Month: July 2020

The Crown(line)

/ Missy Goodnight / Leave a comment

I have dental problems. Bad teeth. Always have. It started when I was about 12 and had braces for two years. Since then it’s been one thing after another. My cavities as a child, turned into root canals as an adult, and finally concluded with the mack daddy of them all last year, my first implant. No, not breast implants. We are talking about teeth here, y’all. I have an implant that cost me the equivalent of a used boat. Like, if I could go back in time, collect all the money I have put into my mouth and use it to buy a boat, I could buy a used 2008 Crownline. For actual real. I could be these assholes:

Don’t they look happy? Out on the boat for a fun, lake-day excursion. Instead, I spent another two hours in the damn dentist chair the other day as I had build-up done for yet another porcelain crown. This makes crown number four in my mouth, not counting the implant. Which would glimmer in the sunlight while I was out on my 2008 Crownline.

While I was at the dentist the other day, I had a new experience: I almost drowned. No, I was not in my used 2008 Crownline, you guys, the used 2008 Crownline doesn’t exist, I have the worth of it in my mouth. Instead, I almost drowned in the dentist chair.

There I was, all the way reclined in the chair, the dentist on one side of me, the assistant on the other, and they were working away with water and suction and a saw or something, when I suddenly couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t breathe through my mouth cause the water was going down my throat, and I couldn’t breathe from my nose because there was so much water it was going up into my nose. I tried to motion for them to stop, but they didn’t see me. I thought, Missy, maybe you are overreacting, you’re not drowning, just take some calming breathes. So I tried to take some calming breaths, but I actually COULD NOT BREATHE! So I slammed my hands into theirs (probably not safe in hindsight) and sat up quickly. Then I started coughing up all the actual water that was in my nose and throat. They assured me I was fine and apologized (well kind of, they never actually said sorry, but the assistant did put her hand on my shoulder in a comforting way). The dentist positioned the chair up higher and I felt him move the suction for the assistant, and they started again. And wouldn’t you know it, within a minute I was drowning again! You guys! This went on a couple more times. They would take a break, I would cough, the dentist handed me a Kleenex to cough the water up into, and they would go again. I honestly don’t know what was happening. That has never happened to me before. So I’m not sure if my nose parts are moving, or if the assistant was new and doesn’t really know how the suction works, but it was the least fun I’ve had at the dentist, and y’all, I’ve had some miserable times at the dentist.

I’m alive. That’s the good news. And I’ve instructed Jerimiah to sue the shit out of them if I do die in the chair, but come on, that should not be a worry. So if y’all have any advice for next time, I’d appreciate it. I go back in a few weeks and I’m over this shit. I’m seriously considering pulling all my teeth out, selling the ones I can, and buying a Crownline. That promises better days ahead…

Ahoy!

M.

What Happens Then?

/ Missy Goodnight / Leave a comment

I know everyone has their own feelings about what should happen to the school year, and if you are paying attention you know that my kid wasn’t going back even if he was going back, ya dig? Luckily, our school district decided to start back with 100% virtual classes in a few weeks, but I know there are some parents and teachers still waiting to see what the hell is going to happen. I don’t remember ever being in a position as a parent that is as tough as this one, and there are some tough situations. The idea that we have no idea what really happens when you get large groups of kids in a room together in the days of Coronavirus. The stress it is causing parents who have to go back to work, who are already back at work, who are worried all the time about what will happen to them, let alone their children, but being in a situation where you have to send them somewhere? Man, it’s tough.

I’m lucky. Make no bones about that. I don’t teach. I work from home. My husband has been working from home since March and his company doesn’t see an end to that anytime soon. We have one child. He’s pretty self-sufficient. I’m an introvert. It’s like I was totally prepared in life for a global pandemic of this magnitude. But I know that is not the common case. It’s easy for me to forget that, on my quiet, suburban cul-de-sac, where everyone drives a VW or a Honda. We all have bike racks. We hike for fun on weekends. We take whitewater rafting trips. We go to the beach, then to NYC. Give freely to charity. Take up causes close to our heart because we have the time. We work from home when we feel like we need to. We host backyard parties and book clubs. We are members of the PTA, PTO, and all the Boosters. We have Saturday game nights with friends. We stand languidly in our driveways talking to our neighbors about that “one house” and rising property taxes, and capital improvement projects that might wreck our quiet street. We talk about private schools, lotteries, the inevitable spiral into politics, liberals of course, all of us. The more good for the most people. Jesus, we are so out of touch.

This is me, admitting that I have let my cushy life take me down a peg. I have friends, good friends, best friends, right now who are so stressed that they can’t sleep at night, worried about going back into the classroom. What happens if one of their kids get sick? What happens if a mom gives her fever-ridden 1st grader Tylenol to pass the temperature check (security theater, all of it, Y’all) and then by lunch time has infected others? What happens when the class has to quarantine and class goes virtually anyway, only they aren’t prepared for it this time? What happens when the first teacher dies? How many grief counselors will it take? How much money will his/her family get from the school district when the civil court cases start pouring in? That’s a lot for the schools and teachers to consider and it isn’t even scratching the tip of the iceberg. What happens when a teacher is asymptotic and infects her whole family? What happens when the first kindergartner dies from Covid-19 just from going to her school? What happens then?

What about working parents? They have to work. They have to. The economy is back open and their companies don’t give a shit about them, they better be there at 8:00 am. So where does the single mom send her first grader if school is closed? A daycare? Isn’t that more of the same? Kids crammed into a little space? Only this time he doesn’t know all these new faces. Do they hire a babysitter? Who has the money for that? What about the parents with five kids at home? The home with the abusive father? The kids who don’t have running water? In America?! You want to shout. Yes, in America. What about the kids who have no books at home? No internet? No clean clothes? There are kids that go to school dirty, no shower, unwashed heads and bodies, everyday in this great country of ours. What is happening to them right now? What will happen to them if they can’t get to school? Get two hot meals and a snack each day? What happens then?

