Southwest Virginia Blogs

I don't know what it is about being in your mid-twenties and not married but I'm just ready to scream.  Over the past two days, I have been asked somewhere between 10 and 12 times when I am getting married. Now, let's put this in perspective.  I'm not single, but I'm not engaged.  I am living alone, but that does not make me alone.  Being unmarried after 25 is not the end of the world.  In fact, I'm proud of myself for all my accomplishments WITHOUT being married.  

I don't know why it bothered me so much this morning, but I was ready to scream at the women at my church.  I guess after all that has happened this week (which I have not blogged about for my own reasons, but the three people who know–me, the Boy, and Linds–are the only ones who currently need to know), I must be getting overly sensitive about this question.  I know that many people get married at 18 and stay married for life.  I also know that many more who get married at 18 get divorced within 5 years when they realize they gave up on a lot for their spouse.  I know that being in your twenties and unmarried is not a big deal. 

I don't know why old women don't understand that some things are more important at different times in peoples lives.  My goal was my education.  My second goal was being financially stable and able to take care of myself before marriage.  I've now reached both of those goals.  Does that mean I'm getting married this year?  Nope.  It just means now that those two things have been accomplished I will let myself get married in the future.  I'm in no hurry.  Why does everyone want to rush me?

Some small children have imaginary friends.  When I was little, I was one of those kids.  There are a lot of different theories on what makes an imaginary friend.  Some say only the most intelligent children make up imaginary friends.  Some say kids who need some sort of security make up imaginary friends.  Others claim an imaginary friend is actually a ghost who attaches to a child.

When I was small, my imaginary friend was named Mickey (yes, kind of like the mouse, but a real girl, or so I thought).  I drove my entire family insane over this friend.  Mom had to set an additional place at the table for her (she didn’t have to put food on the plate though, if Mickey were hungry, she’d get it herself); when we watched TV, Mickey had her own spot on the couch; mom had to kiss Mickey goodnight when she tucked us (ok, me) into bed; and Mickey got the swing next to me on my grandma’s swing set.

Mickey annoyed my cousins to no end.  There was a group of 6 of us, ranging in age from 3 (me) to 14.  I may have made up Mickey because I was the youngest (the next closest in age was my sister, who was 6) and they never liked letting me play with them.  Of course, my mom made them and when she did, Mickey also got to play.

That girl was one good hide and seek player.  I was the only one who ever found her.

Finally, my cousins had enough.  They spent every waking moment near me trying to get rid of Mickey.  I would always laugh and tell them “Nope, she’s moved over here!” when they would claim to grab her.  Then one day, when I was almost 4 (and Mickey had been a part of the family’s life for 2 years), my cousin Tina grabbed Mickey.  I screamed at the top of my lungs and started bawling “No, Tina!  Let her go!  Leave her alone!”  Tina took off running down the hall, holding this imaginary child in her arms.  My mom and uncle came RUNNING to see what was going on.  I was screaming in terror while the rest of the cousins cheered 12 year old Tina on.

Tina ran into the bathroom and shoved my imaginary friend in the toilet.  Yes, you read that right.  And then she flushed her.  I fell to the ground sobbing that Mickey was dead and Tina had killed her.

Mom took Tina into the other room with all the cousins and yelled at them all, while I lay crumpled on the floor in my Uncle James’s arms.  Uncle James told me, “It’s ok my little Monkey.  Mickey will come back when you least expect it.”

She never came back.

I rarely spoke to Tina after that day.  And last Saturday night, I saw her at a bar.  It had been 7 years since I had last really spoken to her.  And I’m still pissed about her killing Mickey.

Ok, I know, I’ve been gone awhile. I bet you all thought the boy was in this week, didn’t you? You were wrong. I just haven’t had much to write about or the time to write about it. Don’t fret though. I haven’t forgotten about the six of you who read this. More soon. I think I’m still recovering from my week.

