Ingenuity and Rural Missouri

I have some catching up to do. I have been AWOL. What with the work and the moving and the visiting, it’s been a full summer so far. But that’s no excuse… I have so many things swirling around and a free day of reading and writing, so get ready for new reading material.

I’ve been saving this one up.

My first week back in Missouri was spent living in my parents basement. This prompted this conversation, over and over, with my mother:

“I’m a single, divorced twenty-nine year-old woman living off my unemployment with my cat in your basement. Are you so proud of me right now?”

“Shut up, Sarah.”

“When you run into people you haven’t seen in a while and they ask what I’m doing, what do you tell them?”

“Enough.”

Ah, it’s funny because it was true for about a week.

Since my return, I keep trying to pontificate about small towns, the simplicity (both a pro and a con) of the lifestyle. I love that people always wave. No matter what, if you wave, they wave back. I love that every child has 4,235 parents looking out for them at any given moment. But this is starting to sound like the rough outline of my graduate school admissions essay. I’ll save that entertainment for another blog altogether, but it should be noted that this illustrates the beauty of the hamlet. And reader beware: I have many thoughts, stories and examples and will likely keep espousing this move I’ve made.

That first Thursday, my mother and I decided to meet for a beer after work (her work, not mine). So, we met at the nearest town to my parents place, Rocheport, MO, home to about 250 people and best known for the Katy Trail. Rocheport is about 15 minutes west of Columbia, and has managed to graduate from blue-collar river town to a cute “getaway” hamlet on the river, complete with wineries, a couple of B&B’s, a restaurant or two and bike rental shops.

Evidently, Thursday is regular’s night at the Rocheport General Store, which is exactly that, right on the main drag. The only drag, really. Beer, wine, a bit of nosh, some sundries, occasional bands. You know, generally, a fun place to be. The regulars are the townies, some of whom have lived in or around town their whole lives. They pull tables and chairs out onto the sidewalks, they drink Miller and Bud Light like it’s a race to the end of the keg. Kids write on the sidewalk with chalk, dogs walk from person to person looking for love. The more beers consumed, the louder the din gets. They holler at folks they know (which is everyone) as they drive down the street. When the mayor, a thirty-something kayaking buff turned village-politician, and his wife and kids show up for ice cream, they heckle him good naturedly.

My mom and I follow suit with the chairs and tables. My parents aren’t quite locals, having officially moved to town just a few years ago. However, the fact that they raised their children just down river in Boonville grandfathers them in. There’s this guy, Dean. He’s the guy who takes care of Rocheport. I would call him a maintenance man, but I don’t think that’s quite descriptive enough. He mows, he takes care of big issues, works with the utility companies, but also, the little old ladies in town know that they can call him and he’ll come help them out.

Dean recognized my mother and came over to chat. He is a slight man with gray hair, a deeply lined, suntanned face, but youthful eyes and a bright smile. He spoke deliberately, with a soft voice. And, just to complete the picture, he wore a tie-dyed t-shirt and Hammer pants. The dog, not his, stayed close by. Neville, the kid, also not his, hung on him, poking his face and nudging him as if they were related. A good egg, as they say.

“What’s up with the cop car that always parked, empty on the hill?” My mother asked.

Dean grinned for a moment, pausing for effect. It was obvious a story was coming.

“You know Rocheport doesn’t have a police department,” He began.

Rocheport does not have a police department. They depend strictly on the county sherriff’s department, but as my dad often will say, to traverse the distance across the county would take at least thirty minutes, people often just peaceably deal with the law in their own way. About a year ago, Rocheport citizens began to complain that people were driving down the main drag to fast—exceeding the 25 mph speed limit. Because the town is ridiculously small, they were sure that those guilty of speeding were the out-of-towners. Depending on the highway patrol or the sheriffs department to combat the speeding issue was ludicrous. They contemplated putting in speed bumps, but everyone pooh-poohed that idea.

The creative solution they came up with was this: purchase an old City of Columbia police car. Remove City of Columbia seal. Stencil “City of Rocheport” on side of car. Strategically park dummy cop car on main drag, cocked as if ready to take off at any point. Move it every day or so to throw people off the scent. Speeding issue averted.

