Me, Myself and Mommy

If you grew up in the Lexington, Virginia area, you know the Southern Inn. If you’ve ever visited Lexington, you know the Southern Inn. If you’ve ever passed through downtown Lexington on your way to some place with taller buildings and brighter lights, you know the Southern Inn. You may have no idea that the spinach dip there is addictive,  or that there are coat hooks on the end of each booth, but that  two-story blue sign that says “PARKING IN REAR – SOUTHERN INN RESTAURANT” is unforgettable. With a sign like that, you know the place has stories to tell – stories of romance, business deals, friendship, bank robberies (OK, maybe not bank robberies, but if a movie needed an early 1900’s bar for a scene where a bank robbery was being planned out the Southern Inn would be perfect).

(The church on the left was destroyed by fire ten years ago almost exactly ten years ago)

Late Thursday night a line of severe thunderstorms charged through the Lexington area. It was a welcomed relief to the desert like weather we had been having for what seemed an eternity. It rained enough to cause flash flooding and bring hope to those with gardens. As Lexington woke up the next morning, refreshed by the cleansing down pour and cooler temperatures, it was handed devastating news. While most of Lexington was fast asleep, the Southern Inn had been destroyed by fire.

When I was driving to work around 9:00AM that morning, I hadn’t heard the news. As I approached the Nelson- Main Street intersection, I noticed part of the road was closed. At first this didn’t alarm me because the road at this intersection is often rerouted for the construction of a new bank. As I approached the traffic light I saw a fire truck, police cars and several rescue workers; this raised my eyebrow a little. However, this is Lexington and because there isn’t much excitement around, it would not have surprised me if the entire town was dispatched for a smoking tail pipe on an old beat-up truck. It wasn’t until I turned the corner to head North down Main Street that I saw what all of the traffic disruption was all about. I looked to my left and felt my heart drop to my stomach as I saw light from the caved in roof pouring into the soot covered Southern Inn and creating a silhouette around one of the angry pig figurines that has been in the window of the restaurant for as long as I can remember. As I continued to creep down the road, following a procession of mourners, I panicked, “Where was the sign!?” I looked in my side mirrors, and there it was, clinging to the side of the building for dear life. Seeing that sign was like getting a big hug from Lexington that I could bury my face in.

I returned to the Southern Inn on Friday evening to pay my respects. I followed the big blue sign’s instructions and parked in the rear. I took a few minutes to take in the back of the building before walking through the tiny alley way that led to Main Street. I stood on Main Street looking at the big blue sign and that angry pig in the window, and began remembering the few times that I was part of the Southern Inn’s  story. The first memory I have of the Southern Inn is when I was a little girl; we went there for breakfast with my mom’s family that was visiting from out of town. I was very young, but I remember having the biscuits and gravy and thinking, “Wow. I better be good; this place is fancy.” My second memory was of going to eat dinner with one of my best friends from high school. We sat in a booth with a coathook on the end; we shared the spinach dip and each had a cheeseburger. The third memory I have, is one of mine and Steve’s first night out alone after Moanna was born. Steve did not want to go to the Southern Inn at all because he thought it was going to be very country; he has a reputation of pre-judging things in Virginia. I can’t remember what we ate that night (other than the spinach dip of course), but I do remember that Steve was pleasantly surprised by the experience.

As  I was about to leave, I looked down at my feet and saw a broken soot covered brick. I picked it up, held it to my face and took a deep breath in. I could smell the fire from the night before, but what I really smelled deep inside that brick was history and memories – stories of romance, business deals, the laughter of friendship and maybe even the plotting of a great bank robbery.

**So far a cause of the fire has not yet be determined.  The owners of the restaurant and building have assured the community that they plan to rebuild and open as soon as possible.

Please excuse me, I’m whipped. If the gibberish that follows doesn’t’ make sense, well that’s about par for me, but at least this time I have an excuse. I have jet lag (until recently, embarrassingly recently I thought it was jet leg), at least that is what I’m claiming.

In the past three days, I have spent roughly 18 hours in the car and gotten about five hours of sleep a night. I’ve not crossed into a different time zone at all, but I swear I have jet lag. I’m so tired breathing is a chore, and I’ve had a persistent headache. I’m also queasy from the lack of sleep and proper nutrition during our travels.

Doesn’t this sound like jet lag to you?

OK, no I didn’t get on a plane, and no I didn’t cross into any time zones, but cut me some slack here.

While you’re Googling the proper definition of “jet lag,” I’m going to go take a nap. Let me know what you find, and do forgive me while I take a few days to pull myself  together.

When I return from my extended siesta, I have a lot of adventures to share with  you and a I am in desperate need of some advice on a few hurtles I’m having trouble jumping.

I cannot tell you how many times I’ve started to type the beginning of this post, and deleted it all. I’m really struggling with how to put this out there in the universe. In fact, I originally began this post all the way back on May 12th. For almost a month now, I’ve been trying to get the following information out of my system, and every time I go to tell you what I’m about to tell you, I chicken out.

OK. I’m just going to say it. It’s time to get this over with….

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OK, I’m really going to say it this time…

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We’re…

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We’re moving…

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To Georgia…

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To Atlanta, Georgia…

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To the suburbs of Atlanta, Georgia…

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We’re moving to the suburbs of Atlanta, Georgia.

I think I’m going to throw up…

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Nope. No, we’re good. I’m cool.

Boy, I’m glad that’s over with. Now can we all go back to being normal, and pretend like I’ve not been keeping this deep, dark secret from you for so long?

And now that you know, can I please tell you all of the things that have been keeping me awake at night?

Are you ready for this? I’m warning you, this is some deep, philosophical stuff.

I lay awake at night worrying about how I’m going to get my bonzi tree safely from Virginia to Georgia. It sits in it’s own water fountain on my kitchen counter, and I have no clue how it’s going to make the journey. This bonzi is one of the few plants that I own that is thriving. Most plants I touch die within a few weeks, months if I’m lucky. I adopted this plant from a friend who moved half way across the country and didn’t know what to do with the plant. It was barely kicking when I took it in. I’ve had it for a year now, and it has doubled in size. If this poor tree manages to make it to the state of Georgia alive, where am I going to keep it? Will my new house have a place for this little tree to call home?

Another thing that keeps me up at night is worrying about the traffic in Atlanta. I have visions of merging onto a highway of thousands of cars driving 75mph, and being paralyzed with fear. I’m going to get on the highway and not be able to move. A helicopter is going to have to be flown in to drop ropes for me and Moanna to grab onto so we can be lifted out of the river of venomous cars. You laugh, but I’m serious. It’s going to take me forever to get up the courage to get on the road and go anywhere. When I finally do get up the nerve to drive, it’s going to take me hours to get anywhere because I’m going to be that car driving 35mph in the right lane afraid to change lanes.

Here’s something else. What if we get to our new house and forget to pack toilet paper? We’ll have to drip dry. But what if it’s not a drip dry kind of situation? We will have to go buy toilet paper. After being in the car for who knows how long, we’re going to have to get back in the car to find a store, and find toilet paper (which I probably won’t have a coupon handy for), find our way back to the house and then use the bathroom. By that point, it will be dark and none of our stuff will get unload, so we’ll have to sleep on the hard floor. The next morning we’ll wake up and be too sore and stiff to lug our boxes and furniture in the house. What we’ll end up doing is living out of the moving truck and going inside only when we have to pee because thank the stars we went to the store and bought toilet paper at full price.

So there you have it. We’re moving to the suburbs of Atlanta, Georgia, and I lay awake at night stressing about my bonzi tree, traffic and toilet paper.

The end…

For now…

There are very few commercials that I tolerate, but I absolutely love this commercial. It captures the freedom and playfulness of summer. It makes me giggle.

We all dance in our kitchens when no one is around to witness our silliness, but how many of us are confident enough to let loose in the yard where everyone can pass judgement on us?

One of the times my husband loves me most is when I cook for him. He thinks I’m amazing in the kitchen. I think he’s amazing for playing along and pretending that everything I cook came straight out of a five star restaurant.

Little did we know, I was poisoning my husband on a daily basis.  Every time I made him Greek pasta, homemade pizza, spaghetti and meatballs, quesadillas or chicken cordon bleu to name a few, I was slowly killing him – a slow, painfully, declisous death.

Back in January/February, after Steve had been eating PB&J twice a day everyday while on the road (trying to save money) for work, he broke out in rashes that continued to get worse and worse. His knees, elbows and back were the worst. He was miserable.

He had these rashes in the past, but never this serious. The would randomly come and go. About a year ago he was getting irritated with the constant itching and not being able to sleep at night, so he went to the doctor. The doctor prescribed some hefty cream and determined that it was Eczema.

One night in February, Steve called me from Miami one night completely infuriated. He had had up to his chin (literally) with the rashes and something had to give. He was threatening to spend the rest of his life in the ocean in hopes that the salt would dry up the rashes.

Having no idea what to do, I Googled the issue.

I know that self diagnosing on the Internet is dangerous. No matter what you search for it’s going to tell you that  you’re pregnant, or that you are going to die from some life threatening disease that only patients on House are infected with.

Knowing very well that Google could tell me that my husband would only have minutes to live if I searched for his rash on the Internet, I threw caution to the wind and clicked the search button.

Google said Celiac Disease. I have searched for all kinds of bizarre things on the Internet, and never once had it come back at Celiac Disease. Kind of amazing since the list of symptoms for Celiac Disease includes every symptom known to man. With my chronic pain and exhaustion, who knows, I could have it too.

The more I read, the more it made sense. The location and appearance of the rashes matched. Some of the other symptoms matched up with things Steve has complained about in the past. Also, his rash began to appear shortly after the PB&J marathon began.

As soon as Steve returned from Miami he went to the doctor to be tested. Naturally, the doctor looked at Steve sideways when he told him what we thought the problem was. He looked even more skeptical when Steve told him I found it on the internet. Can’t blame the doctor for his disbelief. He probably wouldn’t have been shocked if Steve told him that Google said he was pregnant.

A few days later the blood test came back positive for Celiac Disease. On one hand, we were trilled that we had answers, and that the internet doesn’t always lie. However, on the other hand we knew that meant a complete lifestyle change.

Celiac Disease is basically an allergy or intolerance to gluten. Gluten is found in breads, pastas, baked goods, frozen foods, almost anything processed. Wheat, barley rye and modified food starch are some of the most prevalent ingredients containing gluten. The complete list is about a mile long. Modified food starch is the tricky one. It’s in everything: frozen French fries, taco seasoning, salad dressing, ice cream, potato chips, frozen vegetables, everything.

Steve has had to eliminate a lot of his favorite foods (pasta, pizza, cookies). I  have changed the way I shop and cook. We have to be very diligent and plan ahead when going out to eat, on vacation or to a friend’s for dinner. When the Holidays come, Steve isn’t going to be able to eat many of the traditional foods.

A few days after the blood test confirmed what we already assumed to be true, I had an emotional meltdown in the grocery store. Everything I thought was safe, had some hidden unnecessary form of gluten in it. When I found the teeny-tiny shelf of gluten free foods I nearly fell in the floor. $3.00 for 8oz of rice pasta. $3.00! Not only do I have to change the way I cook and shop, but my grocery bill is going to triple.

I really shouldn’t complain. I’m not the one who has had to give up the foods they love, or eat really crappy alternates to pizza and pasta. I just can’t believe that all this time I’ve been poisoning my husband when I thought I was being a good little wife cooking my him the foods he loves.