Adventures of a Mississippi Girl

Seriously Slacking and Disgustingly Goofy

2009-01-14T19:59:00.000-08:00

Okay, let's do a brief recap of the last two months, shall we?

Late November consisted of Thanksgiving here in L.A. with the roommates and a couple of friends. I made dressing and red velvet cake, which resulted in my winning the hearts of many who aren't so liberal with the butter/fat in their own cooking. The day after Thanksgiving consisted of breaking up with guy who refused to tell me "happy birthday" or offer to get me a drink on my birthday. Um, no thanks. Life's too short. Said breakup also led to a mini-revelation that I am forevermore banning midwest boys from my dating repertoire. I haven't run into a normal one yet.

December consisted of a wonderful trip home, Christmas with family and friends and quite a few sad goodbyes (do they get easier, I wonder? My guess is not anytime soon). I got to spend time with my awesome little cousins and exist in a world where people don't eat tofu or dye their hair green. Okay, so I like it when I see people with green hair. But it was nice to be in the rural South for a while. It was relaxing and lazy and rejuvenating.

So, now that you're completely filled in on my life over the holidays, let's get back on track with New Year's Eve? Yes? Excellent. I spent NYE in downtown L.A. at a good friend's loft with a select few friends. It turned out to be the perfect evening. Loud music, multiple and riveting games of Jenga because apparently we're all 85 at heart, then off to the neighbor's to watch Dick Clark count down to 2009. We had our champagne and our dancing, but without all the annoying drunks and female drama. Well, until we saw that party in the next building that looked like WAY more fun. We proceeded to crash it promptly.

Things are moving along quite nicely out here. The last few days have brought 85 degrees and plentiful sunshine. I'm actually planning a beach day for Friday. Eat your heart out, Mississippi! That's exactly why I live here.

And I guess it's worth here mentioning that I had a date last night with a guy who was on Full House and Who's The Boss? as a child. Not kidding even a little bit. The best part? He's awesome and I'm seeing him again Saturday. That's more of a glimpse into my dating life than I normally offer up freely, but hey. Sometimes you just can't keep these things locked up inside. I also refuse to keep to myself the fact that he is beautiful. It's true. I've been smiling like a goofy moron (and looking at his pics on various social networking sites, mind you) all the livelong day. It's disgusting. I can't seem to stop. I would worry that I've developed some kind of problem, but he's having the same issues so I don't feel quite so bad. Apparently, California boys dig Southern girls. I'm not complaining.

What else? I've started doing a country music project with a couple of guys down in South Bay. I never in a million thought I'd be doing country stuff, but I figured I have nothing to lose by checking it out. We're not gigging yet. I'll let you know when that happens. If that happens. Well, that's the long and short of it. The skinny. The 411. The scoop. I know it's not funny or witty or even amusing, for that matter, but I just couldn't bear to leave you hanging for any longer. Guaranteed I'll get back on my game and have you rolling with laughter come the next posting. Until then...

And Now The Girl's 27

2008-11-15T13:24:00.000-08:00

A little over 24 hours ago, at 11:33 a.m. on November 14 (to be exact), I meandered slowly into the oft-dreaded age bracket commonly known as the "late 20s." The exact moment at which I made the transition wasn't eventful. Hell, I didn't even realize the shift had occurred until half an hour later. But there it was, in all its glory, staring me directly in the face, mocking me silently and making me contemplate birthdays to come.

I learned a few things on my birthday this year. Things that I hadn't previously realized, or maybe admitted, about myself. I like to feel special on my birthday. Yes, it's a small thing, and yes, it makes me sound girly - something I try vehemently to avoid if at all possible - but it's the truth. I want to be told "happy birthday" by the people I care about. I want to be taken care of and treated. I want, if only for one day, to have someone else make all the plans. There's no way to express these feeling without coming across as selfish, but those of you who know me know better, and those of you who know some of my past birthday experiences have all the more reason to back me up on this little revelation.

And now we're done with that.

So last night was great fun. My roommates gave me bourbon and cupcakes. What's not to love in that situation? I also got a bottle of bubbly and an incredibly tasty cake, the remainder of which will likely sustain me for the next week considering my lack of funds and lack of food. We ate amazing Cuban food, complete with a birthday serenade and a single serving of flan. Let it be forever noted that Jules does not like flan. We went bowling, drank a few beers and retired fairly early. I'll admit that it was hard not being with the people closest to my heart on my birthday, but I can't complain.

I turned 27 in California. I'm sorry, but that's pretty freakin' cool if you ask me. A native Angeleno recently told me that people new to L.A. are on a three-phase schedule. Year one is called "Clueless." Year two is called "She's Out of Control." Year three is called "Over It" (which must be said in a very overtly homosexual sort of way).

So I guess what I'm saying is we're just getting things started out here. Stay tuned for 28. It's bound to be blog-worthy.

P.S. Many, many glorious thanks to everyone who sent birthday wishes my way. They were appreciated more than you'll ever understand.

A Mix CD and a Lonely Halloween

2008-10-31T20:10:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting here listening to the best mix CD I've ever heard in my life. A friend from Starkville planned to make me a "Going to California" album before I left, but things happen and priorities get shifted and I'm just now getting the thing. Doesn't matter. When I put it in and started listening, I was overcome with all the same feelings I had the day I drove out of that place. Those same mixed emotions of elation and sadness, eagerness and feeling like something was over. The CD is almost a narrative, with songs about small towns, getting away, finding dreams, riding shotgun and saying goodbye. I'll get emotional every time I listen to it, I have no doubts. And I can remember a point when I would never openly admit that, but I'm not afraid to say it now.

