person could have. Either NO, I have not been stealing your flowers, or YES, I have been stealing your flowers. However, if I were the type to steal flowers, would I also be the type to admit this? And yes — I had just stolen a bloom off a flowering bush. I suppose I fit the profile. I suppose perhaps I should not have been so taken aback by her just flat-out DRIVING UP TO ME and asking HEY ARE YOU THE FLOWER THIEF.

I didn’t have a sassy response. I just said no. Then she said “Ok. Because someone’s been stealing my flowers.” And then she looked at me for a moment and then drove away.

I continued my walk, though now I was holding a TAINTED STOLEN FLOWER and felt like it was a cartoon bag of money with the dollar sign drawn on. I walked. I passed some people walking their dogs, none of whom screamed at me for stealing, and an older lady who smiled at the flower. I turned, I walked some more, I passed the same lady again. “Nice to see you!” we both joked. I kept walking, and I ran into her one more time. “We have to stop meeting like this,” one of us probably said, because look, if you don’t say that kind of stuff to strangers then you might as well just give up. She stopped and asked for directions back to Jefferson Street.

We actually stood there for over an hour talking. By the time we parted, I knew how long she’d been married (35 years), who said I love you first (she did, about four months in, then he straggled along a few months later), the ages/professions/marital status of all three of her sons (one of whom had just moved to Jackson to start his ER residency at UMC), and some stuff about her dogs. If this were a cozy mystery, she and I would become co-owners of a yarn store and solve crimes. Like who the REAL flower thief was! (Probably the owner. Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy, floral edition.)

Instead, we parted ways, and as I walked home still clutching the bloom I thanked the universe for restoring the balance so quickly.

I’ve already established that I like to re-read old journals, though I inevitably run across some information that gives me goosebumps or makes me nauseous. However, this entry only made me laugh:

August 16, 1997

This felt tip rules. I bought it yesterday in Tupelo at Office Max. I just told [boyfriend] that I was going to draw on his butt with this pen while he’s sleeping. If I get away with it, I get to draw on his butt once a month forever. If he catches me, he gets to write on my butt.

Fin

1. In 2003 or so, gorjus mailed me a package full of all the crappy mix cds people made for him that he’d accumulated through the years. Some were indeed crappy, but there was one that I really loved. It had the Billy Bragg song “Greetings to the New Brunette (Shirley)” and the Morrissey song “Let the Right One Slip In” and the Queers song “I Can’t Get Over You.”

2. I was living in Birmingham the second time in 2003, and I think have mentioned ad nauseum that Birmingham Part Deux was a real shitstorm: my mom had cancer, the job I moved for disappeared, I had to commute an hour to my OLD job that I left in Tuscaloosa, my car’s air conditioner broke, my apartment was broken into, I thought I was being haunted by my dead friend’s ghost, and no boys liked me. I kept throwing myself at one in particular to no avail. That Queers song was my anthem.

3. I particularly enjoyed that song on my way home from Ann’s house because there was a shortcut where I got to drive up a mountain. It was so fine a drive I’d turn around just to do it again.

4. Last night I was listening to the Queers song on my way to my manfriend’s house* and was imagining driving up the mountain. I could imagine making my way from Ann’s past her friend Julie’s house, then turning onto the road with the main incline but then could not remember which way the road turned and then how I got to my house.

5. Thus, I had to Google maps it to complete my mental drive for the next time I hear the song.

6. Then I had to write a blog post about it.

*The manfriend is actually the dude I threw myself at in 2003. Go figure. Life is weird.

When I married Larry Ferrari, I didn’t take his last name. But then when I was pregnant with Spike, I don’t know, I just imagined this tiny baby getting confused about what my name was and crying a lot. So I changed it to Sally Nordan Ferrari, and I always used it as Sally Nordan Ferrari, never Sally Ferrari, because in real life there is kind of a horrible RHYMING element that is just bad. Think Sally Leebowitz (sah lee lee bo witz).

Then when we divorced, I didn’t have part of the divorce decree change my name back (which, btw, is the easiest/cheapest way to get that done; otherwise it is a separate court shenanigan altogether), but I started using Sally Nordan wherever I could get away with it: at work, socially, ordering items online, etc. I’m Ferrari for medical, legal, or for Spike purposes.

