I’m sure the way you feel about something like the gun control debate often has to do with they way you were raised. If you grew up in a huntin’ family with a gun collection, you’re probably cool with guns. If you didn’t, you’re probably a little apprehensive of firearms. I definitely fall into the latter category.
I touched an AK-47 today and my insides cringed. Ew! Gross! I had gun germs on me.
I don’t think all guns have to be outlawed. I don’t want to hunt, but I understand that a lot of people enjoy the hobby. I don’t feel the need to protect myself with a pistol, but I understand that many people do.
But – in reference to the weapons ban that expired today – I can’t figure out why anyone not in the military or police corps could possibly need a semi-automatic assault rifle.
I’ve heard the arguments. Collections. Target practice. Because the constitution says I can. I just don’t understand the arguments. Why could you possibly need to shoot that much ammunition that quickly from that far away? Why on earth do you need a bayonet on the end of your gun?
I believe in the rights of citizens, but I just don’t understand this debate. Maybe it’s the way I was raised. Or maybe it’s because I don’t want the guys down the street to have easier access to assault rifles.
That game was too close for comfort. Lee and I watched the first quarter of the UGA vs. South Carolina game on television, then listened to the rest on the road. The game started awfully, with Larry Munson constantly reminding us of the grim score, “Dogs down 16 to nothing. 16!”
It was a nail biter until the end, but the Dawgs pulled through for a win. I’m not a big football fan, but I am a big Georgia football fan. I enjoy the game if I really care about the outcome, and for some reason I really care about UGA’s team.
Trent has made fun of me and others for saying, “We won,” or “We lost,” or we whatever – because it’s not like I was on the team or on the field or physically did anything to contribute to the win or loss. But I still say it, because I feel tied to the team by my ties to the university – and when they win, I feel like I’ve won too. When they lose, that’s okay, I’ll still proudly wear my red and black. But it sure is fun to win.
I want to find a church. Not just a building with a steeple and some pews, but a group of caring people brought together by their belief in a single God and a common good. I’m hungry not just for religion, but for a church family.
Lee and I went to church today. We visited the same church we’ve attended several times in the past few years, and the experience was, as usual, a mixture of the delightful and the dull. The music, while ethereal, at times reminds me of a funeral dirge. The sermons I’ve heard have been intellectual and sound, yet lacking a passion that makes me sit up and take notice.
I never realized how spoiled I was until I went to college. Until then, I’d never been a true visitor in a church. I was either the preacher’s kid in my own church, or the kid of the visiting preacher whenever dad preached at another church. From the moment I stepped inside the doors, people knew who I was and that I was there to stay so they might as well get to know me. I felt the same way. These people would be my church family, after all.
I remember being a little nervous and excited when I went to college because for the first time, I was going to find MY church. Not my family’s church, but MY church. The first time I attended a service, I was struck by the anonymity of being a true visitor. Everyone was nice, polite, some were friendly, but at the end of the service I left feeling rather alone.
I also discovered something about preachers. They’re not all like my dad. Not only do I love his style, writing, and delivery – I love his beliefs. I found that many churches weren’t as open or accepting, and that was a huge turn off. My excitement about finding MY church turned into a longing for my home church. I didn’t regularly attend in Athens, and just looked forward to visits home when I could be in a church where I belonged.
Now in Savannah, Lee and I have attended a couple of churches. One church sang the old familiar hymns I love, but from the moment the minister began preaching we both knew it wasn’t a fit. The sermon was something from the Old Testament – something about justifying killing people because they were just too sinful to be saved. What?
The church we’ve gone to the most is the one we attended again this morning. Despite the dirge music and sometimes boring sermons, the church does have something else very, very appealing. A spirit of acceptance – even a rebellious acceptance. The church separated from the Southern Baptist Convention and (gasp!) ordained women deacons. Today, just after the service had begun, a mixed race homosexual couple (I think?) came into the church. Instead of lifted eyebrows, they were greeted with smiles. The woman sitting in front of us handed her open hymnbook to them so they could join in. That’s so important to me – a church that is inclusive rather than exclusive. You don’t have to agree with what other people do, but love them anyway and leave the judging to God.
In the end, the beliefs of a church are more important to me than the hymn selection and fervor of the sermon. I’m still homesick for my dad’s church, but maybe I can still find an acceptable substitute.
Right now, I’m glad Lee and I made the decision not to buy plywood. It looks like Frances will stay well south of us, and we may not even see any effects – though it’s too soon to rule out rain and a little wind.
I’m still obssesively checking weather reports and forecasts, mostly because Dave and Erin could be affected, and partly because I’ve watched this hurricane so closely, I want to see it through.