Here's the track listing, for those of you who care:
1. Smallsville - Gladhands
2. Free to Go - The Folk Implosion
3. I Ran (So Far Away) - Flock of Seagulls
4. Rental Car - Beck
5. Quality of Armor - Guided By Voices
6. Destination Unknown - Missing Persons
7. Rockin' Down the Highway - The Doobie Brothers
8. Freeways - Bachman-Turner Overdrive
9. In A Big Country - Big Country
10. Red Carpet Ride - Tiara
11. Moving - Supergrass
12. Passenger Side - Wilco
13. Ride With Me - The Lemonheads
14. Under the Milky Way - The Church
15. Across the Universe - The Beatles
16. Going to California - Led Zeppelin
17. Ventura Highway - America
18. Lemme Take You to the Beach - Frank Zappa
19. Losing California - Sloan
20. Bye Bye Goodbye - Brak

Good stuff, I tell ya. Kudos to Mike Yeager. He wins the award for best mix CD craftsmanship. It really is quite genius.

In other news, it's a strange night on South Bentley. Halloween will pass me by this year, and I won't have pretended to be anyone else. This is new for me. I love transforming. Becoming, if only for a night, something I'm not. It's exhilarating. And it gives me an excuse to wear fishnets and too much eyeliner...which now that I think about it, I don't really need an excuse for in California. I guess that frame of mind harkens back to life in Mississippi.

Oh, and I finally got a job! I say that as such an afterthought, when in reality, unemployment has become the bane of my existence these last few months. It's a huge deal that I finally have something. It's only a part-time gig for now, but it's in my field and will look great on my resume. I am quite thrilled about the situation. I'll finally start feeling like I'm planting my feet firmly here. It's a good thing.

So I'm gonna keep listening to this wonderful CD. A tear might fall. Because it's nights like these when I long desperately for a roomful of familiar faces. And who am I kidding? Music affects me like little else. The saddest movie in the world won't make me flinch, but put on a good song and you just might need a flotation device.

The Wonders Never Cease

2008-10-23T14:20:00.000-07:00

After my last posting, I have become more and more aware that a mere five-point list of why L.A. is so amusing to me just simply won't cut it. How could it? Even in the last week or so I've experienced a few things that simply must be passed along to you, dear reader. I learned via Facebook status that a friend of mine stood in line behind Drew Barrymore at CVS today. This amuses me. I don't know why. Maybe because I haven't had a star sighting yet. I'm still waiting to run into and fall madly in love with Charlie Hunnam before marrying him and having half British, have Southern babies. Hey, if you can get caught in the drugstore line behind Drew Barrymore, anything can happen. Fingers crossed!

Last weekend marked my second voyage to the incredibly jubilant and raucous Oktoberfest in Alpine Village. Okay, so it's not exactly in L.A. But every year people come out en masse to swizzle copious amounts of beer, eat bratwurst, yell "Prost!" and, of course, do the chicken dance. Many bring their own steins. Some buy gigantic glass boots from which to guzzle their brew. Some of us go low key with the paper cups. But very few of us left the tent with steady legs beneath us. I'm glad I didn't run into Charlie Hunnam that night. Methinks it would have been a poor showing on my part.

And finally. The revelation I've been waiting for. The sentence that, if I'm being honest, is the only reason I actually wrote this post in the first place...

The girl who cuts my hair used to be a yellow power ranger. Need I say more?

How Do I Love L.A.? Let Me Count the Ways

2008-10-01T11:31:00.000-07:00

1. I'm surrounded by characters. I don't mean characters from TV and film, thought it's true those people are prevalent in this place. I'm talking about average people who have somehow become caricatures of themselves. Cartoon-like creatures wandering the streets of L.A. Like the 65-year-old, gray-haired man on the street corner in Venice, resplendent in his leopard print leggings and white running shoes. Or the young man in Hollywood (and I use the word "man" loosely here) sporting a silver tank top sparkly enough to put every Southern pageant queen since the '80s to total shame. There are heads of hair in every color of the spectrum. There are people on stilts. There are people whose sex cannot be determined by mere observation. There are beauties and junkies and class-acts and freaks. And they make this place what it is. A place where no one is out of place. Except, of course, for the tourist families wearing fanny packs...and let's face it. Those people don't fit in anywhere.

2. There's history on every corner. Wherever I go I always wonder who has walked that path before me. For years people have flocked to this place, be it in search of stardom or just the desire to live somewhere beautiful. The kings and queens of Tinseltown wandered these streets. Some of this world's most influential musicians have played here. And you can feel that in the air. It's impossible to ignore. At least for me, anyway. My first visit to The Roxy was moving, not because the show was great, but because I know that John Lennon used to hang out in that very place. My feet possibly touched the same ground his feet once touched. For most people I'm sure that sounds silly, but for me, it's electrifying.

3. It's damn near impossible to get bored. There is always something happening in this town. A never ending string of fun festivals, live music every night of the week, comedy shows, beautiful beaches, mountains, theater, sporting events, farmer's markets, and a plethora of gentlemen's clubs offering the best live nude entertainment this country has to offer. You name it, you can do it here. Hey, they don't call it LaLa Land for nothing, people.

4. Food. Any kind of food you can imagine, and some that you'd never want to. Whatever taste you need to please your palate is certain to be no more than a few minutes away, if not right next door. I haven't been able to tickle my culinary fancy just yet, considering my lack of funds at the moment, but just knowing that it's there waiting to be devoured is enough for me. Some favorites to date... Brazilian cuisine just a couple of blocks from my apartment, a hole-in-the-wall seafood dive in Santa Monica and brunch at Overland Cafe, including $5 all-you-can-drink champagne. Those people know how to make this girl happy. Give me bubbly and I'll be forever loyal.

