It's difficult for me not to disappear when I'm at the Family Estate. I quickly get lulled into this sense of having "lots of time" to do things, to the point that I only actually do things when I can convince myself that I only have a few hours. I've had some more adventures.. I want to do an entry on my various travels within the state of Georgia, for one. I'll try to get to this before I head down to Valdosta, but can make no promises, as my "lots of time" feeling has also affected how much or how little I've really prepared my hall decorations and packing.
Speaking of GHP-- there's a pretty strict policy regarding blogs and internet content dealing with the program. For this reason, rather than stop writing, my usual MO is to just take my blogging underground. I'll probably continue to use this blog, but restrict readership. This means you'll have to submit a request for me to allow you to continue reading, at least for the duration of the summer. No worries! I just basically can't have it out there in the public eye where someone will see my candid report of my personal shenanegans and call the governor on me. Because, as we know, I'm pretty irresponsible. (/sarcasm)
I'm also really behind in my google reader and other things at which I suppose I'll play catch-up on my first floor duty, or something.
I'll have six days between the end of GHP and taking off for Japan. I envision those days as super hectic, a near-week in which I will have NO TIME for ANYTHING.. so I'm preparing like that, althuogh I will probably have to have or make time for something.
I kind of suck at packing..
Showing posts with label Georgia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Georgia. Show all posts
Monday, June 8, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Lawyer Date
I went on a date last night. It's been a while since I've been on an 'official' one, wherein the other party asked if I would like to go, and then we went. Usually, things are sort of arranged and assumed, or else they happen randomly, based on timing. People would treat me to dinner, or a drink, casual.
The Beau, as my parents called him back-in-the-day is classy-casual. I would dare to venture, always. Yes, I said my parents. And, back in the day. I don't see him often, these days.
Beau, L, and I get together about once every six months to serve up the tale of what's happened in our lives since our last gathering, and also to advise one another. We call it "Lawyer Time." Our Lawyer breakfast, actually is scheduled for tomorrow morning. This Lawyering has been a sort of tradition of ours since we graduated high school and each ended up in different states.. we all came back to our hometown in Georgia for Christmas, and usually at some point during summer break, before all dispersing again. We became adept at it by the end of college. Near the beginning, it was a little more upsetting.
Beau had a way of neglecting to call or write for the entire semester, especially early in our college careers. L and I were better at keeping in touch, being girls, maybe.. but having just spent our senior year of high-school all joined at the hip, I hated not being able to feel the love off him anymore. He went the farthest geographically, too.
Now that we're all out of college and in various stages of real-lifehood (L has a real job in NYC, Beau has decided to stay in school forever, currently in Washington state [though his summer is archaeological digging in the southwest US], and I'm putting off the grad school I think I'm going to later for a year in Japan... I told you we scattered far and wide!), it is a real comfort that we still find the time to reconnect. Even if it is the one span of a couple hours the morning after L gets in from NY in the dead of night, and just before Beau leaves for Arizona (literally, will get in his car and drive to Arizona from the restaurant).
The date was comforting too. This story has deeper roots. We were all a dream team together senior year, but L, Beau, and I all met in the 7th grade. L and Beau had known one another in elementary school, and when I encountered him lingering in my science classroom at the bell change, I began to rush to that class. When he dated L, I fed him helpful information, signing the locker notes "Incognito Mosquito." We went to the 8th grade dance together.
Embarrassment points: one zillion.
We also went to homecoming. He took me to junior prom. For all intents and purposes, we dated through high school. Except that I flatly refused to call it that. The short time we were official began like "Okay.. but what happens when we break up?" "We won't. I care about you too much for that." We're in the eighth grade, Beau, we are going to break up. He was my first kiss.
Over the course of the last ten years, we've had our requisite dosage of petty bullshit, of misunderstanding, of expectations set too high and fears about what we could or could not become. The term lawyers actually comes from the fact that at some point we sat down in the cafeteria with L and she was our 'divorce lawyer'... that day we decided we could never marry one another.
We made a lot of decisions with flair, and some even with finality. (Although I do have it written in an old journal, and I did happen to include the caveat "unless either he or I change pretty drastically.") I stormed and stewed and got fitful and got scared. I burned and brooded and yelled and bit my silent tongue. I daydreamed and despaired.
And last night he took me to dinner and a concert. Something old, and something new. We had fondue, which was one of the the most memorable things from junior prom night; I don't think he knew that, but it was where he wanted to go to dinner. I'd never been to a concert at the Tabernacle, but it was great, absolutely great.
I held his hand and we walked down the sidewalk in Atlanta.. a city so close to home, yet one I've never really grabbed for myself. It seemed fitting.
And I was just so damn glad to know that we're not done. I'm not necessarily where I want to be in several of my personal relationships. But I'm comforted to know that things change. Time moves ever forward, and change it all there is. There is the possibility that we'll look back on all this and smile sagely at the kids we were. The act of doing it right now makes me feel safer. I don't have to have all my ends tied up and my stuff sorted out. Beau and I are more on the same page, and understand one another more now than we ever have, I think. Not that we've "arrived," or anything, not that it's all "perfect." But it's pretty good.
