The Chronicles of Marge

In Case This Comes in Handy One Day

Jason told me this morning that he dreamt of zombies last night, and I was not surprised. You see, we recently plowed through the first season of The Walking Dead like the end of the world was upon us. And sometimes I wonder if it is. I know, nothing like The Chronicles to add a nice dose of Anti-Optimism to your holiday season. But whatever. I’m thinking that possessing a certain amount of preparedness on the subject of zombies or any other post-apocalyptic event might not be a bad idea. Actually, just consider this a Christmas present from me to you titled “What I’ve Learned From The Walking Dead and What May Come in Handy at the End of Times If You Manage to Survive.”

1. Leave the sheriff’s hat behind. No one cares about any authority you might have had back when the world was populated by 7 billion humans. Also, you will look like a fool.
2. Don’t move toward past civilizations, and for the love of God, don’t go there more than once. Move away from civilization as you once knew it.
3. In the words of the Starks of Winterfell: winter is coming. So maybe think about preparing for what future you hope to have. Find a place with a good water source. Hunker down. Plant a garden. And by all means, start working on that wood pile for winter. You’ll be thankful you did when it’s 30 degrees outside; you’ll also have some really good-looking biceps and abdominal muscles.
4. Finally, listen to the redneck. He’s the only one who knows how to hunt and has any sense on matters of survival; he is also kind of hot if you look at him in a certain light, but heck, I’ve always had a thing for a man who looks like he’s been chopping wood versus one who looks like he deploys hair gel on a regular basis. 

And although I did not marry a redneck, and you may think I’m shit out of luck on point 4, I’ve got the next best thing: a Chatham County boy who grew up in a log cabin that didn’t have any indoor plumbing and who knows how to fell a tree. Also, my father taught be how to haul wood with the best of them, so I think Jason and I will be just fine when the zombies come.

A Word or Two

Written last week and not posted until today: A belated word on the King of Pop.

I'm writing about this because the second I heard about Michael Jackson's death, I phoned my sister Katharine because I just had to talk to someone about it right then and there. Lo and behold, my sister Vern was calling Katharine at the exact same time, and through some wild advance in technology, Katharine got us on a three-way call and there we were, separate entities together as one, which is really the best way to describe the relationship I have with my sisters. We are all the same person, just split three ways. Anyway, it was the most exciting phone conversation I've had in years. Granted, it made me a bit sad because I hadn't seen Katharine since Christmas and I hadn't seen Vern since late winter and there's this corner of my being that hibernates when we are not together, but it was wonderful to talk and laugh with them and to feel like we were all in the same room together but with eyes closed. 

So the three of us shared in the death of an icon together and revisited that special time of childhood innocence and excitement, that decade that my generation was fortunate enough to experience through young eyes and hearts. We are the Children of the 80s. We are that generation that people keep wanting to group with X or Y but that falls more comfortably somewhere in between. We remember the silver glove and the moonwalk, which we tried to replicate on our little elementary school legs. We did not experience war as children, but we sure as hell remember the Challenger exploding and we remember images of the Berlin Wall coming down and knowing that something truly amazing was happening around us. We remember our parents being really concerned about something to do with Iran and Contras, but we did not understand because we were distracted by the fact that Pink 'N Pretty's head broke off and we had to force it back on to her now stump of a neck, but she didn't look right anymore because she had no neck and was all shoulders and head, and Ken just didn't think he could sleep with a woman whose head popped off spontaneously from time to time, so we cried a little bit and then we threw Pink 'N Pretty into the trash and we knew that it was THE END OF AN ERA because, after that, we moved on to Barbie and the Rockers and that gang did not come wearing a pink boa but was clad in spandex, or at least the '86 versions of Dana, Dee Dee, Derek, and Diva too. (And the fact that I still remember all of their names is sad, but Diva came with a cassette tape of the Barbie and the Rockers theme song, and you know I played that thing, like, all of the time because it was only one of three cassette tapes I had in 1986 and it fit really well into the rotation with Tina Turner's Private Dancer and Whitney Houston's self-titled album—you know, the one where she's in the toga and pearls and is saving all her love for you.)