Poor Erin. I feel really badly for her right now. She left Miami this morning after the mandatory evacuation was issued. She hit the road about 11 a.m. for a drive that usually takes 7 hours. It’s now 9:30 p.m., and she’s not even halfway there. I’m worried about her and wish I could help her, but there’s absolutely nothing I can do short of learn to fly and get a chopper and pluck her off the interstate.
Lee and I attended our last Sand Gnats game of the season tonight. We really enjoy going to the games, and I hate to see the season end. Even at the game, there were reminders of Hurricane Frances. I was getting our dinner at the concession stand and heard the weather channel’s hurricane coverage music and thought I was hallucinating. I’ve heard that music a lot lately. Then I realized the televisions in the stadium were tuned to the weather channel and several people were watching for the next update.
I guess we’re all a little on edge. Even though it won’t likely hit us, it’s an uneasy reminder that living at the beach does have one disadvantage. But hey, the advantages are still pretty sweet.
Lee and I were prepared to buy plywood today, just in case. Lee measured the windows, and even went to Scotty’s to check out their stock. That’s also when we found out how much a piece of plywood costs.
I don’t want to make a stupid decision. Is it stupid to spend 300-400 dollars to board up our house when there’s no certainty a hurricane is coming? Is it stupid not to spend a few hundred dollars if it could spare us thousands of dollars in damages? If we end up buying plywood but we wait until the last minute, will we feel stupid standing in line for 5 hours at Home Depot when we really need to be packing up so Lee can head out?
After a lot of debate, we finally decided to wait at least one more day. I really don’t want to spend the 400 bucks and the time it will take to board up our home. But if the track shifts and it looks more like we could be in the path, then maybe it’ll make it easier for me to part with the money.
As we debated, we decided to pop on over to visit someone who’s been through it before. We sat on the Clanton’s couch for a while tonight talking about the hurricane. Mr. Clanton has lived on this street all his life (since the late 1920s), and has seen several hurricanes blow through. He’s ridden them all out, never evacuating. It was comforting to see him point to our house across the street and hear him say, “That house has seen many hurricanes, and it stood through them all.” Let’s just hope it keeps standing no matter what!
Lee really wanted a new video game tonight. I got rain gear instead.
Rain gear isn’t nearly as fun, but I suppose it’s more necessary (depending on who you ask). I wanted to get a rain jacket and pants partly because of the hurricane lurking, but also because I need good clothing here just for our typical rain storms. It usually floods a couple of times every year and I’ve learned that denim isn’t the best thing for working out in flood waters. When the jeans gets wet, they stay wet.
Lee and I began making a list of things we’d need to do if Frances blows our way. I’m not sure why we’re being so careful – we’ve had hurricanes threaten the coast before. Maybe we’re getting wiser, or more chicken. We haven’t bought plywood yet, but we’re thinking about doing it tomorrow. The good thing about that – even if we don’t need it for Frances, it’s always smart to have your plywood on hand if you live on the coast. I wish we would’ve done it years ago.
35 minutes until the next Hurricane Center update.
I was sitting at a table outside a restaurant downtown last week, and it was a beautiful, sunny day. But I was amused to see a plastic pink flamingo stuck in the dirt next to the street, wearing a yellow rain slicker and a matching rain cap. Around his neck was a sign made of torn cardboard, and scrawled in marker on the front were the words, “Please no hurricane.”
The flamingo looked so funny in his rain gear that I had to take a photo with my camera phone. Now, with Hurricane Frances churning up the Atlantic, the photo is the wallpaper for my cellphone screen. The flamingo doesn’t seem so silly anymore. I’m thinking about getting one for our front yard.
I’m feeling very conflicted about this hurricane – and all hurricanes I suppose. For the past two days, I’ve been obsessively checking the National Hurricane Center website, hitting refresh every 2 minutes even though I know they only give updates every few hours. I don’t want a hurricane to hit Savannah, I really don’t. But I’ve always wondered what it would be like to see a hurricane – what would the winds feel like? What might the sky look like?
I guess I get this weather curiosity from my mom. I called her over the weekend and she said if an evacuation were issued for my area, she wants to come down and stay with me. Not to protect me. To watch the storm with me. We’re crazy, I know, I know.
The thing is, I would be absolutely crushed if I found my home in splinters. If the oak tree that offers shade from the summer sun were uprooted, I’d be so sad. I’d never want a storm to tear up my beloved city, and I would never want a storm to hurt someone.
So do I want Hurricane Frances to come here? No. But if it did, I admit the adrenalin would be intoxicating. I’d work hard, I’d sleep little, I’d try my best to tell the story of the storm.
But for now, I’ll keep my eye out for a pink flamingo for sale.
I remember being on the beach several years ago, watching a group of kids on a field trip pulling up their pants’ legs and darting into the surf. They screamed, they laughed, and you could tell they didn’t live near the ocean. This was a real treat for them.