5. The "come as you are, que sera, sera" attitude. I'm growing quite fond of the laid back atmosphere of Southern California. Doesn't matter what you wear, when you arrive or why you came. Just do what you please. No one will mind. Or even notice, for that matter. Some people say it can be a lonely place since people don't really go out of their way to interject themselves into your life or your personal business. I revel in the fact that no one's in my business, but that shouldn't come as a surprise to those of you who know me well. What should come as a surprise is how drastically my anal retentiveness has slacked off (you know what I'm talking about - the cleaning, the bed making, the organizing, etc.) There are currently dirty dishes in the sink and the trash needs taking out. I haven't made my bed in quite some time and I have unpacked boxes upon which I have piled books, magazines and other unsightly items. And it's not bothering me a bit. Maybe it's just a visual testament to what I knew the first night I slept on Bentley Avenue as a resident of Los Angeles... I'm happy.

I Didn't Tell You I'm In a Band Now?!

2008-09-24T12:53:00.000-07:00

One would think that my seemingly endless hours of doing nothing would lend themselves to incessant blogging on my part. One would think incorrectly. You see, I have to be in a very particular frame of mind to put my thoughts into written form, and I just haven't found myself in that place too often lately. Maybe it's the stress of still being unemployed. Maybe it's the thrill of meeting new people (one person in particular...) Or maybe it's the excitement of being in a new band! Okay, so that was a lame way to get to the whole "I'm in a new band" revelation, but there it is.

I'm in a new band! It was quite simple how it all worked out. I was perusing Craigslist, an activity that has become something of an addiction for me these days, when I ran across an ad looking for a soulful, bluesy singer. I replied, sent a link to some stuff I recorded back home and waited. Within 20 minutes, I got a reply from the guitar player saying he loved my voice and wanted me to come in and audition (I'm not tooting my own horn here, just relaying information). A week or so later, I found myself driving up to the Valley to meet and sing for a group of total strangers. It was scary and exhilarating and nerve-wracking and fun. I can tell you that I wasn't on my A-game. It wasn't my best performance. But they seemed to dig it anyway, and within a couple of days, I got a call saying they wanted me.

As it turns out, I'll be fronting this band with a guy named JT. He's a Louisiana native, so we'll have that Southern thread in common at least. And I can't tell you how excited I am to get to do the male/female vocal thing. I love that melding of masculine and feminine voices. It creates a very unique energy that can be so powerful and moving. I know I'm rambling, but singing is my soul and I'm so thrilled to have an outlet for it now. Finally!

Our first practice is tonight. I'll be singing some Grace Potter, Susan Tedeschi and Arc Angels this evening, and doing a couple of duets of Clapton tunes. I'm ready. I've never been more ready.

It's Good To Be Home

2008-09-02T20:31:00.000-07:00

Finally, I have arrived. I'm at home on South Bentley Avenue in west L.A., happy as a pig in the sunshine, looking forward to the life that's just starting. I moved in on Friday, joining a couple of stellar roommates for what I'm certain will be one of the greatest years of my life. I know it's bold to assume such a thing, but the fact remains that I believe this is the point at which everything truly begins for me. That's not to say that the previous years haven't been good. They have. Some have been great. But there's something bigger waiting and I have no doubts that I'll find whatever that may be here in my new home.

I finally got a bed. It's heavenly. I finally have nothing in the trunk of my car (although I still have plenty of junk in my trunk, if you know what I'm sayin'...I have GOT to get back on the workout routine soon). I finally have my own private bathroom, my own closet, my own private haven. Not to mention, there's a great patio upstairs that allows me to sunbathe privately. You know, until the trunk is sans junk.

We had a barbecue on Sunday. A lovely Labor Day weekend for sure. But it's hard to go wrong with burgers, chili cheese dip and many spirited rounds of beer pong. I'm meeting new people. Making connections. Making friends. Finding inspiration. Today, I was doing a little pickin' and grinnin' in my room. When I stopped between songs, a voice from across the alley said, "Sounds good! Do you play anywhere around here?" Then she proceeded to introduce herself and tell me that she had turned off her music to listen to me sing. If that's not a sign from above, I don't know what is.

And Who's the Official Queen of Surprises?

2008-08-20T09:22:00.000-07:00

Me. I am the official Queen of Surprises. I got crowned yesterday, as a matter of fact, after showing up at my parents' house in Golden, Mississippi, completely unannounced and unexpected. It was one of the most satisfying and fun days I have ever experienced. Let me recap the various reactions of unsuspecting family members:

My Mother: She was the first one I saw when I walked in. She gasped, then had a complete meltdown. She couldn't let go and she couldn't stop crying! It was awesome (not that she was crying, obviously, but that she was so shocked to see me).

My Daddy: He was taking a nap because he wasn't feeling well at all, so when Mother opened the bedroom door and I stepped in, he looked completely disoriented and unsure that he was really seeing me in his doorway. Mother actually had to say, "You're not dreaming. She's really here!" But he knew it was real when I started hugging on him!

My Aunt (who wins the award for "Best Reaction"): Mother called her to come by and get some dinner. I waited patiently for her to wander into the kitchen. When she saw me, she screamed, threw her hands up into the air, and started laughing/dancing her way across the kitchen. Between the screaming guffaws, and while she was holding on to me for dear life, she was saying, "How?" and "When?" It was the funniest thing ever.

My Grandmothers: The first one also wandered unsuspectingly into the kitchen, though it took her a few minutes to see me. When she realized what was going on, she hugged on me in shock, though not for long because she immediately turned to the culprits who knew about it and started firing questions. I don't think she ever really understood that nobody knew I was coming! And she wanted to know why no one told her!

My other grandmother, who has a "bad leg" (yes, the quotations are there for a reason), nearly jumped out of her recliner when she saw me come into her house. She moved quickly and with purpose. I'm pretty sure her leg's fine based on her reaction time. Had she been a swimmer, she would've beaten Phelps off the block. No doubt about it.

So now you see why I'm the Queen of Suprises. I've been awaiting this title for years, but this last shenanigan sealed the deal for sure. It's good to be home.

I'm Sorry, But I Need to Make a List

2008-08-15T16:31:00.000-07:00

It's a beautiful Friday afternoon in San Clemente. In honor of the sunshine (which I cursed earlier when I got too hot washing dishes) I'd like to make a random list of things I enjoy immensely. It's a completely pointless list, and probably not even marginally entertaining to read, but here it goes.

