Right now…it’s down there. I just saw it.

I had to go down and close the cat door and lock her in for the night.

I saw it as I was going down the stairs. I yelled at it to move. It didn’t.

I stomped on the stairs to scare it. I didn’t.

It just laid there. Mocking me. Daring me to come down the stairs to close the cat door. (I wonder if that’s how it got in?)

I went down the stairs and sort of leapt over it…sideways.

I closed the cat door and leapt over it … sideways…to get back up the stairs.

Here’s the bad part–the cat is down there with it. You see, we have two cat doors. One that goes from the garage to the outside and one that goes from the garage into the house. So there’s nothing to stop the cat from catching the giant lizard and bringing it into the house.

Yes, I could close the door into the house, but it seems a little cruel to banish the cat to the cold garage for the night.

OK…cat just came in…alone.

I’m going to see if the lizard is still there.

I’m back. I looked. I didn’t see it.

I hope it didn’t crawl in my car.

No, I’m not moonlighting down at Th’ Catch (a real strip joint in Knoxville) or the Boobie Bungalow ( a real strip joint between here and the Alabama line). But I do have a stripper name.

So do you.

You’re supposed to take the name of your pet and the name of the street you live on. I fudge the rules a little and allow any combination of pet and street name.

I think Kitty Churchill would be kind of a high-end stipper, maybe more of a Las Vegas showgirl with a huge headdress of ostrich feathers. It would also be a good name for a Bond girl.

I went through several combinations before I landed on this one. At my age, there are a lot of pet names and a lot of streets to choose from.

For instance….

Spice Breckinridge is a possibility, but I think that sounds more porn star than stripper.

Or, I could be Smoky White, it has a nice juxtaposition of light and dark.  Smoky White is probably only stripping to pay her way through Harvard–that’s why she knows words like juxtaposition.

Zoe Lake Park is Asian and makes a mean moo shu.

These were all names that I considered.

There is one name though, that, while legitimate, didn’t make the cut. It would only be my stripper name if I worked in a German stalag:

Brunella Hen Peck Lane.

Not too many Deutsche Marks tucked in that g-string.

Last week, when I wasn’t paying attention, this crawled up my nose.

 It’s a rhinovirus molecule and evidently it has found a new home because it–and all its little friends–have put down roots and seem to be dug in for the duration.

And why not? I’m sure that as far as noses go, mine is a fine dwelling. Sure, there’s not a lot of space, but that just means there’s less to clean, right? There’s plenty to eat and drink. Plus, it’s a nice neighborhood and, aside from the occasional sneeze, no violence or crime to speak of.

In fact, I’d have to say that this little molecule is 100 percent safe in its new home because none of the THREE PERSCRIPTIONS the doctor at the walk-in clinic wrote for me last Sunday have budged it one inch.

He said I had bronchitis and strep and prescribed an antibiotic, an antihistamine and a capsule for my cough. It’s Friday now and I’m still coughing, still have a head full of mucus soup and still feel like death on a cracker.  Husband, who is leaving on a two week trip out of the country next week, won’t even be in the same room with me.

Neither will the cat.

So yesterday I was over at Rassle’s place reading about her upcoming Cancun beach vacation. Lay on the beach, sip umbrella drinks, read trashy novels. Only Rass says she doesn’t read trashy novels, so I thought I’d help her out with my Personal Guide to Trashy Novels.

1. Vintage Trash–this includes anything by Jacqueline Susann or Judith Krantz–Valley of the Dolls or Princess Daisy are classic examples of Vintage Trash.

2. Historical Trash–The Wolf and the Dove is the gold standard here. Basically any book where a nobleman’s daughter is captured by the rival clan and held against her will until she subcombs to the captor’s wishes is Historical Trash. There’s really only one plot, they just move the characters around from country to country.

3. High Trash–this is trash with a bit of literary cred. Dominick Dunne perfected High Trash with The Two Mrs. Grenvilles and An Inconvenient Woman. You don’t have to feel completely guilty when reading High Trash.

4. Working Girl Trash–The Devil Wears Prada and The Nanny Diaries exemplify Working Girl Trash. Young middle class girls go to work for rich monsters in New York City. Girls win. Monsters lose.

5. Pink Rubbish (British trash)–Bridget Jones’ Diary is the uber Pink Rubbish and spawned an entire legion of pink-jacketed books about good women, evil men and righteous gay best friends.