I don’t pretend to have any answers. Because I have no answers. I’m sitting back, my mouth shut, listening to the professionals. And the professionals in this case are the scientists, the teachers, the educators, the administrators. The people who know their kids and their communities, and every kid and every community is different. But I do know who I am not listening to. I am not listening to the economists. I am not listening to the politicians. I am not listening to Wall Street, or the gross business owners who are getting millions of dollars in paycheck protection and buying expensive cars, while their employees frighteningly watch the school board meetings being cast out on local public television, waiting patiently for an answer, one they don’t want. One they want. One that suites absolutely no one. And when the answers come, all I can think is what happens then?

M.

Spades and Hearts

/ Missy Goodnight / Leave a comment

There’s an interesting thing that happens in Small Town, USA. When one of the “pretty girls” who barely graduates high school, marries a man with a little money, after her inevitable “Sleeping with as many men as she can” phase (no shame here ladies, you do you, BooBoo!) she settles down, with the man with money. Maybe he owns his own small business. Maybe he has inherited a bit of cash. Maybe he has inherited the small business and some cash, but either way he’s the best thing she’s ever had, and they get married. Now she already has a kid or two from other men (that’s she has most surely missed out on from time to time on account of her partying well into her 20s), but the nice, business man takes them on as his own. Then suddenly, this trashy, “street-wise” girl is an upstanding citizen in the small town she grew up in. Funny thing is though, many of the people who knew her way back when, still remember her. So she has two choices: She either embraces who she was, who she has always been, or she starts to turn on them. Even turning her back on the people who knew her the best.

Now let me stop for a second because you are probably like this sounds really pointed, Missy. Sure. I know some people who have done this, and they now believe themselves to be a big fish in a small pond, because, well they are. It’s true, they are big fish, but the point is actually really very small, and kind of trashy. The fish are stocked. And they are farm-raised. Eww. But the person I am envisioning right now could be any woman, in any small town, in any community, a woman so rooted in fear, hate, and ignorance that she can only thrive on putting other women down. She’s incredibly shallow and so materialistic that she enjoys talking money with people that she suspects has less than her, so she can, what? Feel better about herself? I suppose if she were happy in her life, like really happy, she wouldn’t be this way. But she isn’t. She’s actually very unhappy. If she were a kind person, she wouldn’t need to embarrass those same friends who have stood by her, even at her worst, and believe me, we’ve heard the stories, saw them with our own eyes, there were worsts. But she isn’t kind or nice. And she isn’t classy. Which is ironic and sad, because that is the only thing she actively strives to be, yet she never will attain.

Yeah, we all know someone like this, and we all talk in certain circles about how horrible of a person she is, some of us even pray for her, some of us just stay far away from her. But we can’t anymore, y’all. We have to call a spade a spade. Call it like we see it. She will. She likes to remind us that she speaks truth, even the hard stuff, but we know that’s a lie. She only speaks rudeness and abrasion. She couldn’t speak truth if it came up and bit her. All her truth is filtered thorough a set of rose-colored glasses sprinkled with money and privilage. Like when someone accuses her child of say, raping a girl he went to high school with, she can say, “Well, I never…” in a raspy kinda way. And go on to talk about all his accolades, as if he isn’t an actual piece of shit. Rose colored glasses. Money. Privilege. Yes, we all know someone like this, but what should we call her? I have an idea, let’s give her a nickname let’s call her “T”. Yes, “T”, short for “Texarkana.” So who is this Texarkana?

Texarkana didn’t have the best life growing up, but who did? Most normal people battle against the current, try as they might to make something better of themselves. But not Texarkana. She just relied on men to bring her all the things she wanted. Just like how she now relies on the outside world to keep a spotlight on her. To fulfill her desires. Because she can never fulfill them herself. Oh Texarkana, you are enough, if you’d just look within. Or go to therapy. Yeah, therapy would probably help you a lot. Something about inflated ego. But instead you self-medicate. It’s okay a lot of common people do.

Texarkana likes to say things like, “Remember when…” because she likes to envision herself as she used to be. Way back when. Wayback When Texarkana had so much joy, pure joy, albeit not a lot of money (she still doesn’t by the way, she just has a lot of debt, you can pull public records and see that) and Texarkana likes to talk about how “badass” she was back then. As if physically fighting other women is a mark of a pure genius. That’s that lack of education I eluded to earlier, are y’all following along? Ra, ra, ra! Go Texarkana!

Texarkana likes to invite people to her house. People she assumes have never been in such a self-described “lovely” place. Then she likes to talk about how much she paid for this, or how much she paid for that. You know those people. The ones who think money makes you a good person. It’s sad, and a little bit outdated. I’m speaking of both Texarkana and the lovely house. They both need some work on the inside. But the visitors smile and nod anyway, they have to, or she won’t invite them to drink her medication, err, booze.

Something I’ve noticed about people, growing up poor like I have, wealthy people, like really, really wealthy people, never discuss money. Not with their friends, not in mixed company. They only discuss assets and money with their accountants. They never say things like, “My house is worth $1.2 Million” (wouldn’t “T” love to have a house that nice!) instead they say things like, “We’d love to have you join us at our summer home in The Hamptons sometime,” and they truly mean it. Class speaks for itself. Trash, well, it has to do all the talking.

Which brings me back to “T” and her constant, oppressive desire to make all her “old” friends, the ones who know the truth about her, the way she really is, feel like shit because they didn’t “make it” like she did. But in reality she just needs to keep them in check. Needs to make sure that they know she is the spade Queen, in case they get out of line. In case they say something like, “Remember when you slept with So-and-So?” and So-and-So is not a likable fellow, she can smack them, figuratively of course, by saying something like, “Have you paid that large debt off that you owe?”

