The Yuccas

As you enter our home, a charming rental house with more room than we're used to, you will notice my flailing attempt at indoor foliage in the form of two Yucca plants purchased from Lowe's. The Yuccas -- one tall and one short -- were purchased in the same pot, and therefore share a pretty new pot in which they should be greeting those who walk through our front doors with warm liveliness.

However, the smaller yucca is not doing so well. For whatever reason, she -- I've assigned it a feminine pronoun -- keeps losing leaves and the ones that stay attached are browning. I tried giving her more water. I tried giving her less water. I tried giving her more sun. I thought maybe the cats were to blame, so I twirled the pot out of their reach of her. Still, she drooped, inconsolable, while the big yucca stayed green and tall and happy.

I began tearing off her dead leaves a few days ago, hoping if I just took away the brown ones, all the pretty new ones that haven't grown yet would have more room. When I was done, she looked like a soggy stump. "Buck up Little Yucca!" I said, wondering what could possibly be wrong with her. I looked angrily at Big Yucca, with all his pretty green leaves, and blamed him, saying, "You're sabotaging her!" Then, for whatever reason, I slapped Big Yucca.

Big Yucca, whose only alleged indiscretion was being a beautiful, successful yucca plant, was undaunted by my physical assault, and continued being a beautiful, green yucca plant, dispensing lively, warm greetings to anyone who walked through our front doors.

I, on the other hand, realized I had just attempted to instigate a brawl with one of my house plants, on behalf of one of my other house plants. Could it be I was relating a little too much to Little Yucca's droopy predicament? If so, how pathetic. I am not Little Yucca! I can choose not to be droopy!

So, a few days later, Little Yucca is still a soggy stump, sharing a pot with a thriving Big Yucca. I have three days off, during which I intend to act nothing like a soggy stump. I'm going to make my surroundings more beautiful. I'm going to get out of the house and enjoy myself. I'm going to be lively and warm like Big Yucca, except, you know, human, with legs and stuff.

Buck up, Little Yucca!

Airports, Hotels and a Baby Shower

On my first flight back into Greenville, I learned from the person sitting next to me that the airport had once consisted of a series of trailers and a runway. Apparently, a few years ago, when Greenville experienced significant flooding, the bustling Greenville airport wound up under water. There was some concern, the guy said, that there may be too much damage to reopen it. In the end, he said, there wasn't as much damage as they'd anticipated, and they even decided to put in a restaurant.

Still, I was mildly amused to see a tractor parked next to the airport as I arrived for my flight to Nashville, texting jokes to friends about how I could board the plane once they'd finished plowing the runway. After having my purse and carry-on suitcase searched while a Supertrooper Cop joked that he might have to arrest me, I was on my way ... to Charlotte.

I was surprised to find, during my flight from Charlotte to Nashville, that I'd fallen asleep. I was equally, if not more surprised to find that I had not awoken to some strange, snarling man poking me in the forehead with his penis -- a secret fear which has kept me from sleeping in public for much of my life. It's possible that penis-poking is an exception rather than a rule, but I can't fully rule out the possibility of a pervert sexually assaulting my brow area, and therefore, I still intend to refrain from public snoozing whenever possible.

Going back to Nashville for the first time since I moved to Greenville, I understood how things had changed. How dare the people of Nashville move on without me? Still, it was nice to be a visitor there. If I tried to write about how much fun I had, it would inevitably sound too much like a note being passed in class:

"Dear Blog, What's up or down? I had the BEST time in Nashville! It was so great to see everyone at Jessica's baby shower! I can't believe how great everyone is doing! Me and my friend Laura, after we all left the dueling piano bar, we, like, totally wound up trading shoes at a downtown bar. There we were, both of us standing at the bar, mocking the crowd, while we each had on a red high heel and a flip flop. Classic! Oh, Blog, you should have been there ...."

I finally managed to book a decent hotel room -- hardwood floors and one of those fancy vessel sinks that they like to use on HGTV -- but as Laura and I were getting ready to go out Saturday night, the hotel caught fire somewhere, and we had to evacuate down the stairwell. Barefoot. Shoes in hand. Still, it was much nicer and cheaper than the Sheraton in Atlantic Beach, NC.

I needed a trip back to Nashville. I'd missed the music. I hadn't missed the traffic. I missed the people, I missed the patio at Jackson's, and I even missed seeing little clusters of skinny emo kids and thinking, "They are the future." But, I'm finally starting to warm up to Greenville, just a little bit. And, really, I can make fun of emo kids anywhere.

Owning Moments

I could write a big, speechy paragraph about moments that define you versus moments you are completely yourself. Moments that surprise you. Moments that you know you'll never forget. Good moments. Bad moments. Momentous moments. But I have to go to Target to buy a big fluffy bag to put baby gifts in. I have no time or inclination for speechy. But, these are a few moments I own, in no discernable order.

(I realize how narcissistic this seems, but the first-person voice is naturally narcissistic, even when being self-deprecating. And, to be honest, I need to remind myself of who I am sometimes. I encourage anyone who reads this to do the same. I also inserted random pictures just for kicks.)