Recently, Spike’s school is attempting to take on the very complicated task of splitting up the Larry+Sally union in their database. Surely we are not the only pair of divorced parents at this school but . . . hell, it’s possible, judging from the way some of the moms act like I have cooties at birthday parties.* Generally I still get mail from the school addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Larry Ferrari. Antiquated, but whatever. However, we are making great strides in 2013 because I received a piece of mail to this very progressive pair:

Mrs. and Mr. Sally Nordan Ferrari

I’ve never seen the Mrs. before the Mr.! It’s so forward-thinking! And to have the woman’s name be the one that they’re BOTH lumped together by! It’s revolutionary!

I have no plans to correct this.

*It’s possible that they think I have cooties for other reasons,** but the cootieness usually happens after a “what does your husband do?” convo.
**One reason could be is that I actually have cooties.

I am not sure why I deleted this great post from 2004 about how I went to the health department to get a blood test before I got married, but it made me laugh this morning:

Two other ladies come in and sit a seat away from me. One has a baby; the other is her sister, I think. The one with the baby is very, very bossy. And knowledgeable. A toddler was, well, toddling around, and the bossy woman asked his mother, “How old is your baby?” (20 months) “Your baby is short. My baby is already walking. He’s five months.” Now, this I had to see. She actually stood the five-month old up on the ground, but of course he didn’t do anything but wobble and grip her hands.

Then the bossy woman turns to me and says, “Where you get your books?” “My books?” “Yes, your books.” “Um, Barnes and Noble?” I say. She points at my boots and says, “No, your buhts. Where you get your buhts.” Oh.

The bossy woman then stands her baby up on her lap and tries to make him say “Mickey D’s.” “Can you say ‘Mickey D’s'? Can you say it? Say ‘Mickey D’s,’ baby.” This is straight out of Super-Size Me. I wish Morgan Spurlock were here to see this. Then, in unison, bossy and her sister sing, “I’m lovin’ it.” Then they high five. I am not making this up.

Ok, so here is my favorite thing that happened with the bossy lady. She pulls out a can of Pizzalicious flavored Pringles. Then she feeds some to her five month old baby (you know, the one who can walk and all). Then she offers some to all the other babies in the room. Their mothers let the babies eat Pringles! All except the woman with the “short” baby. She says “no thank you” about five times, and then bossy tries to give the Pringles directly to the kid, and the mother repeats “NO THANK YOU” a few more times. It was awesome. Take that, Pizzalicious!

Do those things that incline you toward the big questions, and avoid the things that would reduce you and make you trivial. That luminous part of you that exists beyond personality – your soul, if you will – is as bright and shining as any that has ever been. Bright as Shakespeare’s, bright as Gandhi’s, bright as Mother Theresa’s. Clear away everything that keeps you separate from this secret luminous place. Believe it exists, come to know it better, nurture it, share its fruits tirelessly.

–from George Saunders’ commencement address to the Syracuse class of 2013. Read it all here and don’t blame me if you get all teary eyed and want to kiss someone.

Spike and I have been listening to a mix cd I made for the car. His favorite song, which he wants to hear over and over, is the Magnetic Fields song “When My Boy Walks Down the Street.” (Hearing him sing along in that kid monotone is awesome.) However, last night Dolly Parton was singing “Do I Ever Cross Your Mind” and he made it through most of it until she got to the part where she says something how she wishes she could again kiss your sweet lips.

Spike: I hate this song.
Me: Why? Because she’s talking about kissing?
Spike: No.
Me: Because it’s a girl singer?
Spike: No, I like some girl singers.
Me: Then why?
Spike: I just…hate Texas.

Reagan and I are listening to They Might Be Giants. “Ana Ng” is the first song on Lincoln, and we talked about how the little spoken word part is pretty much the only spoken word part of a song — besides Elvis — that is not terrible. One of the Johns sings: “When I was driving once I saw this painted on a bridge” and then a lady says: “I don’t want the world; I just want your half.”

A few days later, in French class, Reagan sits down next to me and says, “I saw your work.” What? I ask. “You know what I mean,” he says. Then our teacher, who hates me, begins the dictée, which I suck at. (Look, if you’re going to have a new character named Farid Aziz, you should tell me that and not count it against me when I write down “furry disease.”)

