Month: June 2019

Accordion Dave and Others

/ Missy Goodnight / 1 Comment

Last Saturday we drove to Charlotte. We hadn’t been back to the city that I love since we moved on April 1st, but we had to go up on Saturday because our very dear friends, David, Beth, and Morgan were packing up their home in Davidson, NC and hitting the road. Much like what we had just been through, Dave’s job took them away from North Carolina, all the way up to Rhode Island. Dave is a college music professor who plays the accordion like one bad MFer, never-mind the baby grand that sits in their living room. (Seriously, never-mind it, he’s good or whatever, but Dave shall henceforth be called Accordion Dave.) So Accordian Dave took a new teaching gig in Rhode Island even though, and this is important, I offered our basement for them to live in while I worked on my first rap album, in exchange for him playing all the instruments in my band. Why he passed that gig up to teach dumb kids is beyond me, but here we are. I’m still looking for a band, and Dave and Beth and Morgan live in fucking Rhode Island. This is all Accordion Dave’s fault.

Annnnnnyway, we spent the day with our three friends. We got to see some other people we hadn’t seen, catch up a bit. We even learned all about camping trailers, Chinese language courses, and the company Honeywell. It’s a long story. We had dinner at the ye old soda fountain in Davidson, you know which one I mean, the cute little Soda Shoppe on Main Street. Right next to the cute little book store and the cute little coffee shop, right across from the cute little library and the cute little college. Ohh, Davidson.

We realized, while we were eating our deep fried green beans (Morgan’s favorite), that this soda shoppe was one of the first places we all hung out together when we both ended up in North Carolina nearly five years ago (we both moved to NC in the summer of 2014 from the Midwest). We were invited to Morgan’s six-and-a-half-birthday back then, and we played at the library, then had shakes at the soda shoppe, then met the husbands for dinner at a little Italian joint that isn’t there anymore. It was what sealed the deal, for us anyway. The Missy, Jerimiah, Jackson, Accordion Dave, Beth, Morgan deal. It’s a good deal.

So while I was in Davidson (forcing Beth to pack her bathroom on my timeline as I shook my head in agreement every time she took a swig from the whiskey bottle and said, this is all fine, this will all be okay) I realized that the very reason I’ve felt so tied to North Carolina all this time was this woman. This woman kneeling in front of her bathroom sink yelling about toothpaste. This lovely, whiskey-drinking, hanging up maps for the movers, making sure everyone was fed lunch, woman. And her accordion playing husband and her magical daughter.

It’s difficult to be away from the people we love. The loyal, honest, lovable, crazy people we call our friends. And I am away from them. ALL OF THEM. I have my very best girls in Kansas (‘sup Rachel and Madison). I have a couple of best girls in Missouri (looking at you Kasey and Erica). I have Melody in Arizona. I have Susie and Camille on Lake Norman. And now I have Beth and Dave and Morgan in Rhode Island. Of course there are a ton of other smart, amazing, people scattered to the wind in between there, but that’s what the are, scattered. And that sometimes makes me very sad.

In the middle of the chaos of sneaking the tequila bottle away from Accordion Dave and Jerimiah, I got a text from Melody, my Tucson bestie. She was in labor! IN LABOR! In labor with her precious daughter Bexley. Her second born. The surprise we have all been patiently waiting for over the last nine months. There it was. Flashing on my screen: Guess who’s in labor? I immediately screamed and yelled the announcement to the whole house. In fact, I was so excited and devoted to reading all her incoming texts, that it took a couple of hours for the sadness to hit. I so wanted to be there with Melody. I so wanted to be one of the first people to hold Bex, to see her little bow on her head, to listen to her Momma recount the horrible labor process. But I was in Charlotte, 2,000 miles away, with a friend who also needed me. A friend that I also wanted to be with at that very moment. The idea of friendship, the loves in my life, the wonderful people I have known but am so very far away from, all came flooding in at one moment. So I did what I usually do, I cried. Only this time I excused myself to “walk the dog” because I didn’t want to cry in front of anyone.

Listen, you know I am not above crying in public, in private, in front of friends, in front of strangers, in front of a mirror while I watch my face contort into ugly shapes and hope that no one is secretly video taping me. But for some reason I just couldn’t be the one to cry that day. In front of those friends. I needed to be strong. And I felt strong, until Beth met me halfway up the street, fell into my arms, and cried too.

We can only hold it together for so long. At some point the weight of whatever has been keeping us down, the feeling, the moment, the event, the person, whatever “it” is, finally makes our knees buckle. And we can only hope someone is there to catch us. I am so glad I was there to catch Beth. For her to catch me. I wish I could be there every time one of my people needs catching. Needs to take a breather. Needs a time-out called. I wish. I wish. I wish.

I think what I want to say today is to hug your people. Be thankful you have them near. If you are like me and they are not near, then call them. Don’t worry if they might be busy, or sideways, or tied up with a screaming newborn. If they are, they will call back. But chances are they will answer. Because chances are they want to hear your voice, or your laugh, or they want to vent about their day to someone who cares. Take the chance. Insert yourself into their life from time to time. Even when things seem like all is well. Even when you haven’t talked in a while. Even, even, even. Your people need you. You need your people. Make it so.

❤

M.

Ps… Had Accordion Dave taken my offer, our first album would have been titled, Me and Accordion Dave Against the World ‘n them Hoes: Here Comes Treble Vol. I

Illegal Truck, Part Two

/ Missy Goodnight / Leave a comment

The following is a transcript of the conversation between me (parked in the crowded lot of the DeKalb County Tag Office on a day that they were unexpectedly closed, and my husband an hour away in his office.) If you have no idea what I am talking about, get yourself up to speed here: https://missygoodnight.com/2019/06/26/illegal-truck-part-one/

Me: What is that supposed to mean?

My Son-of-a-Bitch Husband: It just means that I read something about them being closed today for maintenance, but…

Me: WHAAAAT?!

S-O-B Husband: It said it might be closed on Thursday, it didn’t say for sure and…

Me: Oh well it is one hundred percent closed on Thursday, there is no might to it, and now we can’t drive your truck to Missouri this weekend and how are you going to tow a boat with my car and…

S-O-B: Hold on, hold on. Open the glove compartment and grab the registration.