At my friend Olivia's wedding reception, I was just about to join my friends going crazy on the dance floor, when my friend Kendra's Mom said, "You girls just have to stay friends," and I said, "Oh we will! Forever and ever!" And then I tripped trying to get to the dance floor.

I was 22 or 23, drunk, visiting Chicago for the first time, and carrying my shoes while walking down a rainy wet street with a guy named Eric. It was late, and I was supposed to go to a Cubs game the next day, but instead, I was in the middle of a street, soaking wet, telling this guy I liked that I wasn't going to kiss him, because kissing was overused and underappreciated, and I didn't want to be one of those people who takes kissing forgranted. He said he understood, and I dropped my shoes and kissed him anyway. Yeah, I'm smooth.

My new boss called me into his office at the little paper I'd just started working at in Knoxville, Tennessee. He said he had an idea for a humor column and asked if I'd ever done any humor writing. I'd never written anything funny in my whole life. Most of the short stories I wrote in college were intended to be sad realities about how the world really is. But I said, "Absolutely. In fact, I took a class on humor writing in college." I'd never taken such a class. I wrote that column, called "Bo Says," each week for three years. I even got fan mail.

I had this guy named Jason over to my apartment in Knoxville, and I put my feet up on the couch. He said, "Don't put your feet on that f-ing couch! That's so f-ing disrespectful!" I stood up on the couch and started jumping up and down and said, "It's my f-ing couch! Go be an a-hole on your own f-ing couch." He stole a can of Spaghetti-Os and left.

My friend Kendra was in front of me sitting on a toilet, but not using it, in a bar in Atlanta, Georgia. She was saying how much she missed her friends and how it seemed like things had changed since college and since she got married. I was kneeling on the floor in front of her, telling her things hadn't changed so much, and wishing I could visit her, but worrying that Mike wouldn't let me go and he'd end up yelling at me and there'd be yet another exhausting fight. I said, "I wish I could come see you in Cincinnati," and her face crumpled, and I hugged her. "Then why don't you?" she said. Why didn't I? "I WILL come see you," I said, "very soon." When I got back to Knoxville, I made Mike a bowl of tomato soup and broke up with him. He was convinced I'd met someone else in Atlanta. (Kendra will kill me if I keep the detail about her on a toilet, by the way. This night also involved some pole dancing, since Olivia is a big fan.)

When Pat Duchac called during an NCLEX review course to offer me a job at Vanderbilt, in the Neuro ICU, that was the proudest moment of my life. In all seriousness, I had never worked so hard for something, and there was a big part of me that was pretty sure I'd aimed too high, and that I shouldn't have turned down the job offers I'd had in Chattanooga. It sounds cheesy, but having worked that hard for something and gotten it made me believe all the mistakes and stupidity and wrong paths in my life up until that point were worth it. Pretty silly, huh?

When covering a story about art in the Old City for a short-lived alternative student newspaper, I brought Lizzie along and asked her to do photography. While taking a break at Cup A Joe, Lizzie giggled and said, "I feel just like Gregory Peck and Eddie Albert in 'Roman Holiday'!" And I laughed and Lizzie snorted. That's one of Lizzie's favorite Audrey Hepburn films.

There are lots of other moments -- Had Claire and I not been reading the exact same Stephen King book ("It") and been at nearly the exact same spot in 9th grade, I wouldn't have nearly the same stories -- that don't translate well into writing, not that any of this translated well. You had to be there, really. I was.

(P.S I would LOVE to hear about your moments if you want to share!)

"Greenville, House Squirrels and an Evil Step-Monster" By Ace

Much as I'm inclined to start from the beginning, from birth, and tell my whole story leading up to this point, my evil step-monster, Jenny, is watching me like I'm a lit stick of dynamite. So, I'll start in Greenville, and hope my previous life somehow speaks for itself.

I am the assistant and best friend to my Rob, who is a doctor. Since I am like a son to him, I sometimes call him Dad, though he pretty much just calls me Ace. "Ace," as you may know, is Pomeranian for, "supreme being loved by all and deserving of all things wonderful."

When Rob had to move to Greenville for a job, he naturally needed me to move with him. Little did I know, moving with Rob also meant living with the step-monster and her two meowing house squirrels. The house squirrels think they own me. I call her "step-monster," but I'm pretty sure only witches bring their mignons with them. It's only a matter of time before she conjures flying monkees.

I never imagined I'd have a nemesis, but I admit I've enjoyed our little battle of wills. She lets me outside eight times and I still take a massive dump at the top of the stairs when company's in town. She fixes the fence twice so I can't escape, and I dig a hole and escape anyway. Oh, the sport of it all!

Yesterday, the step-monster and I watched "Mama Mia" together. She thinks I like that movie because I jump around her while she flails like a stabbing victim to the music. What I'm actually doing is trying to bite her face.

One day, good people, I will drive her from this house. But for now, I must stay to protect Rob from her and the house squirrels. Wish me luck.

Bite Me, DMV!

In order to get a driver's license in North Carolina, one must pass a series of trials, including proof of insurance, vision test, and magically knowing that a blank, round, yellow sign means "railroad crossing," since actually putting the "RR" and cross bars in --the way it appears on the road! -- would be too easy.