“T” thrives on making herself feel better by putting others down. No one is off limits. She will only tell you the best things about her kids, and never the worst, while often reminding you of all the bad stuff your kids do. But come on, we’ve met her kids. She dropped the proverbial parenting ball big time. But remember the free booze and her Instagrammable backyard?! She will make you feel bad about your kids, your divorce, your grandma. She will talk about you behind your back, then embrace you when you walk in her “lovely” door, all the while smiling that knowing smile to her “rich” (read: equally in debt) friends behind your back. Have you ever felt like everyone is looking at you when you walk into a room? It’s because “T” told the whole room your dirty little secrets before you got there in order to make herself seem important. She’s such a great friend, isn’t she?

Now every once in a while a funny thing happens to “T”. Something doesn’t exactly go her way. Her stock plummets. Not real stock, she puts all her money in home accents and ATVs. No her brand, her reputation. Something happens outside of her control and it makes her look bad. It makes her outside match her inside. Maybe her husband loses an important business client. Maybe her drunk brother resurfaces. Maybe her child marries someone she rather despises like a butcher or a mechanic! Oh my! A mechanic, well we all know mechanics are not the highest class of people. The drama! It’s okay, no worries. Texarkana lives for this shit. I mean, when your whole world revolves around what others think of you, and you have very little worth inside, you have to love drama, it is escapism at its finest.

But this plummeting of stock is when we see “T” at her finest. Oh, glory, glory! She starts plotting and planning! How can she turn this into a win? How can she get the universe back into her favor? You’re right, on the backs of other people. Her friends. Her own family. She starts fights within the groups, pits this one against that one. Uses her control (money) to buy affection, alliance. She will plant an idea in the simple brain of the simple people she keeps around her, then watch as it sprouts and grows. As those simple-minded people then turn on their own friends and family. Wow, maybe “T” isn’t as uneducated as we think? I mean she lacks book smarts, sure, but when you can get a mother and daughter to turn on each other, ones who have nothing to do with your life, that’s impressive. And also like, really, really pathetic. Don’t you sorta want to grab “T” and yell, “Get a life, girl! Go to college! Get a hobby! You’re more than this. You have self worth! I hope you can find it!” Did I mention Texarkana is extremely jealous of big, happy families who love and support each other? Two guesses why that is…

Now let’s discuss the people who let her treat them the way they do. You might be wondering, what kind of hold does she have over them? And if your guess is money, you’d be right. There is no friendship still there. They don’t like her, not really, and she certainly wishes they would go away, but everyone is aging (did I mention “T” isn’t aging well? All those days spent in tanning beds in the 90’s.) Anywho, as we age we start to feel nostalgic for those people who knew us when we were all cranked out on MiniThins and going to three different tanning beds a day to tan for a solid hour. So the people who knew her, her best friends, start to come around more. They want to drink wine and talk about the good days. But you can’t have real, honest-to-God talks with “T”. You can’t have them with anyone who thinks they are a better person that you at their core, just because they are a small business owner and you make $14/hr. There’s too much space, too many bad words (even if you don’t know she said them) to make much headway. So you go to her “lovely” house. You sit on her “lovely” deck. You drink her boxed wine, and you discuss the good old days through those rose-colored glasses she is so fond of. But in reality, you’d rather be somewhere else, she’d rather you be somewhere else. You remind her of a girl she is desperately trying to run from, all these decades later. She’s full of shame and guilt. You’re full of shame and guilt. But she has the money and credit to go buy a new car today if she wants to. So she wins.

It makes me think about Trump. What, come on Missy, why you always gotta bring Trump up?! No hear me out! The people who LOVE Trump, his honest supports, of which “T” and her whole family are, the real Trump supporters don’t really even like him. They don’t know enough about him to like him. They like the idea of him. They only vote for him for three distinct reasons:

1. They desperately want to BE him. They wish they had Trump money and power. They have a small taste of it in their little, trashy pond, just enough where they feel like Trump would love them if they met. They think they are so much like him that he would totally love and respect them if they met. Ha! They really think that, I promise! They are sitting, right now, in their little 4,000 square feet, barely more than half a million dollar house (public records, y’all) and they think they are just like Trump! True story.

2. They have so much hate in their hearts that they want him to be the president just so they can say, “WE WON! WE WON!” and call you a Snowflake or something, while they prance around in their red hats. They have to always believe they are winning at life. Always. Otherwise they downward spiral.

3. They are desperately afraid. They are so afraid that their way of life, the one they have carefully curated over literal decades will somehow be taken from them. Maybe they will have to pay more taxes. Maybe their “poor” friends will get a leg up on them if they finally get affordable health insurance. Maybe people in their periphery, the ones coming up behind them, the ones making more money, living well-adjusted, meaningful lives, the happy youth (raise you hand here), will take over and they will be left with, what? They certainly don’t have their self-worth to fall back on. So good thing that have that old house?

Well, I’m spent. Here’s the gist, y’all. If you have a Texarkana in your life you have get the courage to stand up to her or him. To finally call a spade a spade, because make no mistake, they will call it if you don’t. Only the spade they call will actually be a heart they have twisted in their small, common minds to look like a spade, then they will run out and tell everyone it is a spade before you can get a chance to defend your heart.

As for Texarkana, I can only hope she uses her fast-approaching senior years to learn more about the world, to step outside her comfort zone, to learn and grow as a person. I don’t hate the Texarkanas of the world. I know it may seem like that, but y’all know I don’t hold hate in my heart like that. But I also don’t admire her, and I certainly don’t respect her. How can you respect a person who preys on the simple, the weak, the less fortunate? In fact, a whole lot of the people she surrounds herself with don’t actually admire and respect her. They placate her. They see her life, her marriage, her kids. The fact that she has to work so hard all day, everyday just to keep up the facade in order to feel better about herself, and they pity her. They pray for her. Her name is passed around in Baptist prayer circles for wishing her some peace and kindness in her heart. They know that she has struggles, has had them, still continues to have them, just like they do, but that unlike them, she refuses to acknowledge her real struggles, with your real heart. She keeps that spade around instead. But there they are, still coming around, probably for the free booze, but also, more likely, because they are the hearts, and they wish more for her. There was a time when she had those real people, their kindness, their true friendship, their whole hearts. She had their admiration and respect. But she lost them. I hope it was worth it for her.

