Visitin'

Going to the store in the South is not a matter of entering the store, finding what you need, paying, and leaving. Nope. That would be “unfriendly,” i.e. Northern, Yankee and an attitude to be rejected, even despised. Instead, you need to “visit.”

For example, when I drop off a dress at the dry cleaners I know I need to chat with Connie (yep, she's the only other Connie I know) about my children, UTC, and her church. This also means I can’t do my errands in ripped jeans (despite what my daughter says is the coolness factor of holey denim) with my hair pulled back in a ponytail or, even worse, in my sweaty shorts and t-shirt after running the treadmill. Otherwise, I’ll be known as that scroungy Northern woman.

Even in big stores like Sam’s Club, I “visit” with Brenda the cashier. And I have to admit, I’m catching some of the Southern approach to life. Instead of getting in the “short line” with the cranky white lady, I wait in Brenda’s line because she’s my cashier. She always has a ready smile and a laugh. We talk about her children and my children, how the Lord’s providin’, the price of groceries, etc. And if my groceries are done and we haven’t finished visitin’—well, we just finish. And once we’re done she goes on to the next customer, who isn’t frustrated or impatient because they understand “we were just visitin’.”

First Jobs

My first job, besides babysitting, was working at a satellite receiver manufacturer. Before I started my “real job,” they had me do one other thing, reorganize their filing system. After I was finished, I was convinced of two things. First, the company was involved in illegal activities. Two, graduating high school seniors ought to be forced to recite the ABCs, or at least sing the alphabet song—you’d think people would know their letters in order, but they don’t.

After the filing, I moved to customer service. This consisted of me answering the phone and listening to people pitch hissy fits. My job was to pacify them by murmuring platitudes. And if that didn’t work, I transferred them to my boss once they began swearing. Needless to say, I discovered that most Americans have the vocabulary of drunken sailors.

My first job is the standard by which I judge my kids’ first jobs. Luke’s first job was umpiring Little League games. Umpiring is similar to customer service—you’re paid to listen to people scream at you. However, umpiring is worse since the people are actually physically present and trying to intimidate you with nasty looks and threats. And, of course, a Little League pitcher can throw a wicked fastball, and he knows just where the pads end. Enough said.

For Ariel’s first job, she tutored at the Chattanooga State Math Lab. This is a hard comparison. Teaching calculations to people who suck at math is like working as a voodoo doll—it’s only great when they stop sticking pins into you. The problem with this comparison is that Ariel actually liked the job, except for the guys with multiple piercings that tried to “befriend” her or the “old” students who said things like “oh, my goodness, you’re the age of my granddaughter, you must be such a smart little girl.”

Jacob started his first job this fall. Jacob is “mannying.” If this is a new word for you, it’s a combination of the words “man” and “nannying.” Jacob is a manny. (Kind of cool, huh?) He nannies four kids. And aside from changing dirty diapers, which his future wife will appreciate, Jacob’s enjoyed the job. After all, he plays outside with them, and the kids are well behaved. When Jacob started this job, I had no idea how it would change my own status in the world. I mean, you always know that eventually your importance in the world becomes derivative, i.e. “Oh, you’re the mother of so-and-so.” But, you tend to deny it. With Jacob’s job, it smacked me in the face. Jacob babysits a little girl that I’ve been trying unsuccessfully to make friends with for a long time. Then one day with wide eyes and an incredulous voice the little girl said to me, “Do you live in the same house as Mr. Jacob?” I said, “Yes.” She breathed out a “Wow,” and I became her friend. As first jobs go, Jacob’s is number one. After all, being yelled at by irate customers or rocking a child’s world—it’s no contest. That’s part of the reason I became a mom and teach, to rock someone’s world—and to be really mean, at least that’s what my kids think.

Spygirl

Every Thursday at the dinner table, Ariel tells us what she’s learned in Linear Algebra. I listen politely and smile at appropriate intervals. She blathers about three-dimensional vectors and invertible matrices while I eat my pizza and then she says, “Oh, and I know how to do encryption now.”

My ears perk up. “Encryption?”
“Yeah.” She takes a gulp of milk, clearly not realizing the amazing coolness of what she’s just said. “You know, encrypting messages. That sort of thing.”
“Luke,” I say, “did you hear what Ariel said?”
“No,” Luke says, “I don’t listen when she stops speaking English.”
“Ariel knows how to do encryptions,” I say.
“Ohhh!” Luke rubs his hands together. “Now the NSA will be after her.”

Sadly, Ariel misses the opportunity to play sexy Spygirl and instead launches into the mathematical “stuff” that you do to encrypt and unencrypt messages—she doesn’t get that matrices aren’t cool and sexy.

Nonetheless, Matt demands to be taught encryption. Ariel laughs. “It takes a lot of math.” She means you have to be an uber-math nerd. That doesn’t seem to mesh with sexy Spygirl. Although the woman in the movie Sneakers was both. Maybe it’s possible…

Take Me With You

Matt’s hamster Grover isn’t really a hamster. I’m not sure what he is exactly. But here’s a faithful description of what I’ve witnessed. (Ariel will verify it because she was there.)

Here’s the background. Every night Matt moves Grover’s cage to the dining room when he goes to bed because hamsters are semi-nocturnal and spend most of the night running their wheels, which is very noisy. You might not think it’s a big deal, but hamsters have been known to run 8 miles a night—in a wheel that measures 6 inches in diameter. That’s a lot of noisy running.

