grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

It Is What It Is!

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When I drew pay at the bank, the President and I kept an ongoing list of phrases and words that needed to be ixednay asap. We were so over it.  I hope he is still keeping the list going. I know it’s still in his head. Many of these annoying words are used primarily in everyday conversation, when Facebooking or text messaging. LOL they are smooth worn out. 

Whitney looked terrible at that party, just saying. Just saying? Just saying what? Exactly what is the point of these two words tacked on the end of a sentence? These two words change the meaning – it’s a bit of a pot-stirrer phrase. The sentence is insinuating and must be spoken with a cocked eyebrow. Whitney looked terrible at that party, just saying (…I think she was drugged out of her head). Also it reminds me a bit of Yoda-speak? Terrible at the party Whitney looked, just saying.


Anything with Obama used as a prefix needs to go – hopefully by the next election – Obamaland, Obamamama, Obamanation, Obamayomama, Obamalicious.

Today for something to be politically correct it must be green. Green living, Green building, Green clothing, Green Obamacare, Green eggs. Slap the word green in front, and it is like super awesome! Greengreengreen! Like, it is so cool to be green. Like, whatever. OMG, like was he for real? And then I was like, ROTFLMAO! No way? Way! Like duh! I know! Like, whatever! Seriously. Like for real. 

And, thinking outside the box. What’s wrong with being inside the box? I would not, could not, in a box or with a fox. My bad! Your bad what? Your bad grammar? 

In the BIG-bidness world, there are many obnoxious phrases that need to, like, totally disappear. 

“When you pencil it out with the major players going dark, the hard corner would be cash neutral even with ground up construction. Let’s drill down and revisit these mission critical actionable items in next week’s focus group maintaining full transparency, of course.” Totally. Huh? 

At the end of the day, this makes me want to puke. Seriously, just saying.
talya


Musical Pairings:


Tim McGraw, “Back When”
Laura M. Kelly, “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious”

One ringy-dingy…Two ringy-dingy…

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Harold Green butt dialed me at 12:30 am this morning. It startled me. Anytime the phone rings in the middle of the night, you immediately think someone’s in jail or dead. Or both. I was completely delirious – sick with a cold – dozing from warm bourbon & lemon juice (medicinal). I couldn’t seem to answer my cell phone, even with a dreadfully loud Adam Ant ringtone blasting directly beside my head.  I knew it was Harold Green. He left no voice mail, but as my smart phone rang, his picture brightly lit the dark bedroom, as if he were the one bellowing out Desperate but not Serious. How on earth had I changed my ring to Adam Ant? 
Maybe it was Chester calling for Lucy? Chester, Harold’s dog, lives in the neighborhood and has a thing for our oldest schnauzer. They like to hang out down the street on Harry’s porch. (Harry is not to be confused with Harold – two separate neighbors…) Harry is without a doubt Munger Place’s most interesting neighbor. He generously hosts a daily happy hour, weather permitting, for anyone who wants to partake, complete with true life tales of the union business and mafia entanglements. Oftentimes there are more dogs than people present. Chester and Lucy have a standing date nearly daily around 5:00 on Harry’s porch. Even so, he should know better than to call her at such a godawful hour.
Smart phones and caller id have certainly eliminated prank phone calling which was a favorite pastime of certain bored little kids in Arkansas. Terrible I know. We loved to randomly call people in the phone book, identify ourselves as disc jockeys with WHBQ, and ask the person who answered to sing the Campbell Soup song. They ALWAYS sang. Now, there is no way we sounded remotely mature enough to be radio personalities, but they always sang, hoping to win chicken noodle soup for life or something. Then we would giggle and hang up. Crazy hoodlum children. 
When Mam-maw Tate died, we got the call in the middle of the night. “We lost Ruby,” Papa Homer said. What? How did you lose her? Why would you let a nearly 90 year old wander off in the middle of the night? It took us a minute to realize what he meant. Wee hour phone calls are almost always bad news.
Although we have become pretty good ‘acquaintances’, I don’t think I’m Harold’s emergency contact person. I don’t think I rank that high on his list. Not yet anyway. When I cleared my head, I texted him. 
Me:       Harold, did you call me just now?
Harold: No, but it seems my phone did. I don’t know why my phone felt the need to call you so late.
:)) Butt dialing. It happens sometimes. Stupid smart phones.
talya