Just because things didn't go the way I wanted them to, doesn't mean things won't be okay, perhaps tomorrow if not today.
Who's taller now?
The Beau, as my parents called him back-in-the-day is classy-casual. I would dare to venture, always. Yes, I said my parents. And, back in the day. I don't see him often, these days.
Beau, L, and I get together about once every six months to serve up the tale of what's happened in our lives since our last gathering, and also to advise one another. We call it "Lawyer Time." Our Lawyer breakfast, actually is scheduled for tomorrow morning. This Lawyering has been a sort of tradition of ours since we graduated high school and each ended up in different states.. we all came back to our hometown in Georgia for Christmas, and usually at some point during summer break, before all dispersing again. We became adept at it by the end of college. Near the beginning, it was a little more upsetting.
Beau had a way of neglecting to call or write for the entire semester, especially early in our college careers. L and I were better at keeping in touch, being girls, maybe.. but having just spent our senior year of high-school all joined at the hip, I hated not being able to feel the love off him anymore. He went the farthest geographically, too.
Now that we're all out of college and in various stages of real-lifehood (L has a real job in NYC, Beau has decided to stay in school forever, currently in Washington state [though his summer is archaeological digging in the southwest US], and I'm putting off the grad school I think I'm going to later for a year in Japan... I told you we scattered far and wide!), it is a real comfort that we still find the time to reconnect. Even if it is the one span of a couple hours the morning after L gets in from NY in the dead of night, and just before Beau leaves for Arizona (literally, will get in his car and drive to Arizona from the restaurant).
The date was comforting too. This story has deeper roots. We were all a dream team together senior year, but L, Beau, and I all met in the 7th grade. L and Beau had known one another in elementary school, and when I encountered him lingering in my science classroom at the bell change, I began to rush to that class. When he dated L, I fed him helpful information, signing the locker notes "Incognito Mosquito." We went to the 8th grade dance together.
Embarrassment points: one zillion.We also went to homecoming. He took me to junior prom. For all intents and purposes, we dated through high school. Except that I flatly refused to call it that. The short time we were official began like "Okay.. but what happens when we break up?" "We won't. I care about you too much for that." We're in the eighth grade, Beau, we are going to break up. He was my first kiss.
Over the course of the last ten years, we've had our requisite dosage of petty bullshit, of misunderstanding, of expectations set too high and fears about what we could or could not become. The term lawyers actually comes from the fact that at some point we sat down in the cafeteria with L and she was our 'divorce lawyer'... that day we decided we could never marry one another.
We made a lot of decisions with flair, and some even with finality. (Although I do have it written in an old journal, and I did happen to include the caveat "unless either he or I change pretty drastically.") I stormed and stewed and got fitful and got scared. I burned and brooded and yelled and bit my silent tongue. I daydreamed and despaired.
And last night he took me to dinner and a concert. Something old, and something new. We had fondue, which was one of the the most memorable things from junior prom night; I don't think he knew that, but it was where he wanted to go to dinner. I'd never been to a concert at the Tabernacle, but it was great, absolutely great.
I held his hand and we walked down the sidewalk in Atlanta.. a city so close to home, yet one I've never really grabbed for myself. It seemed fitting.
And I was just so damn glad to know that we're not done. I'm not necessarily where I want to be in several of my personal relationships. But I'm comforted to know that things change. Time moves ever forward, and change it all there is. There is the possibility that we'll look back on all this and smile sagely at the kids we were. The act of doing it right now makes me feel safer. I don't have to have all my ends tied up and my stuff sorted out. Beau and I are more on the same page, and understand one another more now than we ever have, I think. Not that we've "arrived," or anything, not that it's all "perfect." But it's pretty good.
Just because things didn't go the way I wanted them to, doesn't mean things won't be okay, perhaps tomorrow if not today.
Who's taller now?Monday, May 18, 2009
Missus
I am not at the Butterfly Apartment, nor can I be considered "Em in Kansas," although I do like the sound of e-minks, or if you like, e-minx, for my digital escapades. I'm not sure yet what to do with this blog, so for now I'll just do what comes naturally, which is blog on.
I'm at my parents house, embarking on my first day as live-in housekeeper. I was in the midst of standing by the counter, scooping my lunch of chicken salad out of its fridge container with crackers (so college-- who needs plates? Or a table and chairs for that matter?) while simultaneously planning dinner/examining the available spice rack so I could go to the grocery store (so domestic-- I'm making chicken taco salad tonight) when the front doorbell rang.
One thing I have so far refused to handle is my parents' business. I may be the housekeeper, which leaves me the realm of food, cleanliness, and dogs, along with my personal penchant for letter-writing and other cute/frivolous pursuits of the reading and writing variety (like blogging). But I'm not sure I'm quite in a position to be answering their phone, for example, unless I recognize the number and it is my friend Kitchen.