I was sitting in a beach chair, reading a book, and one of the young girls was standing near me. After staring at the huge expanse of water for a while, she turned and asked, “Do you live here?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You come to the beach every day, don’t you?”
“Um, no, but I try to come when I’m not working.” I felt that my answer was disappointing to her.
“If I lived here, I’d come to the beach every day.”
One of the many reasons I wanted to move to Savannah four years ago was to live near a beach. But I admit, when it’s so close and convenient, sometimes you put off going. I often say I’d like to go to the beach on a given weekend, but get busy doing laundry or cleaning house and just never get around to packing my beach bag, loading up the chairs, and heading for Tybee.
That was nearly the case this weekend. I wanted to go to the beach, but slept in pretty late and had lots of housework to do. But Lee and I decided to go anyway. We got suited up, and as I was putting the dog in her yard, it started to rain. The rain only lasted a few minutes, though, so when the sun peeked back out we decided to take a chance and head out.
We were rewarded. We got the BEST parking place. The beach wasn’t crowded (tropical storms looming), and you could see by the pock-marked sand that it had just rained. The sky was a conflicted jumble of bright blue with wispy cirrus clouds right next to areas of steely gray with rain clouds. The ocean was wild, too, with white caps dotting the suface as far out as I could see. It started to rain once, then just as quickly the rain ended, and the sun grew stronger. All around us were gray clouds, but right above us the sky was a radiant blue.
Lee and I left the beach a couple hours later, glad we’d spent some time there. We should do that more often, because there’s just something wonderful about a book, a chair, and the beach.
I had “call vet” on my to-do list all week. I was committed and ready. But today when I picked up the phone, I froze. I couldn’t make the call.
I’ve been debating for a couple years about declawing Luca, but the debate turned serious a few months ago. I was sitting on the couch reading a magazine, and she was sitting beside me. We’d been sitting peacefully this way for quite some time, when she suddenly lunged at my wrists, wrapping herself around them, biting and clawing. I immediately yelled at her and tried to pull her off by the scruff of her neck, but as I pulled her away she dug in, and left me with gashes that are still scars months later.
That night I swore she’d be declawed. I’d done nothing to incite the attack, and they happen with alarming frequency.
Declawing Luca would have many benefits. I’d lose less blood. We could buy a nice couch without worrying about her tearing it up like she’s done to our current sofa. We could leave her out when visitors come over – now I often put her in another room because you just never know when she’ll decide to launch an offensive and maim a guest. I’d also be less concerned for my future family. I can just imagine my horror if one day when we have children the cat decides the baby was being just a tad too loud and should be punished by being punctured.
But there are plenty of reasons not to do it, too. It’s a pretty bad procedure. In human terms, it would be like someone cutting off the tops of my fingers at the first knuckle. They cut through bone. As much as she frustrates me, I have a hard time electing to put her through something like that.
There’s also the issue of Millie. She gets in the cat’s face a lot, and the cat’s only defense is striking out with her claws. Not that it does much good – Millie just sits there as Luca swats, like “why are you doing that? That kind of hurts…” But at least Luca can fight back. She’s only an inside cat, so that’s good, but she escapes sometimes. What if she got out and couldn’t defend herself?
It’s also a matter of dignity. She’s had those claws for 8 years. How cruel would it be to take them away now?
I’m just really unsure. Am I being selfish to want to declaw her because it would make life easier for me? Or am I being unfair to myself and my family for not doing it because I think it’ll be so upsetting for her?
There’s no easy answer. I sat at the table with the phone in my hand for a while today, and felt like I could cry. I just couldn’t make the call to set up the appointment. I still might, but it won’t be easy. I just want to be a good mom. After all, evil though she may be, she’s my kitty, and I love her.
I was eating a chicken strip when a waitress walked behind me and I glanced over, and unintentionally got an eyeful of her cheeks. Not the ones on her face. That is the image I’ll remember from Hooters.
I’d never been to a Hooters before tonight. I’m not against the restaurant chain. I don’t have any moral opposition to the people who work or dine there. I’d just never had the desire to go. I love buffalo sauce as much as the next guy (probably more so), but I think the chicken fingers at Zaxby’s are just fine, and I don’t feel the need to look at someone else’s breasts while I eat them.
A co-worker is leaving, and wanted to have his going-away party at Hooters, so I gave up my clean record tonight. I showed my “newness” right away by trying to order a margarita. “We don’t serve margaritas.” They don’t serve margaritas? I guess that’s too girly, and let’s face it, Hooters doesn’t exist to entice the ladies. So I tried to quickly recover by ordering a Corona. I’m cool. I can hang. I can drink beer.
The buffalo chicken fingers were fine, and the service was too. I could have done without the flesh peeking out from beneath the camouflage shorts, or the tight tees reading, “weapons of mass distraction,” but it was an okay experience.
But I still like the Zax. The only breasts I want to see while I’m eating are chicken breasts.