1. I like palm trees. They make me quite giddy, actually. I don't know why. Maybe it goes back to childhood vacation memories when the sight of palm trees was a clear indication that we were almost at the beach. I particularly enjoy the ridiculously tall, skinny ones. In my brain, they don't seem physically capable of standing without folding right in half, what with that big 'ole poof of leaves on the top. But they do stand up. And they're awesome. And they're everywhere. And I kind of wish I could be one. Moving right along...

2. I like driving fast enough to shave minutes off the arrival time that is provided by my navigation system at the beginning of every trip. It's almost like a game. It gives me great, great pleasure to watch that time go down, even if only by a minute or two. This is not a good thing, considering the lead foot that I inherited from my dear father.

3. I like beer. I think that one explains itself, though I must admit that my beer passions are heightened this time each year when Sam Adams puts out their seasonal Octoberfest. It's a crying shame (or a blessing in disguise, perhaps?) that I can only get it two months out of the year.

4. I like chatting online. There. I said it. I don't care if it locks in my already solid dork status. There's a certain art to getting your point across without vocal inflection or tone and without facial expressions (emoticons don't REALLY count, people). I like to think I'm good at it. And my wittiness seems to triple during instant messaging exchanges. You wouldn't even believe it. I'm a riot.

5. I like pinkberry. Yeah, I'd never heard of it either 'til California. I tried it for the first time last weekend, and God bless the person who took me there because, goodness gracious alive, the stuff rocks! I feel sorry for other frozen yogurt. I really do.

Country Girl Really is Going to Town

2008-08-07T22:06:00.000-07:00

The only surefire way I know of to make sure I go after what I really want is to broadcast my intentions to everyone I know. This way, you see, I'm always held accountable for the dreams I'm threatening to follow. I can't slink away from it anymore, because too many people know about it. Too many people will call me out on it. Too many people have seen my heart exposed.

So here I am before you now, spilling my guts about what I'm looking for in my life. I want to sing. I want to be onstage. I've wanted to be a singer for as long as I can remember (which isn't saying much - I honestly have a hard time recalling what I did yesterday). Somewhere around the precious age of 5, my sweet Daddy taught me "Jolene." He would play it on his Yamaha acoustic and I would sing it for anyone who would listen. "I'm beggin' of you, please don't take my man." Maybe that's where this obsession started. Or maybe it started on one of those countless Sundays at Golden Central Baptist singing those beautiful old hymns. Those are still some of my favorite songs. Wherever the seed was planted, its roots took hold. They were deep even then. And they've only grown deeper since.

Even as insignificant as my acoustic shows in Starkville were, they made me feel alive. It didn't matter if I was singing for three people, which I did on a couple of occasions, or if I was singing for a bar full. I am my true self when I am singing. You won't find a more honest representation of my very heart. It's my favorite feeling on earth. I yearn for it. I ache for it. I need it to be me. It's a revealing and personal experience. And I'm fairly certain that if you look just right while I'm singing, you can actually see my soul. Right there, out in the open, sharing itself with everyone in the room.

So what's my point here? As of September 1, I will be a resident of L.A. I found some great roommates and a pretty sweet apartment. I'm going there for one reason and for one reason only: to sing. The music world is a horrifying place. I don't know if I can hack it. But you know, I didn't know if I could hack moving across the country and that's worked out well so far.

I don't have a job yet. Making rent won't be easy, and I know it. But if I have to slave at Starbucks or serve cheap beer in a dive bar (right, like alcohol in L.A. is cheap) then that's what I'll do. I said when I left Mississippi that I was sick of taking the easy road. Sick of doing the expected. Sick of being secure and comfortable. So this country girl's heading to town. She's not so scared of pursuing her dream. She's horrified, though, of what will happen to her soul if she never tries.

I Know Just How You Feel, Ms. King

2008-07-30T14:34:00.000-07:00

Carole King once sang about feeling the earth move under her feet. Granted, her earth was moving because her would-be lover was in the vicinity. Yesterday my earth was moving because, well, my earth was actually moving. I experienced my first earthquake, ladies and gentlemen! It was like my official "Welcome to California!" from God Himself. I can't say I appreciated it too much.

Here's what happened...

It's 11:42 a.m. on Tuesday, July 29. I'm getting ready to leave the apartment to drop off a project for my oh-so-lucrative (sense the sarcasm) part-time, freelance proofreading job when I feel something that confuses, disorients, baffles and horrifies me. The floor is wobbling. The windows are rattling. Things are shaking. Have I inadvertently ingested some mind-altering substance? Did Jess drop some acid in my milk jug this morning, perhaps? Is there a large aircraft flying entirely too close to my tiny home? Could I be experiencing San Clemente's very first elephant stampede? No, no. Not even close. It's an earthquake.

Okay, so I like to be overly dramatic from time to time. The whole fiasco couldn't have lasted more than 15 seconds or so and, oddly enough, the shaking didn't immediately trigger an "It's an earthquake!" response in my brain. Actually, by the time I realized what was happening and remembered what I learned in elementary school about getting in a doorway (because who knew I'd ever actually USE that piece of information), the whole thing was over. And I'll gladly admit, it completely freaked me out. I was wound up and terribly anxious for about an hour afterward.

Yes, tornadoes, hurricanes and fires are scary. But you can run from those. And in most cases, you know they're coming before they happen. Not so with the sneaky earthquake. You never see him coming. He's the annoying ex that pops up in the middle of your perfect dinner date. Or the misbehaved child that yells in church right when the prayer's getting good and makes you jump six inches off the pew.

Truth is, there's just not a damn thing you can do when plates shift. Not a pleasant thing for a gal who likes to always be in control, or so I'm told. But as they say, c'est la vie! And welcome to California!

