The Chronicles of Marge

About House Clothes

I haven't felt like posting anything in a long time, and I have very little to offer that is exciting. However, it's Mother's Day, and because I will always be in debt to my mother for raising me and then letting me go when it was time, here's one for my mom.

I was perusing some old journals and found a conversation between me and my sister Katharine that I had transcribed onto an orange sticky note. The conversation occurred back in February and reminds me of the time my father patched his work pants with the same fabric that my mom had used to make curtains for the dining room. My mother was appalled and fearful that someone at the hardware store would recognize my father and the dining room curtains donning his backside. I'm sure my father felt as if he has won a small victory. 

Marge: Jason doesn't have the same passion for house clothes that I do.

Kat: Who would?

Marge: Well, I take my house clothes very seriously.

Kat: A lot of people do, but then some people wear them out of the house.

Marge: I try not to do that; it's disrespectful to the house clothes.

Kat: And it's disrespectful to the community around you.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom!

Smells Like Menthol and Camphor

I awoke one morning about a week ago with a pinched nerve. Ignoring good sense, I rode my bike into work thinking that it would relieve the spasm radiating from the area where the shoulder and neck meet. It did not. So for 2 days straight, my head was tilted 10 degrees to the right and I feared it would stay that way forever. I felt ridiculous and rather old, and I started understanding my mother in a new and profound way. I still remember that time we went on a family road trip to Colonial Williamsburg and Busch Gardens and she ended up with a pinched nerve in her back and had to ride all the way home in a Ford LTD Crown Victoria, which was full of people, pillows, and personal covers for everyone. It was a new level of Crazy that I had never seen before, and I was sure she was exaggerating her pain on purpose just to ruin the family trip. (Yes mom, I just said that. Apologies. But you said I could write anything about you or your friends as long as I kept on writing.) But now I understand what she must have been going through, and I feel kind of bad for thinking she was just trying to make us miserable when she was the one who was suffering.

But back to my pinched nerve... As the second day progressed, I started to wonder if the swelling in my neck was maybe not a muscle spasm but instead the beginning of a goiter, which, Dear World, is my greatest fear in life. You thought I was afraid of heights. Heights have nothing on the goiter. Apparently goiters run in the family, and if one lady ancestor has a goiter...well, all I can do is pray—like, get down on my knees and pray type of praying.

So I decided to go to the doctor to make sure I wasn’t getting a goiter and to see about getting a muscle relaxer because having to cling to the wall in the bathroom stall at work while trying to sit on the toilet just so I wouldn't fall into the bowl while getting down there was becoming a bit too dangerous for me. Also, falling into the toilet would be difficult to explain to coworkers.

Which leads to a confession: I am 33 years old and I've never taken a muscle relaxer. Is that normal? I don’t know, but I feel like it’s something I should have tried by now, so I was kind of excited because (1) it might actually relax my muscle or (2) it could be a really fun trip. I could end up in a retirement center in Florida yelling STELLA!!! at the top of my lungs. Or at the least, I could do what my mother did a few years back, which was to answer the telephone while under the influence of a muscle relaxer and give her eldest daughter's phone number to the 1996 senior class president from West Davidson High School because all I've ever wanted to do in life was be involved in the planning and attendance of my 10-year high school reunion because I really wanted to revisit All That. (And to those of you who might have gone to high school with me and read this blog: most likely, I like you, and I would gladly get together with you over a latte at a little cafe—or even Starbucks because, hey, I’m not really a snob, I just pretend to be one from time to time—but I'm not ready to go to a reunion yet, lest I revert to the self-conscious girl I used to be). But lucky for all, I don't have any daughters to embarrass and no one makes telephone calls anymore, meaning the prospects for the muscle relaxer were looking good.

So feel with me now the disappointment I experienced after taking the muscle relaxer and falling into a deep sleep at some point during the Sweet 16 on Friday night and waking the next morning still unable to turn my head.

