Sparkwood & 21

Getting Trashy (No More Dump and Run)

Here's a little something different about waiting tables in California versus Tennessee (the only place I was ever a server), besides the health care and minimum wage: by law restaurants have to not only recycle, but compost.

That means three different bins in the dish area: a black one, a blue one and a green one. Food scraps, paper products like beverage napkins, coffee grounds and other "organic" items go in the green bins, plastics and glass from wine bottles go in the blue, while very little, actually, goes in the black.

I'm in full support of this mandate. I used to stand at the enormous trash barrels at Outback Steakhouse and frown at all the wasted food and landfill fodder. It really made me sad. This arrangement feels a little less gratuitously wasteful.*

So, it's awesome that there are three bins.

But hoo boy, do three bins take a lot of extra precious time. 

You're in the weeds, and your table are so fucking mad at you, and you come into the kitchen with a complicated arm load of dirty table items, and you can either dump everything with a quickness into a single, massive tub then gingerly sling flatware into its proper stack and be on your way. 

Orrrr, you can get to the kitchen with the same complicated arm load of dirty table items and stand there trying to determine whether the paper liner will decompose or if that plastic will degrade, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to just dump and run.

But this is better, even though it is more difficult. And it's just different. Sooner than I know, it won't be.

*And for heaven's sake, the portion sizes at Outback Steakhouse contribute to a tremendous amount of food waste. Another plus for smaller portions than that of a trough. 

[photo credit]

How To Get Two Cats in a Single Carrier with a Minimal Amount of Blood

Friday morning, the day after a celebration of thanks known as Bronxgiving, I boarded a plane at LaGuardia carrying two cats in a bag. 

This was no small feat, my friends.

I never would have made it to the airport without losing my mind or committing a felony if it weren't for my girl Reebs who got her ass up before 7 a.m. and took the 1 train all the way to Times Square to help me wrangle two kittens into a single carrier. Even with four hands between the two of us, that shit wasn't easy.

It became quickly apparent that we'd need to bag the cats in the bathroom. Unfortunately, Goat caught on quickly that he was about to be corralled, so he did what any smart cat would do, he shrunk under the couch and hid.

And there he stayed. I tried treats and pleading, then demanding that he come out, but no dice. The clock was tearing off loud ticks reminding me that the airplane would leave without us, so Reebs and I did what anyone would do: we picked up the couch and shook the cat out.

Poor Goat, who had never been shaken from a couch in his life, tumbled from between the fabric and the frame and began sprinting hard in whatever direction he was pointed. Unfortunately for him, that was right at the refrigerator. He ran head first into the freezer door, bounced off, then looked at me with one eye half open, dazed, like, "Why?!?!?"

That's when Reebs made the mistake of looking at me and asking, "Are you okay?" Which, of course, made me lose it.

I started crying and blubbering, and Reebs did what all good friends do, and told me to shut it up.

"You can't do this right now! You can't! You have to hold it together! The more you freak out, the more the cats are going to freak out!"

She was right, but I just felt so guilty. I was moving and making the cats come with me, despite cats really, really liking where they are already. 

Still, she was right, and the clock continued to count down, and so we went back to it, trying to get Goat into the bathroom. Apparently a cat concussion makes that easier, and on the next try we were all four in the bathroom.

However, the bathroom is not the SWA-approved cat carrier, and so the daunting task of getting two cats in a single bag still loomed. Reebs held open the carrier while I picked up the girl cat and tried placing her into the bag, but she had all four legs extended, along with her claws, and with a single body thrust she was out of my arms, and I was bleeding profusely from a crease in my palm.

Again with the waterworks. I was stressed and sweaty and crying and bleeding, and basically repeating to the animals as if they understood, "You have to go in the bag. You have to go in the bag."

Sheer force and determination saved the day, and finally, both cats sat defeated, pissed off and silent in their cross-country crate.

So, this post goes out to Reebs, without whom, I would be a shredded, bloody heap on the floor of a New York studio apartment. Love you, BigPimpinNoG31.

The Screaming Baby

There was nothing I could do. The baby was screaming, and there was nothing I could do.

The plane was full. That is because flights into Newark had been canceled for days due to a record breaking blizzard in the northeast. It was my third attempt to fly home. I had been stranded in Nashville for four days longer then anticipated.

I was ready to get home.

I settled into my seat, pulled out the inflatable neck pillow and fired up a digital version of my friend Betsy's book, City of Ghosts. That is when the screaming began.

= Many infants cry on airplanes, and it is always a bother. They start to whine and you steel yourself for noise, because you are, after all, in a tin can with no way of escape.

But this was not crying. This was screaming. Raw, unbridled, diaphragmatic screaming that only babies can accomplish. Piercing, incessant, teeth-hurting screaming. And there was nothing I could do.

It wasn't my baby. It was someone else's baby, and it was being set on fire. At least, he thought. Unhappy is too gentle a word. This child thought he was dying.

It went on for an hour. Sixty minutes. A long fucking time.

Just when I thought the baby had worn himself into sure slumber the screams would begin again. I started to understand why parents might consider drugging an infant.

At first I was empathetic to the poor mother who was sushing her child as quietly as possible, but eventually I got up and went to the lavatory solely for the purpose of shooting this kid's mom a dirty look. Not my proudest moment but I had no headphones and so was literally sticking my fingers in my ears.

The screaming was all I could focus on. I tried meditating, being present and deep breathing to calm myself. It didn't work due to the screaming.

Finally, blessedly, before I jumped out the emergency door and ended it all, he stopped. He slept. The baby had stopped screaming.

And after a long sigh the next thing I heard was an overly earnest Nashville man who discussed the finer points of the Baptist Church the entire remainder of the flight.