Just take a second, please, to let that sink in…how awesome is that? I love when people take the law into their own hands...and what better way to deal with a pesky issue like this one. Think about that…could Tower Grove South really take in upon themselves to dummy up a cop car to combat speeding, or burglary or car theft? Not a chance.

If that isn’t amusing enough, the story gets better. There are a handful of people that have keys to the cop car. The mayor, Dean and another dude (and I don’t know what he did to deserve a copy of the keys). It seems that there may need to be a check-in and out system for the car, because those with the keys often utilize the car for non-speed reduction related issues.

For example, we offered to buy Dean a beer. He thanked us and said “I wish I could, but since my truck transmission is on the fritz, I’m driving the cop car. Gotta be in decent shape to drive if I’m gonna drive that thing.” Mind you, Rocheport is about ten blocks by ten blocks. He looked up, serendipitously at just that moment to see someone driving away in the cop car.

“Dammit. There’s goes my ride. I guess I will have that beer now.”

He told stories about tooling around Columbia in that thing eating cookies and drinking milk out of the jug while the soccer moms in their SUV’s stared. He antagonized bad drivers, tailgating, until he was told by his cohort that “you can’t do that when you’re driving this thing, Dean.”

Seems to me that you can do whatever you want when you drive one of those black and white Crown Vics.

God love the small town and good old fashioned ingenuity.

I really hate it when people spend too much time talking about their dreams. It's annoying. Great, so you had some ethereal dream about sticking a bamboo stick in your ear. Maybe it means stop eating Chinese food.

In fairness, I do believe that dreams are often trying to tell you something, I just don't always want to be the person that deciphers that for you.

Well, this dream is too good not to share.

I had a dream involving Valentines Day. A big day with lots of love, or at least the physical representation of such. I had a dream that my love (who, incidentally, was a kid I went to grade school with and haven't thought of in years...maybe I should look him up) sent me, like all the other girls, a gift on the big VDay. Other girls got flowers, or the more coveted box of chocolates.

I however, opened my heart-shaped (yes, heart shaped) box and found...spaghetti and meatballs.

Oh, there is a God. And a possibility of true love....it does exist somewhere out there. My dreams tell me so.

Maybe I live in a black hole

Someone inquired about the name of my blog (which is also the name of my email) yesterday. Interesting name, what's the blog about? I hesitated, because how do you coherently summarize that which is really nothing more than pathetic, self-centered ramblings about things such as paperdolls and spying on people via their cd collections? So, I said, "it's about how I continually fall on my face, again and again, and gracefully find a way to laugh." Which is probably the most accurate and eloquent (puts a shine on that rose, eh?) way to describe this pastime-o-mine.

To that end, let me tell you about my latest misadventures.

But before I do, I have been ruminating about something. I think Missouri is star-crossed. For me anyway. I love it here, I am so glad to be back...I am not going to ramble on about that...but something happens to me in this Show-Me State. Bad things happen here that don't happen anywhere else. I feel as though I didn't get into nearly as much trouble--Scoff List notwithstanding--as I do in the confines of these state lines. Maybe I'm wrong.

As of late, though, my friend Lucas (also my co-pilot on this long trek across the country), has taken to shaking his head at me. This means one thing, a thing that goes without saying. "Only you..." As in, only I have this sort of ridiculous luck. It's like Murphy's Law, but with a silver lining. Sarah Law. Let me give you some examples:

1. driving across the country in Pete the Pensky truck with car trailer as gas prices skyrocket (not the greatest example, as a lot of people are grumbling about this, not just me).

2. Realizing upon attempting to open a bank account that my drivers license has been invalid for the last 10 months. Because I owe the state $12.50.

1. Corollary to that statement: not only do I owe them $12, I have to drive to Jefferson City to pay them so that I can continue about my banking business.
2. One more: apparently not only do I owe the state, but I inadvertently wrote them a bad check. Are you kidding? Who the hell am I? This all goes back to the douchebag that stole my wallet almost a year ago...burn in hell.

