--Last night at work somebody asked where I grew up, and I went
through the whole story, keeping it brief since I knew he was only
making conversation and didn't really give a tiny seahorse-shaped
shitlet about any of it.
And, of course, he said, "West Virginia, huh?We spent a week at Virginia Beach just last summer.Beautiful country."Many people apparently don't even know
West Virginia is a state.It’s a phenomenon Jason Headley addresses in his excellent
piece here.I mean, don't they even pay attention to the hillbilly
jokes?!
Oh well.I don't bother correcting 'em anymore.You know, because of the seahorse factor…Plus, the fewer assholes who are aware of the place, the
better.
But after my work conversation, I started thinking:as of next year, I will have lived away
from West Virginia the same number of years I lived in
West Virginia.Here's how it breaks down, in pie chart form (that's correct,
pie chart form).
I don't know why, but it makes me a little sad.
Toney and I sometimes have low-grade arguments about the phrase
"home."Every once in a while I'll say something like, "I want
to take some time off this summer, and go home for a few days."This irritates her, and we have discussions about where
"home" is.
She says it's where you currently live and work, and where you're
raising your family.I can understand her thinking on this, and agree
philosophically.But there is NO WAY I'm calling
Pennsylvania home – or any of the other places I've lived since leaving the
motherland.
Current
home is an acceptable substitute, I believe.Sure, this is our kids' home, because they're growing up
here.But even if I'm in Pennsylvania
fifty years, it'll just be where I'm now living.Ya know?
Toney has no positive emotional connection to her place of origin
(in fact, she's fairly hostile toward it), so she doesn't understand
my feelings on the subject.But I have a sense of loyalty and fondness for
West Virginia that won't allow me to call another place
home. It would be like calling some strange woman Mom…
As the pie chart indicates (yes dammit, pie
chart), I can live in different places, and be happy almost
anywhere.It's not like I'm walking around with a chip on my shoulder
about it.And every member of our family (including the majestic Black
Lips Houlihan) was born in a different state, so that should prove
I'm not unadventurous, either.
No, it doesn't have a thing to do with any of that stuff.And it's not a knock on our current situation, or any of the
other places I've lived.It's something about who I am, and how I got here, the fine
people who raised me, and probably some other things I'm too stoopid
to understand.
And, I can't see us ever returning for good, but it bothers me a
little to watch that West Virginia slice of the pie keep getting smaller and smaller.It really does.
Any opinions on this one?Where is home?Is it where the heart is?And what in the hell does that mean, anyway?I have a suspicion it might well be horseshit…Set me straight, people.
And what about the place you're from?Where is it, and how would you describe it in twenty words or
less?Do you have any loyalty to it, or was it just where they
happened to prop up the crib?Did it shape you in some positive way, or are you like Toney
and couldn't wait to get it in the rearview mirror?
Tell us about it, won't you?Use the comments link below.
--And I’m struggling here, my friends.I wrote most of what you just read yesterday morning, but got
to a certain point and couldn’t continue.And today isn’t much better.
I don’t feel very good, but it’s nothing specific.It’s almost like a low-grade hangover, but I haven’t had
a beer in two weeks.And talk about a rip-off…The consequences without the fun?! Man,
I don’t care for that; I don’t care for that t’all.
In any case, I apologize for the lack of an update yesterday.I always beat myself up when that happens, so please know
that I’ve been duly reprimanded, and given a good talking-to.And if I had the ability to shoe myself in the nuts, I’d do
that as well.
If I can just make it through one
more middle o’ the night hollering through walkie-talkies
inventory monitoring loud as crap Mountain Dew swigging
second-shifts, I’ll be able to log a little couch-time.And I think that’s just what the doctor would order:
take two DVDs full of I
Love Lucy and call me in the morning…
Please stay tuned.
--I was at Sam’s Club a few days ago, eating one of their
excellent emasculation dogs.And since they were out of sauerkraut again (grrrr….)
I had to settle for mustard and onion.Yeah, it’s a poor substitute, but what choice did I have?
I’ve tried yelling at the guy behind the counter, but he just
adjusts his beardnet, and gives me one of those “what do you want me
to do about it, pull a crockpot full of kraut out of my ass?”
looks.Ol’ Beardnet is not an
ally, and I've known this for a long time.
So I was over there cranking the handle on some sort of ludicrous
onion-dispensing machine, and noticed the other apparatus nearby.It’s always been there, but gets canceled out by my brain
because it apparently pumps out relish.
As far as I know, I’ve never eaten relish in all my life.I’m not even sure I know what it is.Ground-up pickles?Is that close?And if so, what the hell?Why would a person want to put pickles on a hotdog?!Pickles??What’s next, apple sauce?Peanut butter?How about mashed potatoes?The whole thing seems bizarre me.
So, while engaging the flywheel on the onion machine, I scoffed at
its black-sheep brother, the relish pump.But a funny thing has happened in the interim:I can’t stop thinking about it.I can’t explain it, but I’m now itching to turn that
relish crank.
It’s risky behavior, I know (what if I completely ruin one of
those big Hebrew National beauties?!) but I think I’m going to do
it.And if you have any advice, I’m all ears.
Wish me luck, my friends. I’ll have a full report once I get to the other side…
--Nancy and Nostrils are supposedly coming for “a visit” in
the next week or so.They told Toney they need to find a notary public, so
naturally they’re coming to Scranton. Makes perfect sense, right?Of course it does.
Nancy’s irritated with Toney right now, because Toney didn’t tell her
about our England trip until this past weekend.We booked it in August, but didn’t tell anyone until
recently, and Nancy’s taking it personally.Over the past couple of days she’s sent two or three
anguished, wounded emails, and just won’t let it drop.
We didn’t tell anyone because we didn’t want to talk about it.Since I didn’t have a job when we booked it, chances were
good we’d have to back out.We didn’t want to get ourselves all excited, and be
let-down.And we certainly didn’t want to have to explain and justify
everything to a whole gang of people.
So we said nothing, and that’s apparently an issue at the
International House of Nancy (IHON) right now.And once they make their 500 mile notary run, I have little
doubt we’ll get to hear all
about it.
If you’re not subscribed to the mailing list yet, you might want
to go ahead and do that now…Ahem.
And I know this is one of the oddest, most schizophrenic updates in
recent memory, but I’m gonna stop right here.I’m now feeling chilled and achy, and am starting to wonder
if I’m on the cusp of some kind of cold or flu or something.Sweet sainted mother of Andy’s yard crullers…
But I’ll be back tomorrow, dammit, even if I have to type it from
inside an iron lung.