Ok, I’m home.  I had the longest 63 hours ever.  I spent approximately 13 of those 63 hours in a car driving and another 13 of those 63 sitting in a car while my daddy drove.  Here’s the deal:

One month ago yesterday, my grandmother was in a car accident.  She’s pretty beat up.  She’s 80 years old and simply isn’t healing like she would if she were 27 (or 37 or even 67).  On the 24th of February, my parents drove to her home in Florida and on the 27th my dad drove home so he could work last week.  On Thursday night/Friday morning at 3:30 am, daddy and I loaded up the Escalade and drove to Florida to do a few things.  The most important being to pick up my mom.  Also we needed to fix my grandmother’s house (read: clean it…it was HORRIBLE and my mom had cleaned most of it before we got there), dad changed some door locks so my crazy aunt can’t get in and kill my grandmother (she wants to probate the will, even though my grandmother isn’t dead…did I mention she’s crazy?), we fixed finances and put my mom’s name and my name on everything in the event something does happen to my grandmother, and my mom wanted me to see my grandmother one more time, just in case.  She really isn’t healing well.  She can only walk about 10 feet at a time without screaming in pain, she can’t stand on her own, she can’t cook or bathe, she has a broken wrist, a cracked sternum, a bruised heart (and a bruised ego since she caused the car accident), and a possible lawsuit coming that could cause her a lot of trouble.  Anyway, we took care of all of that in 37 hours and I’m not sure if I slept the entire time.

And today, it’s back to work for me.

I have to go out of town for a few days.  Small family emergency.  I’ll be back early next week.  I’ll explain more then.

I once had a section on my old blog called “Happy Little M Bites” which gave small tidbits and funny stories about myself.  I’ve decided to reinstate that category.  I’ll get back to the Enemy story soon.  I just don’t feel like writing it right now.  So, let’s talk about Mr. Olibe.

Mr. Olibe was not his name.  IN fact, his last name was Martin.  When I was little, for as far back as I can remember, and even before I can remember, my parents had a boat and a house on a lake.  We would go to the lake every weekend (or as often as possible in the warm season).  When I was very little I loved olives.

Yes, you read that correctly.  I was 2 and I loved to eat olives.  Couldn’t get enough of them.  (I wonder why mom didn’t see my martini addiction sooner?)

When we would go to the lake, our neighbor, Mr. Martin, was my very best friend.  He was an alcoholic who drank many martinis filled with…you guessed it, Olives!  I was 2 and had a hard time saying Vs so I called them “Olibes.”  I would go to Mr. Martin (mom said I would normally disappear, they’d go search for me, and there I would be at Mr. Martin’s) and ask him, “May I have an olibe?”  He was the highlight of my lake trips.

Most parents would worry about their 2 year old taking up a friendship with a drunk alcoholic divorced man, but my parents honestly couldn’t stop me, and if they could, they didn’t want to because they knew Mr. Martin was a nice man.

Today I ran into Mr. Martin’s son, who is now 34ish.  He told me that his dad had died of liver disease awhile back.  He then told me “You know, you were the highlight of dad’s week, showing up asking for olibes.  He talked about you until he died.  Probably still tells the story of the Olibe Girl in Heaven right now.”

That made me smile.

I’m exhausted.  Mentally and physically.  It’s been a long week.  Everything is fine, I’m just tired from working long days and driving all over the place for work.  I’ll write another installment of the Enemy story soon.  You know, after I sleep.

I just returned from Friday Night Dinner with my parents.  Yes, I know, how very Gilmore Girls of us.  Anyway, I hadn’t had dinner with them in two weeks (in fact, I hadn’t SEEN either of them in two weeks) so I decided to go this week.  Plus, when I missed last week, they called to make sure I was alive and dad complained that the man who does engineering work for him has seen me more this year than he has.  Anyway, we had Friday Night Dinner.

Before dinner, mom gave me a present.  I called it a Groundhog Day present, but she called it a congrats present for my recent resume enhancement.  For Christmas my dad gave me this beautiful necklace.  It’s a diamond, amethyst, sapphire, ruby, citrine, and peridot necklace.  It’s very beautiful and very ornate (for lack of a better word) and I’ve had a hard time finding the right earrings to wear.  I mean, my small diamond studs work, but they’re so hard to see through my hair that I don’t feel like they are right.  I had been wearing silver hoops, but again, they just didn’t quite match.  Mom found a pair of earrings that are the same design of my necklace, in diamond, sapphire and amethyst.  I’m very excited.  I wore them to dinner tonight.

So, the point of this entry?  There isn’t really one other than I haven’t updated like I said I would.  More of the enemy story will come soon, but I’m having trouble with part three because, no matter how I write it, I also come off kind of bitchy in it.  Of course, since you all like me anyway, I know it won’t hurt your opinion of me.  I just hate to relay things that aren’t positive about myself.  I’ll write it tomorrow.  Promise.