3. Being given $200 in gas cards to drive across country, only to discover that not only is this particular gas station non-existent west of Missouri state lines, but when I finally do hit one up, the gas cards malfunction and I have to have them mail me more.

4. I am given a job to do at my new employer, the Garden Center. I am to water plants. The manager says to me "this is a pretty easy job, though there have been a few people over the years that we've had to politely suggest they tender their resignations because they couldn't get it right." Whatev, man, it's watering. I think this until I fall ass-first into the front table of daisies while trying to yank the firehose that I'm supposed to be using.

Ok. Enough. Let me tell you about today's greatest adventure: boobs. Yes, I'm going to tell you all about them, I have no shame.

I went to the dreaded Columbia Mall today to look for a shower curtain. Along the way I tried on some things, just cause. Not really in the market to spend any money, however. Yet, I stroll by the Victoria's Secret big-sale-o-the-year. I wander in...I am definitely not in the market for a $50 undergarment, but I decide to peruse anyway. I'm floored by the amount of bras in my size. Floored!

Here's the thing: I have been blessed with very long legs, long arms, big feet...in short, I never, ever find anything on the sale rack because I need LOOONG and EXTRA LONG and clodhoppers. I'm a reasonably normal size, but I need long. I measure my inseam with a yard stick. The one thing that (this might, actually, be another Sarah's Law thing--or God just being mean) I am not blessed with are big boobs. Not even average sized boobs. They're nothing to sneeze at, but they didn't call me Kansas in high school for nothing. Since then, I like to think I've gotten pretty good at doing them up right, but then...today happened.

I tried on bras. And I was simultaneously stunned and embarrassed by what I have been doing to the girls for so long. I did it, I spent the money on the bra, it's amazing. It's like a piece of equipment, not just an undergarment. I stood in the dressing room, texting my girl friends with tears in my eyes "OMG, I have died and gone to underwear heaven. I've found the most amazing piece of equipment...." I am not sharing the rest as it's slightly more R rated. I couldn't wait to get home, where I promptly spent my afternoon clad in new undergarments, mainly because they are now the nicest thing I own.

I suddenly understand what all these women have been talking about--good bras. I always assumed that little boobs don't need all the bells and whistles. I've changed my tune--little boobs deserve nice things too.

Maybe what it's really about is buying something nice, as opposed to something on the sale rack. Maybe I'm bucking the trend.

And, once again, Sarah's Law: the nicest thing I own is to be viewed by no one but me. Beware, roomie...

On the Road Again: A Photo Blog

I am officially back in MO, settled into the new house. I have a bajillion stories and thoughts about leaving, traveling, a career in over the road trucking, arriving, family, friends, the Midwest, small towns, and humidity, but for now, I'll give you the visuals...more picks at the flickr if you're interested.

Team Boylston represented in paperdolls.

Team Boylston at the going away party.

Team Boonslick the day after.

I am loading.
Team Boylston along for the ride.

The rig.
TB driving through Oregon.
TB on the coast in Cali.

The statue talks.

TB vs. the big trees.
Welcome to Chester.
The biggest attraction in Chester, CA.

We drove through the biggest little city, and the rest of Nevada. Then:


The Bonneville Salt Flats. It was windy. We were tired.

Good advice.

Both members of Team Boonslick made it alive. And smiling.

Happy Birthday to Lucas.

Evidently we are still young enough for shots.

Evidently shots still lead to this.

The trip ended the next day after a long day of Kansas...and I'm home.

More to come.

Cinco Cervesas

It’s a good day, this Cinco de Mayo. It’s four thirty in the afternoon and I am at happy hour. I find that I sound less like a drunk when I refer to my beer drinking accompanied by my computer, my book and my cat at four thirty in the afternoon as happy hour. After all, I’m happy, and it’s the four o’clock hour…place and company be damned.

You may ask “why, Sarah, are you sitting on your back porch in fleece drinking bad beer on a Monday afternoon when you would normally be learning some soccer to the kiddos?”