After class Reagan finally tells me that he saw where I wrote that thing in the boys’ bathroom. WHAT? The line from Ana Ng! I don’t want the world; I just want your half is written on the back of the door in girl handwritinged green Sharpie. He doesn’t believe I didn’t do it. The timing is too good.

It is now 22 years later. He still believes I did it. (I didn’t do it, but I should have.)

1. A few weeks ago Spike and I were at our friendly neighborhood fast food emporium with adjacent child play area. Those little enclosed rooms are always a bit damp and smell like feet. On this day, we had the room to ourselves until a set of boy-girl twins came in. The boy had a package of saltines he was using as a ball [ed. note: children are weird], and he and Spike immediately began tossing it around. The girl sat next to me and asked me a million questions — I love children like this, especially for about 10 minutes.

She wanted to know why Spike talked so loud, if he hurt my ears, if he had any brothers or sisters, if we had a pool, etc. She kept talking about how much Spike and I looked alike, and at one point said, “If you put glasses and lipstick on him, he’d be your little sister! Your son-daughter!”

About this time, the package of mangled saltines were being tossed down the slide, and both boys were in hot pursuit. Spike came out first, grabbed them, and took off with it. “I’ll get you, cracker!” cried his new friend, chasing Spike. Let’s pause to consider that this is a funny thing for any kid to say to another, but also to consider that Spike and his friend are of different races. Also consider that I wrote this down as the girl was asking, “Why are you laughing? What are you writing? Can I play with your phone?”

2. I’ve gotten out of the habit of reading, something that always makes me feel a little adrift. Instead of remedying this, I’m watching a LOT of Sex and the City reruns. Also Newlyweds: The First Year on Bravo, which is some fine television. There are four couples that we see from a few weeks before the wedding through the first year of marriage. There’s your mid-30s Jersey couple who got pregnant on the honeymoon, your Bollywood star and her white guy husband (her dad hates him, like a lot), the black power couple who fight about important things like the furniture a lot, and the gay couple. The gay couple is pretty great, except for the fact that the older one (Jeff) seems like he’s going to burst into flames from embarrassment every minute of the day, and the younger one (Blair) was in a boy band and thus, is very dramatic. It is obvious he is putting on for the cameras, which is at once a) hilarious and b) stressful when you see poor Jeff’s pained face. On this last episode they were arguing about the frequency of their sex having. I sort of squeaked a little as I watched poor Jeff explain he is just as fulfilled holding Blair’s hand and having a nice glass of wine. Blair rolled his eyes, stomped away, and slammed the door. TELEVISION!

3. We had an event at work the other day and a staff member who is good with such things did the flowers. When I say “did the flowers” I mean “created a giant flower ball topiary thing with twinkle lights and lilies and hydrangeas that was five feet across.” So she was late to the actual event. I was talking to one of the guests, who asked where the flower-doer was, and I said, “Oh, she did the flowers for this, so you know, she was pretty much covered head to toe in leaves earlier. She’ll be back after she deflowers herself.”

To both our credit, neither of us laughed, although I blushed.

In my old age (I’ll be 40 soon, y’all!), not only do I skew more towards honesty and sincerity* and away from negativity, but I find myself really being struck in the heart by the things I read, the things that are said to me. Even a song that I’ve heard a million times suddenly has tremendous power. (These lines from Catherine Wheel’s Here Comes the Fat Controller come to me when I feel myself falling into a pit: “Don’t you think your sarcasm’s a little hard to stomach?/Your cynicsm’s boring!”) I also find myself needing to explain this newfound-ish shift in attitude to longtime friends. Because when someone is all “everything is terrible” and I’m all “look at this as an opportunity!!!!!!” I feel I should justify it or else admit I’ve recently been abducted by cheery aliens. And if this conversation is via chat or text, I can do this justification with one simple hashtag:

#oprah

In other words, I’ve decided I’m ok with being the decisive element after all (#5).

*When I was 14, I read a bunch of Allen Ginsburg poems and I swear there was this line, which I have been unable to find (though admittedly I haven’t tried very hard) (don’t judge my research emporiumist skills): “Sincerity is the key to bliss in this eternity.” I thought it was lame and wrote it down to guffaw at its lameness. Dear 14 Year Old Me: I am so sorry it’s come to this.