Me: Okay, what now?

S-O-B: When does it say it expires?

Me: June 15th.

S-O-B: Oh, okay, so we are good we…

Me: ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?! I had until June 15th to get this shit done?! I have been running around like a crazy person trying to, OMIGOD, Imma need to let you go…

S-O-B: Babe, listen I…

Click.

So, yeah. The tags had a 15 day grace period because North Carolina is amazing and I love them and what the hell is up with my husband? Piece of shit, ratchet-ass, you know what I’m going to move on.

So, we drive his truck to Missouri and all is well. We plan to get back to Atlanta on the 31st, which means we can go on the first to the only tag office that is open on Saturday and get the tags switched. I breathe a sigh of relief and accept his apology.

On Saturday June 1st we wake up bright and early and head to Gwinnett County to the one open tag office in the state of Georgia. On the way over I say something like, Do you think we have to go to the county we live in to get the tags? And my husband says, No that would be dumb. Mind you, we have to get the tags today because my husband is flying to Baton Rouge on Monday.

When we get there the line is wrapped around the building. There are double drive through lines and it is hot as shit. We stand in the outside line for about twenty minutes, then I am like, you know what, I’m just gonna go call someone and ask about that county thing. So I walk off to investigate the rules (which apparently my husband has already done quote, extensively). My nervousness makes him nervous, so he has Jackson walk up to the door to read the 85 signs plastered on it and one of them says, “You can only buy tags in the county in which you live.”

So thirty minutes later I am eating a taco made of chemically-engineered beef at Del Taco while expertly giving him the stink-eye.

When we get home my husband does some more research and comes up with this plan: On Monday morning, I will drop him off at the airport at 8:00 am, with the kid and dog in tow. Then I will head over to the DeKalb County Tag Office again, this time with my passed emissions test and all my correct paperwork and I will buy the tags. This is fine because I am also on the title. It is an And/Or Title. I agree, but I feel like something isn’t right. I ask him about three more times over the course of the weekend if he is sure I have all I need. Yes, he knows for sure. He has checked. Again.

Monday morning I battle my way through the morning traffic in Atlanta, then back again to my side of town. I get to the Tag Office to a line out the door. It is 8:07 am. I leave the kid and dog in the car with the air on, because once again it is hot as shit, and neither of them want to be where they currently are. Neither do I. I am nervous about leaving them in the car across the street from the county jail, but I push on. Not a lot of options at this point.

I get into the building by 8:35 am. By 8:45 I have a number. M347. They are calling M117. Awesome. For the next hour I pace the floor, peaking out the window to see that my car with child and dog in it are safe and sound, until the police officer tells me, Ma’am you really need to have a seat. I do not have a phone on me, because my son left his phone at home and I left my phone with him so he had one just in case.

At approx. 10:00 am my number is called. Hallelujah! I run up to the window and give the lovely woman all my paperwork, my DL, and a big smile. Though I am not feeling confident.

Lovely Woman: Hello, Mrs. Goodnight. How can I help you today?

Me: I just moved to Georgia and I need to get my tags switched.

Lovely Woman: I can help you with that.

She starts rifling through my paperwork.

Woman: Okay, so in Georgia we require a Title Ad Valorem tax of 7%, are you aware of that?

I tell her I am aware of that, and then I sigh, because this might actually be happening.

Woman: So you will need to pay $700 today in order to get your tags, okay?

Me: Great. (Not really great, but I don’t care anymore.)

Then she starts shuffling papers on her desk, highlighting notes, and clicking on her keys.

Woman: Does anyone have a lien on this vehicle?

Me: Yes, Wells Fargo is our lien holder.

Woman: Okay, so they need to fax a copy of the title over to me. Which isn’t a big deal, it just usually takes a few minutes.

Me: Okay, um, I think my husband filled out the title form, which…

Woman: Nope, still need the title.

Then she looks around me.

Woman: Where is your husband?

Me: Uhh, on a plane, I say.

Woman: Ohhhhh.

Me: Ohhhh?

Woman: Georgia is not an “And/or” state. Georgia is an “And” state. If you want tags today your husband has to be present.

Me: WHAAAA?!

Woman: Unless! You have a power of attorney?

Me: WHAAAA?!

Woman: Okay, Mrs. Goodnight (she starts to hand me all my paperwork back). You need to get a power of attorney and it needs to be notarized and…

She keeps talking but I shut down and have no idea what she is saying. I walk out to the car where I am met with a, Guess what, Mommy! The airport was so crowded this morning with summer travelers that Daddy missed his flight. Haha! That’s pretty funny, huh? Cause he could have come here with us! Anyway, here is your phone back! You were in there for way too long, I’m hungry.

This was June 3rd. Two weeks before tags officially expire. Husband is gone all of that week. On June 8th he comes home for one day. On June 9th we all pile into my car (with valid tags) and drive to Baton Rouge for two weeks. We get home on 23rd. On June 24th I take husband to work and drive back home because I have an appointment. Husband says we will get tags on Wednesday, that is when he has a free morning. On Tuesday he calls Wells Fargo to get a copy go title faxed. They say we should have it by Friday. Le sigh. It is not a ten-minute wait time for title.

And here we are. June 26th? Yeah? I don’t know anymore. We have no tags. No title. No patience. And I am still mad as hell that we have to pay $700 to the state of Georgia, especially because we already paid taxes on this truck.

So what is the point of all of this? There is none. Except maybe don’t move to Georgia? Or maybe don’t put shit off? Or maybe it is possible for your smart, wonderful, husband to be an S-O-B sometimes? Or maybe trust your gut? Or maybe sell all your vehicles and ride your bike everywhere you need to go? Maybe ride your bike up into the Tennessee mountains? Maybe find an abandoned log cabin and start your life anew? Maybe live as a hermit in the Smoky Mountains for the rest of your damn life with 18 feral cats and one goat that thinks you are his mom? Maybe?

M.