But that's okay. I've learned a few lessons here. Time and rest are better healers than drugs, I believe, because with each day that goes by, I'm able to turn my neck a bit more to the left. Tiger Balm is wonderful and will attract the attention of anyone who comes within 20 feet of you. And finally, as Kelly Clarkson has been reminding me lately, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Thank you, Kelly, you’re always there when I need you most.

For Biggi

Jason and I recently spent a week in Hamburg, Germany, visiting his family. Because I have a two-night limit with my own family, I thought a week with relatives I've met only once or never at all might be pushing it. In addition, if you're going to have to suffer through an Away-Toilet Situation, best not to have to share that Away Toilet with four other people. So Jason and I rented an apartment from airbnb to guarantee a place of refuge for our souls (and our bowels). It turned out to be a great studio space in a renovated factory building close to Jason's Oma's apartment. We rented it from a woman named Biggi. She wrote the following review of us:

"Here in my Hamburg factory apartment I got to know a very friendly and reliable young man with his cute girl. I was very pleased about the lovely message they left, even a few sweets. :) So tidy and clean was my apartment after that week, even the fridge was still full - I can only recommend those lovely people, always welcome again!"

Dear Biggi: VIELEN DANK! You have figured out a way to make sure that we will rent from you—and only you—the next time we come to Hamburg. And I'm not referring to the part about us being clean—we already knew that. Rather, there comes a time in every woman's life when she realizes that middle age is right around the corner, and when she rounds that corner, her ass will migrate three inches south and the skin around her jawline will  head in that direction too, and no one will reference her appearance ever again. So I'll take "cute girl" for as long as I can. (And Jason will just have to be satisfied with "reliable.")

Thanksgiving 2011

It is 6:30 a.m. Thanksgiving morning. I write this from the darkness of my living room, which pretty much sums up the way I feel about Thanksgiving this year. My family—the core six of us—had planned to spend the holiday in New Orleans, and for a family whose holiday motto is Same Time Next Year, Y'all, this was a big deal. But then those plans went away at the last minute for reasons I won't explain on the Internet but which can be summed up in the following two words: Family Drama. 

I spent most of the weekend crying, more for the disappointment of not going to New Orleans with my family and less for the drama. Jason and I also tried to come up with a fun family alternative, but no one seemed willing, able, or excited. In a nutshell: I have lost all motivation toward the holiday this year...except toward thoughts about food.

So yesterday, I decided to make a cheesecake, and whatever Jason and I decided to do today would involve that cheesecake. Thus, we ventured to the Whole Foods on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and Y'all, it was getting real in the Whole Foods parking lot if you know what I mean; in addition, they were out of the special little buggies that I so love, but Jason graciously offered to carry a basket for me instead. 

I needed to buy some graham crakers to make the crust of the cheesecake, and of course the entire selection at the Whole Foods was in excess of $4 a box and I also wasn't sure if any of them would actually taste like a food product, so I went with the cheapest box.

A mistake.

I got home and opened up that package of graham crakers and it was like looking at a box of square cow chips, and then I put one in my mouth it tasted like a cow chip too. I was not sure that butter and brown sugar could remedy the situation, but I was too tired to go back out into the world to buy some cheap and highly processed and preserved graham crakers that didn't taste like shit, so I carried on and made the cheesecake.

While the cake was in the oven, my grandmother called to invite us to her house for Thanksgiving dinner. Secretly, Jason and I had already planned on attending, but we had not told anyone because I felt like maybe the family needed to try something new for the holiday, something called Uncertainty, but obviously no one in my family is capable of dealing with that so they have to preempt any surprise with a phone call. I swear not less than 5 minutes later, my mother called to say that she was not going to my grandmother's house but would be having Thanksgiving at her house and we were invited and that was okay with my grandmother, but of course whatever we deciced to do would be fine with everyone and no feelings would be hurt. And if you are from a Southern family you know what that means: anything you decide will be fine as long as it is what your mother wants.

