Velveteen Mind

The Woids of God

I'm having a bit of a love affair with the Gulf Coast right now.  As I sit down and prepare to write my first post for Deep South Moms Blog, a new sister site of Silicon Valley Moms Blog network, I am struggling with words to describe how I feel about living in the Deep South. 

I decided to write for Deep South Moms Blog because it would offer a thematic challenge and motivator for me.  I write very loosely about living on the Gulf Coast on Velveteen Mind, but when I give any real thought to what it means to live in the South, I actually have a lot to say.  A lot to share.

Culture coming out of my humidity-drenched pores.

Writing for the SVMB network of blogs is going to be a thrill.  They are a fantastic group, founder Jill Asher is amazing, and it is going to give me an opportunity to push my writing.  I tend to get a little lazy about writing on a daily basis, so this new focus will hopefully bleed over into Velveteen Mind.

In the meantime, lest you think I'm going to be getting all serious on you as I explore the delicate art of Southern Charm, allow me to introduce you to one of my favorite blues men ever:  Mississippi Gary.

If you don't laugh at this, we can't be friends.  Yes, I have a lot of friendship requirements, I know, but this one is for real.  ...ish. 

Be sure to skip ahead to minute 1:00 for the Mississippi Gary bit.  This is from The Kids in the Hall, Mississippi Gary played by Mark McKinney, so yes, I am offering you a bit of Southern culture by way of Canada.  Classic, eh?

It's only appropriate, as I am Southern by way of Illinois.  Or, as I much prefer to say:

Yankee by birth, Southern by the grace of God.  Praise the Lord!

Now skip to minute 1:00 and tell me you laugh! 

 

...........................

New Here? Sign up for free delivery of new posts via RSS or email.

Follow me on Twitter! and

A Garage to Grow Men In

Two weekends ago, we fulfilled every man's dream at our house:  We cleaned out our garage.  Our lives will never be the same.

Okay, that might be a slight exaggeration, but not by much.  When we moved into this house, we did it very quickly, more or less just bringing into the house the essentials and stacking the rest in the garage to unpack at a later date.

For instance, maybe next year.

Fortunately for us, my dad knows me better than I know myself, so he called us up and said that the garage was getting cleaned come hell or high water, so get on our wading boots.  No one can focus with half of their life piled up on the other side of the wall.

I agreed to this Mississippi-heat-endurance-test because he also mentioned the two most beautiful words in the English language:  pressure washer.   Aaaah, he would be bringing over his pressure washer, which meant I could blow the old-lady stink in the garage to high heaven and enjoy the endless satisfaction of blasting years of ground-in muck off of our driveway, one slice of the water wand at a time.

Five paragraphs later, I have now told you that we cleaned out our garage.  Look, when you bring gas-powered water blasters into the picture, my prose gets a little flowery, so bear with me.

An unexpected result of cleaning out our garage, other than eliminating the constant noise in the back of my mind, was that we started spending more time outside.  Much more time.  As a family.

It started when the boys realized that they could ride their bikes on their own again, alternating the heat of the driveway and the cool of the garage.  This clearly meant I would benefit from two exhausted boys ready to crash at naptime, so I grabbed the book I am currently reading, an Adirondack chair from the yard, a glass of ice cold Coke with crushed ice (dear God, I love having an ice maker again), and set up a little space of my own in our blindingly clean garage so that I could keep an eye on the boys.

Because no matter how many times you say, "Do not drive beyond the car in the driveway, boys!" all they hear is, "Feel free to ride your bikes in the street because you are magic and no cars will splatter you on the road."

This is how I want our summer to be:  all of us outside, sweating, enjoying the fruits of our labor, me reading books, enjoying our sons beat the tar out of each other, and my scaring the daylights out of them with threats of Blood on the Highway.

I'm trying to raise men here.  As far as I can tell, that begins by raising boys.  Boys who play outside, dig in the dirt, climb trees, hit balls over fences, destroy the grass with sprinkler-produced mud puddles, and fight off the mosquitoes until the light has finally failed for the day.  Boys who get cuts and scrapes  and bruises, but are too busy playing to report them to their mother, let alone whine over them.

The book I am reading right now is Boys Should Be Boys by Meg Meeker, MD.  This will, quite frankly, be the theme of our summer.  Walking away from anything that requires electricity and embracing everything that eventually requires bandages.

