What's In A Name?

I hate my name.  I have never felt that it suited me or should belong to me. I blame my parents of course. They are the ones that did this to me. You see, they could not agree on a name for me when I was born.  My dad wanted Julia, my mom wanted Julieanne. As a compromise, they named me one, and called me the other. Until I was 5, I thought my name was Julieanne. I liked that name. I liked the way my Southern grandmother pronounced it as two separate words, Julie Anne, so that both the first and third syllable in the name was stressed. 

When I went to kindergarten, I was called and became known as Julia, which was news to me at first. The teacher, Mrs. Nelson, would pronounce it with two syllables  "Jool-ya". The other kids stretched it into three calling me "Jool-ee-ya". Oh how I hated the way it sounded!  It sounded ugly and boring and just wrong. I did not like it. It did not sound right at all. 

The nuns in grade school certainly did not abide by family nicknames, but by high school, I managed to be known mostly as Julie to my close friends.  Now professionally, my name has reverted back to Julia, much to my dismay. When I invite people to call me Julie instead, they say how they have seen my name as Julia and question which is correct. Some have even gone so far as to tell me that they like Julia better, and continue to call me that. My own husband, who knows how I feel about my name, for some reason, when speaking of me, calls me "Jool-ya".  I suppose he prefers that as well. 

To me, the name Julieanne is who I am. It is the name I was first called by my family.  It reminds me of home and being loved.  Being called "Mom", makes me feel the same way. That is reserved for two very special people in my life. Maybe it's okay that no one calls me Julieanne anymore. Maybe that exclusivity makes it special and private, and something reserved for the people who know me and love me in spite of it. 

From You Guys to Y'all

I've lived in three very different regions of the United States, each with their own accents, word pronunciations, and distinct lingo. I have an embarrassing tendency to pick up the accents of wherever I am visiting or living, so that my own manner of speaking is an amalgamation of where I have been. Perhaps this is why Siri cannot understand a word I say, or why one of my aunts looked me up and down the last time I saw her and proclaimed that I have some sort of accent that she didn't understand, before walking away perturbed. 

While I lived in Michigan, I had no idea whatsoever that there was in fact a Michigan accent.  I did notice that when I would call the admissions offices of the colleges I was considering in the Seattle area, the people there seemed to have this airy lilting way of speaking that was very different from what I was used to.  Declarative sentences had a way of ending on a high note as though they were actually questions. I found it charming, and I am sure I adopted it unconsciously. 

Vernor's is an example of a pahhp found in MI.

It took awhile for me to drop my Michigan lingo, but before long I was referring to carbonated drinks as soda instead of pop. If by some chance I say "pop", I pronounce it with one non-nasally short "o" instead of "pahhp", as a Michigander might.  After referring to my collective co-workers in Seattle as "you guys" and being severely admonished that they were definitely not "guys" and did not at all appreciate being referred to as such, I dropped that colloquialism. I began using words like "spendy" to mean expensive and my accent adapted to the change in my environment. 

In 2007, I moved to Texas.  I found it surprising that the native Texans that I met do not have a discernible Southern accent unless they are speaking to other Texans. As the conversation flows, the accents get thicker and thicker.  And yes, everyone, accent or not, really does use "y'all".  I was in a store the other day and was asked, "How're y'all doing today?"  I was there without the kids, so I was confused by whether or not the friendly clerk was referring to just lonely ol' me or not.  I turned and looked behind me to see if there was a group there, but no, just me.  "Y'all" is most often used in the plural sense, but apparently it can be used in the singular sense as well.  

2007 also marked my 20th high school reunion, which I attended after a long absence from Michigan.  It was then that I realized that Michiganders their very own distinct accent. I had kept in contact with some of my friends via email and Christmas cards over the years, but had not heard the sound of their voices since I left in 1991. My first thought was, what is up with their accents?  Do I, or did I used to sound like that? 