That is the question. Today I had lunch at a small restaurant in the town where I was working. I don’t work in this town often, but when I do I always eat at the same place. It’s close to the courthouse and it’s pretty good food. So, as we were leaving, I threw two dollars on the table as a tip. It was techinically a small tip, but the people I was with didn’t tip at all. They didn’t tip for a reason, which was the same reason my tip was small, and no, it wasn’t because the service was bad.

The service was pretty good. Food was hot and ready quickly. But at this restaurant you order the food at the counter, get your own drink, and go to the counter to get your food when your number is called. Sounds like a Wendy’s or any other chain fast food place. But at this place, you don’t throw away your trash. See, they have people come around and clean the tables after you leave. So it’s a semi-service restaurant, I suppose.

As a former waitress, I’m a big tipper. 20% is the norm, if I think the service is good, I go up to 30%, sometimes even more. I really learned tipping from my dad. He’s also a big tipper. But some people don’t tip. Some people actually leave nothing, even at restaurants where the waiter or waitress brings them EVERYTHING. I must say, nothing is worse than clearing the dishes with half eaten food on them from a table. And having to pick up used napkins (even worse is having people at your own home using your cloth napkins and them blowing their noses in them, but that’s another rant for another day). That’s why I tipped today. They had to pick up my dirty plate and my dirty napkin so I didn’t want them to get nothing for it.

At the place I was at, I’m sure the workers make a decent amount per hour, but at most restaurants, the waiters and waitresses make around $3 an hour. Seriously. Some people don’t tip at all and these people are making less than minimum wage. I know there are bad waiters out there. I know that sometimes your waitress is so stupid and lazy you don’t want to tip her. Believe it or not, once I decided that a waitress didn’t deserve a tip (she was THAT bad). But normally, I’ll tip because it’s the right thing to do. They are, essentially, working for me. Bringing me my food so I don’t have to cook it and serve it myself. After that, they even clean up after me. They definitely deserve more than $3 an hour for that.

So, I ask, do you tip? If you do, how much do you give? If you don’t, why not?

I’ve been asked by a few readers to tell how I met the boy. Because I’ve switched blogs a few times since we met (or, more accurately, re-met), I’m going to rewrite the story of our meeting (err…re-meeting).

My best friend could probably tell this story better, since she was there, but here goes. W (that’s the best friend) and I decided to go out to a bar one night in an attempt to curb boredom. It was in August and there wasn’t much else to do. So it’s a Saturday, we’re going to go have a few beers and then come home. We ran into another girlfriend, we’ll call her Jen, and were sharing a table when someone we all knew from YEARS ago walked in the door.

My exact comment to my best friend was this: “When did [the boy] get hot?” We had graduated high school together. Then I said I would be back. I went over to talk to him, but as I tried to talk with him, I was approached by two other guys. I thought both of them were with the boy. So I was nice to them and talked to them. The boy kind of smiled and shook his head and walked away when the other two were surrounding me (it really was quite the invasion of my personal space). Later, the boy told me he was getting pissed because he was hoping to spend time with me when I walked over.

Fast forward to the bar closing. I hadn’t gotten to talk to the boy and, quite frankly, I was pissed about that. So I did what any normal female would do. I invited him, and all his friends, back to my place with W, Jen and me. Safety in numbers, of course. We get to my house and the boy’s friends (one of which I find out was NOT there with him, but was just there) were still trying to get my attention. I got mad at one of them for letting my cat out of the house (that was quite the dramatic event…I was running through my neighborhood without shoes on trying to catch my cat). Finally, the one that wasn’t with the boy, let’s call him Jeff, went to sleep on my couch. Jen and one of the other guys, Jared, who was also her exboyfriend, went to sleep in my guest room. Another man went to sleep on my other couch. I found out later that man was Jared’s father (don’t ask, it was a strange strange night).

W was outside with the other guy who had been trying to get my attention and the boy went into my bedroom to lay down. So I did what any girl would do. I went and laid on my bed with him. We laid there talking and laughing for hours (we also dozed off a few times in these hours). The next morning he asked if we could go out before he was sent off. He’s in the Air Force and had orders to go to Alaska. We both kind of knew that it would be a date or two and that would be it.

Until the first date happened and neither of us wanted that night to end. And then the second date happened the next night. And again, neither of us wanted that night to end. Then the third date, the next night. The next morning, he had to leave.

That should have been the end of our relationship. He was moving 5000+ miles away by plane and would be closer to Russia than to me. That morning he told me that he knew he was leaving and he didn’t want to ask me to wait for him, but did I think I could possibly give something a try. I said ok. I didn’t want to date anyone else around here and he was sweet (and hot).

