Hurricane Bobbitt (love is patient, love is kind)

This morning I received a phone call from my great friend Max Bobbitt, who "evacuated" from Wilmington last night up to our place in Chapel Hill, in order to escape Tropical Storm Opheila, reportedly sustaining 70 mph winds. He called to tell me something. "I did something bad," he said.

As I envisioned my elderly cat, perhaps accidentally smothered, I asked him, "What?"

"I locked myself out of your house."

This was no problem, I figured. "Max," I said. "That's alright, let's..."

"I locked myself out of your house and I had to do something bad to let myself back in."

I'd like to pause at this point in the story, to hearken back to Christmas Eve, 2004. Max, and others, had spent the night before at my parent's house after we'd all been out drinking. This was typical behavior - we'd all taxi back to the Rotondaro home and drink some more, passing out wherever, and the parents always knew that's where everybody would be. But on Christmas Eve morning, long after the others had gone home, as appropriate on such a major holiday, Max slept on and on until it neared 4 p.m., and I deemed it prudent to go and tell him that he should probably think about hanging out with his family, who no doubt figured he was sleeping the day away. See, Max is a notorious late-sleeper. Plus, he's pure evil when you wake him up. So I wasn't looking forward to this interchange, but when I got over to the room above the garage, where all these late night sessions are always held by my friends and I, I could not help but be filled with the spirit of Christmas joy. Lucy, the then six-week-old labradoodle puppy my brother and I had gotten to surprise our parents on Christmas morn (the way we pictured it: the most adorable puppy ever known to man, teary-eyed parents touched by the gift after the recent death of our poodle, Ziggy, and presents and hugs and magic - the way it happened: my father screaming "Oh FUCK WHAT IS THAT?")was sitting on the bed, wagging her tail wildly, while Max muttered incomprehensibly. Then I noticed the huge puddle on the sheets, where the puppy had obviously relieved herself sometime during the night. Max, I'm sure, went on tossing and turning and sleeping in it for a good 14 hours or so, without ever noticing, or yelling at her or moving, or caring really.

Then there was that time young Cecilia chewed up his wallet, license and other important cards when I lived in my studio, but he still lets her crawl up in his lap and sleep now that she weighs 65 pounds.

And the fact that Max told everybody I was going through "a transitional phase" and smiled and hugged me, or gave me an encouraging pat on the shoulder, when I was ending a five-year-relationship and getting together with J, while others just wondered "what the hell are you doing?"

Max is reading the always predictable Corinthians bible passage at our wedding, and when I asked him to do so he very practically explained that his mother was an Episcopal priest and he'd be a good reader.

So, despite the fact that my friend, as a "last resort" may have broken a window to get into my house, it is clear to me that in this short life, love and friendship and that beer he promised would be waiting for me when I get home...these things conquer all.

Cracker Barrel: My savior of the roadways

J and I just spent another weekend up in DC, this time to attend a cocktail party thrown by dear family friends, as well as show J's parents the bay, where we will throw a rockin' party in a mere few weeks, after we are wed in an incredibly long and probably tedious ceremony. The party is meant to soothe the nerves of those wedding guests who are not Catholic and don't understand all the hubbub surrounding our union with Jesus Christ. Those wedding guests who think our wedding ceremony, like everyone else's, will last about 15 minutes. Oh man, are you guys going to be pissed. On the way back last night I watched the road signs carefully, as I've got a new favorite activity to make the four-hour drive bearable, and that's listening to books on CD. Specifically, books on CD rented from Cracker Barrel, where they've got a program. The program goes like this: You rent the CD's, listen, and then take them back to any Cracker Barrel in the U.S. for a full refund of the price of the item, minus a small usage fee. Luckily in the South there's a Cracker Barrel 'round every corner. Unfortunately, that hasn't prevented me from accidentally keeping about three of these rentals so long that my charges got high enough and there was no use bringing the thing back. Still I take part.

I've never really liked Cracker Barrel - not the food or the people who work there or anything like that. It's just that cookie-cutter "General Store" atmosphere. I mean, I know I can travel down the road to Morrisville, or Henderson, or any other town in Southeast on my travels back and forth to plan above mentioned party, and there's the same "General Store" with the same products, and I swear to the Lord, sometimes what looks like the same customers. And last time I was there, I was forced to wait at the checkout counter for some time (probably so they could create a "DO NOT SELL BOOKS ON CD TO THIS GIRL" profile by secretly snapping my picture and digging up a database of how many "NY Times bestsellers" I'd failed to return) and while I stood, I checked out some of the items for sale, like the "Grammaws oatmeal cookies" and "Auntie Pauline's apple cobbler" candles, and all I could think was "Hey, let's not teach people to say 'Grammaw' ok?" and I just wanted to get my book on CD and get out of there.

The thing is that lately, every time, I see somebody, like some kid yelling for candy or a huge family that obviously gets together every Sunday for dinner or somebody's grammaw being led out to the car by her son in law or whoever and, just for a moment, Cracker Barrel is my favorite place - on the highway, anyway. All of them, stretching out like beacons that light my way home.