While Heather wallows in the throes of luuuurrvve

This isn’t about Heather. And it is not about her new beau (old beau…whatever…) although I do like him. A LOT.  But still, ick. You know?  So, to save you all from more girlie  love crap, I thought I would make Caloden about me tonight.

Because tonight is a very significant night in the History of Kelly Lynn(e): four years ago tomorrow, after spending my formative years plus some in the protected mountain valleys of Western Colorado, my brother John and I loaded up a rental truck, my cats, and my emotional baggage and set off for Mississippi, where I would begin my new life.

In short: Moved here, went back to college, tempered a very complicated relationship with my mother -in-law, got pregnant, had a kid, and have managed, in the mean-time to build a home for myself in a place I have grown to love. But I really still don’t fit in here.  And there are things that continue to baffle me about the culture, the people, and the lifestyle.

Like, how did people survive here before air conditioning? Seriously. The hammered down hinges of Hell have NOTHING on an August afternoon in South MS. There is a sort of heat here that sucks your will to live through the pores on the backs of your knees and spirits it away to parts unknown until sometime well into October. It is no wonder that this state has the highest percentage of obesity. Movement burns calories and burned calories generate heat.  Well, that and the abundance of lard used in food preparation. (A single white box lunch from Piggly Wiggly could sustain the entire fourth grade at Carbondale Elementary for three days. If they happen to be serving Chicken spaghetti, well, you can go ahead and toss in the high school marching band as well.)

And why is it, after 4 years, I STILL cannot understand what 3/4 of the people here have to say? I mean, for example: this afternoon I went to the Wal-Mart and picked up a few things. Upon completion of my shopping, I took my few things through the checkout.  As the checkout lady swiped my final item over the glass and placed it in a bag, she looked me dead in the eye and said “You know, Golda Meir was a right fancy tart.”  I mean, HOW DO YOU PROCESS THAT??? I just stared at her for a moment.  And she stared back until it occurred to her that I was challenged in some way. Or was from Russia (there is a surprisingly large population of Russian expatriates in Brookhaven) At any rate I had not understood her instructions. She then  she pointed at her register display and at the credit card machine and said in a louder voice: “PAPER NAPKINS ARE THE ENEMIES OF GOOD SENSE.”  You have not lived in the South until you have been told by the lady taking your ticket at the movie theater that the path to righteousness cuts through a garden of orange corduroy.

But really, I think one of the greatest mysteries that has presented itself to me over the past four years is the Mystery of The Gigantic Panties. In preamble I will alert the reader to these facts: I live in a building downtown that had, at that time, four residents and about twelve retail employees within its walls.  None of whom tipped the scale too far over the national average on the pounds/height ratio scale.  There is a parking lot in the back that is not a public lot and is not frequented by anyone, apart from the fore mentioned normal-weight/sized people.

So anyway, Miss Wanda, as John Kelly calls her, the woman across the hall, was down in the parking lot walking her dog when I received a text from her that instructed me to look out the window directly below my office.  Did I lose something? Well I had a look and there, right below my office window, occupying nearly an entire parking space, was the largest pair of women’s panties I have ever seen in the wild.  All sprawled out like they had been hastily tossed off and forgotten. “What the hell is that?” I asked her.  She leaned in close and said “some underpants.” We both just sort of stared for a minute. She took out her iphone, snapped a picture and emailed it to me so I could have a better look.

They stayed.  Right there below my office window for nearly three days.  We still talk about them, those of us in residence at the Castle. To whom did they belong?  What were the circumstances surrounding their reckless discard in the middle of our parking lot? How is it that such a large pair of panties found their way into our midst? And what happened that they disappeared one night? I, personally,  think it has something to do with the Mid-August heat and the complete lack of tongue movement in the speech patterns of this region. But we may never know.

Oh, also, what the hell is up with boiled peanuts? Squishy cold over salinated snack food?  No.