So we spent the next two months on the phone every night. An hour to two hours every night talking. Thank god for Verizon unlimited long distance phone service. One day he asked if I could come visit him. I bought the plane ticket that day and made my plans. That weekend, while I was visiting him, I realized that although I was going to have to wait three years for him to be out of the service and to be able to come home, it would be worth it. What’s three years anyway? At this point I’ve been through four years of undergrad and three years of law school and that time flew by.

So we’ve continued with the status quo. I have my life here: my house, my job, my family, my friends. He has his life there: his job, his friends, his obligation to the country. We still spend an hour on the phone every night (or more). We make our plans to see each other every three months (or as close to that as possible) and we talk about the things that we’ll do when he gets home finally. And I’m ok with that. I can still be as independent as I want, but I know at the end of the day I’ll come home, call the boy, and look forward to the next visit.

When I was in undergrad I stopped eating meat.  Partially because I was in that “Do good” stage and partially because I got deathly ill off of a steak that was apparently prepared improperly.  A few years later, after the discovery of a blood sugar problem I was having, I began eating chicken and other white meats.  That helped control my blood sugar problem (because I was eating less pasta and other carbs which were making me shakey and sick).  I’ve been a happy little white meat eater for four years or so.

However, about six months ago, I had the strangest craving.  For a steak.  I tried to suppress it.   I didn’t think about it.  I ate some chicken.  Then the craving came again, about two weeks later.  Again, I suppressed it.  Then one night, at dinner with my parents, here came that craving again, so I gave into it.  That was five months ago.

Since then I have eaten red meat three, maybe four, times.  It’s always been a steak and it’s tasted so good.  And, contrary to the belief of  most non-red-meat-eaters, the first one did NOT make me sick.  In fact, believe it or not, it made me feel really good.  I’m not making it a daily consumption, but I have to admit, cow is tasting pretty good to me recently.  I haven’t brought myself to eat a hamburger yet.  But those Chili’s commercials really are starting to tempt me…

Foxnews is reporting that the two miners were found dead in the mine. I hadn’t talked much (ok, at all) about this mine accident for a couple reasons. First, I’m still slightly jet-lagged. Secondly because I never even imagined they would be dead. Seriously. A mine fire in a mine that big? In my head, they were in a safe area, just waiting. Of course, we now know I was wrong. The good news is Randall McCloy is making progress. I keep reminding myself of his miracle and it makes the bad news easier.
So now it comes again. The frenzy of “Two major life loss accidents in three weeks in WV coal mines!” The frenzy of “We must stop the mining industry before everyone dies!” You know what? I just don’t want to hear it. I think I’ll turn off the news.

EDIT: I’ve been thinking about the tragedy and I’ve decided to let it take on a new light in my mind. Instead of this being another tragedy, why aren’t we thinking of it as another miracle? Yes, two people died. But, once again, a larger number got out. Ten people survived this one. They got out and, according to the reports I’ve read (again, relying on foxnews and cnn), all 12 were together when the fire broke out. At Sago, 19 survived. 18 got out initially and one more survived the entire ordeal. I think I’ll think of them as West Virginia Mine Miracles rather than West Virginia Mine Tragedies.

I know, I went MIA for about a week. I apologize in the least sincere way. I traveled to the great white northwest to visit the boy in Alaska. Now I’m home. I could tell some stories of the trip and the wonderful things we did, but most of them aren’t really for blogging and would be boring to anyone (but the boy and me, of course). Have I mentioned that long distance relationships are hard? Especially when you have to say bye?
I had a lovely time flying through the air. A less lovely time with the airport layovers which turned into delays which made me get home around 3:30 in the morning. I went to work today though (really, I did–for about two hours).

They don’t scrape the roads in Alaska. You just drive on snow. I think that’s funny since down here, people would just lock themselves in their houses and not leave if the roads were like they were up there. This road status doesn’t last simply a day or two either. It lasts ALL WINTER. For those of you who are unaware, winter lasts a very long time in Alaska. I saw a glacier after a long drive on one of those snow covered roads. I considered not coming home. In the end, I came back. I’m not entirely happy with this decision to return. I’ll be home for the next six months before my next trip. He’ll be here in three months. I’m already counting it down on my calender and I don’t even know the exact dates of his visit.

For now, enjoy this picture: