Over You

I am, technically, from Texas. Shh. Few people know this. I have Texas guilt. Mostly, I am deeply ashamed of the loud-mouthed, greedy, gun-toting, conservative rep. But every once in a while, I am proud. At least, about Texans, nobody can say we're reserved. I also like that I can shoot a gun, although of course I never would. In Texas they teach that shit to little girls in summer camp, or at least they did in the summer of 1981. 

There are some things you should know, in case you are a Yankee. First of all, those country music stars? The ones who sing about Virginia and Tennessee and name themselves Florida Georgia Line? Their accents are Texan. Seriously. I know my dialects, bitches. My grandparents were Georgia-bred, and the deep south is totally different. They soften all their consonants and shorten all their vowels. It's more formal sounding in a way I can't explain. The country stars are all singing in Texan, especially the women.

This is all a prelude to my yesterday. Or maybe it was the day before. The holidays are all a blur because I don't have to work. (Eat your hearts out.) Anyway, I was alone in the house. Ari and B were out with my mother-in-law. I was hanging this wine glass rack, and it was (as usual) harder than it looked. I ended up lying on my back on the counter with my feet dangling over the sink, drilling screws up into the bottom of the cabinet. They were messy as hell, but nobody was gonna see them. And the rack wasn't coming down. I could do pull ups on the damn thing. When I finished, I had to stand up on the counter, so I ended up seeing the tops of all the cabinets and refrigerator. They looked like this.

I do not know what is in that pitcher.

Like any normal person, I was overcome with the urgent need to clean the top of the cabinets and refrigerator (layer of black dreck) while listening to Miranda Lambert's "Over You" on repeat and singing, loudly. I can't sing. Seriously not at all. I offend even self when I try. But I figured if I just played it loud enough, that wouldn't be an issue. 

I prepared for this glorious event by getting a 40. Real Texans drink 40s when they clean -- of this I am proud. I can't stomach the Colt whatever, so I buy yuppie 40s, but whatevs. Don't let the perfect be the enemy of the good. I put my song and an apron on and scrambled up onto the counter with my diaper wipes (much cheaper than those bleach ones) and some goo-gone, and I had the best time.

It doesn't sound like much of a party, but moments like this, when I can create the world I want and be alone in it, are what I miss most about being childless. This one was perfect. I wailed with Miranda and cried over my exes. None of mine have died, like in the song, but still. I can get with Miranda. I don't usually like songs about lovers who left but didn't die. Not dramatic enough. I got the stuff clean, and the black dreck on the fridge was really hard to get up. I was all sweaty, and I spilled some of my 40 down my front because I was trying to hold too many things. By the end I looked very Texas -- barefoot (cannot wear shoes on counter), yellow beer stain on apron, hair spilling out of elastic, hands gross.  Then B and Ari and my mother-in-law got home, and I had to take a shower and socialize. But I felt so good. So good. And it lasted all day. Because us Texans know how to catharticize, and we don't always do it with guns.