I went to bed last night not telling anyone where Jason and I would end up today. But trust me, we will arrive at someone's house carrying a pumpkin cheesecake with a cow dung crust, and I will tell folks that my feelings won't be hurt if they don't eat the cheesecake. So of course they will eat it to avoid feeling guilty because that is just how these things work.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Advice from Phil

I called my father the other week to inquire about the quality of food offered on Lufthansa flights—you know, for no apparent reason. I forgot that my father remembers nothing about the food he eats and will consume anything and everything placed before him, so he shed little light on the subject. However, this did not hinder him from giving me the following advice: Before you get on the plane, eat a couple of those Metamucil bars, and then eat a couple while you are on the plane; you'll appreciate it later. 

I should have expected as much from my father. I mean, he once had his belongings searched by the police while he was staying at a hotel in India. And do you know the one thing the police found interesting enough to confiscate? A platic ziplock bag that was smuggled in from America and filled with BRAN BUDS.  

Sadly, I can't say that I have not packed similarly before. The apple, my friends, does not fall far from the tree.

In Lieu of the Results, and in Honor of My Sister

SYTYCD devotees: I don't feel like writing about the results tonight, so I hope this is an okay substitution. Normal followers of The Chronicles: you can read this one too!

My sister Katharine turned 30 earlier this week. I sent her the following card—a booklet, actually—in the mail and just had to share it here because (a) I am so totally pleased with myself; (b) I want the world to know that my sister is worthy of a handmade card of this caliber; and (c) I know several ladies, including the Guest Chroniclers, who might enjoy the heck out of this. Oh, and my mother wants a look at it too. So Mr. Bingley, take it away!

(An aside: the last picture is from the 2008 version of Sense and Sensibility. It's Margaret Dashwood, who just so happens to look like Katharine did when she was a child. Sans the purple dress with the rainbow on the front and a pair of cowboy boots that my mother—I'm sure—made disappear one day long ago.)

Grazers and Vultures

Yesterday for lunch, I cut up  a cucumber and some tomatoes—all grown in our garden I am proud to say—put them in a big pottery bowl, and doused them with a bit of balsamic vinegar and olive oil. I then distributed them between two smaller bowls, and upon doing so, I noticed a drop of balsamic vinegar rolling down the side of the pottery bowl. And now let me interject with a short story that speaks to my particular human nature...

It is well known at I am my father’s daughter. When it comes to food, there are two important traits that I inherited from my father: (1) I am a grazer; and (2) I am also a vulture—if there is residue of any sort left on a plate, bowl, floor, or counter surface, I will find it out and eat it. Case in point: many years ago, my family made gingerbread one night for dessert. The next morning, my dad noticed in the giant bowl of compost sitting on the kitchen counter a chunk of gingerbread that someone did not partake of the evening before. Never one to let anything go to waste and always one to indulge the appetite whether or not hungry, he grabbed the gingerbread with his bare hands and shoved it into his mouth only to discover in horror that it was used coffee grounds that were intentionally and correctly placed in the compost pile as refuse. At least it was not a chocolate eclair taken from a trash can. But still.

Anyway, I didn’t have the same experience with the balsamic vinegar, but I share the story to demonstrate the passion with which a member of the family Ryalls can clean up dishes when in the role of vulture. So as I saw that balsamic vinegar making its way down the side of the bowl, all I wanted to do was save it by consuming it myself, so I brought that bowl to my mouth like a dog takes to water on a hot day, and I hit myself so hard in the front tooth that I could feel it tingling up in my nose.

And then the moment of fear struck: did I just lose my front tooth because I wanted to lick some balsamic vinegar off the side of an empty bowl? I started feeling for my front tooth with my tongue and in disbelief and yet great relief, I discovered my tooth was still intact.