So the doorbell rings. And I have to answer it because the guy can probably see me though the window, shoving triscuits into my mouth, unscrewing the lid on the jar of okra pickles. (My parents' food stock: always wonderful to me.) The windows are all open anyway, and so he can hear Jack and Karma bum-rushing the door, too (the windows are open because it is 68 degrees and all the flowers are blooming. Why, Georgia, why? Just to make me think it's silly to ever leave?). So I saunter out with a smile. His shirt says AT&T. He's probably the cable guy. "Are you Mrs. Lemmon?"
It sounds like "Mrs." anyway. There is a slight difference in pronunciation between that and "Miss" and I only learned the difference in the seventh grade because our English teacher was very particular about such things. She taught us well; apparently, in the south, people don't make much of the aural distinction. It was the second time in as many days that someone had asked me that question. Last night, Vanderbilt called and asked if I were (going by sound only) "Mrs." Lemmon. I blinked and wasn't sure what to say. Did they want to speak with my mother? Or, were they looking for me?
So, standing before the cable guy, I was just as stumped. My car in the driveway, its license plates finally home, I no longer look like a blatant out-of-stater. "Well, sort of," I said, making allowance for the fact that pronunciation is not to be dependable. He asked if I make any of the decisions around the house, which I've fully abdicated, so I told him no, and when I did he asked if that were Mr. Lemmon's thing. I blinked, realizing he must have thought me the young wife here in this neighborhood. I told him I was just back from college, that's all, and my parents did that stuff. (A reflex, but a lie by now.) And that Dad would be home later.
As I went back in to finish my chicken salad and finally bite into one of those okra pickles, I thought about how a lot of people my age ARE missus-es, and wondered what I'd do when I got married. I've pretty much decided to keep my last name, mostly because it sounds so cool. I'm not a major feminist or anything, but of the guys I've dated with any seriousness (or even among those I've dated without much seriousness), not one of them had a name I was dying to make my own. It might seem like a silly reason, but it's my reason. Apparently, people make big decisions the same way they make small decisions. Is it a sign of disrespect to a man and his family not to take his name? Maybe to some? Is it totally pase in this post-modern world? Will I always wonder whether the caller is looking for me, or my mother?
I'm at my parents house, embarking on my first day as live-in housekeeper. I was in the midst of standing by the counter, scooping my lunch of chicken salad out of its fridge container with crackers (so college-- who needs plates? Or a table and chairs for that matter?) while simultaneously planning dinner/examining the available spice rack so I could go to the grocery store (so domestic-- I'm making chicken taco salad tonight) when the front doorbell rang.
One thing I have so far refused to handle is my parents' business. I may be the housekeeper, which leaves me the realm of food, cleanliness, and dogs, along with my personal penchant for letter-writing and other cute/frivolous pursuits of the reading and writing variety (like blogging). But I'm not sure I'm quite in a position to be answering their phone, for example, unless I recognize the number and it is my friend Kitchen.
So the doorbell rings. And I have to answer it because the guy can probably see me though the window, shoving triscuits into my mouth, unscrewing the lid on the jar of okra pickles. (My parents' food stock: always wonderful to me.) The windows are all open anyway, and so he can hear Jack and Karma bum-rushing the door, too (the windows are open because it is 68 degrees and all the flowers are blooming. Why, Georgia, why? Just to make me think it's silly to ever leave?). So I saunter out with a smile. His shirt says AT&T. He's probably the cable guy. "Are you Mrs. Lemmon?"
It sounds like "Mrs." anyway. There is a slight difference in pronunciation between that and "Miss" and I only learned the difference in the seventh grade because our English teacher was very particular about such things. She taught us well; apparently, in the south, people don't make much of the aural distinction. It was the second time in as many days that someone had asked me that question. Last night, Vanderbilt called and asked if I were (going by sound only) "Mrs." Lemmon. I blinked and wasn't sure what to say. Did they want to speak with my mother? Or, were they looking for me?
So, standing before the cable guy, I was just as stumped. My car in the driveway, its license plates finally home, I no longer look like a blatant out-of-stater. "Well, sort of," I said, making allowance for the fact that pronunciation is not to be dependable. He asked if I make any of the decisions around the house, which I've fully abdicated, so I told him no, and when I did he asked if that were Mr. Lemmon's thing. I blinked, realizing he must have thought me the young wife here in this neighborhood. I told him I was just back from college, that's all, and my parents did that stuff. (A reflex, but a lie by now.) And that Dad would be home later.
As I went back in to finish my chicken salad and finally bite into one of those okra pickles, I thought about how a lot of people my age ARE missus-es, and wondered what I'd do when I got married. I've pretty much decided to keep my last name, mostly because it sounds so cool. I'm not a major feminist or anything, but of the guys I've dated with any seriousness (or even among those I've dated without much seriousness), not one of them had a name I was dying to make my own. It might seem like a silly reason, but it's my reason. Apparently, people make big decisions the same way they make small decisions. Is it a sign of disrespect to a man and his family not to take his name? Maybe to some? Is it totally pase in this post-modern world? Will I always wonder whether the caller is looking for me, or my mother?
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