Illegal Truck, Part One

/ Missy Goodnight / 1 Comment

My husband’s truck is backed into the driveway with expired tags. This is the first time we’ve ever had expired tags on a vehicle and we are a little paranoid. Kinda like the first time you are pulled over with a dime bag hidden in your center console and you’ve been speeding, but you’re not high, and you keep fidgeting and not making eye contact with the cop while he lectures you on the importance of safety. Then he asks for your registration and for a second you wonder if the dime bag, that you bought for a friend, is actually in your center console, or did you put it in your glove box? Cause you weren’t going that far anyway. I mean, you just have to make it to your friend’s birthday party across town so you can surprise her with the dime bag, and you can both laugh and laugh cause it’s been so long, and then she can roll the joint, and then all fifteen of your closest pals gather around nervously to smoke it, even though you are all well into your 20s now and this sort of thing doesn’t suit you. And if you did put it in your glove box, is it going to fall out when you open it for your registration? Oh no! Oh, whew! It’s not in your glove box.

Let me back up.

My husband’s truck tags expired in the state of North Carolina in June. We moved to Georgia on April 1st, so we decided to wait to switch tags until May since we clearly had the time. I know, I know, you’re supposed to do it within in 30 days. Does anyone actually do that? Anyway, being the good citizens we are (cough) we started looking up what we needed at the beginning of May. First we had to switch our DLs to Georgia. Well I did mine rather quickly because I needed a Georgia DL to get a library card. Also the state of Georgia makes it super easy to get your DL. You do a bunch of pre-registration online, then you show up with your old DL, your passport, and your land deed or lease agreement and boom! Twenty minutes later I was walking out the door with my new DL. So I assumed the car tags would be the same.

First Jerimiah needed to get his DL which is a bit more difficult since he travels a bunch for work, and when he is in town he is at his office from 8 am to 5 pm Monday through Friday, which is of course when the DL Office is open. He finally got it done, however, mid-May. Next step was tags. So Jerimiah looked up online what we needed. According to what he read we were missing only one thing: an emissions test. But, wouldn’t you know it, since we had moved into the state his check engine light came on. So, because of the schedule above, I had to take care of the emissions test.

First I go to the parts store to have them run the code. (I’m sorry about the car talk, when you’re married to a car guy and your son wants to be an automotive engineer when he grows up, you pick up a few things you wish you hadn’t.) So they run the code, which just means they can tell me what is triggering the check engine light. Jerimiah had already warned me that it was probably the gas cap. That is what set it off last year too. In any event, I was to buy any part they said I’d need.

The first thing she said was the gas cap. Le sigh. So I bought a new one, and asked her how long I should drive before the light goes off (if your check engine light is on you will not pass an emissions test, FYI). She said 10 miles. For the record, this is very, very wrong. Follow along. So I drove the truck 15 miles and it didn’t go off. I went back and bought the second part on the list which was the Vapor Canister Purge Valve and I went home.

That night Jerimiah and Jackson basically took his truck apart in the driveway to get to the part and still could not. He was frustrated, I was worried, and Jackson was covered in grease, which he totes loved. When I turned the truck on the check engine light was off! Hooray! Except, it was only off because Jerimiah had pulled out the battery to get to the part, which reset the electronic system. This was May 21st, which is important because that meant I still had to get the truck to pass an emissions test, but quickly because we were driving it to Missouri for Memorial Day Weekend that Friday.

So Jerimiah tells me that I probably need to drive it more to see if the light comes back on. I do not heed his advice and go right to the testing place the next morning. I’m on a strict schedule. The truck fails. The inspector tells me I have to drive it like 70 miles in order for the engine to go through all the cycles it needs to go through, which is eight in case you are just really, really interested in this. So, I drive it 70 miles. It fails again. This time right as the inspection place closes. I will have to try again the next day.

Damn it, this is gonna have to be a two-parter. Sorry, y’all. But we all need a breather soon.

So, the next day I pass and run over to the tag office in Decatur. I get there with all my paperwork in a folder and I am met with a policeman at the front door who tells me that this location is closed for Memorial Day. I say, Whaaaa?! Where do I go? He tells me every one of them in the state is closed because maintenance, holiday, blah, blah, blah. I’m pissed. I get into my car and call Jerimiah. I just know that he will flip out and validate all my feelings at this point.

You are not going to believe this… I pause to build suspense. They are closed until the 28th!

Silence for a moment, then…

Oh, yeah, that’s right.

Make a Grid

/ Missy Goodnight / 2 Comments

Mrs. Kim, my lovely neighbor across the way, was very intrigued by the fact that I was power washing my driveway today. So much so that she would sneak glances at me out of her garage window when she thought I wasn’t looking, once every hour or so. Three Mrs. Kim glances later I could tell that her intrigue had turned to concern and it started to infiltrate my psyche. I hadn’t intended to power wash my driveway for three hours today, it just sort of happened, like a lot of things do in my life.

We got home from our two-week trip to Baton Rouge on Friday afternoon. You can read about some of it here https://missygoodnight.com/2019/06/13/deep-deep-south/ though I have to be honest, I have a lot more to say on the trip, just need some time. Anyway, we drove home the eight hours on Friday, then had a good night’s rest in our own bed, then woke up the next day and drove the four hours to Charlotte to say goodbye to our friends Morgan, Beth, and Dave. You see, Morgan, Beth, and Dave packed up and moved to Rhode Island for no reason except to make me sad. Well, Dave got a new job teaching at URI, but that is besides the point. Me. Sad. Important part. We didn’t get back from Charlotte until four am, which means we slept until noon on Sunday, which means we finally got around to getting some of the things done we needed to get done before the week started at nine pm last night. Which was just in time to watch Ralph Wrecks the Internet because Ralph wrecks the internet.

Sigh. That is all to say that we have been busy, busy (and I’ve been a little sad) and today was the first day back in real life and real life looked like this. We woke up sorta late. I had to drive J to work about 30 minutes away (with Jackson and the damn dog) in Atlanta traffic, and then rush home to get ready for my therapy session at 10:00 am. Why did I have to drive J to work? That is a great question and one that I intend to share with you this week if all the components of my life start working again.