Jason, of course, witnessed the whole thing and when he took a look at me, I could tell something was awry because he was trying to maintain a calm demeanor so that he could inform me that I indeed did not lose or crack my front tooth, but rather took a chunk out of the tooth right beside of it.

And then he laughed when I produced a fake grin so he could inspect further. APPARENTLY, I LOOKED RIDICULOUS.

And then I realized that the days of whatever good looks I had were over. Or at least shortened greatly because I recently read an article in a somewhat esteemed fashion magazine about a study that determined the peak of a woman’s beauty was at 35.333 years and after that it was all downhill, which obviously means sagging boobs, fat ass, crow’s feet, Muppet ankles, and the traveling of elbow skin to the forearm all in one fell swoop; therefore, enjoy it while you can, ladies, because 35.34 years sounds like a giant helping of Suck Ass. So anyway, I thought about that study, which might have been sponsored by a cosmetics company and may not have been published in a journal of any repute (or at all), but whatever, and I wondered if my beauty peak was just shortened by 2.5 years because of an incident with a pottery bowl and balsamic vinegar that left me looking like a snaggletooth country bumpkin from Davidson County. Oh no. That means I actually am a snaggletooth country bumpkin from Davidson County. Well, at least I hope my father will be proud.

About the Hand

Background: Jason and I were in New Orleans visiting the most wonderful person in the world (my sister Katharine) from March 18-21. We had a great time. We walked around the city. We ate snowballs. We attended a dance class for toddlers. We visited the North Shore. We sat on the bayou. We watched some Bear Grylls videos. I developed a sunburn on my chest and in the part of my hair. You know, all in all, time well spent. So the day after we returned, I awoke early in the morning to dull pain in my right hand. I did not think much of it, and I went to work as usual. But by the end of the day, I was in so much pain that I went into an empty office, shut the door, shed a few tears, and called Jason because I figured he needed to at least vicariously experience my pain and also pick me up from work and take me to the urgent care straight away. However, I had a meeting at church at 7 p.m that night and I was worried that I could not fit in an urgent-care hand inspection before attending a meeting in which my sole purpose for being there was to take notes, which required USING MY HANDS. The diagnosis: I had some terrible tendonitis (or something similar that you can't see on an x-ray) in the large joint of my right-hand index finger. The short-term solution: ibuprofen and a splint. Lateness to the meeting: 7 minutes. What I decided to write about with pen and paper upon returning home: the story that follows. Ease of writing while wearing a splint: None.

 

From 22 March 2011

 

I look like a crazy person. A crazy person with poor penmanship. I walked into that meeting at church tonight late and with my right hand in a splint, a MacBook Pro in the other hand, and a ring of red encircling my upper chest. I looked so crazy that someone had the balls to ask me about the chest redness, and people only ask about strange skin conditions if (a) they are one of your female relatives; (b) they have no tact; or (c) they think you actually look like a crazy person. And trust me, I know about these things because—whisper this word with me if you will—psoriasis runs in the family. (As does adult-onset cradle cap—and if you thought that cradle cap was only relegated to the very young, you are wrong, and even though you may not want to believe me, trust me on this: I sleep with it every night.)

 

Anyway, Jason has been very kind. He did all the dishes, made my lunch, took Miss Betty inside for me. But apparently he has limits. I walked into the living room tonight with a strand of floss in my hand and the following conversation ensued:

 

Marge: Can you help me floss my teeth. I can't do it with one hand.

 

Jason: No. You can skip a day.

 

Marge: But I ate pesto for lunch.

 

Jason: I know. You've had green things in your teeth all day.

 

Well thanks husband. I will remember this.

The Next Time I Reach for a Pair of Tights...