M.

Silverware Drawer

/ Missy Goodnight / Leave a comment

I have been plagued, plagued I tell you, by the consistent, oppressive belief that my silverware drawer is out to get me. You read that right. My. Silverware. Drawer. It’s trying to kill me. Let me back up. Have you ever noticed the bits of whosies and whatsies that just like, end up in the silverware drawer? Do your whosies and whatsies end up in your silverware drawer? Am I the only one? You know what, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. No. Maybe you should tell me. Shoot me a DM and tell me. No! Text me! No! Send me a strongly worded, but acutely finessed email about it. No! A carrier pigeon! Send me a carrier pigeon with a list of the whosies and whatsies that have ended up in your silverware drawer without your knowledge or explicit consent.

I’ve got thingamabobs. I’ve got plenty. In my silverware drawer I have: Four corkscrews, seven corn on the cob holders (yeah, that’s not a full set), chopsticks purchased for me as a gift in Hong Kong, chopsticks from Hunan Palace (my local place where the day shift guy, Eddie, yells at me and slaps at my hand when I take too many fortune cookies), my dog’s rabies tag from 2018, plastic straws, silicone straws, metal straws, straws from Cookout and The Varsity, forks, small ones, big ones, one weird salad fork that doesn’t match the rest, butter knives, spoons, big spoons, little spoons, and a tea spoon (like the long one you use for iced tea, but only one and we don’t use it for iced tea, we use it to dig the last remnants of mayo out of the jar), this thing that Jackson made in art class in second grade that I thought was a spoon, but turns out it was a clay replica of his shoe, crumbs (how do the crumbs get in there?!), lids for travel cups we no longer own, at least three sticks of gum, a handful of sugar packets, a cheese-cutting utensil set, a calligraphy pen someone thought was a spoon (??), Crystal Light packets circa 2012, one rubber glove, a meat thermometer that no longer works, and not one, but three popsicle sticks that may or may not be used.

Y’all. You all. My silverware drawer is gonna kill me one day.

Be safe out there.

M.

Dentist Appointment Monday

/ Missy Goodnight / Leave a comment

Headed to the dentist today. A dentist appointment on a Monday morning. Man, I wasn’t thinking. I loathe the dentist. My teeth are not great. Never have been, matter fact. They were crooked as a kid. I had braces for two years, then ever since I’ve had problem after problem. I’ve had five root canals, I have a lovely (incredibly expensive) implant, and countless cavities. My teeth are too big and my mouth is too small. It’s not fun.

Today is just a cleaning though. I’m hoping for good news, but I always expect bad. I wonder if that’s why people fear/loathe the dentist? The bad news? The feeing like everything is okay, then BAM! It’s not. I brush. I floss. I rinse. Still, bad news gets me. I guess it could be the shots too. The reason people don’t like to go to the dentist. Or maybe it’s the expense. Seems I never walk out of there without paying a couple of grand. That’s WITH dental insurance, mind you.

Okay. How about this? How about I hope for good news today. Period. End of sentence. And we will just see what happens. Sure. Yeah. Let’s do that. Wish me luck.

Hope you have a lucky Monday with some good news on the horizon!

M.

It’s Almost Time

/ Missy Goodnight / Leave a comment

My husband’s birthday is approaching. He turns 39 on August 5th, and we absolutely celebrate birthday weeks around here, so technically we start celebrating this week! I am so excited because I have some things cooking (no literally, eww, I hate cooking) and I am hoping it all falls into place. Jackson has been particularly pumped about Daddy’s birthday week, even picking out a few gifts himself, and readying himself to spend some quality time with Daddy, not playing video games, so you know he is serious. Of course this is the last good week of the year for me, so I’m trying to go all out.

August usually creeps up on me from out of nowhere and this year is no different. In fact, it’s really surprising because it just doesn’t feel like it should be August already, but here we are. August starts out great with Jerimiah’s birthday week, but then it goes downhill fast. August is the month that my daughter was born. The month she died. August starts school. Usually I’m sad to send Jackson back. This year of course he isn’t technically leaving me, which is cool, but usually it makes me even more sad. Then comes my birthday, which ehh, it used to be exciting but I turn 39 on September 10th, and for some reason 39 is scaring me, not empowering me. I am working on it.

Then it’s Jackson’s birthday on October 1st, so I get a little excited again, then comes fall. And with fall usually comes a cloudy depression that takes me a few months to get out of. It’s like I have to work so hard to make it from August 6th to October 2nd, that I finally breakdown. Ugh. I know, I know, if you know this Missy then why don’t you take some proactive measures? I do. Trust. This is Missy doing well.

So that’s where we are. Back at the end of July. Back at wondering where our summer went. Where this horrible fucking year went. Knowing as bad as it was, it still wasn’t the worst year I’ve ever had. All that knowing. All that thinking. Well, I’m ready to party for the next week anyway!

Sham on!

M.

Cards! Cards! Cards!

/ Missy Goodnight / Leave a comment

My mother-in-law makes cards. Yes, cards. Like paper cards that you send people. Like the kinda of cards that are legit $8 at the grocery store and you’re like why the hell am I spending $8 on a card to tell someone happy birthday when I could just call them and say it? My husband strongly dislikes store-bought cards. He doesn’t get why people send them, spend so much money on them, etc. He does like homemade cards, however, and it is important to note that for him a homemade card can be a piece of white printer paper folded in half and written on. No class, this man. I like all kinds of cards, but I prefer homemade cards. However, as it sits, I have three store-bought cards decorating my desk at this very moment because of how awesome they are and who sent them to me! Because in reality the card doesn’t so much matter, as what is written on the inside. My husband and I both agree on that part. Look here:

Tell me who doesn’t want to be sent a card that says, “You are a fierce lady-dragon who breathes fire upon trolls, haters, and mansplainers”?! Who doesn’t want that card?! Okay, whew, take some breathes, Lady-Dragon.