The folks who lived across the street from me had bunnies — two very adorable floppy white bunnies who never stayed in their bunny house but would instead hop around in the yard and look disconcerting, like two random pillows. Not wrong enough for alarm, but wrong enough for a “…are those bunnies?”

So one of the bunnies ran off/got eaten by something, and then there was only the one, whose name was Stella. Then the people sold their house, and they left Stella at the old house for a few days while they were fixing her new bunny house at the new place. The new people were hanging out in the yard the night they closed on it, and Spike and I were walking by so we stopped to chat.

Lady: So…the bunny? Is it…ok? Just hopping around the carport and all?
Me: Oh yeah! Stella’s fine.
Lady: Well, that makes me feel a little better, but it’s still stressing me out. I don’t want to be responsible for the bunny.

DEAR READER: THIS WAS FORESHADOWING.

The next day I was opening the front blinds and saw two random dogs hanging out in the driveway across the street. No collars. Then I noticed something in the yard 6 feet away. Something white. Fluffy. Motionless. A bunny, or a plastic bag, perhaps escaped from a Katy Perry simile? I texted my next-door neighbors: “There is something kind of deadbunnylike in the yard. I’m scared. Go look at it.”

No reply.

“Y’all. Seriously, check out the deadbunnything.”

“Maybe it’s a bag.”

“Prob not a bag. Still lying there.”

“Ok, I went outside and it’s definitely the bunny.”

Then I started thinking about the new people who would be coming over to their new house in the morning, ready for their new adventure, and while they probably aren’t weirdos who see the world as a place ripe with symbol like I am, it would be gross as the least to find a dead bunny in your yard. So I resorted to an actual phone call to the neighbors next door, since they hadn’t responded to my 87 deadbunnyalert texts.

Neighbor: Hello?
Me: STELLA IS DEAD IN THE YARD!
Neighbor: …
Me: The bunny. Across the street. You know, Stella? Hop hop? It’s dead in the yard.
Neighbor: Why would you call and tell me such a thing?
Me: Because you’re from the country!

So it turns out that she is very sensitive, despite growing up on a farm, and so her partner was designated dead thing scooper upper. I provided a box, along with the kind of moral support one can offer from inside the house at the window. She had kind of a time getting the back legs in.

[Sidenote: years ago, Mrs. Floon called me in a panic because the dog she was dogsitting brought in a dead rat. A really big one. At first I couldn't hear her and told her my phone was fucked up. Then I realized I was holding the receiver upside down. My solution was that I would not be able to pick the thing up, but that I COULD provide a box to place over it.]

So the bunny was put in her box, and lo, the box was duct taped closed for easy pickup by the old neighbors, and the sensitive farm neighbor was still mad so I gave her some powdered donuts as an apology. (Spike, by the way, was oblivious to all of this, except he DID notice that his favorite Sitting Box was missing.) Then a few weeks later one of the neighbors asked if I had a box about yea big and I asked if there was another dead bunny, and then one of them said, “I forgot about the bunny. I have to go have diarrhea now.”

Fin

A journal entry from September 16, 2003:

I got an email from Reagan tonight and I can’t sleep although I’ve taken a Xanax. Now I’m sleepy and at the same time my mind is racing. Reagan mentioned college. I was laying here and I thought, was there such a thing as college? Is it possible that I even existed in that world? And I thought, I am so lucky to’ve met one friend in college — I should be thankful — I should fall to my knees — and this will be in the kitchen, and I will fall upon spilled sugar and random dirt and perhaps a grain of rice, and these items will dig into my skin as I give thanks, and when I stand I will have the memory of that moment preserved in the grooves dug out of my skin.

I should think about him more often. It might help me stop being such a complete bitch all the fucking time.