6. Prehistoric Trash–anything by Jean Auel…Clan of the Cave Bear in particular.

Don’t get the impression that I’m bashing these books…not in the least. I’ve read them all…some of them several times. Seen most of the movies too. (But not Clan of the Cave Bear.) These books are entertaining, and, bottom line, isn’t that why we read in the first place? To be entertained.

One benefit of working where I do is that we get free flu shots every year. They set up little flu shot stations all around campus and you can just walk in, show your employee ID and walk away theoretically protected from whatever seasonal virus is out there.

At some point, they’ll have H1N1 vaccine available too, but they’re a little iffy on exactly when.

I walked across the street with two other colleagues this morning for my shot. I had even remembered to wear a top with easily rolled up sleeves. We three were the only ones there…no waiting.

Some of you may remember my fondness for needles. Actually, I’ve been poked and prodded so many times they don’t really bother me any more. That was not the case when I was younger.

Once when I was really young (so young that I don’t remember this, and it might not even be true but I think it is so I’m telling it anyhow*) my mother took me to the doctor. There was a shot involved. I took one look at the needle, started screaming and ran from the examination room back out into the waiting room. Somebody caught me and picked me up. That’s when it was discovered that I didn’t have any underwear on–I must’ve tried to dress myself and just forgot that particular item under my dress.

I also remember that the only downside to the beginning of summer meant shots–tetanus shots had to be taken before swimming, camp or any fun summer activities. I would literally dread them for days. I can still remember the horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach at the thought of getting a shot.

But now, getting a flu shot is just no big deal. And that brings us back to today.

I rolled up my sleeve and looked away while the nurse started the injection.

“Oh my,” I heard her say.

“What?” I say.

“Oh, nothing…the plunger just sort of broke off.”

“Is the needle in my arm? Like, is it STUCK in my arm?”

“Mmmmmm…no, not really” she says. “Let me just reach right over here…” as she fumbles around on the table with the one hand that’s NOT holding the needle that’s stuck in my arm.

I look over at one friend whose eyes are the size of saucers. I look at the other one who has gone a little pale and decided that she’d get her shot sitting down.

“Can you get the needle out?”

“Mmmmmm…ahhh….now the medicine is going in…” she says. She removes the previously stuck needle and gives me a Halloween bandaid.

As we’re walking back to the office, I ask my friend what had happened. He told me that the plunger part of the syringe just broke and dropped right to the floor. And that the needle was indeed stuck in my arm.

So the moral of the story is this: the nurse lied. But, in all honesty, the shot didn’t hurt a bit.

*I tried to call Mother for confirmation, but she didn’t answer. Let’s just assume it’s true.

A few months back, while digging in the ground for yet another new Franklin developement, workers unearthed some old bones. Activity ceased and experts were called in who determined that the bones belonged to a soldier who died during the Battle of Franklin, November 30, 1864. They couldn’t tell which side he fought on–Confederate or Union–and there was no clue about his identity. Close to 2,000 soldiers were killed on that day, and many more times that were wounded. It was one of the bloodiest days in American history, and, when you think about it, it’s not surprising that this body was found.

Yesterday there was a big ceremony in town. There was a funeral for the soldier at one of the old churches that was built long before the battle. It was packed with re-enactors and others dressed in period costume. There there was a procession to a cemetery, with a horse-drawn caisson bearing the hand-built casket. Thousands watched–they came here from 4 countries and 29 states.

I had told someone the day before that I didn’t think it would be a very big deal. Man, was I ever wrong. NBC News was even there taping the event to show during tonight’s (Oct. 11) Titans/Colts football game.

All this is to say that sometimes I wonder if it’s easier to be from Idaho or Nebraska or anywhere else  other than a once-small Southern town whose history is forever entwined with violence and slavery? Our beautiful dry stack stone fences are known as slave walls. Our beautiful old homes were built with slave labor. The native African-Americans are descendants of slaves, including some that were owned by my family.

I’m not here to apologise for what happened 200 years ago. I have to worry about how I treat people today.

Hmmmm…wasn’t this post supposed to be about a book?

The Help is set in Jackson, Miss., in the early 1960s and it is about the relationships between black maids and the white women who employee them. There are three main characters (two older maids and a young, white Junior Leaguer). The girl is a budding author and wants to write about the lives of the maids. She has a hard time convincing them to participate–they are understandably afraid for their jobs. But when the young girl’s best friend launches a campaign aimed to put a “colored only” bathroom in every home that employs a maid, the women decide to talk.

I’ve done a poor job of describing this wonderful book. But what comes through loud and clear is the fear and sense of defeat that these women bear. They live in complete segregation–they can’t even shop in certain grocery stores unless they’re wearing their maid’s uniforms–a sign that they’re there on white business. Even though the book is set a century after slavery is outlawed, you wonder just how much has changed.