So my MIL has a crafting room wherein she sets up shop and makes wonderful, beautiful cards. She has like the dream crafting room, y’all. Like if you have ever thought, hmm, I need a crafting room, it is what you envisioned. Shelves lined with paper, and fabric, every kind of scissor you could need, and several work stations, not to mention a full-size fridge and a television. It’s legit. Anyway, she sits in there and crafts cards. She comes up with ideas and just makes them. They are pretty cool and many of them are quite unique. She also teaches card-making classes via Facebook Live to little old ladies who want to learn the art of card-making. For real, not making any of this up.

So when quarantine started, and we began sending out letters and cards to friends and family on the reg, my MIL signed me up for this card-making kit that is shipped to my house once a month. That way I would always have fresh cards to make. It is very simple, it all comes in one box with instructions, and I can sit down for an hour and end up with 12 cards. It’s a pretty cool deal.

Here’s what it looks like:

Below is a card I made last month with my first “summer” pack. I went rogue on this one, made one that wasn’t in the instructions. I didn’t follow instructions? What? Imagine that. It’s the only one I have left because I sent the rest of them out, they were super cute!

Anyway, this isn’t like an advertisement or anything. I’m not getting paid to write this, in fact my MIL has paid for my subscription, so it’s all free to me, I just wanted to share a thing I do that brings me quiet joy. I like it because I don’t have to be creative. Sometimes I do not feel creative, but I want to be creative, you know? So I can pull out the card box and follow the instructions and voila! I have a stack of cards. Then I can write to my friends and family and they are cute and unique and the whole process was quick and easy.

Jackson also likes to make the cards. He likes to take a lot of liberties with the ones he makes, and he HATES to actually write them to anyone, so it’s usually a battle. But we get it done. I also have postcards for him to send out since they take less time and energy and he can get back to playing Minecraft. (Eye roll).

So if you have received A LOT of cards from me recently, you know why now! I have become dependent on them over the last few months and as soon as I make them I want to send them out. Which led me to the nursing homes that are looking for penpals for their people. What? You haven’t heard of this?! Well then, read this article, then check out Victorian Senior Care on Instagram! You won’t regret it.

Now go forth and do something that makes you happy today, y’all! I will be making cards from my new box.

M.

This month’s box came with some tea light bags. I realized that you could stick any color paper inside though, and send them in the envelopes to whomever you want. You can write on the inside paper, then when they open it they have a tea light bag too. Cute! I was so excited when I figured that out. I’m so fucking basic. SMH. Beware, some of y’all getting these in the mail…

Write, Bitch!

/ Missy Goodnight / Leave a comment

I have a playlist on my computer titled “Write, Bitch!” and its sole purpose is to motivate me to write. Seriously. I’m aggressive toward myself, obviously. I rely a lot on self-shame. Anywho, what’s on your playlist, Missy? Well I’m glad you asked there’s really a little of everything. Some Ani DiFranco, Good Old War, Mumford and Sons… You know what, why I don’t just make a list, y’all know I love a good list. I’ll share some of the songs on my very long playlist that is supposed to shame me into writing and maybe some of the songs (contrary to what you might think, I don’t only listen to Adele and Snoop Dogg) will help you too. Fingers crossed!

Now go forth and listen to some good tunes today, even if they aren’t mine!

M.

Write, Bitch! Playlist

  • White Blank Page by Mumford and Sons
  • Amazing Eyes by Good Old War
  • 32 Flavors by Ani DiFranco
  • Lost Boy by Ruth B.
  • Take Me to Church by Hozier
  • California Stars by Billy Bragg and Wilco
  • Sometime Around Midnight by The Airborne Toxic Event featuring Calder Quartet
  • Holes by Passenger
  • Flowered Dresses by Slaid Cleaves
  • Down to the River to Pray by Alison Krauss
  • Flowers in Your Hair by The Lumineers
  • Alabama by across Canadian Ragweed
  • Texas and Tennessee by Lucero
  • When the Stars Go by Blue Ryan Adams
  • Talladega by Eric Church
  • Blues in the Night by Katie Melua
  • Same in Any Language by I Nine
  • Grapevine Fires by Death Cab for Cutie
  • The Dark is Rising by Mercury Rev
  • Africa by Weezer
  • Anyone Else But You by The Moldy Peaches
  • Standard Lines by Dashboard Confessional
  • Banana Pancakes by Jack Johnson
  • Mexican Moon by Concrete Blonde
  • Twin Falls by Built to Spill
  • River Lea by Adele
  • I and Love and You by The Avett Brothers
  • Who We Are by Ward Thomas
  • Blowing Smoke by Kacey Musgraves
  • Same Drugs by Chance the Rapper
  • Take it All Back 2.0 by Judah & the Lion
  • Tennessee Whiskey by Chris Stapleton
  • Same Love by Macklemore and Ryan Lewis featuring Mary Lambert
  • All of Me by John Legend

Sitting with Anxiety

/ Missy Goodnight / Leave a comment

Patsy asked me to do something yesterday that felt very odd, at first. Patsy is my therapist and I like her a lot, and I was telling her yesterday that I am in a bad place right now. I can’t sleep. I’ve lost motivation. I’m moving quickly toward a bout with depression, and of course I’ve done all I’m supposed to do. I’m working out three to four days a week. I’m taking my pills. I’m eating well. I’m taking walks. I’m trying to write. I have no “real” worries right now. My husband is employed. My son is doing well. But for some reason, I can’t get it together. My anxiety is peaking. Patsy asked me about my anxiety. Why is it bothering you now? She wanted to know. She started talking about my anxiety as it wasn’t a part of me, but rather a separate entity that was preying on me. It felt weird.

Next she asked me to close my eyes and envision the anxiety. What did it look like? What did it sound like? What, most importantly, did it want from me? Of course this was all over Zoom. We still aren’t meeting face to face because Coronavirus, so it wasn’t working as she liked. She instead told me to find a quiet place later and do this activity. Write it down if I needed to. Try to figure out what the anxiety needs. Open a line of communication. It sounded a bit bizarre, but I trust Patsy. Moreover, as soon as she said that looking at your anxiety as a separate entity can sometimes help, without even thinking much about it, this image popped into my head. Like she was still talking about this process. About EMDR, trauma patients, etc, and I was already envisioning the way my anxiety looks, acts, feels, reacts to my questioning.