People from Michigan have a unique way of speaking. We inexplicably mash together multiple words to make one sound or lengthen some short words to have more than the usual syllables. (You can read more about that here: http://hubpages.com/hub/Michigan-Accent.)  I am still prone to the word shortening when I speak, which I am afraid may make me seem uneducated to non-Michiganders.  If I am not concentrating on my manner of speaking, I will say things like "kinuh" instead of "kind of" and "tuh" instead of "to".  I will say "couldah, shouldah, wouldah" instead of "could've, would've, should've". It can be embarrassing at times, especially when a 10 year old student picks up on one of my bastardized pronunciations of a word and asks me earnestly what the word I just said means. The word in question was roof, which I do not pronounce with the "ew" sound in the middle, and to tell the truth, that way just sounds really wrong to my ears. I make more of short "u" sound.  I don't know why; I had never thought I pronounced it weird until that child brought it up.  When I questioned co-workers, the consensus was that my pronunciation was off.  Then again, not one of them is fortunate enough to hail from the Mid-west, so really, what do they know? 

There are a few Texas-isms that I have acquired in my time here.  I now use the word "ugly" to not only refer to unsightly, or unpleasant to the eye offenses, as in "Vera Bradley bags are just gawd-awful ugly!" (They truly look like something my grandma would have made out of one of her old pantsuits from the 1970's, but I digress.)  In the Southern sense, ugly more refers to behavior. As in if someone speaks to you harshly without just cause, you would say, "She got really ugly with me."  If you want to relay your displeasure with someone without it seeming like you are all out purposely bad mouthing them, you might preface the insult with, "I don't mean to be ugly, but....."  It is a more genteel way of stating your actual low opinion of a person or situation without it reflecting back upon you negatively. 

"Bless your heart" is another Southern colloquialism used to soften the blow of a biting remark. You can pretty much get away with saying anything after "bless your heart" and it sounds like you really do wish the person well despite whatever you find appalling about them.  As in, "Bless your heart, you have been working so hard that you're all flushed and sweaty". The person who said this is not proud of all your toil and labor.  What they really mean is, "You look/smell like hell. You should go take a shower. You are not fit to be seen by decent folks in your current state." I try not to employ "bless your heart" unless I am speaking of or to a child.  It seems very disingenuous to use it with an adult, but the way I see it, a child cannot often help whatever the offense is, or just has not been taught better by his or her mama. When I say "bless your/her/his heart" to or about a child, I do mean it in a loving and nurturing way.  A child is not deserving of snarky remarks, plain and simple. 

Lately, I have been listening rather heavily to audio books from a Southern author. I have heard myself say things in a twang that does not ordinarily come from my lips. I am no longer sure what kind of accent I possess.  I suppose it is a bit of Mid-west, Pacific Northwest, and Central Texas with a dash of Southern thrown in.  If I watch enough British TV and movies, a pinch of that seeps in as well.  It's no wonder Siri tells me that she does not understand me.  

The King and I

Earlier this summer, the man had a pool tournament in Tunica, Mississippi. If the growing number of trophies that have taken over the top of our book shelf in the bonus room (aka Dan-o-mite's Billiards Practice Facility) are any indication, he likes to compete and he is quite good at it. Since pool tournaments are generally not family friendly outings, the kids and I usually stay at home. He was able to entice me to come along this time when he mentioned that Tunica is a mere 30 miles away from Memphis, Tennessee. 

I am a barbecue fan, but that is not the reason I wanted to go to Memphis. Not a lot of people know this about me, but I am an absolutely raging (albeit closeted) Elvis fan. If you were to ride in my truck, you might notice the radio presets are all the usual rock, pop, and alternative stations, but if you click on cd, The King will burst forth and my secret would be revealed.  At home, the XM is usually tuned to channel 19, Elvis Radio, coming direct to you from the Graceland Mansion in Memphis, Tennessee. 

I have wanted to visit the home of The King for a very long time. I have seen pictures before of the stained glass peacock windows leading to the music room, and of course the well known jungle room, but I wanted to experience it myself and walk in his footsteps. So without hesitation, I agreed to go on the nine hour road trip, and believe me, I hate the monotony of road trips. 

