The weatherman's exact words were: "It'll be cold as SHIT this weekend," so Ned and I crafted a plan that we would not go out all weekend if we could help it. I had The Poet's, you know, poetry reading to attend Saturday night, but other than that, Ned said, "I'll build a fire that lasts all weekend," which was not a euphemism. I said I'd make more pumpkin chili, and you can think that sounds disgusting but it isn't. Let me link to it for you, because recipe blog.
So the first way that got screwed up is Ned had to work late. He called me. "You just wanna go out to dinner?"
On Saturday morning, before we started this infamous fire, we realized we really did need to buy that other wardrobe Ned admired. Wardrobe, hunh, what is it good for? Absolutely something. Say it again.
The one we bought was already full and we still had a ton of crap. So we made arrangements to drive to...let's call it Dalton and pick the wardrobe up in a grocery store parking lot, which by the way Dalton is in the middle of nowhere. The woman selling it was, you know, a woman, so it made sense she'd have us meet her in public. Obviously, it totally ruined our plans to bludgeon and rape her, but you gotta roll with the changes.
The wardrobe is beautiful, and I've already put a picture in here of it. That sentence was constructed flawlessly. Anyway, scroll down a few days and it's the not-waterfall-pattern one. Or just trust me, it's pretty. I don't feel like going all the way downstairs to photograph it.
June's blog. Come for the Gordon Lightfoot/Edwin Starr/REO Speedwagon lyrics. Stay for the laziness.
The other thing that was beautiful was the drive. We took back roads, and the sky was that blue it only really is in the fall, and the leaves were still spectacular. Then we pulled into Dalton.
"If I had to live here I'd kill myself," I said, driving away all my many Dalton readers. "The whole time we're here, should we call it Dulltin?" asked Ned, sort of loving himself.
"I think we should be all, 'You live here? God' when we meet her," I suggested.
"Yeah, we could say, 'What do you do all day? Aren't you depressed?" said Ned.
"Did you have to marry your cousin?"
We made other hilarious, we-live-in-the-booming-city-of-Greensboro jokes till we pulled into the parking lot, where it turns out the woman selling the thing and her dad were really kind, good-looking people, and I immediately felt bad about the Halloween pump-kin joke I'd made right before we pulled up.
After our purchase, which Ned was terrifically excited about ("It's such a good-looking wardrobe!" he kept saying, like he'd just purchased a thoroughbred or something) he mentioned we were near Lexington, which is famous for its barbecue. "We could have lunch there," said Ned, chili long forgotten.
I'd done Tracy Chapman before we'd left, and the idea of barbecue made me swoon like it was 1954 and Frank Sinatra had just sauntered in. So we drove on more tree-lined country roads till we got to Lexington.
Dood. That was the best effing barbecue I've ever had in my life. IN.MY.LIFE. Oh my god. Those hush puppies? Light and a little sweet and oh, so crunchy. You don't even know. And there was enough food there to feed me five times.
Then I'm sorry to tell you we got swept up in one of those by-the-road-ridiculous-concrete-statue places.
By the time we got home and schlepped the wardrobe in (a woman stopped her car on the street to say what a beautiful wardrobe it is. Oh, scroll down. It's like three days ago I showed you), it was time for me to go to The Poet's poetry reading.
"I'll have a fire ready when you get back. You want me to buy the ingredients for the chili?" Ned asked. Poor Ned's been waiting on that chili for days now.
"Yes!" I said, "Maybe I'll make it when I get back. I won't be gone long."
After each poem and short story was read, The Poet and I stayed and had coffee. Actually, neither one of us had coffee. I got a Pelligrino and she got some sort of cider that she said tasted like she was drinking a liquid doughnut. I have no idea what hilarious thing I was saying at this moment but I'm certain it was pithy.
"When I saw your blog on Friday, and it was called Freaky Friday: Gordon Lightfoot Edition, I thought maybe you'd tell about how Gordon Lightfoot saved my life," said The Poet.
It turns out, years ago, The Poet had to work late, and when she pulled up to her house, she stayed in the car to hear the rest of that ridiculous "If You Could Read My Mind" song.
Have you seen my enormous turquoise cuff?
"That's two people you really actually like who enjoy them the Gordon Lightfoot," Ned mentioned to me when I told him this story, and it's true. Miss Doxie also likes her some Gordon Lightfoot. I don't know what to tell you.
So The Poet stayed in her driveway and jammed out to Gordon Lightfoot, which gave the robbers in her home time to escape out the back. Those same robbers had beaten someone else nearby and had raped another person.
So Gordon Lightfoot saved her from something nefarious, at least.
Let me weigh my options: beating and rape, or having to hear that entire song. I'll get back to you.
The point is, it's Sunday morning and now we have to scream to Winston-Salem, as my friend Charlie has asked us to, and I'm not saying no to Charlie. Look, paralyzed guy, why don't you go fuck yourself? It's cold out.
Project stay in. Kind of a bust.