So later I did what Patsy suggested. I drew a picture of an office chair. Fun and funky. Bright colors and a nifty pattern. I then closed my eyes and envisioned that I asked the Anxiety to come and sit with me. And well, he did.

He’s not very pretty, is he? He’s a he. Of course he is. I can’t really describe him. I tried to describe him to Jerimiah, and the best I could come up with is that he is a blob of chaos. Very dark. Bright eyes. So there he is. He doesn’t have a name, he doesn’t deserve one. He’s just Anxiety, and he’s a real asshole.

Turns out he feeds on worry, uncertainty, and chaos. He gropes me. Attacks me. Latches on to me when things seem to be going okay on the outside. He relies on lies. He relies on uncertainty to get me down. He’s very good at what he does. He is swift. He’s always around waiting to be fed.

I’m sure there is more to this exercise, and once I can get back into the office with Patsy I’ll ask her to walk me through it, but this is as far as I got today. I’m not sure I want to venture further in without her. But I did want to share with you all, because the biggest take away I got from this was that Anxiety comes and goes, but does not define me. He is mean. He is hurtful. He causes chaos, but he is not me. I am not him. And I guess I’ll keep fighting him, probably forever, but at least now I know who I am fighting.

I hope you all know who is with you and against you, today. What is with you, what is against you.

Stay safe and sane, y’all.

M.

Just a List of Beaches

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Feeling like I deserve to be on a beach today. Feeling like I want to be on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, or maybe on the rocky shores of San Juan, Puerto Rico. Perhaps walking along the water with my friend Beth in her small town in Rhode Island or laying on a water trampoline off the coast of the British Virgin Isles as my son bounces around me. Yes, any of those would work today. Instead, I wrote my name in the sand on the side of the road, while I walked incredibly close to my neighbor’s sprinkler to get hit in the face, like when the waves come at you out of nowhere. Yeah, that’s a thing I did. So today, in honor of me wanting to be at a beach somewhere, here are a list of beaches I have been to that I would love to go back to again, right now, at this moment. Any of them will work, because at this point, let’s be real…

  • Maho Beach, Sint Maarten
  • Folly Beach, Charleston, South Carolina
  • Lullwater Beach, Panama City, Florida
  • Emerald Isle, Outer Banks, North Carolina
  • E-Beach Little Creek, Norfolk, Virginia
  • Ocean City Beach, Ocean City, Maryland
  • Pitcher Point Beach, Gulfport, Mississippi
  • Key Biscayne, Miami, Florida
  • Huntington City Beach, Huntington Beach, CA
  • Playa Pena, Old San Juan, Puerto Rico
  • Juniper Point, Salem, Massachusetts
  • Surfside Beach, Myrtle Beach, South Carolina
  • Cable Beach, Nassau, Bahamas
  • Coronado Beach, Coronado, California
  • Whitecap Beach, Corpus Christi, Texas
  • Newport Beach, Newport, California
  • Beavertail State Park, Jamestown, Rhode Island
  • Sandbridge Beach, Virginia Beach, Virginia
  • Ocracoke, Outer Banks, North Carolina
  • Biloxi Beach, Biloxi, Mississippi
  • Cypremort Point Beach, Cypremort, Louisiana
  • Daytona Beach, Daytona Beach, Florida
  • Wrightsville Beach, Wilmington, North Carolina

This is not an exhaustive list. We are beachgoers. Always have been, always will be. So many more to see. So many more to dream about. One day. Where would you go if you could go back to one of your places?

M.

Rant About Iced Tea

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This is absolutely a rant about iced tea. I can’t help you at any point after this, I have warned you. I know what you are thinking, Missy this certainly can’t be a whole blog post wherein you rant about iced tea. But you’d be wrong. Very wrong. Or maybe you are right. Because this first part isn’t about tea, it’s about how wrong you are about thinking that I am not able to rant about tea. But in the wisdom of T.I. least I remind you, “Public violations justify public demonstrations,” and what I witnessed today on the Kroger website was nothing short of a public violation.

I like Kroger. I do. I shop there because they are friendly and efficient. They generally have everything I need, they are usually the lowest price around (unless you count Walmart, but I do not), and most importantly they offer free pick-up, which we’ve been relying on since the start of the pandemic. But today, oooohhhh, today I got my feathers all in a tizzy when I tried to order a gallon of unsweetened iced tea.

It seems, on the surface, like a no-brainer. I love iced tea, but I do not enjoy the calories that come in sweet iced tea. Nor can my body tolerate the amount of sugar that one finds in “Southern Sweet Tea.” It’s too much, y’all. I can’t do it. Call me a “Yankee” all you want, I cannot sip on iced sugar with a smattering of tea on the top. I enjoy the flavor of a good store-brand, unsweetened, iced tea. Some things to know: I have a home iced tea brewing machine, however I have not found a tea that I like the taste of when I brew it at home. I also do not like most brands of iced tea. I do not like Lipton or Turkey Hill. I do not like Milo or Pure Leaf. I despise Arizona Tea. I like Red Diamond, but they do not sell it around these here parts. So I usually get a store-brand iced tea because they seem to all taste the same, but I have narrowed my flavor choices down to Publix iced tea and Kroger iced tea. Those are my two favorites if I cannot have Red Diamond. End of story. Periodt.

So, today while I was making my shopping order from Kroger I remembered that I needed a gallon of iced tea. Unsweetened, caffeinated, iced tea. Now you’re like, Missy come on, all tea if caffeinated, that’s nuts. You’re wrong again. Not all tea is caffeinated, and according to Kroger people who want unsweetened tea also want it to be caffeine-free. D’what? You read that correctly: The only kind of unsweetened iced tea that I could order from Kroger, made by Kroger, was also caffeine-free.