So then I go to therapy and cry. I always cry. We don’t even need to talk about like, you know, real shit. We can just talk about the weather and where to get good food (like we did today) and I cry. I really like my therapist. I think she is great in fact. She has a really calming presence, which is probably good for a therapist. She is also wicked funny. She is the kinda lady I wish I had met at Publix in the fruit aisle, and we had bumped carts and I had said, Ope, scuse me, I’ve been drinking! Haha, just kidding I’m not drunk. And she would have said, Me neither, but wanna go get drunk? And then we would be best friends. Except we can’t be friends cause she’s my therapist. Bummer. Anyway, I cried a little and she assured me the world wasn’t ending and I felt better, but also like I needed to do something drastic. I was afraid I would get day drunk and cut my own bangs, so instead I decided to let Jackson wash my car.

Washing my car is something he always asks me to do and I always tell him no because of the hassle of finding the power washer, finding the hose, dragging it all out, then him getting all crazy wet, then other excuse, other excuse, other excuse. Today I thought I’d just let him go to town and get as wet as he wanted. So I let him. He was way excited then (in true Jackson fashion) he washed my car for about five minutes then went back inside. He did offer to clean up the power washer but I was all, nah leave it out I might clean something. And there we are. Three hours later I felt accomplished even though I accomplished the one thing not anywhere near my to-do list today. Not even close.

It is important to note here that I enjoy power washing. I know it sounds weird as shit. But I go to a very zen-like place when I power wash. I sort of process stuff better when I am doing something that I don’t have to think about. I think that is true for a lot of people, probably. Others might crochet, or tinker with cars or electronics, or color or paint. I power wash. I like to take a big surface (like a driveway that is pretty dirty) and split it up into sections, then tackle one section at a time while my mind sort of wanders. I process things I have been putting off, I have conversions with myself, I think about things to write, all while I work my way through the grid I created. It probably has something to do with feeling little accomplishments while you are working. It is like writing a novel and finishing a chapter, or quilting and getting one square done. It’s always easier to take large tasks and break them into smaller ones to tackle. Then you are not so overwhelmed. And I do often get overwhelmed. It’s not unlike when you use your at-home electrolysis kit and you mark on your legs and work small sections. Except with power washing you don’t need to worry about turning the level up too high and getting zapped so hard that you have a series of light seizures.

So, why am I telling you all this? Why do I tell you all anything, Jesus Karen lay off me. I guess because we are in this together you guys. And I know I have been absent, I was a little blue last week. I was overwhelmed. But I think I am back. And I think I have a ton of shit to tell you guys, so let’s get to it!

Happy Monday!

M.

A Glimpse into My Life

/ Missy Goodnight / Leave a comment

“Mommy!”

“Mommy!”

“Mommy.”

(Barking)

“Mommy…”

“Mommy.” (Eye roll)

“Mommy!!!”

“Mom…eeeeeeeeeeee.”

“Mom. Mom. Mommy. Mom.”

(Loud barking from the hallway)

“Mommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmy!”

Bark. Bark. Bark. (Skid across the floor) Bark. Bark.

Breakfast time.

Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark…

You get the picture.

M.

Deep, Deep South

/ Missy Goodnight / 4 Comments

I’m in the Deep, Deep South, y’all. And I’m in it deep. Like fried chicken from the Piggly Wiggly counter, sweet tea at the plantation, carrying a knife in case of gators, must be white to have money, deep. Deep, y’all. I’m only halfway through my first week here and I am already emotionally drained. Things are different here. They are different than any other part of the United States I have ever been. Things here are different physically, financially, and economically. They are different in ways that you can see, and in ways you can feel. The way people look at you. The way people move around in public places. Yes, things are different in the ways that you can see. In the physical. But it’s the things that you can’t that make it so disturbing.

The first thing I noticed crossing over the Alabama line from Georgia is the physical changes. The roads for example, went from smooth, black asphalt to a bumpy red and brown mixture. The potholes nearly doubled, and the trash on the side of the road skyrocketed. By the time we were in Montgomery, a mere two hours from our house, I felt like we had been transported thousands of miles, and by the time we got to Mobile I felt like we had been transported back in time. At a Piggly Wiggly between Biloxi and Gulfport, I overheard a man and a woman arguing over whether or not he would blow his whole paycheck at the casino, and then I watched as a woman made the crucial decision on whether to spend her last dollar on a candy bar (that was marked on sale, but rang up full price) or a Faygo Orange Soda. She picked the soda as it went better with her microwavable shrimp gumbo.

The second or third time my car hit a very large pothole, I asked my husband why the roads were so bad. He mumbled something about low taxes and that we need to check our tire pressure. The next day he sent me an article from the Wall Street Journal with the subject: Thought you might be interested in this, per conversation yesterday. The article title was: The South’s Economy is Falling Behind: “All of a Sudden the Money Stops Flowing”. I will leave a link to it here: https://www.wsj.com/articles/the-souths-economy-is-falling-behind-all-of-a-sudden-the-money-stops-flowing-11560101610 He is right, my husband. The South doesn’t like taxes. They also don’t like education, healthy food, or relinquishing their divisive ways, and nowhere are those ways more divisive than here in Baton Rouge.

In Baton Rouge there is a very clear economic and racial divide, and it starts near the university. Louisiana State is quite clearly the pride and joy of Baton Rouge, but it seems to go a step further. Something changes when you see the first sign that says: LSU This Way. The streets get better. The houses get nicer. You suddenly don’t feel like you are stuck in Louisiana. I Suddenly felt like I was in Kansas City, or Chicago, or one of those tree-lined streets in (insert small Northern town). Jackson and I spent about an hour walking around campus yesterday. We saw Tiger Stadium, which rivals Arrowhead Stadium in Kansas City (home of the NFL team The Chiefs) and shines so brightly at night, that a purple haze can be seen across the Baton Rouge shipyards, deep into Port Allen. We saw Mike the Tiger in his 15,000 square foot enclosure, complete with a waterfall and a rock that both cools in the summertime and heats in the winter. He is a lazy sort of Bengal, having never had to work for his food, nor fight for his dominance. He was born and raised in captivity, and was gifted to the University from a tiger rescue in Florida. He is the seventh tiger to be housed on the LSU campus and a constant reminder of Baton Rouge’s priorities.

