Category: What I’ve Learned by Accident

I have just learned something life-changing. As in a MIND BLOWN type of way. Almost as close, but not as significant, as the day you figure out there’s a tiny fuel symbol that lights up on the dashboard of your car to tell you which side of the tank you need to pull up at the gas station beside. 

Warning: Might not be suitable for small children, teenage boys and/or men with weak constitutions. Recent text exchange with one of my best girlfriends: Me: Can I write about your uterus? Her: Absolutely! LOL!

No spoilers, promise. Who knew a single show that first aired eight years ago could worm its way in to my cold, steel, anti-fantasy lovin’ heart? 

Although, I am not sure what this phrase even means. I have never raised one so I’m not sure what all the fuss is about. I do know it has something to do with dirt, snails, and pulled puppy dog tails. Later, I know because I have carpooled lots and lots them, come fumes of Axe odor masking body spray that doesn’t hide the body odor but makes you roll the window down even in the pouring rain.

I have a new neighbor, y’all.  He paces about outside talking loudly, dawn to dusk, at everyone and no one in particular. He’s always looking for food, Cheetos are his fav, and a cold beveridge. His brown hair is disheveled and, most days, he looks in desperate need of a bath.

“Pick me, pick me,” a tender voice pleaded from the middle of an aisle at the back of a toy store. There were hundreds of stuffed animals spilling over wire racks in every size, every shape, every color. And beneath what appeared to be a rainbow waterfall of wonder, there he was: almost entirely hidden, deep within the lowest shelf. Only a tiny white paw stuck out like a friendly wave. The man had finally found what he was looking for. The one who he would take to his forever home.

I was strolling under these glorious, gothic live oaks with friends last Saturday. More family than friends, actually; Charlie and I were back together again with the members of the Chevy Crew: Sully and his wife Denise, Fitz and Sandra, Dade and Lydia, and honoree inductee Joye and her husband Taylor.

I’ve been thinking a lot these days about the health of our shared Union.             Especially with all the ugliness that swells up, morphing into something more powerful than ever before heading into election day.             First to say, I am not a political columnist. I’m a humor columnist, so I will stick to what I know best.

There has been a shift in my life. Not a seismic one. Not earth shattering, in a thrown to my hands and knees shook-up kind a way. That would be a major change I’d like to think I’d recognize and immediately attempt, somehow, to correct, and shakily try to face the day.

I watched something a few weeks ago that strangely ended up being a life saver during a bittersweet summer. I want to pass it along now as a flotation device, of sorts, in case anyone else needs it to keep their head above water while drowning in copious amounts of tears.

So, I told y’all last time we chatted I moved, right? Well, not towns but up the road to the north part of the island. It’s quite beautiful, rustic even. Dusty horse trails, backgrounds of lush tonal greens, low hanging live oak branches clothed generously in layer after layer of spider webbed Spanish moss and invading magnolia leaves.

I move a lot.             No biggie, really. I can handle it. So, can most of us . . . those in my family, that is.             The only one who has a problem with it stands about two feet tall and is somewhat prickly even though said member lives the high life in a pretty cool, retro glazed ceramic pottery bowl with ambient lighting and nightly jazz sessions next to a Boze speaker via Spotify.

I don’t like getting older, the older I get.             Far from it. I used to wax philosophical about gravity’s pull is wisdom gained. Not anymore, seeing as I don’t know how much lower my eyelids can go. However, I do admire those who have embraced the aging process with vigor and glee despite whatever may ail them.

You know how April showers bring May flowers? Well, spring air brings deep cleaning. And spring cleaning may also bring a deeper insight into how you are a mere heel dig, triple step, and boot scoot away from crazy.

I have two words for you. Sliced ketchup.

It’s almost April, Lowcountry folks. And we all know what that means. Spring breakers descend like sand gnats during a dead ocean breeze. Azaleas pop, sizzle and drop while the dogwood blooms slowly open as an offering for lingering warmth and alfresco dining over glasses filled with chilled chardonnay peppered in drowned mosquito wings.

A step in the right direction. One step forward, two steps back. Step on it. Out of step. False step. Step by step. One step at a time. Or even one step ahead.

I hit my head on the rear tailgate door. Hard. I saw stars and a Carl’s burger. Not sure what that meant but I managed to keep consciousness. Next, my grocery bag, slightly wet with who knows what, ripped, the contents spilled all over the floor and then rolled under the car, refusing to come out.

I just turned a gingerbread man upside down and made a reindeer, y’€™all. For real. And not to brag too much or anything, but he had gorgeously delicious Oreo crusted eyes, a shiny, red M&M buttoned nose and a scarf made out of edible snow. It’€™s as if my new spirit animal forever now and will always be Dancer, Prancer, Donner, and Vixen combined with every single Sugar Plum Fairy all caffeinated and lined up in a neat, pixie color-coded row . . . like magic.

I don’€™t remember a lot of things. What time it is. What side of the car my gas tank is on.