Which brings me back to Franklin.

I’m all about tradition and I’m glad that I’m able to live in this place that’s nurtured my family’s roots for generations. I just wish we didn’t rush celebrate a day when thousands died and thousands more were wounded and maimed–all in an effort to enslave our fellow humans.

Today tourists come here to see where the battle was fought and to tour the homes that have been turned into museums. The money they leave has filled our coffers nicely.

So it’s complicated. We celebrate the Confederate soldiers who fought and died here. But we conveniently forget what they were fighting for.

A few days ago Chris, otherwise known as A Free Man, asked me to write a guest post at his blog. I’m sure many of you are already regular readers, but if you’re not, a brief introduction.

Chris lives with his wife and 2 sons in Austrailia. He’s a college professor and an unabashed fan of the University of Georgia. (See where this is going?)

In anticipation of the Vols clash with the Dawgs in a couple of days, Chris asked me to write a post–not so much about football, but about my love for my school.

Hop on down to Adelaide and have a look.

Despite my distrust of cultures that have no cheese, I am going to Japan in November. We will stay in Tokyo and make day trips by bullet train (and others) to Kyoto and Hakone.

More on all this later…but, if any of you out there have tips or recommendations, send them my way. Husband has been to Japan several times, but this will be my first trip and it will be the first truly “foreign” place I’ve been to in years.

I might come back looking like this:

or this:

Or, if I have too much sushi, like this:

Sayonara.

I hope that some of you, at least here in the U.S., have been able to see part of Ken Burns’ new documentary on PBS about the creation of the national park system here. Like all of Burns’ work (except for the one on baseball), it is beautifully written, has wonderful music and is voiced by some of the best talent around, including Tom Hanks and Sam Waterson.

Here’s a description of the series:

Filmed over the course of more than six years at some of nature’s most spectacular locales, “The National Parks: America’s Best Idea” is a six-part, 12-hour documentary series by Ken Burns and his longtime colleague Dayton Duncan on the history of America’s national parks. This is a story of people — rich and poor, famous and unknown, soldiers and scientists, natives and newcomers, idealists, artists and entrepreneurs — who were willing to devote themselves to saving some precious portion of the land they loved and in doing so, reminded their fellow citizens of the full meaning of democracy.

I have been fortunate enough to visit two of the most spectacular parks–Yellowstone and Yosemite. These two sites encapsulate the beauty of the west with a capital W. We went to Yellowstone on our honeymoon and I remember seeing Old Faithful. It was my first experience of actually seeing something I never actually thought I’d see in person. I’ve had that pleasure many times since, but Old Faithful was the first. Several years later, we traveled through Yosemite. I will say right now that Yosemite is not always a good choice for people as afraid of heights as I am and I did come down one trail on my rear end (much to husband’s embarrasment and dismay).

As fabulous as the western parks are though, they’re not my favorite. That distinction has to go to Great Smoky Mountains National Park. It’s where my parents took us on our first vacations as children. It’s where we escaped to on the first pretty spring days during college. And it’s where I’ll be this weekend. In a cabin overlooking the blue-green mountain tops of East Tennessee.

As much as I love travel to foreign lands, it’s nice to be reminded of the spectacular scenery right here at home. (And yes, that is a hot tub. Don’t be a hater.)

My birthday was last Sunday. It’s ok if you forgot–odds are I’ll forget yours too. Fortunately for me though, my friends and family didn’t forget, and along with the e-mails, calls, Facebook messages and two sublimely delicious quiches, I got a lot of cards.

I love getting cards. In an age when most of our communication is electronic, it’s nice to have a tangible reminder of someone else’s thoughtfulness. People took the time to pick a card they thought I would like. They wrote cute messages. One even included a generous check (can you guess who?). Most were addressed, stamped (and honestly, when was the last time most of you put an actual stamp on something?), and put in the mailbox. Others were hand-delivered by the well-wishers in person.

All this leads up to the following question…

Can I throw them away now?

What is the appropriate amount of time to keep a birthday card? Will you think less of me if, after a week, I send them to that great recycling container in the sky? Do I have y’all’s permission to pitch them? I’m just not a momento-keeping, scrapbook-gluing kinda gal. 

So I’ve decided that the statute of limitations on keeping birthday cards is one week. While we’re at it, let’s say that Christmas cards can be tossed, without guilt, on January 2.

Oh, and I have to show you my fabulous birthday cake, courtesy of friend j9: