Well, we certainly caught a lot of flak for our mother’s day mishap. Apparently most of you are either calendar makers or descendants of Nostradamus, because you all seem to easily remember minutiae like Thanksgiving is the fourth Thursday of November and dress-like-a-cow-for-a-free-chicken-sandwich day is in July. Bully for you. If it weren’t for electronic reminders, I wouldn’t remember my own birthday. [And seriously, can someone please give me a heads up before cow day?]
Jess made chicken avocado enchiladas to celebrate Cinco de Mayo and my stomach did a happy dance because FOOD I DID NOT COOK MYSELF. What pure, unadulterated bliss! Of course, I have always loved eating anything Jess cooks because she’s a phenomenal chef. In college, while other people were out running biology experiments like how much Jack Daniels can one human body take in a night, we were busy wading our way through Paula Deen’s cheesy bacon spinach dip and other homemade foods that brought us great joy and high cholesterol.
Living on the edge, I tell you.
And y’all? I just love being home.
There’s something so thrilling about driving around without the condescending directions of my GPS taunting me in the background. “Recalculating”: it’s my whole life right now. Something about the strains of “Get Your Shine On” lilting through the air as I wind through back country roads with the windows rolled down just feels right. Isn’t it odd how much you can love something once you leave it behind? I’ve never really considered myself as “southern”, given that I grew up in Eastern Europe and only spent summers in North Carolina. While my southern friends were going through cotillion and picking out little straw hats to match their Easter-egg colored Sunday dresses, I was being served my first shot of vodka at a seven year old’s birthday party. [That’s a true story.] However. There’s something about leaving sweet tea and wrap around porches and “only trashy girls wear white after labor day” behind that makes me want to fly a Confederate flag out of the back of my VW bug in Albany. Which Kellan has, sadly, discouraged.
Several years ago, I named my GPS “Fancy”, after Reba McIntyre’s song “Here’s your one chance Fancy, don’t let me down.” I’m pretty sure she wasn’t talking about my GPS, but it has always worked for me. Fancy has proven to be my most useful earthly possession in Albany. I am EMBARASSED about how utterly accomplished I felt the first day I got to the grocery store by myself. I’m not kidding—I think I called Kellan at work. In other news, I’m never changing my plates from North Carolina to NY because I think people just feel sorry for the southern girl cluelessly wandering the highways.
But not today. Today, I know exactly where I’m going. And today, that’s enough.