Ewww.... worms.

This morning I had quite possibly one of the most disturbing experiences of my life. I took Gretchen out to go potty before I went to work, and out with her poo came a bazillion little white creepy-crawly flatworms. Mind you, I am fairly new to the realm of dog ownership (I won't go into the trauma of being deprived of pets as a child- ha), so all of these things are new to me. Accidents on the carpet: dealt with those. Having to mix in cottage cheese with her smelly dog food so she could digest it at first: got better after the first couple of times. The barking when she has to go in her crate: not as bad as I thought it would be. But flatworms in her feces?! That is one mental image I can't seem to cope with. Ugh. Just to think about all those nasty white bugs crawling around in her belly, eating up all her food... totally sick. I am of the opinion that the only living things that should be growing in one's body are fetuses. Not bug eggs. So needless to say, every day is an ever-more interesting step in the process of owning and caring for another living thing. 

I'm really glad that Jamie and I got to go on a mini-date tonight, just the two of us. It's so weird- and kinda scary- how quickly the married life can become ritualistic and mundane if not nurtured intentionally and lovingly. He's been working the 9-6 real world job, and by the time he gets home, I cook, we eat dinner, walk the dog, watch a little TV, and we're pooped (especially whenever I'm opening and having to get up at 4:30 am). Especially now that we have a dog, it seems so easy just to get caught up in chores and taking care of her and just doing what needs to be done. It's crazy that this whole week, even though we've been together at nights and whatnot, I've missed him. So it was refreshing to put her in the crate and have some peace and quiet. 

At dinner, we talked a lot about what we want to do in the next year or so (something we've been putting off for a long time, and we're starting to run out of excuses). It's really starting to be exciting, because I know that as scared and apprehensive as we both might be, what our hearts long for is adventure and risk and passionate pursuit of our dreams. Part of me wants to go to grad school, but another part of me wants to jump right into teaching. Part of me wants to be a freelance writer or a novelist or essayist, but part of me wants to pursue full-time professional photography. Ahhhhhh! It's so frustrating sometimes, because I want to use my gifts, but I don't know how to, and I don't know which ones to use, and I don't want others to go to waste. And then I worry that I'm not good enough or brave enough to go after what I really want to do, but I don't want to forever be planning and scheming and never acting. So anyway. That's where we stand for now. 

On to to watching Death at a Funeral... Yay for quirky British comedy!

Go World

I seriously love the Olympics. 

Normally, I couldn't care less about sports, but the Olympics are not just sports. They are the one time and place that every two years everyone around the world finds a little bit of common ground. For 3 weeks, they set aside their differences and come together to celebrate each other's cultures and accomplishments. 

One of my favorite parts is hearing all of the stories behind the athletes. How Shawn Johnson's parents mortgaged their house twice to keep her in gymnastics. How Michael Phelps's mom raised him and his two sisters, by herself, on a teacher's salary. How Lolo Jones chose to live in four different foster homes as a teenager so she could stay at the same high school and get a track scholarship.  

Last night, when Shawn Johnson stood on the podium and received her gold medal, and when they started playing our national anthem, I just lost it. It was so powerful and emotional to see the fruit of the labor of these athletes. I can't imagine the tears and frustrations and obstacles, the days of wanting to give up, the days of feeling hopeless and exhausted and weary. But I also can't imagine how much, during the medal ceremonies, they must feel so proud and so glad that they stuck with it, gave it everything, made sacrifices, or how thankful they must feel for the sacrifices that others made to allow them to be there. Talk about a pinnacle of emotion. Wow. 

It's so crazy that the lives and passions of the athletes all boil down to sometimes a matter of seconds on national television. One hit hurdle, and it's over. You're done. 

So intense!

Totally worth the loss of sleep to witness all this. 

In Defense of Dolly

New York City ain't no kind of place

For a country girl with a friendly face

If you smile, people look at you funny

They take it wrong

The greenest state in the land of the free

And the home of the Grand Ole Opry 

Is calling me back to my Smoky Mountain home...

Eating grits and gravy and country ham

Going to church on Sunday with dinner on the grounds

Tennessee homesick blues are running through my head...

Good Lord have mercy on a country girl

Trying to make a living in a rhinestone world

It's hard to be a diamond in a rhinestone world

With Tennessee homesick blues running through my head

"Tennessee Homesick Blues," Dolly Parton

I'm far from perfect, but I ain't all bad

And it hurts me more than it makes me mad

We all do things that we don't want told

And we all throw stones that we shouldn't throw

You shatter my image with the rocks you throw...

If you live in a glass house, don't throw stones

Don't shatter my image 'til you look at your own

Look at your reflection in your house of glass

Don't open my closet if your own's full of trash

Stay out of my closet if your own's full of trash.

