My car arrived. I returned the RV. The boys left. The moving truck arrived. I lost count of how many boxes I opened in my quest to settle in. I gained a hundred bruises on my body. I lost weight via sweating.
It’s starting to come together, but it’s been a long week.
The house provided to me has not been loved for some time. I’m grateful for it, but it’s clear it has been short-term housing. I want to be here long-term. I want to leave it better than I found it.
So I painted the living room and dining room by myself.
Look at this nonsense I found while preparing to spackle:
Come ON!Who paints a living and dining room this yellow anyway? Yes, I know gray has a bad reputation, but it’s better than yellow.
I haven’t painted walls in YEARS. My body was a wreck afterward.
But it looks good.Sadly, there’s nothing I can do about the Blair Witch basement. Except not EVER go down there at night.I also met the neighbors.
I haven’t even started work yet, but I had a work event last night. My new university is home to a large wine festival. There is a salmon bake. I was invited to mingle with trustees and donors.
I hadn’t put on makeup and nice clothes for about two weeks.
I even got all the paint out of my hair!
I don’t know what I expected, but it was not the huge event that it was.
Look at all these people!Meat for milesThe salmon bakeAll local produce. Delicious!
I’m so glad I went. It was nice to be among people again after a week spent with boxes and Leo.
So attending this festival was a no-brainer. I put it on my calendar this time last year after I realized (to my dismay) that I had missed it.
A quick drive across the Mighty Mississippi, and I was in your thriving metropolis.
“Thriving.”
Granted, it was the first day of the festival, but I assumed there would be more.
More of everything, but especially HORSERADISH.
I saw more on the drive in than I did at the festival!
This was the ONLY VENDOR selling horseradish products:
And this was the only one with plants:
You know what the festival DID have, though?
Funnel cakes and corn dogsTurkey legs and tractors
As well it should.
It also had interesting information about the spicy root.
And town info.
Tom Petty night! I might be back for Rockabilly.
Still, I was … underwhelmed. I was in and out in fewer than 30 minutes.
Maybe I just needed to schedule my visit around the Root Toss or the Bloody Mary Contest or Root Grinding. In that case, I apologize for judging you harshly.
Sea of drunk, rowdy people? Check.Interesting outfits? Check.People making questionable choices? Check.Evidence of a “good time” everywhere? Check.Too much of a good time very early in the day? Check.No personal space? Check.
The only thing different is that St. Louis had a parade with actual floats (not politicians in convertibles).
Though I won’t be able to experience St. Pat’s with you this year, you clearly are in my thoughts.
Let me get this straight: You lost your mind over requiring people to wear masks a couple of years ago to stop the spread of COVID, but now you are forcing women to wear sleeves?
You claim it was to clarify language to be “equal” to men. (By the way, you really should hire a PR person or copy editor or SOMEONE to help you with your writing skills.)
Sure it was.
I can’t believe it was adopted 105-51. (Note that the House is made up of 116 men and 43 women. Party affiliation for reference: 111 R, 52 D.)
I can’t believe you wasted any time on this at all. Have you seen the state rankings? Just look!
I swear to God — you are affecting my healthcare: my mental health!
I really don’t know why I’m surprised at either of the things above. It’s so much easier to control women and what they do and wear rather than tackle big issues in all people’s lives. Right, Ann?
What an embarrassment this is for the state. You want to be in the international consciousness with this foolishness?
I’m so glad my representative didn’t vote for this nonsense. (Granted, I think he was absent that day.)
Pull yourself together, please. Focus on important issues.
Sincerely, Beth, a Missouri resident with sense
Bare arms vs. bear arms (God forbid she wears a mask.) Photo credit here.
As many of you know, I’m adopted. I was adopted when I was about six weeks old. (“Fresh baby! Get her while she’s pink!) I’ve always known I was adopted. My parents said they would help me look for my birth family when I was ready.
I was never ready when they were alive.
It felt like it would be disrespectful to them to search. Also, what if my birth mother hadn’t told anyone about me? Showing up on her doorstep would be a bit of a surprise — and likely not in a Prize Patrol kind of way.
I had great parents. Howard and Jeanne loved me, and I loved them. I had a normal middle-class childhood: We lived in a standard subdivision of ’70s split levels (say that three times fast) outside of Atlanta, and I went to public schools but a private college (scholarship, FTW!). We weren’t rich, but we weren’t poor. No abuse. (Unless you count all those times I got whacked with a fly swatter because of my smart mouth. And I certainly don’t.)
Some of my friends were adopted too, and we commiserated about what it must be like to actually look like someone else or see some of your behaviors handed down from a parent. My parents often looked at me like I was a zoo animal because I had so much more energy than they did. They were sedentary people. And y’all know I am … not.
Still, my friends weren’t so keen to search either. It’s a big thing. Rejection looms large.
All I knew about my birth mother was that she was a very young college student and didn’t feel she could care for me at the time.
When I left college myself and started thinking about starting a family, I wrote to the adoption agency to see if I could get any medical information. It felt important to find out if I had a family history of cancer, heart disease, diabetes (“The Shugahs” if you are from the South), etc.
They sent back a few pages of typed social information: birth parents’ first names, general background, number of siblings, physical features, college education, circumstances surrounding my conception and birth, etc.
Then, the kicker:
My people, I was not ready for that. I folded that little letter back up and tucked it into a file folder. There it stayed for nearly two decades.
And even now as I try to explain what has been going on over the past few years, I realize I have to stop here for now.
This feels like a four-part series: Beginning (this part), Discovery, Meeting Mom, Meeting Dad.
Thanks for going with me to the Haunted Mine at our university (aka place of business).
I know we are coworkers who barely know each other, but you came through. People I knew better begged off (because haunted, because mine, because both).
Even though I’m an Explosives Technology student, I had not yet been to the experimental mine. I read all about the prep, though.
“Scaring starts at 6.”
Too bad I live 1.5 hours away and couldn’t get in some hours.
I’m glad we met up at the Tater Patch. I don’t know what any of that means.Sporting saucy hard hats!
We got the safety briefing (“It’s a mine. The walls are made of rock. If you hurt yourself, let a scarer know immediately.”). Then it was time.
It was genuinely terrifying, especially the bit with the clown with the chainsaw.
This is the photo that one accidentally takes when running from a clown wielding a chainsaw.
NO, THANK YOU.
I had to remind myself that the scarers were not allowed to touch me. (And I was not allowed to touch them either. Consent goes both ways.)
Huddled together, we screamed/laughed our way through it.
Well, the screaming/laughing was me. You were mostly laughing. At me. For good reason.
Anyway, it was great, and I appreciate you going with me. Thanks again!
It’s been a dozen years since I’ve been in a for-credit course. I really don’t know what I’m doing in your Explosives in Industry course. Or what I’m doing in the Explosives Technology graduate certificate program in general.
My background is journalism/mass communications and performing arts.
So why am I here?
I genuinely don’t know.
I guess it just seemed cool to learn about explosives.
And I guess I wanted to do something completely different.
Even though this certificate program is billed as being for non-engineers, there’s still a steep learning curve.
I mean. What is going on there? Those acronyms mean nothing to me!
However, I did enjoy your video tour of the experimental mine.
Also, EXPERIMENTAL MINE?! That’s DOPE!
Anyway, I’m Tracy Flick, so I will figure out what I don’t know. I plan to get an A in the class.