Ready for Fireworks

2008-07-04T10:38:00.000-07:00

Another Fourth of July has arrived. Unbelievable, really. I'm not sure how it got here so quickly, or how I am so far from where I was this time last year, not just in distance, but in every other way possible. My mind is different. My heart is different. I'm still pretty cheesy. I guess that's the only thing that hasn't changed...

At any rate, here I sit, eagerly anticipating so many things. Not knowing what's going to happen in the next month or even the next week used to horrify me. Now it excites me. I have new friends. I have a new life. I have a chance to do and see things I've never had access to before. It's thrilling, to say the least. And I'm so anxious to experience all of it. Warning: Cheesiest line EVER coming right now...

I'm ready for fireworks.

Yes, I'm ready for the fireworks I'll see when I sit on the beach later this evening. But I'm ready for bigger, better, longer fireworks. You know what I'm talking about. The explosions that come from landing a new job, going on a first date or finding a new apartment. The colors that don't fade into the darkness above an endless ocean, never to be enjoyed again. I'm ready. Who's got the lighter?

Handguns in Handbags and Other Stories

2008-06-25T18:11:00.000-07:00

Okay. This is going way back, but I have to tell you a couple of stories about my dear, dear friend Lesley who was my "date" for my sis's wedding at the end of May. I knew I was going to forget this, and I don't know what prompted me to remember it (maybe something I just heard on Seinfeld?) but I'm sure glad I did.

If you are lucky enough to know Lesley, you know one gloriously Southern, unabashedly honest, beautifully funny, gorgeous, blunt Mississippi darling. She and I go way back. Way back. As in, we went to Headstart together at age 4. So I've known this precious gal for quite some time. And she is the subject of many a side-splitting story.

For starters, when she showed up at my apartment in Starkville, Mississippi, the day we were leaving for Orange Beach, she had so many bags (and for just a week, might I add!) that I feared the Honda would be dragging ass and causing sparks with the tailpipe the whole way to the Gulf coast. "This one's just shoes," she said as she heaved a massive cloth bag into the trunk. "Because I like to have options."

My favorite part of the trip, by far, happened at a gas station in Scooba. This old dude was looking at us funny when we pulled up, and after making some comment to Lesley about how I'd appreciate it if he'd stop staring, she said, and I quote, "Don't worry. I'm packing heat."

Now, it was funny enough that Lesley used the phrase "packing heat" in the first place. But what really put the icing on the cake was when this blonde-haired belle proceeded to reach into her designer purse and pull out a pistol. I wasn't sure whether to laugh or run like hell! She must have seen the look of terror on my face because she told me quickly, in her sweet Southern drawl, "Oh, but don't worry. I've got a permit."

Well, that certainly made me feel better...almost as good as it made me feel when she shared the gruesome details of what the hollowpoint bullets (of which she had more in her wallet) would do to a human body.

Then one night out at the Flora Bama, Lesley finds a handsome young gentleman who wants to dance. So I assume the position of wallflower and purse watcher - a title I hold often and very well - while Lesley heads toward the tiny dance floor to get her groove on. I'm looking around, watching the people, sending a text here and there and saying "No, thank you" to all the eager rednecks looking for a partner. Then I see it. I'm not sure I've seen it at first. But I have.

There's my dear Lesley in mid-air, ass up, her Victoria's Secret-bedecked booty shining, skirt flying and hair flailing. Someone on the dance floor has flipped her. Such a butt baring might have humiliated some. Not this girl. As a matter of fact, upon having her feet returned to the dirty dance floor, she shot a look of pure pride at me, yelling across the bar as her skirt fell back into place, "Did you see me? I got flipped!"

When we got back to the condo, Lesley explained what was running through her head during her bottoms-up boogie... "Well, I was just dancin' and this guy asked if he could flip me. I said yeah, hopin' he knew what he was doin', and before I knew it, I was up in the air. I didn't care that my panties were showing. All I could think was, 'Shit! I better stick this landin'!'"

Hey, I Can Always Be a Lady of the Night

2008-06-23T21:03:00.001-07:00

So what happened in Vegas this last time simply cannot stay there. It's just too laugh-out-loud funny and mildly humiliating to keep a secret. I was there for two nights, visiting a wonderful friend who was there for work. The first night, he headed to bed fairly early since he had a long day ahead. Being the independent and nocturnal creature I seem to become in Vegas, I decided to go it alone and visit a couple of new friends who work at one of the bars in The Mirage (the site of my one and only Penthouse stay).

And so the story goes, our sweet, Southern heroine is sitting at the bar, sipping her bourbon like a lady, well past midnight, chatting with the bartender and minding her business. Sure, her outfit is a little sexy, but not sexy enough to warrant the proposition presented to her by the drunken buffoon who assumed, without hesitation, that she was a prostitute. I wish I were joking. I most certainly am not. Okay, so maybe I shouldn't have been in a bar at 3 a.m. But it's Vegas. You gotta do what you gotta do.

Night two. Same scenario. Same bar. Much less sexy clothing. But this time, it's a Las Vegas law enforcement official. He shows me his badge and says he needs to see my ID for "age verification purposes." Yeah. He, too, thought I was a hooker. Talk about great for the self-esteem.

Lesson learned: If you are female, even if you are not dressed like a lady of the night, and you are sitting alone at a bar in Vegas in the early hours of the morning, the general population will assume you're a working girl. Can't a girl have a drink alone in this town? Sure she can. She can also get some customers without even trying.

The return to San Clemente brought an eagerly anticipated job interview. Which, by the way, I rocked so hard that they e-mailed the same afternoon to ask for a second interview. Looks like things are coming together after all. But it's always a comfort to know that if this job falls through or if I'm just looking for a little extra spending money, I can always count on late nights in Vegas. Apparently, I've got what it takes.

So Here's the Thing...