We were schooled in Mike the Tiger from other visitors from the moment we stepped foot onto campus, until the moment we left. They beamed as they told us: He likes to run and jump at the fence. He likes to have his belly scratched. There are only two people allowed in the fence. He has a separate enclosure for game day. He used to be placed behind the opposing team in a rickety sort of cage. Psychological warfare. Cool. Very cool. Their pride in this tiger is palpable. The rampant racism that sizzles under the surface like the midday sun, is less noticeable.

There were a group of school children at Mike’s enclosure when we got there. There were maybe twelve or fifteen of them. There were about four adult escorts. The children were running along the enclosure fence, yelling for Mike to come out of his lazy, afternoon nap. They were pumped up to see him. I imagine they had traveled by bus to get to him. They had energy to burn. When Mike would move one of them would yell for the others and they would all crowd around, trying to get the best view. Occasionally one of them would whistle. Jackson joined a group of six or seven other boys at the fence line and was looking at me smiling. An older woman, there with her grandchildren to see Mike, approached me and politely suggested I get my child back away from the enclosure with a wink and a nod. It wasn’t because Mike was up and around. He hadn’t moved from his afternoon siesta. It wasn’t because she feared for my son’s life at the paws of a Bengal Tiger. It was because all the children hanging on the fence line were black.

I’m probably not saying anything new here. It’s the South, after all. And I probably have a lot more to say on the topic. And I feel like I am taking the easy way out by ending here. But sometimes you just have to see something to believe it. And this was my seeing. And now I just don’t know what to do with it.

M.

It Ain’t Over til it’s Over

/ Missy Goodnight / Leave a comment

Lenny Kravitz has been on my mind lately. Not just any version of Lenny Kravitz, the version of him with a fishnet shirt. His head tilted back. His ripped muscles going down, down, down… His hair long and braided. Or short. Or shaved. Or a scarf wrapped around his head, my point here being that his hair doesn’t matter too much. His arms, his neck. His thick neck. His little thicket of chest hair popping against his fishnet. Whew. Imma need a second.

Here’s the thing, Lenny is sexy as hell even at (gasp!) fifty-five years old. Lenny is fifty-five, Missy?! You shut your heathen mouth, no he isn’t. Lenny is only twenty-five, and he has the chest of a God and the calf muscles of an actual baby calf. Uh, no y’all. He is fifty-five and guess what?! No one gives a shit cause he fly as hell. Also, stop giving a shit how old someone is. Age really is irrelevant, you ageists! Look at you! Stop it! People are wonderful and magnificent at any age, and if you give someone a chance they may surprise you. I have several friends who are older than me and they are awesome and amazing and they make my life better everyday.

Redirecting.

I have a problem y’all. Lenny has always stirred me in the right direction. In fact, the night before our wedding I frantically made a list of my “passes” while Jerimiah assured me that yes, in fact, if Lenny Kravitz or Michelle Rodriguez or Vince Vaughn… Wait, Vince Vaughn? Okay, this one is harder to explain. I like people who make me laugh. Okay that wasn’t so hard. So yeah, if Lenny or Michelle or Vince ever approach me for sex, even after marriage, I could say yes with no guilt. But Lenny was on top of the list. Ohhh, Lenny on top. Hehehe.

And I get it, Lenny is happily married. And so am I, so that’s good. But listen, if Lenny were to waltz in the door right now, scoop me up into his arms (this is my fantasy not yours) and say, Baby, let’s rock well then, we’d rock. And roll. And tumble. And someone would get tied up. Bottom line: Bottom. Hehehe. Bottom line: Lenny Kravitz man. Lenny Kravitz.

That is all.

M.

Laundry

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Here’s the thing: I hate laundry. Hate. It. But somedays I am in the laundry room, folding clothes, sorting socks, and hanging up dresses, and I am all, Wow, you rock, Momma! You do all this for your family. You take care of your people. You show love with acts of service to others. They might not realize all you do, but you know, in your heart, that you will always care for them in this way. Laundry is but a window into your loving soul, and you are the best one to do this all. Then the next day when I am in the laundry room, folding clothes, sorting socks, and hanging up dresses, I am all, Fuck this shit, I’m moving to a nudest colony! You sons-a-bitches don’t deserve me! Yeah, I said it. A nudest colony. And you might think that I don’t have the courage to do that, but I do. I have already looked them up. And yeah, they are all mainly in Florida. And yeah, that means small, wrinkly, old man penis in my face all the time, but look at me! LOOK AT ME! I am a Goddess and they would LOVE to have me there, and you know what (laughs crazily), you know what, they would WORSHIP me! Worship me, you pile of dirty-sock, poop-stained underwear-wearing assholes! Those old, wrinkly men would WORSHIP me!

And then I apologize to my dog for yelling at him and I finish up the laundry.

M.

Branson, Missouri

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If you’re like me, you’re tired as shit of visiting Branson, Missouri. But if you’re like me, that means you also lived there for five years and you did all the things. Like, ALL THE THINGS. So you’re sorta worn out with that nonsense. If you are also like me, you have a child who, while born in the local Branson hospital, still doesn’t really remember his time there. So whenever he visits he wants to do ALL THE THINGS again. Le sigh. Loooong story short, we spent a few days in Branson a couple of weeks ago and took Jackson to the Toy Museum, which he had actually never visited, though we had. And then he talked us into the Celebrity Car Museum which we have all been to SEVERAL times. Then of course there was Silver Dollar City, which I don’t mind too much since it has roller coasters and the little Wilderness Church. You see, my husband and I got married in that little Wilderness Church on an unusually warm December day in 2007. So it is always sorta fun to have our picture made in front of it.

So, ahem, what follows are a bunch of pics from our few days in Branson, including a timeline of sorts in front of our little church.

Enjoy.

M.