But, back to Grover. He was in his cage on the dining room floor. Ariel and I decided we needed a bag of popcorn to share while we watched a movie so we headed to the kitchen. We glanced into Grover’s cage. Grover was sitting in his wheel. But not just sitting, he was sitting on his rear-end with his legs hanging over the edge of the wheel and his hands out in front of him, holding a piece of food. He didn’t look any different than a person, except for the hairy body and beady eyes. Then, he had the audacity to look at us and tilt his head. Ariel and I both said, “Did you see that?!”

We chattered all through the popcorn popping. On our way back to the movie, we peeked into Grover’s cage. Now he was walking around. Not on his four paws. He was walking on his two hind feet like any normal biped. In other words, like a person. Once again, we locked eyes, and if I didn’t know better I was sure he was going to say, “What, you’ve never seen a hamster walk?”

I’ve been thinking about it for days now. I do believe that Grover’s a hamster. But he’s not any hamster, he’s a Narnian hamster—I think he ran past the lamppost without thinking and got stuck in our world. And I’m hoping that one night when no one’s around and I whisper, “I believe in Aslan too” that he’ll take me back with him.

Deluge

The storehouses of the skies have opened, and the fountains of the deep seem to be spouting into my basement. I’m trying to be thankful that we were able to find/buy a second sump pump this morning (our first one keeps overheating and turning itself off). I’m thankful we currently have power so the sumps pumps can run—the electricity has been sporadic. I’m thankful that Calvin was the one who stayed awake all night trying to keep the water level below the air conditioner/heater so I could “sleep off” my migraine. I’m thankful that we weren’t among the many people who were trying to buy sandbags to keep the water from entering their homes—water is much better in the basement than in the living room/bedrooms/kitchen/etc. I’m thankful that we’re not in Walker County, next door to our county, which is currently in a “State of Emergency” and all schools and roads are shut down. That said, I’m trying not to mutter imprecations against the people from whom we bought the house. I’m trying not to blame the city/state for their pathetic notions of water/flood control—okay, I’m not trying that hard. I do blame them. I’d rather have a better storm drain system than a repulsive Urban Art Garden (see previous post).

Oops, I gotta run and check the sump pumps.

Urban Art Garden

I’ve figured out why the city of Chattanooga had to invest in the MTE (see previous blog post). Drum Roll, please. It’s to fund all the Urban Art. The other day as I drove to the Brainerd Tunnel, I noticed that the city had turned the ugly weed patch next to the tunnels into a garden. I like gardens—shrubs, flowers, benches, etc. But, then they installed art. They put up a sign saying “Urban Art.” It seems to me that if you have to notify people that something is “art” there’s a problem. Guess what? This Urban Art is ugly. And not ugly like dystopian, darkness of the soul kind of ugly—I get that. Nope. This is cheap, rainbow-y, flying dove, kitschy hideous.

Since the downtown has some beautiful art, I’m wondering if the Brainerd Tunnel Urban Art Garden got the rejects. Here’s what I think happened. Bob the City Councilman, after a few too many beers at the local micro-brewery, approved the city’s purchase of art. After all, Chattanooga is now a destination get-away according to Southern Living magazine. Bob decided that all we need is some art to make it hip so that we can attract rich tourists. Anyway, one day the art arrives. Beautiful bronzes. Yep, says Bob, these are great for downtown. A few odd sculptures. Well, thinks Bob, we’ll put those on Main Street towards Southside. Then, Bob saw the lame stuff. Bob got a little nervous. This is not the stuff you want tourists to see. But he had to do something with it. A lightbulb exploded in Bob’s brain—an urban art garden in Brainerd near the tunnels. No one will see it because they’re all too busy trying to avoid the MTE. Yep, great plan. Except, well, it’s still ugly. I have one question for you, Bob. Can’t we return it?

MTE

The city of Chattanooga has come up with a new method of funding. It’s called Mobile Traffic Enforcement. Actually, I have no idea what the city calls it. MTE is my name for it. And I’m sure other people have names like #@#**!!

Here’s how it works. The city bought a special van equipped with four windows on one side. Each window has a camera for taking pictures of speeders’ license plates. The city then hides this van and photographs any and all speeders. Don’t get me wrong—I think speed limits are a good thing, especially in residential neighborhoods, etc. And yes, I do have “sour grapes” as the MTE has ticketed our van. But here’s the thing, the powers-that-be have hidden the MTE at the end of a sharply downward sloping tunnel. As if this weren’t bad enough, the tunnel is so poorly lit that you can’t read your speedometer. In fact, the tunnel is more dimly lit now than what it used to be. Conspiracy? Maybe.

Of course, the MTE isn’t always at the tunnel. Sometimes it’s downtown, concealed behind a tall building. Other times it’s hidden on a side street at the bottom of a hill near the old industrial area. You, skeptical reader, might be thinking that the MTE is reducing traffic accidents. You’d be wrong. I’ve had to warn our kids, “Watch out when you exit the Brainerd Tunnel, drivers are slamming their brakes at the end because they don’t know if the MTE is there.”

The other day, I was driving out of the Brainerd Tunnel in the left lane and another car was beside me in the right-hand lane. Both of us were driving exactly 35 mph. (A quick glance in my rear-view mirror told me the MTE was there). A BMW came up from behind and couldn’t get past us. Immediately, he began tailgating me. I looked into my rearview mirror and saw him gesticulating and becoming apoplectic. I just laughed and thought, “Dude, we’re saving you $50. Cope.” So, remember that the next time you’re driving behind someone driving exactly the speed limit—they’re probably saving you from a ticket.