2008-06-18T18:44:00.001-07:00

I had the noblest of intentions to share every moment of my trip to California with you. But the truth is, my laptop died in Oklahoma City. And the previous post was completely fabricated. Well, not completely. I did do and think and see all those things, but I totally wrote that about a week ago. Long after having arrived and settled in California. Yes, I'm hanging my head in shame.

I'm a blog sinner, and I'm confessing my transgressions to you now. The truth is, writing in retrospect is very difficult for this forgetful gal. I'm impressed that I remembered anything at all about that first day, and if you read carefully, you'll see that the details are sorely lacking.

If I may proceed, let me get you up to speed... Oh, and since my laptop is still on the fritz, I haven't had a way to download pictures. They're coming, though. I promise.

Day two of the road trip consisted of the remainder of Oklahoma, the top tip of Texas, New Mexico and half of Arizona. It was long and grueling, though stopping in Groom, Texas, to see the largest cross in the western hemisphere proved to be quite amusing. We spent that night in Flagstaff and parted ways with our driving buddy the following day when Emily and I headed north to the Grand Canyon.

Let it here be stated that anyone, at any time, is free to jump right off into that massive ravine. There are no barriers, though the friendly bus driver asks you to "please stay a body length away from the edge of the canyon" should you accidentally trip and fall. All I'm saying is that if you felt the urge to Thelma and Louise into that thing, there would be nothing there to stop you. That is incredibly cool and incredibly horrifying at the same time. Oh, and it was here that an very sketchy old guy walked up to me and said, "I know this is gonna sound creepy, but..." I think it's a safe bet that anything following "I know this is gonna sound creepy" is sure to be just that and most likely shouldn't be shared. But this dude wanted to tell me that he saw the sun hitting my shoulders and that they were the most beautiful shoulders he had ever seen. Someone, he said, should take a picture of them. Allllllrighty. Moving on.

After the Canyon (which, by the way, is only accessible via creeping along a windy, scary gravel road - my Honda was NOT ready for all that) we headed to Las Vegas. Sin City, baby. The lights really are impressive. I can't lie. I felt a little "country girl goes to town." Especially when, upon check-in, Em and I got upgraded to a Penthouse suite with a view of the strip! No, I'm not kidding. We ran around like little kids, screaming, laughing, saying, "Oh my gosh, have you seen the bathroom!" and generally acting like idiots. We don't know why or how, and we didn't ask questions. We just basked in the glory of living like the rich, knowing full well that it would be the only time we'd ever spend the night in such a nice room. Bittersweet at best. Oh, who am I kidding? It was freakin' AWESOME! As for the rest of that night? Well, you know the Vegas slogan.

The next evening we arrived here in San Clemente around 7:30. I'm pretty sure I cried when I saw the "San Clemente City Limits" sign. I definitely cried when we played "The Great Escape" one more time to bring our trip full circle. Starkville to San Clemente. More than 2,000 miles. And even more laughs than that.

I've been here for almost a month now, which I honestly don't even believe. I'm adapting well to the traffic (it seems as though I really enjoy driving fast while weaving in and out of heavy traffic - who knew?) I love this town. It's all still very surreal. Probably because I'm not working yet. But that will change soon, I feel.

Tonight's agenda? Drinking champagne and eating cake in honor of Sir Paul McCartney's birthday. Tomorrow? Yeah. I'm going back to Vegas.

Cross Country: Part One

2008-05-26T22:00:00.000-07:00

Ahhh, the first day of the great American road trip has come to a close. I find myself in Oklahoma City, getting ready to sleep, sans bed, in the empty apartment of a buddy who's driving along with us to Flagstaff tomorrow. Methinks a list will be the best way to recap this first leg of our adventure...

This morning, when my hair dryer stopped, I realized that Emily had brilliantly thought to put on Hall and Oates (whom we have a deep, shared love for - how can you NOT love something so ridiculously cheesy?) The song that was playing... "She's Gone."
As we were pulling out of Starkville, video camera rolling, I cranked up the song that started this whole fiasco. We both cried when "The Great Escape" reached its crescendo with the words "Drive, don't stay. I wanna see you get away."
We stopped in Batesville to have breakfast at Cracker Barrel with my teeny, tiny friend (that would be McKissack). On the way out, we saw a car with a huge sticker that said, "Back to the bible or back to the jungle."
At some point, I got used to the fact that I couldn't see anything in my rearview but mounds of luggage.
For the most part, Arkansas and Oklahoma were pretty uneventful, save a nasty rainstorm and lots of people on motorcycles with no helmets.

Tomorrow brings Texas, New Mexico and Arizona, which adds up to about 12 hours of driving. I wonder what we'll see...

"They Do" and "How Could You?"

2008-05-25T17:00:00.000-07:00

Well, she went and did it. Tied the knot. Latched on the old ball and chain. Renamed herself. As of last night, my beautiful sister became one half of a married couple, and I honestly couldn't be more thrilled about it. Although I usually get incredibly (and I stress the word "incredibly") cheesed out by wedding ceremonies, it was impossible to be cynical when it is so obvious that their being together was written in the stars long before either of them were born. Yes. I just said that. I'll wait for you to finish gagging. Besides, the wedding was in the sand overlooking the Gulf. What's not to love?

At any rate, she was simply stunning, which isn't hard considering she's hands-down the most gorgeous creature I've ever known. And had I been given the opportunity to select the perfect hubby for her, it would have been the one she chose for herself. So kudos, sis, on making such a stellar choice. End scene.

Post reception wasn't easy. I had to say goodbye to my grandmothers, aunts and uncles, which broke my heart because making people cry just sucks. And walking away from my four little cousins was horrible because I realize that they'll change so much between now and the next time I see them. I hope they don't forget me. I hope I don't forget how they laugh, or what their voices sound like or how it feels to wrap my arms around them. I gave the oldest her first guitar lesson last night. E minor. She promised to teach it to her little sister. They're gonna be rockstars. Mark my words.