I want to raise men.  Real men.  True men.  Strong men.  It starts now.  It starts in this garage, extends to the make-shift ball diamond in our backyard, drifts to the creek full of crawfish behind our house, and hopefully takes root in the core of our sons.

...........................

New Here? Sign up for free delivery of new posts via RSS or email.

Please share on or or Twitter with the Tiny URL for this post:   http://tinyurl.com/5db258

Follow me on Twitter! and

I Am Your Very Own Dichotomy.

Occasionally, I just walk out of the house and leave the family to fend for themselves.  I grab my purse, my phone, and my keys, yell something like, "Good luck, suckers!" over my shoulder, and hit the road.

I am a road person.

The other night, I did just that.  It had not been a particularly difficult day, but it had been a long couple of weeks.  Maguire came home from work and my heart unexpectedly slipped out the door behind him as he entered.  I had no choice but to follow.

I haven't mentioned this, but I have a new car.  A "new to me" car.  Guess what it is?  You'll never guess.  Moosh?  You might know.

It's a white Volvo V70 wagon.  My dream car. 

Of course, it is not new.  I bought it for very close to an even trade for the land yacht that was my Dad's old emerald green Lincoln Towncar.  I suspect there is a hamster in the engine running around frantically taping everything together, laughing in a bewildered way about how I could be so blinded by the boxy loveliness so as to not notice that I was being taken...  but it is mine.  I finally have my own car again.

And I work it hard.  In particular, I work the CD player.  Haven't had one of those in years.

The soundtrack for my solo escape road trip along the Mississippi Gulf Coast beaches the other evening was Ani DiFranco's Canon, a 2-disc compilation of some of her best songs.  My husband introduced me to Ani DiFranco in college and I was sold immediately and ever since.  One of the only performers I never tire of, and I get tired of music shamefully fast.

Fueled on by Ani's voice berating government, penises, and Righteous Babes who have their panties on a little too tight, I made my way along the scenic beach highway.  One thing I love about the Mississippi Gulf Coast is that from Gulfport to Bay St. Louis, there are almost no structures built on the beach-side of the highway.  Drivers are afforded unobstructed views of the water for miles.

This makes for a fine brainstorming environment.  I busy part of my mind with driving, just enough to keep the random, distracting noise at bay, and leave the rest of my mind to solve solve solve.

On this particular evening, I was unaware of any unresolved issues for which I was setting out to solve.  However, an hour into the drive, just as I was making it across the Bay St. Louis bridge from Pass Christian, the tears began to fall.

They were those hot tears, those silent tears, the ones that just drop drop drop.

The ones that surprise you.  The ones that have been waiting, silently, patiently, and of which you were too busy to be aware.  Until they find the break.

I would love to be able to tell you why I was crying.  I do not know.  It was our internal release valve, I think.   No one thing in particular, it was just time to relieve some pressure.

So I drove.  And I cried.  And I listened to Ani DiFranco.

I thought about how I never listen to music anymore.  Since living in New Orleans, I have become an avid talk radio listener.  It started with the New Orleans station WRBH, Radio for the  Blind and Print Handicap.  They would read books on air, as well as magazine articles, but my favorite was the show on which they read the drugstore ads.  Literally.  It was hilarious.

The best show was on a day when a little old lady was reading the Rite Aid ads and said, "Let's see, you can get 300 count Vitamin C for...  let me see...  oh, shoot, I can't read that small print.  Just go in and tell them you want the Vitamin C deal."  The irony was so sweet, I can't even tell you.  I just wanted to kiss her.

Nevertheless, it hooked me on talk radio.  Now I listen to shows like Glenn Beck and Rush Limbaugh.  They are on when I am in the car during the day, so they are my guys.  I don't always agree with their politics, but I am never disappointed in the discussion.  I welcome the questions they force me to consider.

Ani DiFranco is a master at that.  She does not disguise her politics and pleads for you to open your eyes.  She makes me face social problems I might otherwise not consider.  She invites me to question my beliefs.

Glenn Beck and Rush Limbaugh might be two of the most conservative voices in the media today.

Ani DiFranco might be one of the most liberal voices in the greater media today.

They share my ear equally.

They propel my voice equally.

And their opinions could not be more disparate.

“The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposing ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function.” 
F. Scott Fitzgerald

I see the discussions in my comments sections regarding politics.  You ask each other, "Is it possible to be socially liberal and fiscally conservative?"  "Are not conservativism and liberalism mutually exclusive?"  "How can you straddle this fence?"

