In Which I Whine a Little

Y’all, I was yet again looking at the price of condos in the neighborhood adjoining mine (over where the Playwright lives) and the new ones are going for between $250,000 and $300,000.  I’m declaring this Christmas the “Ask Rude Questions” Christmas, where I can just go up and knock on your door and ask you rude questions like, “What kind of job do you have that you can afford to live here and would prefer to live here rather than in a house in a neighborhood not ten minutes from here?” and then I could knock on builders’ doors and say “Look here at this cute boob freckle.  Shouldn’t it have a home of its own, that it owns, in a real neighborhood with coffee and things to walk to and a window over its kitchen sink?”

I believe it was Ivy who said (though I can’t find it at her blog) that money may not buy happiness, but it sure as hell helps.

I think I must have been drunk or hung-over the day they went over in college which the good paying jobs were, that’s all I’m saying.

You know, my great-grandma Teckla wanted a car once, back in the 20s, and so she went to some dealership there in Chicago and said, “I’ll work for you for long enough to pay off this car” and for some reason, they agreed, and so Teckla took my baby grandma down to the dealership every day and used that baby to entice men into buying cars from her.

Certainly Mrs. Wigglebottom or the Butcher is cute enough that I could somehow parlay them into at least a down payment.

Anyway, I’m starting to think that my desire for a house is not just about a house, but about feeling secure and unbeholden to anyone but me.  Also, I’d like to invite people over for dinner or to watch movies or to be annoyed by my dog.  I wonder, if thirty people came over, would Mrs. Wigglebottom get so overwhelmed that she would just go upstairs and hide?

We may never know, because right now, I couldn’t fit thirty people in the place I live. 

Anyway, I’m just whining.  I have a plan.  It’s just that it’s going to take a few years and I want it now.

So, there you go. 

“But I Drive Down Jefferson Street!”

Y’all, this is the kind of story that careers get ruined over, but it is so funny to me that I cannot refrain from telling it to you anyway.  True story that I heard last night, but stripped of all revealing information.

Let’s say that there’s a large corporation here in town and upper management is taking a close look at why there’s very little diversity among middle management and why middle management seems to do more business, better, with other mostly white corporations, even though there are some well-known, diverse corporations here in town that would seem to logically be the first choice for such business needs.

So, one of the upper managers calls a team captain in and asks him why they aren’t taking advantage of the local resources.

And the middle manager is all “Are you insinuating that I’m racist?  But I drive down Jefferson Street!”

Y’all…

Hold on.

Even now it’s so funny to me that it takes me a moment.

Jefferson Street, for those of you unfamiliar with Nashville, was Main Street for black Nashvillians until the twin forces of desegregation and the interstate radically changed the landscape.  Even now, still, it runs through a predominately black part of town, from the river, past Fisk University and on out to the west.

And so, this dude is attempting to argue that he can’t possibly be racist, because he’s willing to drive down a street in a black part of town.

I just love this.  Let’s use where we drive not just as a marker for how open we are, but as the standard.  Are you willing to drive in a black neighborhood?  Well, then, I guess you can’t be racist. 

Gosh, that’s so much easier than actually acting in a non-racist manner!

I’m going to use that excuse whenever Sarcastro or Exador insinuates I have a problem with capitalism.

“Are you saying I’m a commie?  But I drive down West End, past all kinds of capitalist enterprises, every day!”

Celebrate With Me

Number of Times I Have Been Waking Up at Night: 6 or more

Number of Times I Woke Up Last Night: 3

Number of Times I Actually Got Out of Bed: 1 and only because the dog was scratching at the door!

Hurray!