Twenty and Oh

I broke the news about the move to the folks at my other proofing job, so I'm slowly whittling away at the list of people who don't know. I actually feel kind of bad posting it on the blog because I know I have some readers who know me in person but who I don't see very often. I've been trying to tell people in person, and this seems so ... impersonal.

BUT I'm so glad I'm here this year for the Tigers' record-breaking year. Still No. 1! And in a few weeks ESPN College GameDay is going to be in town and I'm so going to be there holding a sign of awesomeness! Assuming Mom and Dad make it Downtown for GameDay as well, I'm going to make Mom a shirt that says, "I love Joey D. so much I named my dog after him."

She met him once and told him. He was nice to her face, but I wonder if it creeped him out.

Beans and bean-counters

It all started as I was gazing at the rutabagas. I'm not sure I'll ever utter that sentence again, but that is, for real, how it started. I mean, it was incidental that I was looking at rutabagas. I actually was just wandering the produce section with Paul looking for something healthier than frozen pizza and Oreos.

With a quiet "excuse me," I edged my basket past the man studying the celery.

And then he spoke up. "Y'all trying to lose weight?" Paul and I glanced at each other. We're not used to striking up conversations with random folks in the grocery store. "Yeah, kinda," I offered hesitantly.

"Well, let me see what's in your basket." He looked over my shoulder. Three Cameo apples, three Fuji apples, three pounds of Cutie clementine tangerines, four organic Granny Smith apples (all for Paul), three Bolthouse Farms Perfectly Protein drinks (my lunch for most of this week), a pineapple, and a bag of organic celery.

"You are eating pretty good!" he said, taking inventory of our produce. "Y'all want to know how I lost 42 pounds?" I blinked. "Um, sure," I said, certain we were about to receive a whopper of a sales pitch.

Boy, was I wrong. Instead, he told us how he has cut out all red meat to become an ovo-lacto vegetarian. (True quote: "Without red meat, it's actually a joy going to the bathroom.") One topic led to another, and we spent the next hour (no joke) standing between the cauliflower and bell peppers talking about the environment, HAARP, truck-stop bathrooms and everything in between.

At one point, I looked over at his basket and counted eight grapefruit and nothing else. He picked up a bag of certified organic pine nuts while we were talking.

His name, I learned about 30 minutes in, is Jack. Jack is a 47-year-old truck driver who ferries between Saskatchewan and the U.S. He is slightly balding with a ponytail and smells faintly of patchouli. He started dieting because his girlfriend threatened to leave him. (She left anyway.) He has had two semesters of college, owns a pilot's license, used to sell Christmas trees a mile between my house and the grocery store, and is a native of East Tennessee. He is extremely well-read and has plenty of informed opinions about the economy and science.

He and Paul discussed plasticizers. He and I discussed international macroeconomics. We all discussed amino acids and weather control and veganism and failed energy policies. He called me a "bean-counter chick," which I found amusing and somewhat flattering.

Paul later kicked himself for not asking if he's an ice-road trucker.

And after monopolizing the vegetable corridor for the shortest hour ever, we parted ways. Paul and I headed for the organic, whole-wheat rotini. I'm not sure where he went, but we passed his truck cab in the parking lot on the way out.

It was perhaps the strangest grocery-shopping experience I ever had. It's not often someone edges past Paul's fascinating paranoia that the entire world is filled with serial killers. (Have I ever told you guys Paul feared I was going to stab him in the leg on our first date? Truth.) Jack said he'd buy us dinner if we ever saw him again. I doubt we will, but I might actually take him up on it. It was a quirky encounter with a quirky dude and it'd be fun talking to him more.

... And after all that, I didn't buy any rutabagas.

Zorbeez in my hands, pie on my mind

Have you guys seen this ad for Zorbeez, the ultra-mega-super-absorbant chamois pimped by infomercial god Billy Mays? If you haven't, watch the video now.



Man, besides washing dogs and cleaning bathroom showers -- and then(!) drying dishes -- Zorbeez have the ability to make women Really, Really Happy. Observe:



The woman on the right is making what Paul and I have dubbed the "Pie Face."



Buying Zorbeez costs money; making Pie Face is free. Go ahead. Try it.

Licks and dunks

TotalHealth's Top 10 Worst Snack Foods list.

... Sponsored by Oreo.

Because, really, if you didn't like Oreos, why would you be at the TotalHealth site in the first place?

Now that I'm moving, what do I do with my hoodies?

Thank you all for the well wishes on moving, especially you, Smack. Although I'm sure the notion has rattled around in the back of my head, it was reassuring to hear somebody actually say that I'm not the first editor in the history of time to be transplanted to Charleston. It's also reassuring to hear it's a beautiful, unique place. Plenty of folks have told me that and I just have to take them at their word. I'll see for myself in a couple of months.

There are still a few people who don't know, like my friend Matt. ("How many guys do you know, Kate, whose names start with 'M' and end with some derivation of 'atthew'?") Matt works nights in another part of town, which makes it hard for me to see him very often in person. And I'm trying, for what it's worth, to tell people to their faces. I like to gauge their reactions. But because I've known for a couple of weeks now and still haven't seen him, I'm considering calling. Or text messaging. It's like one of those e-mail Dear John letters, but totally not.

Well, Paul's home with dinner. It's been a long day ... but par for the course of the past couple of weeks. I think things will lighten up at work in the next few days; I've been working on some special assignments that have taken up a lot of time and should be over soon.

By the way, you know those four boxes of clothes I found in the magical place of Upstairs Land? I still haven't decided what to do with them yet. Thoughts?? Anyway, it is supercool having all my hoodies back. Nobody's been able to pry my black hoodie off (well, except when I'm sleeping and showering). It's like comfort food, but not. Everybody should have a favorite hoodie.

About the graphs I am (not) making

It's 3 p.m. on Monday, MLK day, a federal holiday. I'm at home, sitting at my desk, trying to create a half-dozen regional economic graphics that have been on the back burner because of more pressing data and graphics. Excel is open on one monitor; Word is open on the other monitor.

Excel is obscured by iTunes; Word is obscured by dozen FireFox tabs beckoning with diversions ranging from this blog post to my Etsy wish list (which also conveniently sits in the left column of this page should you desire to admire my ever-evolving kitsch or, better yet, buy me something).

I really, really don't want to make these graphs. Fingernails on chalkboard.

A few months ago, Paul and I decided on a lark to have a psychic reading with this guy, Cash. And he said lots of interesting stuff, so I came home and typed it all up to see how much of it actually came to fruition. This is an old Coast to Coast tradition: Interview "psychics" on New Year's Day about the coming year, then revisit them in December to discuss all the things they incorrectly predicted. Hint: If you predict the end of the world, chances are we won't be around to have this conversation next year.

Anyway, I came home and typed up my notes, which snuggled on my hard drive until a couple of weeks ago when Johanna, Paul and I landed ourselves at Starbucks and read through my file. And whaddyaknow? A lot of Cash's predictions were on the mark, most notably that Paul is teaching at a university in a military town on the coast. Reality creation, indeed.

And most of this is neither here nor there, except it sets up this notation I made in the file: "A guy is coming to live with us for a while, and it's going to be a good thing."

We're going to have a houseguest? Yay! This one had totally slipped my mind in the past few months.

Now, we don't know too many guys to whom houseguest status would apply, but all of their names begin with M and end in some derivation of atthew. There are two of them. Okay, maybe three.

... But anyway, that is how I came about deciding to track down Mattie. At this point in my blog, I would link a specific 2005 Mattie post, but alas, I'm still having permission problems with single-post archives. Eh, you can search the archives if you don't know who I'm talking about. But chances are, if you're reading this, you do.

So Mattie e-mails and says he's bought a bigger torch and is making jewelry, pipes, marbles, etc. (Did you know marbles are kinda hard to make by hand? Truth!) He left Michigan yesterday for the south end of Indiana to pursue an offer installing residential cable lines for some guys he knows. He said he'd e-mail when he got there.

I think, for what it's worth, I could learn a few more things from Mattie about being more free-spirited and less rut-bound. Rut-bound. That's a funny word. Picked it up from some book Johanna bought in the UK.

So all of that is why I'm sitting at my desk waiting for an e-mail that will come, though chances are it won't be here for a few days. I'm listening to oldish Jewel and newish Fall Out Boy. I'm drinking a Vault and thinking about playing some Revenant Wings.

... And I'm not making graphs.

The word of the day is ...

Charleston. As in South Carolina. As in that's where I'm moving. In six months.

Before chiding me for not posting, realize that I have had a very tumultuous couple of weeks. Paul was offered and has taken a job as an associate professor of analytical chemistry at The Citadel. (See the ring below? Fancy-schmancy. I think I need one. :grin:) From henceforth, he shall be known as Captain Paul Simone of the Unorganized Militia of South Carolina. Such an interesting title. I guess it's just Captain Simone to his students?

The whole situation is exciting ... and scary. I'm happy and I think it'll be a good experience, but right now, all I can think of is how six months is really no time at all. I guess that sounds a little bit like I'm dying, and obviously I don't feel that way. So let me start this over. ...

I've started a list of things to do before I leave Memphis. I want to watch the sunset from the riverbluff. Visit Ya Ya and Le Le before they go back to China. Eat fried bologna sandwiches from Interstate BBQ. (De, man, you're missing out. Those things rock.) I want to see the Tigers play in the Final Four. I think I even finally want to visit Graceland. (Yes, I'm a native Memphian. No, I've never been.)

Two and a half years ago, I wrote how I just wanted to once again lay under the stars at Old Poplar and watch the Leonids race and erase across the sky, tumbling in and out of view. And now I feel that way about everything. I've made it a mantra to enjoy every moment -- every time I'm out with friends, every conversation -- because things will never be exactly the same way again. I'll never write this same post again. You'll never read it for the first time again.

I am very, very excited for Paul. And myself, too, I guess. But I don't know where we'll live or what I'll be doing. And I'm just not ready to let here go yet.

But that's all part of the deal. For things to never be exactly the same way again, they have to keep changing. Like now.

So, Charleston, here I come.

Here's a post title that, like a bad emo song, is too long and has nothing to do with the content of the post

Gah. Colds suck. Thank you, Paul, for spreading the "love." Not only am I sick, but Mom and Dad are too. But you redeemed yourself by posting for me when I didn't want to climb out of bed.

What sucks the most when I get a bad cold is how my voice drops three octaves. Dad called yesterday to ask me something, and when I said, "Hello," he said, "Hey Paul." Yeah, it's that bad. But I think the worst is past me. Instead of singing bass, I now can sing tenor.

I'm running late getting ready for work, so I must bid you adieu for now, but I thought you guys would enjoy this "creative correction" sent to me by another editor.

In the column dated Nov. 7, 2007, in the first paragraph, "Macbeth" is misspelled as "Hamlet."

Oh, and GrrFace, you're not crazy or drunk, though you might be a crazy drunk. I did bump the blog font up one point because I'm going blind in my old (almost 28!) age.

Germ Factory in this post

This post has been brought to you by the letter R - for rhinovirus

Kate feels like crap; i think i got her sick, and well...everyone else in the family. Apparently, sneezing away in cramped quarters is probably one of the mostest fastest ways to spread my happy fun time germy pals. You guys should totally try it out. I think your families will appreciate it.

-Paul