I got up this morning and spontaneously decided to take a departure from my normal winter work wardrobe of jeans and a sweater and clunky black shoes. I don’t know why because everyone who knows me knows that I am the least spontaneous person alive. But it happened and into my bag went underwear, a green skirt, a black shirt, a pair of tights, and some black dress shoes with 1.5-inch heels. A daring look, I know. So I rode into work, and go to the bathroom to change out of my spandex and into what must be the fanciest thing I have worn in the workplace since we last saw 80 degrees—meaning, it is February and no one even remembers 80 degrees ago. I put on new underwear; I put on my shirt; and then I put my right foot through the leg of the tights and out comes my foot at the the other end, and I was all, What the...

World: they were FOOTLESS TIGHTS. To make it worse, they had rather large stars on them that got even bigger as you moved up the leg. I couldn’t remember seeing these tights ever before, except that I had seen them before because these were the Yearly Christmas Gift of Tights from my mother circa 2009. And now I will relay the following personal note to my mother via the Internet: MOM: I am 32 years old. Maybe tights with patterns on them are no longer an age-appropriate gift for your daughter. Love, Marge. (PS: I bet you will print this one out for the Ladies at the Office, so here’s a shout-out to the Ladies who I hope are not buying footless decorative tights for their grown daughters.)

To say the least, those footless tights were not a good look. My legs were all big-ass stars supported by two frighteningly white feet stuck in a pair of shoes that were not meant to go with footless tights. I looked like a giant 13-year-old—a giant 13-year-old who would be seen by actual humans around the building—and I wasn’t certain that my seasonally affected self could handle that.

So I called Jason, who, as luck would have it, worked from home today, and I was all, “I brought footless tights to work and I look like a fool. Please sympathize with me now.” And with a heavy sigh, he was all, “Do you want me to bring you some tights with feet?” And I almost said yes, but then I thought about the environment and decided that my self-esteem was not as important as 15 miles worth of carbon emissions. 

And then I changed my mind.

But instead of calling Jason, I called a coworker who lives two blocks from my house and asked if she had left her house yet. She had not, and seriously, elves and unicorns came out of my cell phone and did a dance on my desk when they heard that news. So I called Jason and told him to take all the tights he could find in my underwear drawer and put them in a bag and give the bag to Gail who would stop by to pick up the tights.

Y’all, Jason found FIVE PAIRS OF TIGHTS, including one fishnet, in that drawer. I never knew I had so many—heck, my mother probably doesn't know that I have so many either even though she bought all of them for me at one time or another.

So Gail shows up at 8:15 with the bag full of tights, takes a look at my get-up, and decides that she has indeed performed an act of community service. She was rewarded with a big hug.

As you can see, all ended well for me today, and I even think I learned a few things:

• Never blindly reach into a drawer for a pair of tights. Take your time and inspect. This probably could apply to underwear as well. 
• Jeans are always the best option. Always.
• The Christmas of 2010 is the last time my sisters and I will ever receive a pair of tights from our mother. Because the next time my mom is in the Target and reaches for three packs (one for each of her girls because she always buys in three) of the trendy tight of the month, she will remember that I wrote this and she will THINK TWICE.

A Typical Holiday Season

The Chronicles are in a dry spell. I have no stories. Well, that’s not true. I could talk about Thanksgiving, but wading into the river In-Law is really not something safe for the Internet or family relations. But I will say this: Jason and I drove to Nashville, Tennessee; I cooked an entire Thanksgiving meal for a family of 11 (granted, my father-in-law cooked the turkey, and 1 of the 11 was a 6-week-old, so maybe she does not count, but still); I washed a lot of dishes; we drove back to North Carolina; I promptly developed the Respiratory Viral Infection of the Century; I am currently on day 9 of said virus; and I have been in thermal underwear for 3 straight days. On Saturday night, my right nostril had swollen to a size that would have made Rudolph question his job security, so I decided to stick a needle into the sidewall of my nose to try to relieve the pressure. I’m not sure why I thought that was a good idea because it was not a good idea, and it led to the following conversation between me and Jason:

Marge: Am I the grossest person you know?

Jason: No. But you do some of the most disgusting things I’ve ever seen.