First, a word about Tunica. If you have never been or never heard of it, allow me to educate you. It is near the Mississippi River, yet out in the middle of nowhere. There are several large casinos in the area, and pretty much nothing else. Seriously. As in I heard a woman ask the concierge where the nearest Target or Walmart was, and she was told about 25 miles away. Although we saw plenty of kids in the hotel, there really is not much for families to do in and around Tunica. (However, at least one of the casinos, Harrahs, has an onsite daycare with an arcade and indoor jungle gym should you want to ditch the kids and gamble away their college funds.)

If you do go, you must, must, must, forgo the casino restaurants for breakfast and head about 20 minutes down the road to Tunica proper. There you will find the historic Blue and White Restaurant. Ignore the deep fried lunch buffet and get yourself a menu. Now you might have a bit of a wait for your food, but a good Southern scratch made breakfast is worth it. You have never, nor will you ever in your whole entire life have grits as light and fluffy and buttery as theirs. Why not start the day with a breakfast fit for The King?

We planned to visit Graceland on Saturday morning. Dan really wanted to come, but he had a match later that day, so he was not able to join us. I drove to Elvis Presley Boulevard, which was renamed that during his lifetime. When Elvis bought the mansion in 1957, it was out in the country. Over the years, businesses have cropped up, and now unsavory looking strip malls and fast food joints line the highway. Graceland is set back from the street, and still looks majestic and serene, despite the seedy surroundings.  

Directly across the highway from the mansion, are an assortment of Elvis themed gift shops, restaurants, a museum dedicated to his cars, his two jet planes, and the parking lot, which is $10 to enter. Do not come to Graceland with a light wallet.  I am not saying in any way, shape, or form that it is not worth it. It is. It really is, but the experience is going to cost you. 

Upon buying your tickets, you are given a vague timeline as to when your shuttle will leave.  In the meantime, you are free to visit the lovely gift shops, tour the planes, and any of the exhibits on that side of the street. We had about an hour wait to board our shuttle, plenty of time to drop some cash in the gift shops and see the planes. The Lisa Marie jet was incredible with its living room, board room with conference table, and private bedroom with attached bathroom featuring a golden sink. 

Once on the shuttle, we crossed the street and drove through the famous guitar gates and up the long circular driveway. Before boarding, we were given headsets, and instructed to turn them on to hear a narration of what we were seeing from that point on. I must say that while in the house, I didn't feel like I really got to experience it the way I would like. The narration, although very well done and interspersed with Elvis music and actual audio clips, removed me from the experience. I felt like I was watching a TV show as opposed to actually being there. I was on the narrator's time line, not my own. 

This a pic I snapped from the foyer looking into the living room and music room.

I was surprised at how homey the house felt, despite it being a museum. At the front of the house, it looked very formal, but the rear and basement looked like a very comfortable and inviting home, that just happened to be stuck in a 1970's time capsule. This is most apparent in the dark paneled kitchen with carpeting, the dark green shag of the jungle room, the mirrored walls and ceiling along the staircase to the basement, and the fabric lined walls and ceiling of the billiard room.  

The kitchen at Graceland

The time in the mansion felt rushed, as if the docents were pushing us through. They really weren't, but as other tour groups filed into the narrow passage ways, it felt as though I didn't have a choice but continue to plow on. Once outside in the backyard and outbuildings, it was more relaxed. I took my headset off in the racquet ball court, which is where Elvis spent his last night before retiring to his bedroom for the last time. I really should have done that much sooner. Although I enjoyed the narration, I felt like I was finally experiencing Graceland with it off. If I were to go again, and I hope I do, I will do so with headset in hand. 

Visiting the home of Elvis Presley, The King of Rock, was a dream come true for me and a dream I hope to re-live someday. It was fascinating and made the legend seem more human. I highly recommend it. 

People of Walmart and Me, I Mean, Who Hasn't Left Their Pants at Home?