Those things, I passed. However, despite the fact that I have held an unencumbered license in Tennessee since I was 16, North Carolina requires that I take a written driver's test. Not just any test, though. It is the most impractical, idiotic test on the freaking planet.

For example, not knowing the EXACT percentage of highway deaths caused by drunk drivers means I'm too retarded to drive in North Carolina. If they REALLY wanted a question that estimated my ability to drive in this backwards state, the question should have been:

Are you planning to drive drunk in the great state of North Carolina?
A.) Absolutely.
B.) No.
C.) Maybe.
D.) I assure you, I only plan to drive drunk in the other 49 states.
E.) I drove here drunk, but I won't do it again.

If I answer anything but "B.) No," I can see why they might question my ability to operate a motor vehicle safely in North Carolina.

To protest the immeasurable ridiculousness of this so-called test, I decided to break as many freaking traffic laws in North Carolina as humanly possible. I started with familiar things like speeding and following too closely, then I moved on to really crazy things like passing on a double yellow line, changing lanes in the middle of intersections, going 8 miles over in a school zone, and not yielding to oncoming traffic!

Then, fueled by a power that can only come from moving violations, the Civic and I took it up a notch and side-swiped an old dude carrying a red and white stick and walking a dog in the middle of a cross walk. He acted like he didn't see me! "What are you, blind?" I yelled as he tried to get up. That's how we roll in Tennessee.

By this time, however, the po-po had gotten wind of my traffic violation rampage. I could feel the points on my non-license adding up, as I added failure to pull over for a police officer to my list.

After they chased me through the entire two blocks of downtown Greenville and managed to shoot out all of my tires, I wondered if I'd proven at last that I deserved to have a North Carolina driver's license.

"Excuse me, traffic cop?" said I.

"Quit revving your engine, lady!" he said, while nervously waving his pistol. "And stop trying to jump the curb!"

"Two questions," said I. "When can I retest for my driver's license, and how good is your aim?"

The Household

I don't have anything in particular to write at the moment, but I was looking for an excuse to post pictures of the members of my household, which include a neurosurgeon named Rob, a naughty step-dog named Ace, a bossy girl-cat named Audrey, an easily-frightened boy-cat named Capote, and me. We had a chicken, but there's a picture of me eating it in the last post. So long, Pecky. I'm sorry I was too lazy to go to the grocery store. You were delicious, my friend.

So, this is Rob the neurosurgeon. He looks very happy to be trapped in Greenville with me, doesn't he? I keep trying to get him to say, "I'm Rob James, Bitch!" but he doesn't usually go for it.

This is my step-dog, Ace, who likes to tear up things, run away, and take massive dumps on the stairs while we have company. I've caught him writing down his own version of things here, so we may hear from him one of these days.

This is my little Audrey, who likes to boss me around and demand food from everyone who walks in the door. I just bought that throw she's laying on yesterday, but Audrey tends to think all new things, especially blankys, belong to her. Neither she nor her brother are much for writing, so I don't know if we'll hear much from them. This is Capote fussing at cars as we make the drive from Nashville to Greenville. It was an awesome idea to let the cats out of their carriers during the trip to alleviate anxiety.

(Note: I'm not just one of those freaks who has two animals and pretends they are relatives. Audrey and Capote were littermates. My mother guilt-tripped me into taking them after their mom -- which my mother stole from the wierd-ass neighbors and their murderous youngest child -- birthed them on my parents bathroom floor. The fact that a confused Capote once tried to hump his newly androgenous sister in no way disproves their relationship as siblings, since they were living in Tennessee at the time.)

An unsent letter

Welcome, one and all, to my very first blog. It will likely start out as all my unsent letters do, with the grandest of hopes and intentions, only to be put to the side, forgotten and eventually thrown away, its contents no longer relevant.

For the purposes of this and any future blog that I write in first person, I'm going to refer to each reader as "you," since it seems impersonal to treat this as a mass email or to have to constantly say "you all," or "all of you," since the odds of multiple people reading it once, or even at all, is slim.

I think there may be a way to post comments or replies or requests, but I'm not sure how, so if "you" can figure it out, I encourage you to do it. If you do post any sort of retort, I will do my best to figure out how to read it. It will give me something to do, now that I've moved to Greenville.

So, now that we've gone over the rules, why not dispense with the housekeeping. I moved to Greenville, NC, (NOT Greenville, SC), from Music City USA in June, and this is the first time I've ever lived outside of Tennessee. I have a job as a nurse in the new Neuro ICU at the hospital here, where my boyfriend works as a neurosurgeon. He's the reason I moved here. I also have a very bossy cat on my lap. Jealous?

I asked another nurse at work what to do for fun in Greenville, and she said I could either have kids or work more. Another nurse chimed in and suggested online shopping. What have I done?

I'm at least two hours away from any larger city and two hours away from the beach. More importantly, I'm at least a 12-hour drive or a two+ hour connecting flight away from anyone I know except my poor boyfriend. I feel like the house in the Wizard of Oz, which I guess makes Greenville the wicked witch of the east that I landed on.

Hence, the blog.