Well, let me tell you:

1. It has come to my employer’s attention (via me) that I will be leaving to attend graduate school in the very near future.
2. Subsequently, it has come to my attention that because of a significant budget shortfall, my employer will be cutting staff positions.
3. 1+2=3, or Sarah=impending joblessness.
4. This is likely to happen very quickly, as in tomorrow. Hence why I found it exceedingly important to clean out my closet. So important, in fact, that I need to call in to work to do so.
5. As this has come to my attention, it has also dawned on me that Sarah-job=poor or Sarah must leave Seattle, stat. This doesn’t make Sarah happy, not to mention the three people that she lives with.
6. However, despite extensive research on U-Haul truck and trailer options, long distance waitressing job searches, and trolling craigslist.com for apartments, I have come to resemble one of those really annoying Chihuahuas that bark and run in circles for no apparent reason.

This, my friends, is why I sit with a beer in hand and another lined up to take the place of the empty when the time comes. Because I am soon jobless, homeless and, well, a nomad. God, life is grand.

Mizzou or bust, people.

Ole~

Embarassingly Self Centered

I just did something terribly, embarassingly self-centered.

I was surfing the web, and was looking at a profile for a woman who I do not really know very well. She had a link to her Amazon wishlist. Well, frankly, I liken the wishlist or goodreads booklist to a virtual version of spying. When I go to anyone's house, anyone, whether I'm house-sitting, baby-sitting, party-hopping, having dinner or having a sleepover, the first thing I do is look at their bookshelf/cd collection. It would be nice if I could truthfully say that I was just curious, but in truth I am doing what everyone else wants to do: make sweeping judgements about one's character based upon their tastes in music and reading material.

Here's why. With regards to books, you can tell a couple of things. You can tell what they like to read vs. what they want people to think they like to read. For example, if you looked at my bookshelf, you'd see more than a handful of heady Nobel Prize winners coupled with more than an handful of "classics" whose spines have never been cracked. They were either gifts or books that I bought as an afterthought, thinking "Every self respecting writer and reader should read Madam Bovary." Mmmhmmm. That was six years ago. Then, you see the collection of cotton candy reads, sometimes shoved on the bottom of the bookshelf. Sometimes it's true crime novels, chick lit or romance novels. For me, it's a weird assortment of children's literature, angst-ridden, self-deprecating and yet completely ego-maniacal collections of essays (think Chuck Klosterman or David Foster Wallace) and The Nanny Diaries. All of which I will defend to my grave. And then, somewhere, sometimes in a different room completely, a collection of books that have the obvious yellow band declaring "used" or "I came from a University Bookstore." What is more fun than learning that the accountant who is friends with the guy on your soccer team studied The Psychology of Deviant Behavior in college?

Music is similar. Unfortunately, with the advent of Itunes and music piracy, it's harder to make snap judgements based upon a CD collection. For example, if you looked at my actual CD's you'd make the assumption that I really enjoy whiny, self-righteous chick music, "alt-country" and old school rock. Which is true. I went through my Ani DiFranco phase. I still dig on some Wilco. And every self respecting high school pothead had to own a little assortment of Jimi/Doors/Zepplin. If you looked at, for example, the B section of my Zune (because I'm not one of you Mac worshippers) you'd find the following:

Backstreet Boys (yeah, I like it that way. suck it.)
Band of Horses
Barenaked Ladies
The Beach Boys
The Beatles
Beck
Beth Orton (whom I don't even really like that much)
Beyonce (check up on it, yo)
the Blue Scholars (NW hip hop, whoda thunk it)
Bonnie Raitt (I used to despise, but then I realized that it's just that one song, the one about talking about people, that I don't like)
Boyz II Men
Brad Paisley (um, Ticks. That's all I have to say)
Bruce Springsteen
Big Head Todd and the Monsters
Britney Spears (she rules my running playlist)

It's much easier to hide our idiosyncratic tastes with these newfangled electronic devices. Ten years ago you had to hide your Britney and Boyz II Men under your bed.

Anyway. So, the wishlist is the electronic version of snooping through someone's CD's. So, I click on this unsuspecting young woman's wishlist link, and start looking through it. Making judgements. Raising my eyebrows. Sneering. I think I even muttered "that's a bit of a pretentious choice, don't you think?" under my breath.

However, despite my judgments, I concluded that I would ultimately really like to be this young woman's friend, after all, some of those books sound interesting, if a little high-falutin'.

And then I realize, that by some glitch in the system, I am actually viewing my own wishlist. I know this because it says "Welcome, Sarah Ratermann!" at the top of the page.

I am, officially, a dolt.

If you would like to pass further judgment (if the B's from my Zune--and the fact that I do not own an ipod--aren't enough), here's my wishlist. I won't even make you google it.

Views from the other side

One of the most truly thought-provoking blogs I've read in a while, though it was probably unintentional by the author...be sure to check out the follow up post as well.

www.thoughtleader.com

Greatest News Ever

I love the fact that I am now old enough to actually view reunion tours the second time around. I mean, not that I saw the Spice Girls when they were kickin' it in the 90's, but I certainly could have. Up until very recently, I usually catch these big time acts the second time around...when they're kitchy, not when the buzz was vibrant and authentic and contagious.

This though, this NKOTB reunion, it is the mother of all reunions. I mean, not quite as good as, say, The Police or, uh, I dunno, some other really great band, or maybe Blind Melon (who is touring with a new lead singer, I hear), but still, the kitch factor and potential for true, well rounded entertainment complete with light shows and sing-a-longs, well, this is where it's at, folks. I mean, they're the precursor to N'Sync and Backstreet...it's funny how the pendulum swings...everyone loved the New Kids, and then suddenly there was this horrible backlash of hatred. Suddenly not only was it not okay to like them, you could be ostracized from every skating party for the 90-91 school year.

Whatever, cool or no, I'm way, way more excited about this than the Spice Girls:

Boy band New Kids on the Block to reunite

Group sold 70 million albums in 80s; new album and tour planned

	The New Kids On The Block, from left to right, Joey McIntyre, Jonathan Knight, Donnie Wahlberg, Jordan Knight and Danny Wood. After more than a decade, the platinum-selling group has reunited for a new album and world tour. View related photos
Olaf Heine / AP file

BOSTON - They may be pushing 40, but the New Kids are returning to the block.

The boy band New Kids on the Block, which sold 70 million albums in the 1980s and early ’90s, has reunited and plans to release a new album and go on tour. The reunion comes 20 years after the release of the group’s multiplatinum album, “Hanging Tough.”

“The fan response to this has been incredible,” band member Donnie Wahlberg told the Boston Herald.

Wahlberg said he was persuaded to get back together with his former bandmates — Joey McIntyre, brothers Jordan and Jonathan Knight and Danny Wood — when they decided to record new music. Wahlberg said he wrote 80 percent of the new material with McIntyre and Jordan Knight.

“I had no interest going out on a nostalgia tour and singing the same material,” said Wahlberg, 38.

But he added: “We absolutely will do the old songs for sure.”

Producer Maurice Starr formed the group in Boston in the 1980s, hoping to recreate the success he had with another teen group from Boston, New Edition.

At the height of their popularity, New Kids sold out world tours, marketed millions of dollars in merchandise and spawned a Saturday morning cartoon.

The group disbanded in 1994. Wahlberg has acted on television and in movies, while Jordan Knight, McIntyre and Wood released solo albums. Jonathan Knight became a real estate developer.

Um, ok. A real estate developer? I can't believe Jonathan Knight, who was certainly the least easy on the eyes, and most ape-like in his stage presence, is now a real estate developer. Awww. Way to truly sell out to the man.

As if NKOTB wasn't working for the man back in the day.

I think Donnie is tired of being upstaged by his younger, tougher and possibly more well-endowed brother. This is his last ditch attempt to regain some semblance of a career before hitting the big 4-0 and allowing himself to go down a path of booze, cigarettes, gambling and cheap women. As so many washed up stars do.

Whatever the motivation, money, fame, or simply the desire to rekindle an old relationship (speaking of, isn't Jordan gay? Or is it Joey? Wasn't he on Dancing with the Stars?) with former boy banders, I will be waiting on the edge of my seat.