PS… If you don’t know what Silver Dollar City is, or you have never heard of Branson, Missouri before, good on you! But just know that you will never experience a woman dressed in 19th century garb slinging Dippin Dots anywhere else! Link here: https://www.silverdollarcity.com/theme-park

Mike the Tiger

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I’m writing this post early, like three days early, because on Sunday morning (this morning, but not this this morning, you know what I mean) I am actually headed to Louisiana for two weeks and the plan is to head out early because it is a bit of a drive from Atlanta to Baton Rouge. In preparation for this trip, I have been talking to my 10-year-old son about Louisiana, because he has never been. My husband goes once a month for work. He has also been to New Orleans, as have I (if you don’t already know that get yourself up to speed on my Mardi Gras Experience in my four part series. Here is the first part: https://missygoodnight.com/2019/03/01/corner-of-bourbon-and-canal/ be aware, this is not for the faint of heart.)

Anywho, we have been discussing alligators and the show Swamp People. We have been talking about slavery and Water Moccasins. Civil War, why rebel flags are in fact hate, not heritage, LSU and Mike the Tiger, and Crawfish. I even gave him a painfully boring lecture on what it means to be Creole versus Cajun, and how pidgin languages came to be. He isn’t as into linguistics as I’d hoped.

The thing is, he is now TERRIFIED of Louisiana. But for good reason. I mean, they keep a tiger in a cage so that with every roar they can score touchdowns. It doesn’t add up. So yeah, he’s confused, and a little scared. He thinks we are going to be attacked by an alligator if we take an airboat tour. He thinks the Mike the Tiger will get out of his enclosure and chase us. He thinks he will go for a swim in the hotel pool and the bottom will open up, all Freddy-style, and suck him out into the swamp and he will be forced to live with Troy and Big Billy and make a living off of unsuspecting tourists for the rest of his life. And truth be told, it could all happen. Especially in Louisiana.

So, I guess what I am asking for here is some prayer. Or some good thoughts. Or maybe where to get gumbo that won’t burn his tongue? Cause I don’t know much about Baton Rouge and the surrounding area. And I don’t know much about much anyway. So if we get eaten by a gator, well then that is on you guys. Or the Voodoo Queens that I made mad. Just a heads up.

See you around.

Or not.

M.

The Bomber

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My second grade teacher Mrs. Parks was reading the whole class an Aesop Fable. I don’t remember which one it was. Maybe it was The Tortoise and the Hare or maybe it was The Boy Who Cried Wolf, I just remember that my entire second grade class was sitting crisscross applesauce in a sorta-circle under the blackboard. Yes, we had a blackboard. Actually, I think it was green, not black. We called it a chalkboard. We also had a music staff liner that we’d stuff with chalk to make lines on the board for handwriting practice. Yes, I’m real-chalkboard-in-the-classroom old. Anyway, there we were 20 or so eight-year-olds sitting sorta-circle on the linoleum floor in front of our ancient chalkboard, looking up eagerly at our teacher as she read from a large picture book. Before every turn of the page she would slowly turn the book around in one of those here-it-comes-kids sorta ways. This little game could go on for a long time. We never got tired of the excitement of seeing the beautiful illustrated pages. It’s like we craved the jitters that it gave us. It’s kind weird, I suppose. We were all just little Aesop Fables junkies. But I digress. The pertinent information here is that our small bodies would go from tense, to relaxed every minute or so, which is fine and dandy if you don’t have a track record of tooting in your pants.

There I was sitting between Stephanie, the girl with the two moms, and Billy the kid with diabetes, and they were poking at each other in front of me. I kept slapping at Billy’s hand when he would reach over me to poke Stephanie. Eventually Mrs. Parks noticed my dilemma and told them to stop, taking the burden off of me. But they didn’t, so she motioned for me to come sit next to her. This made me happy because I am forever a Teacher’s Pet. But, that also meant that I had to sit next to Dusty. Ugh. Dusty. He was a mess. He always had to sit next to Mrs. Parks because he couldn’t be trusted otherwise.

So I start to shuffle on my hands and knees to the spot in front of Mrs. Parks, when I feel a sneeze coming on. I tried to scuttle faster, but my classmates were everywhere making it hard for me to get to my spot, so instead I just kind of sheltered in place. I stopped in the middle of the sorta-circle and sat on my knees, leaned back a bit, and braced for the sneeze impact. And then I snarted.

Yeah, you’re not gonna find that word in the OED, but basically I sneeze/farted. Not to be confused with sharting. I didn’t shart. I let out a snart. And the whole class heard it. And Mrs. Parks stopped reading. And Billy stopped his poking. And the room fell silent. And Dusty yelled, “Melissa let out a bomber!” and the laughter came quicker than the snart had. My face got really hot. And my body got really hot. And my lunch started to bubble up in my throat, and I thought I might throw up chocolate milk and chili. The laughter was intense and Mrs. Parks kindly tried to get control of them, but it took a few moments. Meanwhile everyone was looking at me, sitting on my legs, in the middle of the sorta-circle. I didn’t know what to do. I panicked. I looked over at Shawn, the blonde kid next to me. We locked eyes for a split second and then I said, in a low, shaky voice, “It was Shawn.” Then more laughter as Dusty pointed at Shawn and said, “Shawn let out a bomber!” Then I hung my head and scooted back to my original spot. I deserved it. And Shawn never said a word about it.

So I guess I’m here to publicly say: I am sorry, Shawn. I’m a dirty, rat-bastard with bad gastro-intestinal issues that have plagued me since childhood and you were one of my victims. I wish I could have owned up to my snart, but you get it, man. Girls just can’t afford to be the bomber in second grade. We just can’t afford it.

Thanks, Shawn. Thanks.

M.