And much to my surprise, my oldest cousin stopped me in the hall with a genuine look of confusion on his face to ask me how on earth I could go so far away. I guess sometimes I don't realize how much people care. It's nice to know they do. Even if it takes a major life event to get them to say it out loud.

The Final Goodbyes and One Embarrassing Crying Spell

2008-05-18T11:41:00.000-07:00

My "last hoorah" in Starkville culminated in the form of a splendid Going Away Party two nights ago at my second home (a.k.a. Drew and Karen's). We had fried chicken, barbecue, sweet tea, bourbon and some gooey, cheesy bacon dip stuff that was so good I threatened to slather it all over myself. Mmmm...Southern cooking is as close as we can get to heaven on earth. I'm certain of it.

There are few things better than being surrounded by friends who love you. It's quite humbling, actually. I certainly did nothing to deserve such an amazing display of affection, but I'm glad they saw fit to do what they did. I won't ever forget it. I even got a wish book in which all of my favorite people wrote memories, advice and just plain 'ole nice things for me to take along on my journey. I've been told I can't read it until I'm on the road. One dear heart even made up his own words for me. Now that's what I call friendship.

But it wasn't until last night that the waterworks started. And so unexpectedly, might I add. I was "that girl" who was crying at the bar. How humiliating. No, it probably didn't help that I had consumed a good bit of bubbly before we arrived. Or that I was aware that it was my last weekend to hang out at The Tavern. But what put the final nail in the coffin was when my dear Jason Jones (the same creature who made up words in aforementioned wish book) stepped up to the mic and played those unmistakable opening notes of "In My Life." Talk about losing it. I couldn't stop the tears. And maybe I didn't want to.

Next weekend my sister will get married and the final goodbyes will be spoken. But that's really only the beginning. Because 2,000 miles in a Honda Accord is bound to make for some of the best stories I've ever heard, let alone experienced for myself. I can't wait.

"I Sold My Life in a Yard Sale" and Other Recent Musings

2008-05-12T14:02:00.000-07:00

A lot has happened since we last spoke. Last weekend was my much anticipated "Super Huge Moving Sale" (as I so eloquently named it) which I am pleased to share went exceptionally well. I filled up my little tin Beatles lunchbox with oodles of ones and fives. And even one crisp hundred. I kid you not. It was a good day.

I meant to take pictures of all the loot before the yard salers started trickling in, but I wasn't speedy enough. And I was horribly and disgustingly hungover, which put things like "Don't hurl" way higher on my mental priority list than "Take pics for blog." I'm sure all the shoppers were glad I made "Don't hurl" a priority. Besides, looking back at photos of all that stuff would probably have bummed me out anyway. It's forward I'm looking, not backward.

This weekend was incredibly bittersweet for this Daddy's girl. I skipped out on work Friday so I could spend an extra day in good ole Golden, Mississippi, with my parents. I don't know if they didn't realize it or were just refusing to discuss it, but the fact that it was my last trip home before the big move weighed heavy on me. A lot of small, simple things suddenly became precious. Almost sacred. Call me cheesy if you want, but that's how it felt.

Some examples (because if I don't make a list soon my brain might explode):

Shopping at the local Big Star with my Daddy and seeing a guy behind us with a jar of strange yellow stuff labeled Hillbilly Soppin' Chow-Chow (Mild). I have no idea what that is, but I'm damn sure I won't be able to buy any in So-Cal.
Smelling my Daddy's aftershave on Sunday morning like I did every Sunday morning of my young life. That's a smell I'll never forget.
Hearing the giggles of my gorgeous, toe-headed cousins when I attacked them with unexpected TTs (Tickle Treatments - a longstanding tradition in my family. Really lucky people may get a Triple Tickle Treatment, or TTT, if you will).
Singing hymns in church without looking at the words (because I've known them since I could talk).
Sampling the homemade strawberry pie that the neighbors brought over as part of some neverending (and seemingly competitive!) food sharing situation.

Pulling away from my house on Sunday evening was much harder than I thought it would be. I'll see my family again at my sister's wedding in a couple of weeks, but I won't be home again for a very long time. Seeing my Daddy in my rearview as he stood in the doorway and watched me drive away is an image that will be emblazoned into my memory for the rest of my days. But for now, I'll focus on what's to come. A killer Going Away Party, the marriage of my beautiful sister and a journey across these United States to my new home in sunny San Clemente...

D'you Go to Dega?

2008-04-28T09:37:00.000-07:00

I did, in fact, go to Dega. Talladega, Alabama. Home of the Talladega Superspeedway. And the place where the masses converge to cheer, guzzle beer and pick fights as their favorite NASCAR contenders drive (or perhaps "fly" would be more accurate) around and around in circles for hours in hopes of being the first across the finish line at the end of the 188th lap. "Interesting" doesn't even begin to describe the experience.

I should start by saying that I am not, nor have I ever been, a race fan. I have family members who are. And it's probably safe to say that a vast majority of the Southern population gets totally immersed in the racing culture from year to year. Hey, to each his own. But for me, I have never understood the appeal of watching cars drive around in circles. It just seems incredibly counterproductive to drive and drive and never get anywhere. But I digress.

I saw a lot at Talladega. A lot of beer, a lot of tattoos, a lot of mullets, a lot of scantily clad women (who were wearing more clothing than usual, I was told, due to the overcast skies), a lot of sunburns, a lot of dirty feet, a lot of racing apparel (especially Dale Earnhardt Jr. gear. Seriously, is EVERYONE a Junior fan?) and a LOT of people missing a significant number of teeth. The man across from me on the tram from the parking lot to the stadium had only three teeth. I wouldn't make that up. It also should be noted that the tram was pulled by a tractor and the parking lot was, in fact, a field.