Musical Pairings:


Adam Ant, “Desperate but not Serious”
Peggy Lee, “He’s a Tramp”

And then I bought an island…

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My Farm!
Once upon a time, not that very long ago, I owned a farm. Virtual, that is. It started out innocently enough with a simple invitation to join Farm Town. It looked like fun, so with a few clicks of the mouse, I was growing grapes and wheat on my cute little square patch of farmland. As I quickly became more proficient with harvesting methods and crop rotation, I planted more complicated crops, even hiring farm hands to harvest. My paradise expanded to include a river with crystal clear waterfalls and lush landscaping. An assortment of trees and flowers grew along the riverbanks, separating my property from my sister’s. I visited neighboring farms and had lots of farm friends. In no time, by the sweat of my brow and with very little down, I was able to afford a red brick mansion and buy a second farm back off the north forty! I had my very own lake stocked with bream and catfish – a virtual dream come true – with a dock! Oh and a hammock. I love hammocks. Life was good.
My lake and hammock:)
Looking to diversify, someone suggested I expand into the restaurant business.  I opened a cute little cafe, hiring some of my best friends as wait staff – Becky, Judy, Carrie. I was boosting the economy! Together we whipped up turkeys and bacon cheeseburgers and lobster. Ummmm. I even learned to make creme brûlée! Some dishes took days to prepare, and others were ready in minutes. It was a popular little cafe – all my friends flocked to see the adorable decor and fancy ovens. Soon I added an outdoor patio with a giant flatscreen for watching Razorback games! But it was stressful. I should have stuck with farming – I know farming. Food & beverage is a totally different animal. It became difficult to adequately concentrate on my farm with chicken adobo ready and waiting on the stovetop. We were always under the gun to get food out on time – just like restaurant wars on Top Chef. If the service was slow, patrons would just rudely turn around and leave. Once I had to fire my own mother – she couldn’t get the food on the table fast enough. But business is business. She went right down the street and opened her own cafe…
Becky and Judy also became competitors with nearby cafes. But we helped each other. There were times I was at the bank – the REAL bank from which I received W-2 income – and Becky often called me in a panic. I’m in Mt. Home and my chicken pot pies need to be served at noon!!!!! I would run home at lunch, serve her chicken pot pies, check on my own cafe and crops, eat a real sandwich in my real kitchen, walk my real dog, and run back to my real job. It was exhausting. But I hated to see a pot pie gone bad.
And then I bought an island. I needed a vacation spot away from the hustle and bustle of the farm and cafe. A place where I could wear a loin cloth and coconut shell bra in total seclusion. But once a farmer, always a farmer. I began planting stupid crops on my island too. Tropical fruits and veggies. And fishing. I fished on the island. I couldn’t relax. I was Thomas Tate.
Once in the middle of the night, I jumped suddenly from bed and understandably alarmed John. “What??? What’s wrong??” He had been in a deep sleep. “Omg I have pot roast to serve!!!” I jumped up to log onto my computer to serve pot roast before the nasty flies got it.
The next day I quit. I just walked away. Cold turkey. My virtual life was running my real life. I could be using that time to learn a language or cook real food in my real kitchen! Or work in my real garden. Or write a book! I immediately blocked all games so I would not be tempted to even peep at my dying crops or receive updates from devoted farm neighbors who continue to water my wilted flowers. Did they worry about me? I know that my farm is overgrown with Johnsongrass, and the flies and bugs and roaches have taken over my restaurant. Sometimes I feel bad.
Occasionally someone on Facebook cries out for help – “I only need 10 more nails for my barn raising.” Or, “I’m gonna miss my farm so much when I go home for Christmas.” Last week, one of my Facebook friends was upset because someone had reported her to the Facebook police – and she had done nothing wrong – she had no idea why she had received a “warning” about her activity. It was probably just a glitch in the system… new timeline and all…  One of her friends commented, “That is sooooo terrible. You are such a good farm neighbor.” 
talya
Musical Pairings:

Kenny Chesney, “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy”
Zac Brown Band, “Knee Deep”

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

THANKS FOR READING!