These questions can easily apply well beyond the political boundaries.

When I posted the photo of my shoes in Summer Shoe Choices:  I Am a Punk Rock Florida Retiree, I wasn't really asking you what shoes I should wear to San Francisco.  I was sharing with you the dichotomy that is me.  That is all of us.

We are so much more than labels.  We are so much more than conservatives and liberals, Rebublicans and Democrats, mothers and wives, bloggers and writers, consumers and marketers.

So I listen to Glenn Beck with ears wide open.  And I savor the moments when I listen to Ani DiFranco, as I feel her words physically enter my heart.

"I use my dress to wipe up my drink.  I care less and less what people think." 

Ani DiFranco, Dilate

I drove along the beach as evening turned to night, and I watched the wind blow thin streams of sand across the road.  My headlights illuminated the sand as though it was fog.  I was driving through time itself. 

I drove along the waterline of Bay St. Louis, Mississippi, and I experienced all that is splendor and desolation.  Two years after Hurricane Katrina and one lot will be filled to the property lines with a magnificent reproduction of a Southern plantation home while the next lot will hold a FEMA trailer with a spray-painted plywood sign near the road that reads, "AllState and State Farm:  The Axis of Evil."

This is not my political statement.  This is not about that. 

This is about the complex labyrinth that is us.

And sometimes it makes me feel as though I am split down the middle.

Sometimes it makes me cry.

Sometimes it makes me rejoice.

Today it makes me reach out.  For no reason other than because I can.

*********

Related Posts:
Glenn Beck's Responsibility Bead-Down.  I'm In.
Who's Afraid of the Queen of Spain?
Camille Was a Lady.  Katrina Was a Bitch.

...........................

New Here?  Subscribe to Velveteen Mind or have it delivered via email.

Please share this post on or so others can find us, too.

Want to share on Twitter?  Here's the Tiny URL for this post:  http://tinyurl.com/5yb3f5

Follow me on Twitter! and

Praise Jebus!

Good grief.  When I go down, I go down hard.  Didja think I was dead?  You did, huh?

That little bit of food poisoning seemed to magically manifest itself in every single member of my family by the end of the week, so you can imagine how far I was from being able to post or even look at the computer for a while there.  That, combined with Maguire starting a new job, and, well, it was a miracle that I remembered to breathe. 

This is what I looked like:

Not pretty.  (by the way, that is the absolute most photoshopping-ish skillz my program is capable of...  pathetic, I know.)

Fortunately, we are all on the upswing and I am rarin' to go!  I have so much to catch up on, but I'm ready for it.  Lots to tell ya'll about, lots to share, lots to do.  Once again, I'll be Squatting here myself on Saturday, as I figured a guest blogger would be sort of silly when I am finally able to post again.  Just fun stuff this weekend and Maguire has given the me the "all's clear" to play online all I want, so I may actually be able to make a dent in my online to-do list.

Let's see...  what all have I missed?  I totally had a video planned for the Great Breast Fest via the League of Maternal Justice, but that plan got pooped on.  I had a bunch of stuff to tell ya'll about regarding TopBlogMag, but then my brain melted.  Ooh, and Cre8Buzz finally launched publicly, but I think I slept through it.  Ugh.  I'll get to it all, I'll get to it all.

By the way, if you've emailed me in the last couple of weeks, I promise, I'll get back to you.  I'm working on all of it this weekend.  Hang in there. 

Before I go back to reorganizing my life, I want to share one little bit of news with you, though:

This week, Maguire was sworn in as a member of the Mississippi Bar Association!  He is a real live MS lawyer, ya'll!  Look at how excited we all were after the ceremony:

It has been an incredibly long road, much longer than we ever expected, but it has all been worth it. 

Okay, I'm not entirely sure, yet, exactly how it's all been worth it, but I'm sure I will feel like there was a damn good reason for this insane roller coaster sometime in the future.  Like when I'm thinking back on these last two years from my grand veranda on my gorgeous mansion overlooking some majestic live oaks and sipping a Mint Julep made by my private staff.

I'm so ready for that.  Now, where's my "Congratulations!  You are the wife of a lawyer!" check?

In the meantime, here is how we feel right now:

Praise Jebus!  Rock on!  Hallelujah!  Amen!

