Southern Hospitality

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First, I must apologize for the long lull between blog posts. You must be thinking… she isn’t taking this blog thing very seriously. What on earth is she doing with her writing self? She must be caught up in spreading all kinds of Christmas joy and cheer and she’s completely ignoring her reading roadies!

Well.

Almost two weeks ago, I started writing a Christmas post about my mom and her Christmas tree-cutting shenanigans and her lack of ability to understand the ratio between Christmas tree size and living room square footage. It’s a fantastic story. But then, and I still can’t wrap my head around this, my mom died. She just collapsed and died. It’s been almost two weeks and I just don’t feel ready to post anything about her yet. Besides, you don’t want to hear me blubber and bawl all over myself here, so here’s something completely unrelated. It’s an old story I wrote several years ago but never published to Facebook, so I thought this would be a good time to share it. Honestly, I’ll take all the funny I can get right now.

Several years ago, my IT Director husband, Scott, had been asked to make a business trip to Mississippi to help the company move their plant from one location in the city to another. He would be responsible for all the network stuff- I don’t know what that means and he’s given up explaining it to me. Scott and I hadn’t been on a “trip” since our honeymoon, which was 12 years ago at that time.  We had been on overnights here and there, but nothing extensive.  My saint of a mom-in-law agreed to take our kids for the week and since her place is on the way to Mississippi, it was an easy drop off. I was so looking forward to the trip. It was shortly after Christmas and that seemed like the perfect time to head South.

If you know anything about me, you know I am pretty organized.  Actually, that’s a bit of an understatement.  That would be like saying that the Pope is kind of Catholic.  I prepared for this trip from the minute we decided to go together in November.  First of all, I packed enough crap to take with us that if we had to move to Mississippi on short notice, we could have probably bought a house and just furnished it without having to buy anything.  I packed all kinds of things to keep myself busy while Scott was working.  I was downright giddy, looking forward to my quiet time in the days, but also the evenings when we could go out and enjoy our time to ourselves. Of course, at the time, my boys were eight and eleven. They had a lot of energy, they smelled like a locker room and I was growing tired of all the wrestling and the headlocks that accompany the joy that is having boys. Hence the desire for quiet time.

The trip down was relaxing.  We talked and talked and amazingly enough, never ran out of things to tell each other.  We ate at some great places and made good time.  That was Monday.  Tuesday was fun-  I didn’t even leave the hotel.  I worked out in the fitness center and took a long, hot bath.  I scrapbooked, watched Harry Potter and took a nap.  We went out for dinner and had some awesome steaks.  On Wednesday, I woke up not well.  Not well at all.  Before Scott went to the office, he took me to get some medicine and some OJ.

Just remember- we are in Mississippi at this point.  And God bless Mississippi. Really. I mean that. I honestly don’t mean any disrespect over the course of this entry.

I probably should start providing “Stories on Tape” because really, you need to hear the Southern drawl I’ve acquired in order to truly appreciate the rest of this story.  But since you cannot, please insert your own Southern drawl as best as you can in the appropriate places.  I will do my best to spell the words exactly how they sounded- I’m sure spell checker will have a seizure trying to figure out what I’m up to.  But before I go any further, I also need to preface the remainder of this story with the following:

1.  At the time, I didn’t have a smartphone. I had a GPS, like a Garmin. And I hated that thing.

2.  Mississippi has its own time zone.  It’s called “I Got All Day” and everyone operates at the same speed.  And it’s really freaking slow.

3.  As far as the South is concerned, the Civil War never ended.  In fact, the South interprets the Civil War and its outcome entirely different than the rest of the country.  How do I know this?  Perhaps it was upon entering Corinth, MS, home of the “Corinth Civil War INTERPRETIVE Museum”. Is there really anything to interpret here? Evidently, Mississippi thinks so.

4.  It appears that “the beehive” is still a popular hairstyle in Mississippi.

5.  People in Mississippi are very, very nice.  They really are.  It actually makes up for the bad hair, the slow speed and the whole Civil War bitterness they carry around.

So, back to Wednesday.  Scott drives me to Wal-Mart to grab some medicine. I pick up some Nyquil, Alka-Seltzer Plus, TheraFlu, cayenne pepper, Vicks Vaporub, Kleenexes and orange juice.  I walk to the check out where two cashiers, who have beehive hairdos (see #4), stop talking and look at me with complete and total pity, so much so that I want them to take me home and make me chicken soup.

Cashier (who resembles Flo from Mel’s Diner):  “Awwwwww.  Are you okaaaay, huuuuun?”

I wanted to say “no, Flo. I am not. And I am headed back to a hotel where no one knows me or cares about me and my mom is 10 hours away, so can you please take me home with you and feed me and get me a cool washcloth for my forehead and rock me?”  But instead, I smiled and said, “not really.” 

