I checked the DVR a few minutes ago and realized that Top Chef Masters started last night. It is probably my all-time favorite competition-type TV show (well, except for Survivor, of course), and now that I know it’s waiting on the DVR, I HAVE TO WATCH IT IMMEDIATELY.
This would probably be a good time to nod your head and pretend that this sort of behavior is very normal.
We took Martha back to Mississippi today so that she’d be home in time for her standing appointment at the beauty parlor tomorrow, and right before we left Birmingham, I decided that it was as good a day as any to let Martha and my parents read the book (well, the chapters that are about them, at least – I want there to be at least a few parts they haven’t read when they see the whole thing for the first time). Suffice it to say that I was very much in touch with the word “vulnerable” when I handed over those stacks of paper, but I really needed to know if they were okay with what I’d written since I’ll be jumping headfirst into the editing in the next few weeks.
Because if my family isn’t okay with what I’ve written in a book about, well, family, then that would be unfortunate. And also cause for massive re-writes.
After the little guy and I dropped off Martha at her house and stopped by my parents’ house for a few minutes (just long enough for me to hand Mama and Daddy the chapters, over explain myself, and jump back in the car because what, what if they didn’t like it, WHAT WOULD I DO THEN?), we ran by the Popeye’s to grab a late lunch and visit with my cousin Paige for a little while. Strangely enough, A doesn’t like chicken on the bone, a quirk that’s a little bit of a sore spot with me, and quite frankly I’m not sure where my parenting went wrong. Obviously we would appreciate your prayers. Anyway, he had just taken a bite of a chicken tender when a song that I haven’t heard in a long time started playing on the speakers, and I am here to tell you that between the 80′s music and the fried chicken and the hometown, the wave of nostalgia was so strong that I had to brace myself against the table to keep from falling over.
Listen. There’s not a whole lot of 80s music that I miss or even like anymore. But some Steve Winwood? With James Taylor singing harmony? Yes, please. So I sat there and ate chicken and listened to “Back In The High Life” and thought about how I’m way older now and and the boy is growing up and my parents were reading part of my book and Popeye’s is still as delicious as ever and it was just about more than the PMS and I could take.
(SIDENOTE: the coats in the Steve Winwood video just kill me. They’re so good. And big. And flowy.)
(Sort of like his hair.)
In the end everybody was fine and kind and good with the book stuff, and I am so grateful for that. In a way it was strange to hand over the words that I wrote to the people that I wrote them about, if that makes sense, and I’ve continued to hang out right on the edge of a really good cry for the last five or six hours. I guess I just feel relieved. And mildly terrified that all those pages are going to be a book next June. And a little panicked that I haven’t yet located the perfect corner where I can HUNKER DOWN AND HIDE.
So. I’m going to watch Top Chef Masters now. Maybe follow it up with a documentary about how to make tires or something like that. Anything to help me turn the emotional gauge down a notch. I think it’s a good plan.
But heaven help us all if I hear an old Chicago song.