If I Were A Rich Girl

I listened to a podcast the other day, where they said that J.D. Vance — a particularly loathsome fellow — is an elitist who still pretends to be an “aw, shucks” country boy.

As someone who’s an “aw, shucks” country girl from Kentucky — Authentically Country, because I’m descended from coal miners, sorghum farmers, sharecroppers, and maids — I can tell you that I don’t try to act like I’m impressed by silverware, senators, or Vetements.

None of it phases me. I can watch children in dirty diapers run out into the street in front of the trailer park, chasing Meemaw’s boyfriend’s pit bull. I could also watch a member of Congress snort cocaína off a $50,000 dinner plate without batting an eye.

None of it would shock me. Not because I know everything — but because I know that just about anything, good or horrible or funny, is possible in this world.

WAGs

I wouldn’t want to be a WAG — not really. It seems like a lot of work to be camera-ready, when I’d much rather be lounge-around-ready.

The one aspect of dating a professional athlete that truly fascinates me is that the players are apparently on the road all the time — and on training and travel days, you’d have the entire house/condo/castle/mansion* to yourself, if you wanted it that way.

That is fascinating. I’m sure I would miss him, especially if he’s a hunk, but imagine having a whole mansion to yourself. This mansion wouldn’t be MFH beige-and-gray. The walls might be off-white, but there would be pops of color. (Don’t ask me which colors — I haven’t even picked out our wedding colors yet.) It would be maximalist-minimalist, with a small-ish number of big-ish eccentric artworks and pieces of furniture.

Nothing too ostentatious — and no sculptures. I don’t want anything that couldn’t be knocked over, and I don’t want anything that’s difficult to dust or to clean.

(I’ve thought a lot about the sculpture situation in this imaginary mansion, I know, but it pays to be prepared. What if he’s a good player and has lots of trophies? I’ll need to dedicate my energy to figuring out how to get those dusted.)

I’d want to live a simple life. I would be an uncomplicated WAG. I wouldn’t ask for designer stuff, because I would rather wear plastic Walmart bags fashioned into a dress than to wear any Coco Chanel. No, thanks.

I would fall asleep in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, with a fake fire burning in the electric fireplace, and a book open on my lap. I’d read twenty pages at a time, and I’d drink a few cups of masala chai or cold brew, and I’d call my man and make sure he knew how grateful I am.

I would be a WAGG — a wife (and/or) grateful girlfriend. Especially on road match weekends.

* This is a game of MASH. I’m going to live in a castle with a Premier League player. We’re going to have 7 kids and drive a tractor. 🚜💨

Odd Ball

I used to be “normal.”

Not in first grade, when I chewed on pencil erasers.

Not in second grade, when I got in trouble for sending dirty little notes in class — notes with extremely vulgar language! — to my best friend.

Not in third grade, when the teacher sent me to the front office to get checked for head lice — because I had dried shampoo in my hair.

Not in fourth grade, when I suddenly got heavier and wider than all of my classmates.

Not in fifth grade, when I started over at a new school and had a hard time fitting in.

Not in sixth grade, when I missed ten days of class just because I would get stress-induced stomach aches.

Not in seventh grade, when a classmate told everyone I was a lesbian just because I didn’t have a boyfriend. Not in seventh grade, when kids would make fun of my super curly hair.

Not in eighth grade, when kids were still making fun of my super curly hair.

Not in ninth grade, when my hair would get matted sometimes from not being brushed properly, because I was so depressed.

Not in tenth grade, when I felt hopeless and lonely.

Not in eleventh grade, when I struggled with my classes and realized I wasn’t really a good student.

Not in twelfth grade, when I realized I wasn’t ready for college, but that I would be expected to enroll anyway.

Not in college, when I would go to class while I was depressed, when I could barely muster the energy to shave my legs or take a shower or any of that.

Not in grad school — oh, no. Sorry. That is when I felt like a normal person. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was finally pulling things together. At 22, I finally felt normal.