Snapped

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Over the last few weeks when I was not writing, I was still snapping photos. And I figure what better way to share them than on my bloggy-blog with all you unsuspecting souls. In short, when I get creatively blocked I go in search of my lost creativity. Sometimes I find it, sometimes I do not, but it is worth a shot (see what I did there, oh I make myself giggle). Anyhoo, here are some pics I snapped in Oklahoma last week. I took a short, unexpected trip to the Tulsa area and came back with these puppies. It was an interesting landscape. The raw, rural midwest in all its weathered glory. And I do mean weathered. There had been mass flooding and storms in the region, but we happened upon it on an overcast day with only small storms. The pictures of my husband and son are on a plot of land in central Oklahoma that belonged to my husband’s late uncle J.R., whom both my husband and son share the initials of (Jerimiah Robert and Jackson Riker). My father-in-law lives at his brother’s house now and we spent a few hours out there while Jackson and Sir Duke explored. Jackson is a car guy, if you don’t know, so he enjoyed fiddling with his Papa’s Chevy Blazer, then checking out some old cars his cousin has out back. He asked for pictures with the “cool” cars. 🙂 Honestly, it was nice to capture some shots of a place that means a lot to my husband. He used to spend summers out at “JRs place” and though Jackson never made it to meet his great uncle before he passed away, we think they would have hit it off.

The other pictures are from my wonderings around a few small towns in the area, and of a park in Tulsa that Sir Duke and I walked in, right before a storm blew through. If you have never spent a lot of time in rural Oklahoma, maybe this will help you want to visit! Or maybe run far away from it. Either way, it helped me stay creative when I couldn’t quite put pen to paper.

I hope you enjoy.

M.

Home is Where Your Shit Is

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We were driving back to Atlanta last weekend, after being in Southern Missouri for a week, and my husband and I were talking about that word Home, and what it means to us. You see, Southern Missouri used to be our home. We lived there for 10 years. We graduated college there. We were married there. We started our little family there. We made everlasting friends there. His mother still lives in Southern Missouri, and we go back to visit from time to time. And when we go visit we say, as we do when we go to Kansas, that we are going home. But lately, I have started to feel different about Southern Missouri. About all the places I have lived before. And over the last few months when someone asks where we are from, I have caught myself saying that we are from Charlotte. And I have been trying to figure out why.

I mentioned this to my husband, while we shoved our mouths full of road trip food and tried to stay awake in the searing dusk. I told him that I think I give that word too much power. That the older I get the more I realize that I am lost and that I don’t really know what makes something, or someone, feel like home. I told him that we use our home too often as a way to define who we are and what we can accomplish. I told him that seems somewhat limiting. He told he wanted to sleep in his own bed. Truth be told, I did too, but I was more caught up in the places I have called home, and how even when I go back to those places, I yearn to be back to my current home.

Living in Atlanta isn’t so bad. In fact, I had built it up to be this monster of a place, and really it isn’t any different than any other city. It has its “good” parts and its “bad”. It has sweet, kind people. And it has people who scare you a little. It has great drivers, and crazy, aggressive drivers. It is just a lot of people, from a lot of different homes, mixed up together in a tiny area trying to get by. And honestly, it feels surprisingly good to be a part of the ebb and flow of the ATL. It, dare I say, feels like home?

So how can Southern Missouri, and Leavenworth, Kansas, and Charlotte, North Carolina, and Atlanta all feel like home to me? The closest I can come up with is the people I am doing this damn life with are my home, and while there are some constants, my husband, my son, my dog, there are other people too. There are the neighbors. The ones in our cul-de-sac now are not that different from the ones who were on our street in Charlotte. We have Mr. Charlie, and Mrs. Kim, and Chris and Christy, and yes even Ginger and Scooter. And they smile and they wave. They check on our house when we are gone, and they pull our trash cans up from the curb if we forget. There are whole communities and lovely people inside each of the places we have called home.

There is my favorite Target, and the one I will go to in a pinch. There is the good Dunkin and the bad one. The clean Kroger and the dirty one. There is that coffee shop at the corner where people sit for a spell and talk about their day. There is that game store that sells comic books and Magic cards. There is IKEA, and TJ Maxx, and Walmart. Dear Baby Jesus, there are the Walmarts.

There are the neighbors who wave and those who don’t. There are the moms in the PTO who are a little crazy, but manage to get it all done. There are the teachers who love your kid like crazy, and the ones you wonder about. There are the post office employees who keep smiling, even when they really want to hit that woman in front of the line who doesn’t know how stamps work. There are the pharmacists who tell the same thing to 100 different people every day. Yes, this pill might make you sick to your stomach. Take it with food, please.

There are the brainwashed Chick-fil-A employees, and the Jesus Saves guys on mopeds. There are the little women who ask which church you belong to and would you like to come to Sunday service? There are dads mowing lawns in New balance sneakers, yelling about gas prices, and how hard it is to start this damn weed-eater, I swear I’m going to buy a new one soon.

There are people asking for money with signs that say, Veteran and Anything Helps. There are the drug dealers who deal in dime bags and the ones who deal in cartel meth. There are the women who wear too much perfume and the ones who insist on make-up to workout. There are the teenagers sneaking a six-pack down to the river, so they can listen to music and make out with that red-headed girl.

And all of these people live in all of these places. And all of these places are home. Someone’s home. And in the end, it doesn’t matter so much which home was yours. Which one you wanted to belong to, which ones you never did. Because for as much as each of these homes is unique, they are also so very much alike. And sometimes we forget that. And sometimes we need a reminder.

“I think maybe home is where your shit is,” I told my husband somewhere between Tupelo and Birmingham.

He smiled. “I think you might be right.”

M.

Sir Duke is a Shithead

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My dog woke me up at four this morning. I suspect it was so that he could go poop out the book that he ate yesterday when I left him at home for about three hours. I wondered, for a split second, what it feels like to poop out a book. Which led me to wonder why one would eat a book? Is it like when I was pregnant and I craved coffee grinds? Is it that thing where your body is lacking iron so you desire to eat dirt? Or is it more of that thing where you have a mental problem and you only feel better if you eat little bits of mattress that you purchase in bulk at Sam’s Club, because they can’t be used mattresses, you have standards. I suspect of course, it’s because he is a dog. And dogs eat crazy shit. He likes, for instance, to rifle through our bathroom trash from time to time and get himself a little snack. Used q-tips, leftover floss, or his personal favorite: tissue smeared with excrements from our noses. He doesn’t prefer one of our noses over the other. He likes all snot the same.

But this whole only eating my shit when he is left alone, well that is pointed.