(Deep, long sigh).

When I want to sit on my sunporch and enjoy a crisp glass of iced tea with a lemon wedge, I also want to get a little jittery from the amount of caffeine in my glass. I want to find some motivation at the bottom of that glass, ya dig? I only drink two glasses of iced coffee a day, then I drink a can of seltzer water, then I want a damn glass of iced tea in the afternoon for a pick-me-up and WHY CAN I NOT HAVE THAT KROGER?!

(Deep breathing exercises along with some Kegels for good measure).

I don’t want to use the word “persecuted” here, but I feel like, as a person who does not want sweet tea, I am being made to “pay for it.” Am I overreacting? Yes, certainly. But to be honest I haven’t had my afternoon tea, and well, it seems I won’t anytime soon so this is just the new me I guess. I’m sorry, but this is all Kroger’s fault and now I will go write them a strongly-worded email to feel better.

I hope you have a wonderful day. Like really, really good. Like sipping on Kroger, unsweetened, caffeinated, iced tea on your back porch good.

M.

Hidden Waterfall

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We decided to take the dogs on a hike on Saturday, our most recent tech-free day, so we headed to a local park. It’s a large park, with soccer fields, and tennis courts, a pond, and several walking trails, but we haven’t even made a scratch in the trails. We parked on the opposite side that we normally park and we’re immediately met with a playground we didn’t even know existed, with a zip line that Jackson loved. It was a pretty cool surprise. After we let him play on it for about ten minutes (we were the only people at the park), we headed down one of the nature trails. The dogs were getting antsy, so we decided to tire them out a bit, then play after the walk.

We decided to walk the “Blue” trail, because Duke and I had done the “White” trail previously and I wanted to try something new. They both link up at different points, but it was nice to see so many options. We made it to the pond, and decided to walk all the way around it, but we got sidetracked about a half mile later with a waterfall! We had no idea it was there, and we thought it was fantastic surprise! The dogs loved it almost as much as Jackson.

The whole walk was really nice, albeit tiring for everyone. We decided the park reminded us of a place we liked to go when we lived in Charlotte called Reedy Creek. It really feels like you’re not in the city when you’re there. And trust, sometimes you just need to feel like you’re not in the city.

I hope you all had a fun, easy, and safe weekend like we did.

M.

Sweeping The South

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I’m sitting in my sun porch in Central Georgia, on a humid summer day, drinking a glass of iced tea, re-reading Eudora Welty’s “The Ponder Heart” in preparation for my entrance into Mississippi University for Women’s MFA program in about three weeks, and I can’t help but wonder how a Kansas girl, Midwest born and bred, ended up here, in the Deep South, with a penchant for Mississippi history, iced tea with lemon, hot, pan-fried chicken, and monogrammed towels. When did this happen? How did this happen?

I don’t feel Southern. At least not in the ways that one thinks a “Southerner” should feel, yet I’ve lived in The South for 16 years now. I’m fast approaching that point in my life where I’ve actually lived in The South longer than I was in the Midwest. Kansas is the Midwest, though sometimes it’s just west. It is not part of The South, that we can be sure of, never was. Considered itself a Northern state. Kansas, the Free State, a refuge for the Southern enslaved people. It was just unorganized prairie during the 1850 Compromise. Didn’t even have a name or a state line. Wasn’t born yet. Wild. Scattered. Unexplored. Out West. But it is still really, really close to The South, and by association sometimes lumped in with it.

My son, on the other hand, is the only true Southerner in our family. He was born in Southern Missouri, has lived in both North Carolina and Georgia, and is starting to develop a bit of a drawl, depending on the word and the company. He’s spent his whole life south of the Mason Dixon, but you wouldn’t actually be able to tell, if you didn’t know. He’s all Northern in manner and way of thinking. If we are still prescribing to the ways people in the North and South think. For me it depends, some days I see the differences, some days I don’t.

The biggest lessons for me since living in The South has been the debunking of some long held beliefs I had:

  • Southern hospitality thrives here
  • All Southerners are dumb
  • Racism left with Jim Crow

These are all inaccurate and based on harsh stereotypes, and even harsher realities. I only share them now to let you have a glimpse into what is said about The South from people who have never been here. Those are three popular things.

  • Not everyone in The South is hospitable. And it’s usually the people you would think would be, that in fact, are not.
  • Not everyone in The South is a dumb, uneducated, hillbilly. To be fair, there are far more of them here than anywhere else, but they are not the majority. It is true, however, that the further from civilization you go, the more frequently they surface.
  • Racism is alive and well here. Just like it is everywhere. It never left. You can look it straight in the eye at your neighborhood Winn Dixie, your local YMCA, your kid’s elementary school, your husband’s office. In Atlanta. In Biloxi. In Memphis, and in Orlando. Racism is everywhere, and everyone knows it, but most people just sweep it under the rug.

Which leads me to the biggest lesson of them all: The sweeping.

That’s a truly Southern thing. Sweeping things under the rug. Uncomfortable things you don’t want to deal with. Unsightly things you don’t want to see. Sweep. Sweep. Sweep. We don’t have racism here because we sweep. We don’t have a drug problem here because we sweep. Human trafficking, crimes against children, gangs, and addiction? Not here. Sweep. Sweep. Sweep. Sweep. Here we just have a rowdy history, or “heritage” as the true Southerner has been programmed to call it. I remind my son quite a bit that the history of his home is riddled with hate, addiction, racism, uneducated bullies making a mockery of our country. I want him to know the truth. The harsh, unbridled truth. I want him to learn it, see it, and then grow from it. I don’t want him to get comfortable with the sweeping.

So I guess here I am. Sitting in my sun porch, on a humid Central Georgia day, thinking about how I have navigated the last 16 years. What I have learned, how I have grown. And wondering how to keep learning and growing, in a place that sometimes makes learning and growing hard to do. I’ll do my best. You do the same.

M.