Until later that year — 2016 — when everything seemed to go downhill for everybody — politically, personally, all the way around.

By 2020, I became socially-anxious, silly, germaphobic, and awkward — and it became even worse after 2020. I don’t recognize my own personality, most days. I can tell I rub other people the wrong way, but I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong — because I’m going through the same motions as everyone else. Maybe they can sense the fact that I’m lost — behind it all, I’m lost.

I felt lost between 2016 and 2020, and then I felt even more lost between 2020 and 2023.

I guess know I lost myself — the woman who was normal for one year.

I know it sounds corny, but I’ll find myself again. In 2030, maybe — or maybe tomorrow.

One can hope.

Thoughts On Music: Western Swing and Punk Rock

Bob Wills did for country music what Joe Strummer did for punk rock.

A blend of genres, styles, flavors — the process of amalgamation and unending blending defined the work of both musicians. Strummer and The Clash made reggae-punk-ska-world-disco hits, and western swing was a honky-tonk heaven with pianos, big-band trumpets, and quirky, silly ad-libs. (The same way that Young Thug uses his voice as an instrument, Bob Wills did something innovative with his corny (but fun!) quips.)

These artists both tried something fresh and different, something fun and enduring. Is Western swing the punk rock of country? That’s a question for a musicologist or a music theorist. In the meantime, I’m just enjoying some really, really great songs.

Main Villain Syndrome

Back in 2020, I wrote a thread over on The Dead Bird about how a lot of people have Main Character Syndrome or Main Villain Syndrome. And some people have both, because they’ll do anything to be in the spotlight.

To sum up what I wrote, I said that these people basically want to be cruel to make themselves relevant, to be talked about, to be raked over the coals on nighttime talk shows.

That seems like what’s happening with a certain tech CEO, a certain rapper-turned-fashionisto-turned-preacher-turned-charter-school-operator, and certain infamous influencers.

They think that their bad behavior will be forgivable if they can establish themselves as “fashion geniuses” or “automotive geniuses” — even though their employees and assistants are the ones who are doing all of the hard work.

The only thing they work hard at is performing. When you realize that they’re performing — and that they don’t even have the stones to be good performers — it’s a bit easier to realize that these people are struggling and stunted.

Being the Main Character isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. It’s hardly ever fun. These folks are grinding unnecessarily instead of grinning merrily.

For my part, I would rather be part of the supporting cast — and I would spend my offscreen time doing whatever it is that I want to do.

Elitism

I’m not an “intellectual” in the strict sense — I hate Greek mythology and I absolutely can’t stand when people drop Latin phrases into non-legal or non-medical conversations.

I like to read, but I don’t like to be smug about what I have or haven’t read. (The only thing I’m willing to be smug about is that I absolutely despise Edmund Spenser. I wish I could do to him what Twain threatened to do to Austen, shin bone and all.)

I’m certainly not an elite. I spent the first four years of my life living beside a railroad track — so the phrase wrong side of the tracks is more familiar to me than Ivory Tower, even though I have been degree’d up. I’m credentialed, I guess, but I feel like the same little girl who stood out in the yard, waving to the train conductors, begging them to honk the bellowing horn. They always did, from what I remember — and those are fond memories.

Before I digressed, I was saying that I’m not an elite. I go back and forth between two tabs on my phone — the New Yorker and r/datingoverthirty. I look at the first one when I want to make myself upset over not having written the Great American Short Story Collection, and I look at the second when I want to remind myself that being 29 and unmarried is okay, because nearly every single person is either lonely or messed up. Or both.

All of that’s to say that I balance my high-brow interests with my low-brow interests, and that I often realize that my low-brow interests are more relevant to my own tastes, my own behavior, my own lived experiences.

I will never write the Great American anything, because I enjoy reading more about literary gossip — and the bad behavior of writers — than I would enjoy trying to emulate their work. Similarly, I’ve yet to find someone I want to marry — but I feel like that’s more within my reach, and that it isn’t an elitist aspiration to find a partner.