When he was a puppy we kenneled him, much to my dismay. Our overweight, chocolate lab Bentley who was put to sleep last year (you can read about her here: https://missygoodnight.com/2018/10/20/bentley/) was not the kind of dog that we had to kennel. She never wanted to tear our shit up, or make us pay for leaving her alone. She was merely the absolute perfect, best doggo in the whole wide world. No biggie. Sir Duke Barkington of Charlotte, however, is a little shithead.

Sir Duke has anxiety. And believe me, I get that. I too have anxiety. But he has separation anxiety, which is not what I have. In fact, I’m totes okay with spending load of time all alone. All. Alone. Expect for the past year I have not had that opportunity because well, Sir Duke Barkington of Charlotte. He is with me ALL DAY LONG. Everyday. And therein lies the problem.

Make no mistake, I did this to myself. I have always wanted a doggy who loves me so much he waits for me to get home with a wagging tail. He loves to cuddle with me. I am his human. His one and only. Bentley, for as awesome as she was, she wasn’t a cuddle buddy. She slept on my feet for five years or so (until Jackson was born and she had to sleep on the floor in his room for her own peace of mind) but she wasn’t one to hop on the couch with me and watch Netflix. In fact, if you ever accidentally sat down next to her, she’d give you about two minutes to change your mind, then she would get up and walk away. If it weren’t for her size, I’d think she was part cat.

Sir Duke is quite a different story. He seeks you out. Then he hops directly on top of you head. Or your face. Or your uncovered limbs. He licks your eyes, he tries to put his tongue inside your ears. He relentlessly runs to the bathroom whenever he hears me using it. If I have closed the door he whines outside of it. If I have left it open, half-asleep at 6:00 am, he stands in between my legs and waits for me to finish. I just don’t get it.

But, I guess I don’t need to. I guess he’s just that guy. An large, annoying, cuddly, deranged poodle. And well, as much as I bitch and complain about him, he’s mine. And I’m his. And I love that about us. I just wish he’d stop eating my damn books.

M.

Bad Juju and What Not

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Yesterday my son tried to open a banana, a skill he still to this day has not mastered, by ripping at the top with his hands all willy-nilly like. When the banana split in half he got frustrated and said, “My bad juju” and laughed. I opened the banana for him and reminded him that “bad juju” is not a real thing. He smiled and said, “I know, Mommy. It’s just a way for people to not take responsibility for their actions.” Then we talked about all the ways he could have opened the banana, or asked for help, or watched a YouTube video on how to open bananas (his suggestion) and so on. So, my 10-year-old can’t open a banana by himself, but he has mastered a way of thinking that many adults are still grasping for. I’m calling this a win.

“Bad juju” is what people in our family say when things go wrong in life. Say for instance your driver’s license is expired because you “haven’t had the time to get it renewed” (read: you haven’t made it a priority), so you take a chance and drive around for a few weeks with it expired. Then you speed, and you get caught, and you get an extra ticket for having an expired license. You bitch and complain to everyone who will listen that you didn’t have time, all the work you do, your meany-mean boss won’t let you leave early, all the time you spend volunteering and helping everyone else (sidebar: playing the victim is also really popular in my family), you just couldn’t make it to the DMV. Poor you! So you chalk it up to “Bad Juju”.

Le sigh. Believe me, I have been tempted to blame “Bad Goodnight Juju” once or twice. I’m sure we all have. Whether you call it “Bad Karma” or a streak of “Bad luck” or “Down in the Dumps”. We’ve all thought it, or said it, or tried, just once, to blame our poor decisions on something else. I’ve done it a million times. Tried to rationalize with myself. It wasn’t my fault. The universe is out to get me. It was payback for that time I (insert sinful thing here). All these things run through our minds. And it is okay. And normal for that to happen. But if you spend a few minutes digging deeper, if you realize you too (gasp!) can be at fault for something, then you will discover what is really happening.

There was a period in our lives when it felt like everything was going wrong. Jerimiah had just lost his job. The company just up and folded one day, still owing him a month or two salary. Then Jackson got very sick. Like had to be life-flighted to the children’s hospital sick. That’s when we found out he had asthma. Then the house we were living in had mold, so we had to move quickly. You get my drift here. With each “thing” that happened we got deeper and deeper into the pit of despair. Finally we looked at each other one night and said, “What the actual hell?! Is this bad juju?” The answer: No. We were making sketchy decisions and paying the price. Jerimiah had taken a job with people he knew weren’t the most honest, respectable people in the biz, and he got burned. We had moved hastily to a new house because I was mad at the owner of our previous house. We refused to see how sick our child was for two days leading up to his transport to the hospital, because we were on vacation and taking him to the doctor in a different state was inconvenient at the time.

From that moment forward we decided to change the way we thought. The risks we took. The way we looked at challenges. We decided to take responsibly for our actions and decisions. We decided to take the natural consequences (Love and Logic right there!) and move forward with the new lessons that those consequences taught us. And from that day forward our lives have been infinitely better. Now, I’m not saying we haven’t had trying times in the last seven years or so, but they feel like little bumps in the road, not major, detrimental, life-changing catastrophes like before. And maybe to some they would be, but when you learn to take responsibility for your actions and decisions. When you decide to be honest and open with others. When you learn which risks are safe risks, and which are not, a million wonderful things infiltrate your life like you wouldn’t believe. And it’s sort of amazing.

This has all been on my mind lately as we gear up for our trip to Louisiana. I have spent way too much time trying to decide what to leave on Marie Laveau’s grave this time, because well, you remember what happened when I didn’t. If not, get up to speed here: https://missygoodnight.com/2019/03/08/bourbon-and-canal-the-finale/ And no, I don’t whole-heartedly believe in this dark magic. And no, I don’t think the members of our family who blame “juju” for their mistakes do either. I think they just refuse to admit when they have messed up. Refuse to openly confess fault. And I used to let them do it. I used to be okay with it. But when my child thinks maybe, just maybe, his family has a curse on them of some kind that he might fall victim to, or he learns you can try to abate judgement by blaming “bad juju” then uhh, no we done with that nonsense.

Now, can we get to the root of the real problem here: What do I leave as a sacrifice on the grave of the best damn Voodoo Queen of New Orleans?

M.