Cashier:  “Awwwwwww.  Wellll.  Y’all take care now an get you better”.  Not quite the outcome I had hoped for in this friendly exchange, but nice enough anyway. 

By Wednesday night, I was a mess.  I was sick.  And I knew it was a sinus infection, complicated by a root canal in one of my molars under the sinus cavity.  So I was in pain and a lot of it.  On Thursday morning, Scott said he would take me to Urgent Care.  I told him I would, instead, drop him off at the office and I could drive myself.  After all, I had Emily, the voice of some British chippie housed in the GPS, so what could possibly go wrong? Surely she can get us where we need to go.

I dropped Scott off at the office, a place I’m sure he was more than happy to go since I had been hacking, sniffling, snucking and coughing for the last 24 hours, and then I entered the address of the Urgent Care into the GPS and took off.  I drove to the exact point where the black and white checkered flag was located on the screen and the Brit in the GPS told me I had reached my destination.  Well, unless Urgent Care is located in a factory where they make paper products, I was in the wrong place. 

So I have a brief conversation with Emily, the British GPS Chippie:

Me:  “Drive to the nearest urgent care.”

Emily:  “Drive to Corinth Tire and Repair.  Is this correct?”

Me (slightly louder because maybe Emily is hard of hearing): “No.  Drive to the nearest medical facility.”

Emily:  “Drive to the nearest McDonald’s.  Is that correct?”

Me:  “No, you piece of s&*t! URGENT CARE! I NEED AN URGENT CARE! Forget it!  I’m sick and you’re worthless!”

Emily:  “I’m sorry.  I did not understand that command.  Please choose another option.”

Me:  “I choose to throw you out the window, Emily.”

Emily:  “I’m sorry.  I did not understand that command”.

For the love of all things holy… Emily is fired.

I feel rotten.  I’m far from home.  I don’t know a doctor in this town and I just want to cry.  Instead, I drive around, attempting to be optimistic. After a while, I give up and stop at the nearest building, which happens to be the health department, to ask directions. 

Me:  “Hi.  I’m looking for the Urgent Care facility.  Can you give me some directions?”

Receptionist:  “Oh!  Hun!  Yer soooo cloooose!  Nowya’ll just driiiive down that way there and it’s ouuuun the leuft side of the rowwwd.  On the LEUFT.  Ya cain’t miss it.  Ya just caiiiiiiiiin’t.”

Oh good.  I caiiin’t miss it.

Receptionist: “But if ya come ta Waaaaaalmrt, ya dun gown too far and then ya gotta turn arooooound, and theun, it’ll be on yer RIIIIGHT side.”

Thank heavens for that clarification.

So I head in the direction in which she pointed, looking for Waaaaaaaalmrt.  And I reach Waaaaaaaaalmrt and unfortunately, I still have not located the Urgent Care.  I turn around and look on the RIIIIIIIIIGHT side of the road, but still nothing.  And for the love of Pete…why is everyone driving so damn slow? I turn back around, try again and give up.  I pull over, lean forward and place my forehead on the steering wheel, asking God to please put me out of my misery and end it all for me, right here on the side of the road in the middle of the state of Mississippi. 

But look!  There’s the Social Security office! ‘Nope! Don’t finish me off yet’, I think, and I pull in and ask directions.

Me:  “Hi.  I appear to be lost.  I’m looking for the Urgent Care.  Am I close?”

Receptionist:  “Oh yer so close!  It’s juus riiiit up th rowd!  Yer gonna driiiive thaut waaay and keep yer head all poppycocked to the siiiiide cause then auftur the liiiiite, yer gonna tern left.  Its gotta big ol siiiiign.  Ya cain’t miss it.”

I leave, muttering to myself things that fit into the Not Safe For Work category. Right.  I cain’t miss it.  I just cain’t.  I get in the car and I drive past the light.  And I apparently miss it.  I thought there was a big ol sign?  Shouldn’t I have seen it by now?  I backtrack to the Social Security office and decide to try again, and seriously!! Is this the fastest you people can drive down here? Are your cars physically made differently so that you cannot accelerate anywhere near the speed limit? At this rate, I should be able to find medical assistance by the next week. I’m pretty sure calling an ambulance is off the table. It could take days before they reach me. The death toll down here must be absurd.

I pull out of the Social Security office parking lot again, making sure that this time, I’m keeping my head all “poppycocked” because maybe that’s where I failed the first time- I wasn’t poppycocked enough.  Then, I see it!  But ya cain miss it and there ain’t no big ol siiiiign.  It’s off the road and there is a small-ish sign on the side of the building.  Whatever.  I’m there.