Virgo Rising

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Listen, I don’t pay much attention to the zodiac. In fact, outside of those Seventeen magazine horoscopes that I read religiously as a kid, I haven’t done too much looking into how I supposedly “tick” because I was born under a Virgo sun in retrograde. When I think zodiac, my first thought goes to the Zodiac Killer. Wow, what a crazy dude. What’s just as crazy to me is that people spend their lives reading what their stars and signs tell about them, and are fully convinced that they play a role in their life. Well, that did seem crazy, until I read mine…

Listen we are a tactical group, us Virgos. First and foremost we are Virgos comma The Virgins, so I mean, yeah we are very nice and polite and pure. So pure. Haven’t you guys got that fucking pure sorta feeling from me? I hope you have. I hope I rep the Virgos really well.

We fit in between the 150th and 180th degree of the zodiac. (I can’t decide whether that is capitalized or not, certainly when we talk about the Zodiac Killer, proper noun, but what about the zodiac? I mean technically the zodiac here is just an area of the sky, but it is a certain area of the sky. I wish I cared enough to Google it.)

Our symbol, according to the ancient, wise truths of the website Wikipedia, is the maiden. Our element is Earth and apparently our ultimate nemesis is Venus, which seems weird because I thought women were from Venus. I’m confused again. But check out this badass.

Uhh heller, she cool. And not just because that looks like an “M” as in “Missy.” But I mean, that’s cool too.

So why I am talking about this today. Well, have you ever checked out your zodiac sign? I hadn’t really paid much attention to mine and then a friend was all, “Ohhh, you’re a Virgo? Whew.” And I was like what the hell does that mean? And she was all, “That’s why you’re so honest, like, uhh, too honest, Missy.” And I was like ain’t no sign gonna get up in here and tell me how to live my life. So then I started reading about Virgos and Christ, y’all, the zodiac has me pegged (not the killer, thank goodness) starting with the backstory.

Every good sign has an awesome backstory. The Virgo sign involves an oops pregnancy, a murderous/distant father, a very special bottle of wine, and a pig. I know right?! IS THIS MY LIFE?! Here is the story, and for sure I just copy and pasted from the ancient scroll of Wiki, college professors look away:

“In the legend, Parthenos is the daughter of Staphylus and Chrysothemis and sister to Rhoeo and Molpadia. Rhoeo had been impregnated by Apollo but when her father discovered her pregnancy, he assumed it was by a random suitor and was greatly ashamed. As punishment, he locked her in a box and threw her in a river. After the terrible fate of their sister, Parthenos and Molpadia lived in fear of their father’s terrible wrath. One evening, Staphylus left his daughters in charge of a very valuable bottle of wine. When they both accidentally fell asleep, one of their swine broke the bottle. Terrified of their father, the sisters fled to a nearby cliff and threw themselves off. But because of his previous relations with Rhoeo, Apollo saved his two sisters and delivered them to the safety of nearby cities in Cherronseos. Molpadia ended up in Castabus where she changed her name to Hemithea and was worshipped as a local goddess for many years. Parthenos settled in Bubastus where she was also worshipped as a local goddess. According to another story, Parthenos was a daughter of Apollo who made the constellation to commemorate her death at a young age.”

To be fair, it’s a cool backstory that is totally relevant to my life, but it doesn’t explain the “honesty” gene that I inherited from my grandpa Apollo (I obviously don’t know how any of this works). That comes from math, signs, moons in retrograde, and interestingly enough, the exact time I was born.

Horoscope.com, which I have spent way more time on than I’d like to admit since I was told my Virgo Sun rising was the cause of my problems, is pretty adamant about these Virgo truths: My flower is a sunflower (I already knew this as I am a Kansas girl, born and raised). I am supposedly smart, sophisticated, and kind. I think we can all agree on the second one, I drink White Claws. I’m apparently an amazing friend, always there to lend a hand and advice (especially the unwarranted kind). I’m practical, a big-picture thinker, and a little shy when you first meet me. Okay, this is getting creepy. Here are some other apparent traits of mine.

Apparently, I’m a passionate lover.

Apparently, I am Type-A personality.

Apparently, I enjoy digging in deep, getting to the truth of people. It’s apparently the only way I can gain their trust, and let them gain mine.

Apparently, I strive for perfection and make my friends and family suffer when it isn’t attainable.

Apparently, Beyonce is a Virgo.

Damn, I buried my lead.

M.

Know Better, Do Better

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It was January 26, 1992. I think. It could have been another day, earlier than that, but in my mind it was January 26, 1992 and the Washington R*dsk*ns were playing the Buffalo Bills in Super Bowl XXVI in Minneapolis. I feel like it had to be a big game, because there was a lot of commentary. But it could have been years before. It could have been just a regular football game, I’m not quite sure, but as a kid I cared not for any of it. I do recall, however, being at my best friend Rachel’s house and her dad, having grown up in D.C., was a Washington fan, and there was a game on her grandmothers large, floor model television.

Rachel and I were playing in her room when we decided to run out and get snacks. The game hadn’t yet started, but there were some people discussing the name of the football team. It could have been one of the sportscasters, it could have been an old player, maybe it was a Native American advocate, but someone said it was time for Washington to change their name and Rachel’s dad yelled, “Bullshit!” He didn’t want to hear any of that nonsense and he went into some tirade about it. We gathered plates and ran back to Rachel’s room, but I never forgot that moment because I wondered for years why anyone would want to change the name of a football team.

That is one of my “I grew up in white supremacy” stories. I was so sheltered and ignorant that I had no idea, for many, many more years, why that name would upset anyone. Then when I did know I realized there were many other sports teams that used Native Americans as mascots. And I was sickened by it. I knew better, and wanted everyone else to know better, and most importantly to do better.

That was 28 years ago. Twenty-eight years. For twenty-eight years this has been on my radar. I have rolled this idea over and over in my head, and this week, this week the Washington football team finally did something about it. That’s a long, frustrating time for anyone to wait for change. Now imagine how long the Native Americans have been waiting…

Thanks, Washington. I hope you have started a bigger change.

M.