"Shattered Image," Dolly Parton

Okay, so this probably won't sound nearly as good as I think it does it my head, but the thought process can be seriously hindered by one particular hyperactive dog (hopefully after her loooong walk and trip to Petsmart she'll keep laying on the floor in exhaustion- she's so cute). 

But the topic at hand is really the fact that I've got the South in my soul, and lately for some reason I've just been particularly irked when people feel the need to judge us Southerners. I was born and raised here in Tennessee, and though I've seen much of the rest of America, and I can say that I am truly proud of my roots. Am I occasionally embarrassed for us when a backwoods redneck makes a nim-wit of himself on national television? Of course. Do I cringe when I hear the names of Starbucks drinks get totally butchered by the thickest Southern accents known to man? Sure do. But does that mean I'm ashamed of my culture, my heritage, my background? Absolutely not. 

Let's just get this out here: If you're looking for "social progress," Tennessee would probably not be an enjoyable place to live. There's plenty of suburban sprawl, very few expensive organic grocery stores (2, to be precise), not very many sushi restaurants per capita, and not very many sidewalks or bicycles around. As a whole, we vote conservative. Some of us love our guns and will gladly shoot you if you try to take them away. Football games are the ultimate pastime, and you can't expect the local news or newspaper to cover many world events or really anything that doesn't have something to do with this state or with someone who once lived here when they were 5 years old or whatever. And the city of Knoxville itself is not exactly attractive. People here love to eat (mostly fried food and lots of it), and it shows. Oh, and there are at least 3 churches per square mile. A little more Jesus than most people who aren't from here care for. 

Furthermore, don't get me wrong: Do I want to stay here forever, and have my kids go to the same schools I did? Heck no. Am I prejudiced against the "hoity-toity" northerners? For the most part, I try not to be. In fact, I love Boston and New York City and Bar Harbor, and I would love to live in these places for at least a little while, if only just to taste another culture, another way of life than the one I've always known. 

And let me also just say that I don't have a Confederate flag sticker on the back of my car and I am not proud of the deep South's history of slavery. I am not a racist. In fact, I'll more than likely vote for Obama, even though my grandparents can't fathom a black man ever being the president of this country. 

I don't want to bomb other countries, and I don't think America is better than everyone else in the world. I am fully aware of how shallow many churchgoers around here can be, and I have no desire to schmooze my way through Sunday morning services and compete with my Christian brothers and sisters for the best Knox Box that East Tennessee has ever seen. I am completely against many of the things that First Baptist Concord (aka "Six Flags Over Jesus") stands for, because they often have precious little to do with the gospel of Christ. 

I consider myself to be a pretty intelligent and well-informed person. I read national newspapers and magazines, I watch news shows other than Live at Five, and I'm pretty sure my vocabulary is up to par (aside from the occasional "y'all," which I'll NEVER relinquish). 

I'm not trying to toot my own horn here. I'm just trying to make a point. All of the things that everyone outside of the South says about people down here are largely complete, and often extremely unfair, over-generalizations. The stereotypical Southerner is what? A backwards, ignorant redneck who loves tractors and hates Mexicans? Yawn. Haven't heard that one before. If you really want to believe these things, then you have to ignore everything good about the South. You have to overlook the valedictorians and the star athletes and the cultured coffee-shop lovers and the selfless, passionate missionaries because God knows rednecks are too stupid to be any of these things.

What I want to say is that if you think rednecks only exist south of the Mason-Dixie, you are being completely naive. I've met and seen plenty of ignorant, racist, gun-loving, bigoted, hardcore Republicans from all over this great land. 

What do I love about the South, then? Why does it hurt my heart to hear people constantly get their digs in about it? Well, for starters, it's a beautiful place. The Smoky Mountains, the Appalachian trail, the beaches of Charleston, the windy mountain roads... I love it all. Most of all, I love Southern autumns. One of the most majestic things I've ever seen is the changing of the colors of the leaves come late September here. 

I love Southern food. Cracker Barrel, Krispy Kreme... the barbeque, the grits, fried chicken, the homemade ice cream and watermelon I remember from church socials of my childhood. The homegrown fruits and vegetables, chicken and dumplings... soul food, as they call it. It doesn't get ANY better. Period.

I love the front porch culture of the South. The history and meaning embedded in a summer afternoon spent on a wraparound white porch, rocking in a rocking chair and drinking sweet tea, talking to the neighbors, watching dogs play in the yard and children run around everywhere (children who don't needs Wii's for entertainment). I love remembering the sense of community I felt in the small towns we lived in when I was growing up. We ran around barefoot, tried to catch (and keep) rabbits and turtles and lightning bugs. We listened to stories at dinner from the "old days." I wished more than anything I could have lived here during the 40's and 50's (for one of many reasons why, watch "The Notebook"). 

And the creative culture... I love Southern writers. William Faulkner, Flannery O'Connor, Toni Morrison... in many ways, it doesn't get much better than Southern literature for me. 