There are two “elitist” hills I will Green Boots myself on. The first is that I don’t enjoy the show Friends. I don’t haaate it, although I understand why other people do. But I feel like the Venn diagram between “people who think Friends is the funniest TV show ever” and “people who liked playing Chubby Bunny at church youth retreats” is probably close to a circle.

I think it’s perfectly wonderful to watch that show, if you really enjoy it, because it isn’t hurting anybody. It’s a harmless show — but it’s also a toothless show. And that’s its biggest sin.

The second “elitist” hill I’ve climbed involves reality TV. As a teenager, I hated Jersey Shore, because I thought it was shallow. Guess what? It is shallow. That’s the whole point.

Most of the MTV reality shows know that they’re shallow. I don’t mind reality shows that understand and actively embrace how depthless they are. The reality TV shows I can’t stand are programs like The Bachelor, where finding love — something that should be sincere or fun — is trivialized in the form of competitive dates. The idea of competitive dating is bonkers.

That being said, dating is inherently competitive—to a certain degree. All of the eligible singles in your area are also looking to find someone, and while that doesn’t mean that everyone else is your direct competitor, it usually means that you have to find a way to make yourself seem like the Most Appealing Bachelor(ette). You want your partner to feel like they won a prize.

At the end of the day, I still have more in common with the people who watch Friends and The Bachelor. I would much rather listen to them talk about relationship journeys than to listen to anything about The Faerie Queene or dawn with her rose-red fingers.

Life is too short to be (too) pretentious. Sometimes, you have to eat ice cream for dinner — just because that’s what’s available, or just because that’s what all your friends are having.

The Smokers’ Circle

The last man I dated in college — and I hesitate to even call it dating, because I’m so selective that I rarely even go out to eat as a duo, just me and a fella — used to smoke American Spirit cigarettes.

He wasn’t American, I should say. I would hesitate to date an American who smokes, but I’m more inclined to forgive it in non-Americans. I really, really don’t like it — but I know that smoking in public isn’t necessarily frowned upon in some European and Asian countries.

Al fresco cafés are filled with chain smokers and, while I don’t take a romantic view of smoking, I feel a certain kinship with the smoking clown in Edward Hopper’s Soir Bleu.

But I do remember being a little appalled at the fact that, in the 2010s, people were still smoking as a pastime. Even then, it made me feel a bit uncomfortable — and I’ve never dated anyone who vapes, which I imagine would make me feel even more uncomfortable.

I’m not trying to be a hater. I just … I’m not a smoker. I find other ways to cope with my oppressive anxiety, like picking my hangnails and updating my blog.

Disgusting Stuff

Sometimes, I’ll think of something so disgusting that I make myself cringe. I can usually keep from saying it out loud, but even if I don’t say it, I find myself dwelling on some horrific stuff.

The other day, I described a handsome man as “hot from his pores to his sores.”

I thought I’d forgotten it. I did not forget it. And now, because I can’t forget it, I’m sharing it with you.

This isn’t the only 🥴 thought I’ve had this week. The other thought was about a line in Megan Thee Stallion’s “Simon Says.” The part where she talks about tights and … parts of the human anatomy. Big-built parts of the human anatomy, in particular.

I listened to that song on the day it was released, IIRC. In all my years of listening to that song, I’ve never said anything unsettling or cringeworthy about the lyrics. But now, in 2023, I managed to make myself cringe by saying, “He can tell this ain’t no Slim Virginia.”

Meg, girl — I — I’m sorry. From now on, I’ll only post peer-reviewed bars.

I immediately wanted to tape my own mouth shut. I absolutely need to spend time on something more productive.

I should probably invest in some duct tape, anyway. I never know what horribly corny thing I’m going to think of (or say) next.

4

Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I make the number 4.

I do this with my legs. I put one foot under my knee, in an attempt to warm my feet — which in turn (usually) helps me fall back asleep.

Just throwing this out there, in case it helps anyone else who’s struggling with falling asleep. Melatonin probably works better — but making-a-4 is free!