Talk of the Weather Will Do

When you live your whole life in once place, an entire 30 years in an area with four seasons, then you up and move several thousand miles to a coastal state where cliffs colide with ocean waves and fog eats up buildings and the wind almost never stops, it takes some getting used to.

So, I got used to it. I bought lots of thin clothes to layer on top of one another, so that when the afternoon came, and it the sun was blazing, I could remove a few for comfort and still be covered.

I had that shit down to a science. Tank top under long sleeved sheathy thing with another one of those on top plus a jacket stuffed into my purse. For later. For nightfall. When the cold comes back.

I no longer needed a heavy wool coat or giant cable knit sweaters with turtlenecks. Those weren't layery enough. They were too hot. They didn't work well for traveling the 15 miles to a different climate in the East Bay.

Of course, once I nailed dressing for San Francisco weather I moved to New York. Back to four seasons.

And on this November 1st in Manhattan it is straight-up cold. Not chilly. Cold. I can see my breath cold. I haven't seen my breath in years.

The crisp air, the frigid air, the smell of the season--all of it awesome. It pairs well with the gentlemen at Macy's who are putting up the enormous Christmas tree out front. It goes with ice skating rinks in Bryant Park. It is a wonderful partner for steaming cups of coffee.

Right now I am loving the weather in New York. The seasons give me a sense of structure, a sense of nostalgia. A way to remember building snow men with my sister on Rosehill Court until we couldn't stand it then went inside to melt down with hot chocolate and television.

The winter up here in Yankeetown is going to be brutal. No one will let me forget this hard and true fact. But I welcome the gusts of wind so strong they will knock you down and snow banks to high you can't see to cross the street.

It's something wild and new and wonderful.

A Little About Aunt B and Her New Book

There's this woman I know named Betsy, and she's in every way awesome. She fucking kills me on so many levels. First of all, smart as a whip. Like, you go have a drink with her and suddenly you start penciling in library time on your calendar because you can suddenly feel a little dim. But it's not like she's all snobby and smug like a lot of smart people, who love nothing more than to make others feel unintelligent. That's not it. It's that she has this razor wit and she'll reference something you totally know, but she does it in such a sly, clever manner that you don't catch on to what you missed til you are driving home later.

And she has the best laugh. She's one of these people who throws her head back and laughs with her whole body, and even if you are pissed off or crying, you can't help but laugh back. She's also just as funny in real life, if not more, than she is at her hilarious Tiny Cat Pants. 

I found Tiny Cat Pants when I first started the blogging job at WKRN, and I was immediately charmed by its tagline: "Is there anything funnier than tiny cat pants?" At the time I discovered this question, I thought no. There couldn't possibly be anything funnier than that until I read the blog. The answer to that tagline is clear: Yes, there is, and its Tiny Cat Pants.

Here's the thing, though. Her blog is not jokes. No way. It's genuine, good-hearted humor. That's why it translates into real humor in real life. She's not trying too hard. She just is who she is, and she does it on a blog. And it's real, and it's always, always thought provoking, and it's fair, almost all the time, and if she says something she regrets, she says so. The woman is never loathe to admit a mistake.

Anyway, I admire the shit out of her. She's a strong-willed, beautiful soul who will defend you, support you, tickle you and serve you wine in her backyard in a mason jar on a hammock.

And she wrote a book. A book about ghosts and their stories in and around Nashville. 

This woman's writing reads like breathing--effortlessly. She's a master at the craft, in my humble opinion, and while her blog is scattered in topic, I can't wait to see her nail down this single idea.

You have to buy it. It's not optional. Do yourself the favor, and bring the delight of my friend Betsy into your home. It's a far cry from having her swapping stories and swatting flies with you, but hey, we can't all be so lucky.

Get it here.

And here is the book's website.

Yeah, It Does Suck

Joel: I know all this Nashville stuff is stressful but there is one bright spot

me: hit me

Joel: I got nothing! It sucks!

So Far Away

There are times when I feel very distant and detached from my friends and family in Tennessee.

Never has that gap been as deep or as wide as it is today.

I want to help. I can't, so I just cry.

I wonder if I could see it for myself, all the damage, if it would ease my heart. Or, instead, I would ever stop crying.

"I don't know if we are going to make it."

I sit today at my desk unable to concentrate, constantly on the verge of tears.

I am watching my hometown suffer from afar. And it's killing me.

The Grand Ole Opry is flooded. The Cascades in the Opryland Hotel, one of the coolest things about Nashville, is under water. I went to prom there.

My father and stepmother had to be evacuated from their home in Pegram by boat. I could not get in touch with my Dad for many hours, and once I talked to him he filled me in. They were safe, he said, but it was the "most horrible night of his life."

They took my family to a senior citizen center by bus after getting them off the boat. My Dad said as they rode along, the water from the Harpeth River was covering the roadway. He told me an elderly lady being transported along with him screamed into her cell phone, "I don't know if we are going to make it. If I don't, y'all just divide my things evenly. I love y'all."

They did make it, but once they arrived at the senior citizen center he was told he couldn't bring his (tiny, tiny) lap dog in the facility. Not sure what they thought he would do with a 3 pound dog in a flood, but since he was told the dog could come, after some bitching, the dog got to stay.

They slept on cots.

Now they are at a motel in Ashland City awaiting word on whether they will again need to evacuate, as the nearest dam is in danger of breaking.

I go home in less than a month. It won't look like the place I remember.

I want nothing more than to be sandbagging downtown right now. Instead I am stuck here, constantly refreshing Twitter for more news.

Hang in there, Tennessee. It will be okay.

It's Bad. And it Breaks my Heart.

Something Said

"I just know she used to run part of the Internet in Nashville."

Close. The rest of y'all ran it, I just wrangled it.