Sunday, October 10, 2010

I'm Worth Quite a Bit!

Nothing makes you feel really valuable quite like hearing someone say "I wouldn't trade you for a young mule". Apparently that's an 86-year old man's version of a compliment these days. Thanks, Uncle Jay...I'm glad that I'm worth more to you than a young mule, especially considering that you live in an apartment and I really don't know where you'd put a cat, let alone a donkey. I wouldn't trade you for a young mule either.

Agnes Rose

Readers, I introduce you to Agnes Rose. Miss Rose is the portion of my personality that closely resembles that of an eighty-year old woman; this proponent of my personality is so dominant that I believe it deserves to be acknowledged, but calling it “the old lady in me” sounds a bit dirty.

I attribute many things in my life to my hidden-senility, including: 
  • My love of felines. 
  • My distaste of 90% of today’s youth. 
  • My sub-par driving abilities. 
  • My poor eyesight. 
  • My adoration of Betty White. 
  • My compatibility with other elderly women. 
  • My attachment to old books and photographs. 
  • My addiction to yard-sales and clearance racks. 
To be completely honest, if I was given the chance to spend time with only one generation for the rest of my days, I’d choose the elderly without any other considerations. Sure, they repeat almost everything they say and they cannot operate a remote control or anything that requires electrical current, but if you want an honest, pure, and interesting group of people, you’ve got it.  

I spent at least 90% of my childhood summers sitting in nursing homes with whichever family member was residing in Glen Haven at the time. It’s not exactly how most children dreamt of using their time away from school, but I never minded it at all; in fact, I probably learned more at the Home than I did in school. Nursing homes really aren’t so bad: it was always like a party with all of my favorite people, actually. The food wasn’t terrible, the air conditioning was always functioning correctly, and almost everyone was happy to see an eight-year old, Dorothy Hammil look-a-like running around in Tweety Bird overalls.  

I think Agnes has been brewing inside of my personality for quite some time; probably since my days of green jello in the Haven cafeteria and Sunday morning bingo in the lobby. The truth is that I’d give anything to turn back time for a day: sit in the pleather recliner, listen to stories that have no relevance to anything in today’s world, and hug each of the loved ones that I’ve lost over the years just one more time.  

I am the way I am because when I was eight, my best friends were all at least sixty-five and couldn’t chew large pieces of food very easily. They taught me how to treat people with compassion, they taught me to always stand up for what I believe in, and they taught me that you should never pay for something new when you can find it cheaper at a thrift store. Agnes is a compilation of the many years I spent with my favorite people: my Granny Sara, Papa Sarge, Grandpa Hall, and Aunty Evelyn. This month makes five years (ten for Gramps) since I’ve lost them all, but I am reminded everyday that they’re in my heart because of the instantaneous U-turn I make when I pass a yard sale sign.  

I miss you so very much. Thank you for all you taught me. 

Thursday, October 7, 2010

Welcome Back, T3!

Happy Thursday, everyone! For most of you responsible, mature adults with jobs, Thursday is a very special day because that means you only have one day left until the weekend that you've been looking forward to since Monday morning. Thursdays are also a very special day on this blog because I get to pick three things to whine and complain about...which is actually pretty easy for me to do! Let's get started!

1) Finding someone else's pornography stash- "Wow, Shelby really just threw that one out there, didn't she?!" Yes, yes she did. The only thing worse than finding someone else's porno vault is when that person is: A) a relative, B) an old man, C) married to your grandmother, D) all of the above. Yes I am inappropriate and creepy for opening today's post with tales of grandpa's spank bank, but at least you aren't me. At least you didn't have to see it. 

2) Motorcycles- When a 25-year old, dark-haired, muscular man is attached to one of these two-wheeled death machines, I can almost appreciate what motorcycles bring to the world. Other than that, these things serve no purpose but killing people and causing me to have severe anxiety attacks when someone convinces me to strap myself to the back of one. I rode one yesterday for the first time in years and quite frankly, I don't know if that will ever happen again. I am okay...there was no accident or almost-accident, but when I asked where the seatbelt was and all I got was laughter, it made me a little uncomfortable.

3) Traveling by plane- It's faster, it's more efficient, and you're actually more likely to die on the way to the airport than you are while you're mid-flight. I don't give a fat shit about any of these things. My four-hour flight for paradise left at 12:55 AM out of Denver International Airport on Monday. I had a four hour layover in Charlotte, where I slept on urine-stained carpet, and then I had an hour and a half flight into Birmingham where my lovely grandmother greeted me. I reasoned that I could sleep during my first flight since I would absolutely be exhausted and probably wouldn't have the mental capacity to think about plummeting to my death as the plane exploded. This was before I discovered that I was seated next to a John Goodman look-a-like that obviously had a foreign object lodged in his nasal cavity, causing the loudest snoring I have ever fathomed. My flight was complete with 8 snoring men, 4 crying babies, and 12 catty women...all in a 4 or 5 row radius of my seat. Plummeting to my death didn't seem so bad after an hour or so. Somehow I always forget how much I hate flying once it's over, because I almost always elect to fly when I go on vacation. I almost always regret it, also.

I have a surprise for everyone! I am offering a guest post slot to Mr. John Hall, music producer, sometime in the next week or so. Mr. Hall has been married to my grandmother for almost 15 years and has extensive knowledge about everything there is to know about anything EVER, so it will most certainly be a treat for all who read his article. I'll probably give him free reign to write about whatever he chooses, and if it goes well, I will be recruiting my other wonderful, Southern family members for guest slots while I am vacationing here. This is something you will want to read, guys. Trust me.

Happy [almost] Weekend! 

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Dearest Domers

Dearest Domers,
Allow me to introduce myself in case everyone forgot: I'm Shelby! I technically run this hot mess of a blog, but as we've all been observing for about a month, I am less than proficient at doing so. I can hardly apologize because I'm not so sorry at all, but I will explain myself since you all deserve it.

I got kidnapped 5 minutes after I wrote my last post on here. How does that feel, reader? You've been trash-talking me for the past few weeks because I'm "such an irresponsible blogger" and "I don't even deserve a place to write on a bathroom wall, let alone a prestigious blog like The Info-Dome". It's not my fault, you guys! I've been trapped in this ridiculous land where I have no responsibilities, no internet connection, and absolutely nothing to write about but my cats, the newest episode of Weeds, and what happens to men when they eat chili dogs. 

Don't worry, I escaped. I actually almost have interesting things to write about now, too, so that'll be happening tomorrow in celebration of Three Thing Thursday coming back into all of our lives! 

And you know what? None of you are allowed to be pissed off at me because I'm on vacation right now in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. Why is that a reason not to be angry with me for being a shitty blogger? Because I'm getting great material here. Funny shit happens in the South. Things that Southern people don't think are funny, but things that normal people think are really, really funny. AND I slept on a urine stained, airport floor in Charlotte in order to get here and I did it JUST for all of you...JUST so you could have something to do at your job that you probably hate. You're welcome.

On a serious note, thank you all for being understanding. I'm not even sure who I'm talking to because if I subscribed to this blog, I would have stopped reading when I realized how unreliable the writer can be. I hope everyone is doing great!