Biscuits and Beer

I look good in BCBG Max Azria clothes.  Particularly the dresses.  So good, in fact (this is me, tongue in cheek), that I thought I would pack an incredibly cute one for our beach vacation with our favorite college-friends couple, Heather and Jarrod. 

This dress is darling, let me tell you.  It's a knee-length sleeveless number, in lightweight chartreuse material with a slight sheen that totally compliments the 1960's housewife cut, complete with two open front pockets.  Almost like an apron, only smashingly darling, with a fitted waist and A-line skirt.  Looks faboo with chunky Bakelite jewelry, finishing off the retro vibe quite nicely.  Perfect for a patio dinner overlooking the Gulf of Mexico over drinks and good conversation about how crazy we were in college.

Someone forgot to mention to me that three toddlers would be attending this dinner.

Three little boys, ranging in age from 1-3, do not mix with easily wrinkled, easily stained dresses.  They also do not mix with scenic dinners overlooking the water, unless you don't mind a lot of negotiations over meal choices, bites to be taken of those damn chicken fingers that you swore you wanted you little booger, and an endless acrobatic display of bending over to pick up toys dropped (or thrown, thank you Goose, you are hilarious) onto the floor.

Fortunately, I don't mind such dinners.  I just forgot that those would be the kind we would be having.

I'm not sure who exactly I thought would be babysitting our crew of dudes while the four of us went out together.  Swept up in anticipation of time with our old friends, I just overlooked that small detail.  And then I packed that cute dress.  With cute shoes.  And cute jewelry.  None of which were to be pieced back together during the mad dashes to grab anything clean out of the suitcase on the way out to The Crab Trap with purses laden down with "busy toys" rather than powder and lipstick.

Our lives are so different now.  Sometimes I do get caught off guard by how different.  I love it, but I also miss the old days.  I miss drinking with my friends while jockeying for position in front of the mirror, getting ready to go out at 10:30 at night.  Now, if I'm not in bed by 10:30, I want to cry.  I miss grinding with boy-friends on the dance floor, our feet sticking to spilled drinks on the ground, until we shut down the place.  Now I grind my teeth to keep from overreacting to the nth spilled juice drink of the day, making my floor a sticky mess that I'm supposed to clean up.  So different.  Good.  Wonderful.  But different.

A few days into our vacation, Jarrod said, "I don't feel like my vacation has even started."  I hear you, brother.  I don't know what I was expecting, as this was our first vacation with the boys, let alone our first vacation with another couple and their boy, but it in no way resembled what I used to think of as a "vacation."  I truly loved every minute of it, but it wasn't like vacations pre-offspring.

Particularly as a stay-at-home mom, our vacation felt more like every other day at home, except with sand.  And more noise.  And lots more water. 

It's not like the boys took a vacation from being toddlers.

The best difference was that these vacation days I had someone with which to commiserate.  Someone who met my overwhelmed sighs with a knowing smile and a mimed "let's strangled them, huh?" across the room.   I love Heather.

I think Heather and I were better prepared for this not-quite-vacation than the husbands were.  At least we knew how to make it through a day full of negotiations, tantrums, and messes.  Picture a day of negotiating with Donald Trump.  Now make him be drunk.  Then put him on the beach.  With a water gun.  And no nap.  That was our vacation.

Maguire and Jarrod were the Apprentices.  In this reality show, however, they wanted to be told, "You're fired."  Ha ha.  Very funny, man-boys.  But you aren't getting off that easy.  Our contracts here state that you will remain on the show until cancellation.  Those contracts being marriage contracts and cancellation being death.

So we adapted.  We lowered our expectations.  More specifically, we changed our expectations.  And we laughed.  A lot. 

And our vacation finally began.

After some serious negotiations with our own drunk adult Donald Trumps, Heather and I broke out for a girls' night out.  Because I like to stick with what works, we went to see SUPERBAD and then out to dinner, just the two of us.  The next night, we gave the men "Get Out of Jail Free" cards and, because they like to stick with what works, they hit Hooters.  Niiiiice.   Chicka Chicka YeYeah!

I used to revel in vacations replete with pastries and mimosas.  Now I relish vacations crammed with biscuits and beer.  And I love it.  And I love Heather and Jarrod for inviting us along.  Pants talks daily about "his new friend, E" and is clearly disappointed each and every day when I have to tell him that we won't be seeing them today.

We are absolutely looking forward to our next vacation as a family.  Hopefully, again, as an extended family.  Because it's after 9am and I could really use a biscuit and beer.