I literally drag my decrepit, sick body through the doors and to the check-in window, where I give the receptionist all my info and then sit down to wait.  But sitting there, I begin to the notice the artwork that is surrounding me in the waiting room.  I mean completely surrounding me.  It’s like a noose around my neck.  I can feel my breathing become a little more shallow while the noose closes tightly around my esophagus.  There are framed prints on all the walls depicting scenes of the Civil War.  But not just any scene.  Large Confederate flags grace every battle behind the glass.  The Yanks are all lying on the ground, missing limbs, bleeding out, while the Confederates seem to be celebrating on horseback, waving their guns in the air like a bunch of Afghans with AK-47s at some Middle Eastern celebration.  ‘Interesting’ and ‘maybe a little concerning’, I think to myself.

The nurse comes out and calls my name and I follow her to an office where there is another nurse at a computer (okay, so this is good sign, they use modern technology here as opposed to using techniques like an ink blotter and parchment paper or lopping off someone’s limb while they bite on a stick).  I sit and begin to answer the questions that both nurses are asking me.  While doing so, I try to take inventory of the artwork again.  This time, I am looking at portraits of Civil War Confederate Generals.  I’m starting to get nervous and becoming more and more aware of the fact that I am from Iowa. 

Then…

Nurse 1:  “Arrrrya a drinker?”

Me:  “uh, casually, I guess.”

Nurse 1:  “Arrrrya a smoker?”

Me:  “No.”

Nurse 2:  “Arrrrya a dipper?”

Me:  “Uhhhhhh.”

Am I a dipper? Does she mean what I think she means? Do women do that here? Suddenly my mind is trying to piece together the visual of a lady with a worn, circular, faded mark in the front pocket of her favorite jeans where she keeps her chew. She looks like she’s part chipmunk with a cheek full and she’s spitting into a cola can. Does she pee standing up? I’m trying to sort all this out in my mind and the nurse continues, but clearly she is working on her own visual…

Nurse 2:  “Well, I gotta ausk.  Ma granny’s a dipper, so ya just never knowwww,” she says, as she is quickly pumping the blood pressure cuff with a smile on her face.  She seems to be lost in thought, as the cuff is tightening more drastically than usual and I feel like my hand might either spontaneously combust or fly off the end of my wrist.  She brings herself back to reality (or perhaps it was the grunting noises I was making as she cut off the circulation from the elbow down), then she laughs.  “Ohhh my!  Did I git that too tiiiight?  I’m so sorry!  I got ta thinkin bout Granny and her dippin can and I wasn’t payin you no attention.”  She says this with a smile that appears genuine, but General Lee is bearing down over her shoulder and I’m starting to wonder if I’m imagining things or if I should make a mad dash for the door.

After Q & A, at which time I realize nothing should surprise me at this point, I am escorted to an examination room…full of pictures of Confederate soldiers. I wait, a little nervously, until the nurse practitioner comes in.  She listens, pokes, prods, asks some questions and informs me of the recovery plan and because I can’t really understand her, I hear something like “Blah blah blah, lots of southern drawl, blah blah blah, southern drawl, SHOT, blah blah blah blah blah.”  Wait a minute.  I know I heard “shot”.  I begin to break out into a sweat, wondering if “shot” refers to a firing squad and a blindfold.  I quickly glance at the Confederate soldier on the wall to my right and feel my throat closing in on itself again.  So I repeat the only word I was able to comprehend- “shot?” and she says “yup.  You’ll feel a lout better, a lout fasterrr.”  Okay, I’m not a big fan of needles, but at this point, I’m sick enough that I don’t care.  The nurse with the granny who apparently loves her tobacco comes in and preps the needle.  She seems to be enjoying her nurse position here at the Urgent Care.  It appears that giving shots might just be the most fulfilling and rewarding thing she does all day.  She not-so-gently gives me a shot in the behind and tells me to just lie down because “yer gonna feel that fer a whiiiile.”  ‘A while’ was an understatement.  I felt it for 3 days.

When I retreated, and I use that term loosely, back to my car, I drove to the pharmacy (while simultaneously suspending my ass from the driver’s seat) to get my medication.  I’m standing at the counter (I would’ve writhed in pain but I was in public), placing my order, when I hear, “Ya’all wanna sit dowun hun?  Ya luuuk like yer in a lotta pain.”  I turn around and there is an elderly woman sitting behind me next to an empty seat.  I take her up on her offer and she comments that it appears I’ve had a shot.  I’m so glad she noticed.

Needless to say, the shot did not make me feel better faster.  The drive home to Iowa, while greatly appreciated at this point, was long and excruciating.  Upon returning North, my sinus infection resulted in numerous doctor visits, lots of heavy medication and ultimately, a tooth extraction, which ironically makes my smile look eerily like some of the people I was sitting next to in the Urgent Care.  Thankfully, here in Iowa, we don’t whittle false teeth out of branches and I’ll be able to have an implant where my tooth was.  

It was a few weeks later that I was telling one of my Southern friends about the events that took place on our trip.  When I presented my observation that the South seems to have a completely different perspective of the Civil War, she replied, “Yes.  They do.  In fact, in many southern Civil War reenactments, the South actually wins.”

Yes.  Yes.  I believe they do…