Not to mention the Southern musicians. Let's see, jazz was born in New Orleans and Memphis. Country music took off in Nashville. Atlanta has one of the biggest hip-hop scenes in the country. Bluegrass came down to us from the Appalachians. We wouldn't have Elvis, Johnny Cash, Don Redman, Hank Williams, Jr., Emmylou Harris, or Duke Ellington if not for the South. 

And let's not forget about Dolly. The rest of the world may laugh at her for her flashy clothes and plastic surgery, but she is honestly one of the most brilliant and down-to-earth celebrities alive these days. If you're a girl, all you need to do is listen to "9 to 5" to see how much she's stood up for women everywhere. For some of the most insightful spiritual music you will ever hear, pick up any one of her gazillion albums and you won't have to listen long to recognize the intensity, the passion of her lyrics and her style. And did you know that the reason she dresses the way she does because when she was growing up, her family was  so poor that they barely ate sometimes, and she would see the prostitutes on the street all glammed up, and she wanted to be like them, because they represented to her independence, wealth, and security. So, quite literally, she still sometimes dresses like a hooker. But sadly enough, those were the "rich people" she envied as a child, when she wore rags and went barefoot. 

Dolly is a classic example of how people love to butcher up Southerners, to laugh them off on an entirely superficial level without bothering to look beneath the surface.

Because if they did, what they would find is a lot more complex than the stereotypes would have you believe. 

Whew. Glad I got THAT off my chest. Now I want to go watch "Steel Magnolias" for the hundredth time.

Crossroad.

You should probably listen to Greg Pinkner's podcasts. 

http://crossroad.fefc.com/

Thank you, and good night. 

(Did I mention how much I love blogging again? Oh yay.)

Back in the Blogosphere, Baby

Ahhh.... this feels good already.

So, back in the day, I was a blogging maniac. But that was on Myspace (which is quite frankly pathetic-looking these days), and that was when I was in school and was willing to do ANYTHING to avoid writing papers and going to class. (Don't get me started on that. School is starting for everyone, and I feel like a super geek because I'm sad I'm not going back too, as much as I wanted to bang my head against a wall while it was actually going on.) But for whatever reason, I just sort of stopped writing, and I've realized more than ever lately how much I miss it. I think it's partly because the Internet feels like such a safe place to expose myself to the world, without all the uncomfortableness of actually TELLING people what goes on inside this crazy inner world of mine. Maybe that's not the way it should be, but I can't deny the fact that sometimes there is nothing more therapeutic to me than to put my thoughts and feelings into words, to really delve into myself and work things out sentence by sentence. 

So there you go. For those of you who have never read my blogs, be prepared for some brutal honesty. I don't hold much back in these things, and they can be pretty raw sometimes, but I think it's gonna be good to get back into the habit of writing. I'm in desperate need of some mental exercise. 

Furthermore, I certainly am not going to pretend to be any Paul Krugman or David Sedaris or anything, but I have read some pretty idiotic and pompous blogs lately (which do not include Amy's or Tara's, in case you're reading this!), and I figure that there's no harm in jumping on the bandwagon of self-obsession and risk making a fool of myself. A solid dose of humility never hurt anyone, anyway. 

I just seriously think it's amazing how this whole blogging thing makes everyone feel like an important writer (including myself- don't get me wrong). I love how the "Stuff White People Like" guy talks in his book about how white people all think they have the most fascinating experiences to share, but there are only so many books that could be published about studying abroad, getting high at a music festival, etc. etc., so they've become bloggers instead so they can still tell their "crazy stories" and hope someone cares enough to read them. I guess Blogspot is the next best thing to getting on the NYT bestseller list these days. 

So, to play catch-up for all the blogs that never got posted about MY all-important life events, I'll sum it up for you:

In May, I graduated from UT with a practically useless but oh-so-fun English degree. 

In June, I got married to probably the only man patient and forgiving enough to live with me. He is one of the few good men left on the planet, and I am so lucky to have him. 

In July, I got re-promoted as a shift supervisor at Starbucks, where I'm working for health benefits until I figure out what further education I need to pursue to make my undergraduate degree worth a flying flip. But I do genuinely love my job and the people I work with. Sure, at times I stand at the espresso bar chucking out lattes to ungrateful, rude, and un-caffeinated people and wonder why I bothered to go to school, but I know it's not permanent, and for now, it's perfect. I have met some of the best people I've ever known here, and they are the reason I endure the politics and drama of Starbucks. 

In August (well, so far anyway), we adopted a Plott hound named Gretchen. She is such a good dog, but definitely possesses some of the annoying tendencies of puppies (i.e. chewing on everything, having accidents in the apartment, and barking incessantly when she gets put in her crate- I swear, you'd think we abuse her). 

There you have the Sparknotes version of my life these days. Now that the superficialities are over with, I'm ready to get into the nitty-gritty (ha, what a phrase). 

I can't wait.