Since I have no loyalty to any driver or organization, I picked a favorite based on the one-line descriptions given to each driver in the special racing section of The Birmingham News. "Most likely to wreck somebody." Sounds like the guy for me. Juan Pablo Montoya. I also enjoyed hearing his name announced amongst the throng of uber-American racers like Dale Jr., Jimmie Johnson, Jeff Burton and winner Kyle Busch. For some inexplicable reason, Juan Pablo (or JP, as I like to call him) made me incredibly happy.
So did his second-place finish.

I can't get over how much fun I had. I was expecting to be amused, but I wasn't expecting to actually get involved in the race. Once I got used to the deafening roar every time the pack whizzed by the bleachers, I found myself eagerly anticipating the next lap. And feeling inredibly sorry for the driver of what I affectionately dubbed the Honey Bun car - a.k.a. the Little Debbie Ford - who got so far behind that the badasses up front actually caught up with him. Oops.

I'm sorry to say that we had to hit the road with 40 laps left to go in the race. Otherwise this girl wouldn't have gotten back into Starkville til the wee hours of the morning. So we missed the 13-car wreck and the final lap. Had I known that crash was coming, I would gladly have sacrificed a good night's sleep to witness it. After all, it ain't a good race unless there's a wreck. Isn't that how it works?

Go West, Young Woman

2008-04-23T14:30:00.000-07:00

You read it right. West. Californ-I-A. The Golden State. The left coast. So-Cal. That's where this Southern girl is headed. The decision was a fairly easy one, considering the excitement I felt the second my feet hit the ground the first time I visited last August. I got so excited at seeing the palm trees lining the streets outside LAX that I actually squealed a little. And I hate girls who squeal.

I also went into a mad texting frenzy when I caught my first glimpse of the infamous Hollywood sign. I had to alert people immediately that seeing those big white letters almost made me pee in my pants. Yes, I really am that big of a dork. You have no idea.

For me, there really was no way to avoid falling in love with So-Cal. Not that I was trying. Everything I'd heard about it was true. It was intoxicating and mesmerizing and sexy and frightening and weird and gorgeous and I just could not get enough. (Wait a tic. I think I just finally explained my massive crush on AFI frontman Davey Havok. Interesting.)

Telling the family their baby girl is moving 2,000 miles away wasn't exactly a cake walk, but they're coming to grips with it and have turned out to be incredibly supportive. Except, of course, for my Memaw who just can't seem to stop crying. And my Granny Pete who informed me that she's praying I won't find a job. Then there's an aunt in South America who called at 9 a.m. one morning to tell me that if this isn't God's will for my life, it will end in disaster. And my first cousin thinks the family is losing me forever (hey, his words, not mine). But I'd say supportive as a whole...

My friends, on the other hand, are practically pushing me out the door. They understand that my heart's been elsewhere for some time now. They know my spirit is too big for Mississippi...at least for now. I don't know what I'll find in California, save a couple of really good friends who are cleaning house in anticipation of my arrival. God love 'em. I do love a clean house. And their giant umbrella.

There is much to be done in the next five weeks, including a moving sale, my sister's wedding and my first trip to Talladega. I feel a sudden need to do as many Southern things as I can possibly fit in before my departure. I have to learn to cook turnip greens, perfect my homemade biscuits, secure my great-grandmother's chocolate gravy recipe and drink cheap beer at a NASCAR race. It ain't gettin' much more Southern than that.

Then, come May 27, the real adventure will begin as I pack all that will fit in my car and point my Honda hood toward Hollywood.

Drive, don't stay.

2008-01-23T08:51:00.000-08:00

Those words are from what I recently declared to be my life's anthem. A song called "The Great Escape" by the Mississippi-based band Young Agent Jones. I had heard the song live a few times, but on a drive to Oxford one weekend, I actually heard the words clearly for the first time.

"Drive, don't stay. I wanna see you get away..."

Now, I'm not much of a crier. I hate crying, in fact. But when I heard those voices coming through the strained speakers of my Honda Accord, I cried like a Baptist sinner under strong conviction. I'd known for years that I wanted to get away from this place, but my decision got locked down the minute the tears started falling that day. And so this small-town Mississippi girl started planning my own great escape.

I don't quite know where I'm going. I certainly don't know what I'll find along the way. But I'm damn sure it's going to change my life. I couldn't be more ready.

Things I Learned in Colorado

2008-01-23T08:35:00.000-08:00

In late December, I found myself on a plane headed for Denver. Now, as you might imagine, I haven't seen much snow in my lifetime, so the thought of a dreamy, wintery landscape and a long weekend at Copper Mountain intrigued me greatly. Equally intriguing was the idea of snow skiing, though in retrospect I have no idea why I thought doing anything in two degree weather might be fun for me. No less, I learned a few things on my first trip to Colorado...

1. My Southern body is simply not made to withstand temperatures below freezing. In fact, my Southern body doesn't even like it when the temp drops below about 65.

2. Skiing is fun to watch but makes me feel like an awkward baby giraffe. Not my game. I'll stick to being a beach bum, thank you very much.

3. I have an impressive increase in tolerance when drinking at high altitudes. I don't understand it, but I greatly appreciate it.

4. Bourbon tastes better when your toes are frozen.

5. This point is not really something I learned in Colorado but was confirmed there (as it has been in many other places). People really do love Southern girls and will buy them an abundance of drinks as a means of expressing their adoration. Especially if aforementioned girls are at a bar watching a football game.

6. I apparently don't need more than three hours of sleep to function normally. This fact is both refreshing and frightening. I haven't yet decided what I think about it.

7. Watching the first sunrise of a new year with good friends is an almost spiritual experience. I'll do it again.

8. Chuck Taylors are not made for sloshy, snowy conditions.

9. I will never cease to be intrigued by new people, places and experiences. There is so much I haven't done yet. I've really gotta get a move on.

10. Ice sucks unless it's bobbing in a strong drink.

Don't get me wrong, Colorado was beautiful. And spending time with a best friend is always a good thing. I just know now that as far as I'm concerned, winter wonderlands are best reserved for Christmas cards and holiday movies.