1. “America’s Worst Tattoos.” I underestimated how entertaining this show would be. The commercials didn’t indicate that the people themselves are crying at night because their tattoos are so bad. I might’ve watched four episodes last night and cackled through them all. Here are some of the tattoos that were featured and/or covered up:

– pink baby devil holding a candle that looks like a weiner
– two forties being poured into someone’s buttcrack
– Japanese fighting tampons

One of my favorite features of the whole thing is that about 75% of the time, the new tattoo is just as stupid as the original; it’s just done really well. For example: a guy angry at his last two girlfriends got them as skeletons tattooed on his leg along with their various vices (booze, pills). Rule 1: do not put the enemy’s likeness on your person. His current girlfriend, with whom he has a child, was not a fan. So instead, he opted for a dad and kid elephant pair. The dad elephant has a mustache and the kid elephant is holding a rubber duckie. It is infinitely better, but still: mustache elephant. On your laig.

2. Tenth of December by George Saunders is one of the only things I can think of that lives up to the hype. It’s one of the funniest/darkest/saddest/best things I have ever read.

3. The Pink/Nate Ruess song “Just Give Me a Reason” is on a constant loop in my head. So then I started humming it at home. Then Spike asked what it was, so I sang it, and now HE sings it, and I have to say, hearing your little boy go “You’ve been talking in your sleep / oh oh / Things you never say to me / oh oh” while he’s sitting on the toilet is rad.

4. I have this hackberry tree in my backyard that got tired of standing up all the time and decided to lay down. It eased over a bit and is leaning on some phone and power lines. Luckily, it is good friends with an oak in my neighbor’s yard and the oak is holding it up. It a mess, y’all. It a big mess. Also there is a tree that dumps giant murder logs into the yard when the wind blows — giant, 10 feet long limbs that leave gouges in the ground. It’s going, too. As is all of my money. While it’s kind of hurting my feelings that I have to pay a bunch of money and will not get anything in return — no new transmission or trip to Paris. I have done my fretting and grieving and on Tuesday, there will be two less trees trying to kill me.

5. Someone buy me this.

1. Overheard:

Person 1: What’s the sexual orientation of unicorns?
Person 2: I think they’re all virgins.

2. Today at a meeting someone apologized to me for their weird behavior three years ago. Then an older fellow said I was wacky. Dream day!

3. Today is also Spike’s 5th birthday! Longtime readers, can you believe that mess? It seems like only yesterday that I was talking about my cervix too much around here.

4. I’m reading The Dinner. I hear it’s going to get crazeballs but it hasn’t kicked in yet. Other things I’ve read lately: Birds of a Lesser Paradise by Megan Mayhew Bergman (AWESOME STORIES — I loved this collection), The Secret Keeper by Kate Morton (sort of cheesy, yet rewarding), Stranger Things Happen by Kelly Link (creepy/weird/awesome stories), Mothers and Other Monsters by Maureen F. McHugh.

5. If you need some adorable Frenchness to enliven your world, may I recommend the movie Romantics Anonymous? The recurring song throughout the whole thing is “I Have Confidence” from The Sound of Music (in French, of course!). Also there is chocolate.

In general, when I receive catalogs in the mail, I put them directly into the recycling pile. One reason is that the J.Crew catalog that arrives does not have clearance stuff that is also an additional 30% off in it, and that is the only way I buy things at J.Crew. (Sidenote: I did buy this perfect striped boatneck there a few years ago NOT on sale, and it was $30 or so, and I felt incredibly guilty for this extravagance, and then a few months into its life with me IT GOT A HOLE IN IT, so I will never do that again.) Same goes for Anthropologie — gorgeous catalogs, gorgeous stuff…that I will never buy.

However, I do love the Walter Drake catalog, filled with awesome things like unsupportive bras, bunion fixers, poorly personalized ceramic baby shoes, and containers that are specific to every fruit and vegetable. Did you not know that these exist? Well, I feel sorry for you keeping your half of an onion in a BAGGIE, you fool!

Anyway, I was looking at it this morning and saw a cap thingie you wear over your giant old lady hairdo at night and it reminded me that my grandmother used to wear a special silky kerchief thingie to keep her giant hair intact. She also had a special silky pillow that just went under her neck so as not to disturb the giant hair.

However, one time when she was visiting us she forgot her silky kerchief thing, and instead resorted to wearing her silky panties on her head.

This was also the trip where I found a postcard she was sending to a friend that said she had met a very handsome riverboat captain who had been taking her on dates to eat fried shrimp.

This is my heritage.