And I think that's the whole point of pop culture sometimes. It's something that we can all have in common and that can bring us together, either in a moment of splendor or tragedy. So I'll remember the King of Pop through the eyes of a little girl circa 1984. May he rest in peace knowing that I still dance with reckless abandon every time Billie Jean is played.

I Left the Quilt in Nashville, Tennessee

This will be the title of my next country music album. I hope to have it finished within the next 2 months—you know, right about the same time that I finish the next quilt I plan to make. Yeah right. I could have conceived, birthed, and weaned an elephant during the time that it took me to make my niece’s quilt.
And even though I think it turned out beautifully, I need a break, so maybe I will turn my sights to country music and the aforementioned album. I’ve always thought that country music would be my specialty if I was talented enough to sing for people. However, I realize that I don’t have the boobs or the hair for it, so I will just put that dream aside, right along with discovering Middle-earth and becoming a Rohirrim.

Thinking about the quilt reminds me of my trip to Jo-Ann’s a couple of weeks ago (Jo-Ann’s is a fabric and craft store for those of you who don’t know). Let me preface by saying that I don’t enjoy fabric stores. They make me tired. They stress me out. The general disorganization irritates me. And although I may be able to sew a quilt, I know very little about the products that are sold in a fabric store, which overwhelms me and sends me to the brink of tears. Usually, I walk in, succumb to insecurity, exit, call my mother, and start crying in the parking lot of the strip mall that houses said fabric store. I am proud to say that a couple of weeks ago this did not happen. I knew what I needed, and they had it. I also had the opportunity to observe a rare treat: MULTIPLE MEN IN THE FABRIC STORE. They came in the following three types:

Type 1: Man Who Unknowingly Gets Pulled Into Fabric Store While Out Running Errands With Girlfriend/Wife. This couple leaves the house Saturday morning with a very specific list: Wal-Mart, Home Depot, Kroger. But in transit, the woman realizes that she needs something VERY IMPORTANT at the Jo-Ann and it would be SO INCONVENIENT to make another trip. The man rolls his eyes and realizes he is utterly defeated, so he goes in with her. He follows her around for 10 minutes, gazing into the distance as the fabric store slowly sucks the life out of him—I know, it has this magical power that no one understands. We lose track of this fellow after the first 10 minutes. You know why? Once we leave the store, we find him sitting on the tailgate of his pick-up truck, talking on the phone, apparently to some guy about something really manly.

Type 2: Man Who Wants to Get Laid. This is a young fellow who possesses some level of popularity within his “circle.” He’s there with a fairly new girlfriend who is pretty but wearing these things that look like knee-length sweatpants. (And I say to her—in my head of course: is it really that difficult lady? I mean, I leave the house looking like shit almost 75% of the time, but there’s a difference between shit with style and regular shit, and it’s not too hard to attain the former.) He follows her around energetically. He comments enthusiastically. He smiles. He holds her bag of cotton treasures on the way out of the store. He’s there for one reason and one reason only. And if you think it’s the collection of PEZ dispensers at the cash register, then you are a fool!

Man 3: The Enigma. This guy is with his wife and infant child. They all look so happy. He looks very content perusing the aisles. Unlike Type 2, The Enigma gladly accompanies his wife to the fabric store. I don’t get it. I also don’t get the fact that he has apparently gotten laid, because he reminds me of this fellow. Our friend actually tried out in season 2 as well. You can also find him or a slightly different version at your local fabric store on any given Saturday, possibly with his wife, but more likely with his mother. Ladies beware, his sexual magnetism is hard to resist.

BSG

I have a confession to make: Jason and I are now obsessed with Battlestar Galactica. I know. You can blame our good friends who are also obsessed, so much so that they own all three seasons on DVD. We borrowed the first two discs and began watching them last Saturday. By Tuesday night, we were done and already feeling the early symptoms of withdrawal. We both spent a distracted Wednesday swaying back and forth at our desks while trying to keep count the number of times that Number Six popped up to whisper some inappropriate command in our ears. My bloodshot eyes and nervous hands clearly told the story: I needed another fix. Jason made an emergency run Wednesday night for the remainder of season 1.

I’m feeling much better now. So say we all.