You have seen the People of Walmart site, right?  Or at least stumbled across a share of it in your Facebook feed?  I'm sure you have, even if you won't admit it. On the one hand I am appalled at the voyeuristic and exploitative nature of the page, but then I laugh, and click the arrow for the next page to see yet another fashion victim in all their trashy glory. 

I've never seen anything even remotely like those crimes of fashion at any Walmart where I have shopped.  I've seen people in flannel pajamas, or skinny dudes in wife beaters with low rider pants that show their underwear, but you can see any of that at any grocery store.  It is certainly not more prevalent at Walmart than anywhere else.  That was of course until today. 

The boy and I were shopping at Walmart today for a new swim noodle.  As we walked down one of the main thoroughfares, I noticed a 30 ish woman in front of us wearing a black tunic top that fell just below her hips, and no pants. It took me a second to register what I was seeing.  What I was seeing was cellulite ridden ass cheeks that maybe had swallowed a thong, but no fabric whatsoever was visible below the shirt hem. 

"Avert your eyes, my boy!" I squeaked grabbing the poor child by the head and bum rushing him down a shoe aisle in order to protect him from the unholy sight. He of course had no idea what the big deal was as he hadn't noticed a thing.  He just assumed I was being silly, which is not at all uncommon. 

Who goes out like that?  She looked a little too young to have forgotten pants and a little too old to decide it was going to be a no pants day. I say this, and criticize and poke fun, and then I think back to one of my own fashion faux pas which led to me taking advantage of Nordstrom's free delivery of purchases within downtown Seattle. 

I was thirty years old at the time.  Young enough to still be cute and able to wear just about anything. I was also 6 months pregnant with my first child.  Some months earlier, I eagerly went shopping for maternity clothes.  I found the cutest little black mini-dress with white piping around the neckline.  It was adorable. I couldn't wait to start showing in order to wear it. (Some of you by now can see where this is going.)  A morning finally came where I could no longer zip up my pre-pregnancy skirts, so I finally donned the darling mini-dress.  I paired it with black maternity tights and shoes with a sensible two inch heel.  

We didn't have a full length mirror at home, but no worries, I knew from the waist up I looked fine that day.  I drove to the park and ride, waited for the bus outside, rode the bus into the city, and walked up two very steep hills to my office.  I saw clients in the morning, I left for a coffee break at 10:00, and when I came back I went to the ladies room.  After washing my hands, I turned to leave the bathroom and caught sight of myself in the full length mirror.  

Why was my pretty dress so short?  It barely went mid-thigh.  It was nearly indecent for the workplace and there I was pregnant to top off the look.  Then the realization hit me. This was not a cute mini-dress; it was in fact a shirt. I rushed back to my office and shut the door, scrambling for the phone to dial my friend Marci.  I told her my dilemma, upon which she rightly responded with rolling laughter and, "They don't make mini-dresses for pregnant women, you dork!"  Then she kindly clued me in to Nordstrom's free delivery policy.  Less than an hour later, after a frantic call to a sales clerk in the women's department, a courier dropped off a pair of black stretch pants for me.  Unfortunately, I had to do my walk of shame all the way up to the reception desk to retrieve them. 

People in glass houses, ye without sin, and all that. It turns out I'm not much better than the woman today, but at least I had on underwear and tights. I take the smallest amount of pride in that. 

That's a Crock!

Some women regularly indulge in retail therapy, manis, pedis, and other spa treatments as a treat to themselves. I am a self-proclaimed girly-girl, but I don't exactly enjoy those activities.  I shop when I have to, and indulge in the occasional eye brow wax or manicure, but these are not things that necessarily make me happy.  There is one place I frequent though, and have since I was a young child, that succeeds in bringing me great joy every time I go. It spurs my enthusiasm and creativity.  I can walk out with an armload of items and it is totally free!  It is the public library. 

When I was a child, my mother would take me to the library on Saturdays.  I would borrow as many books as I could carry, and by Sunday I would have read half of them. If she left us at the library for awhile while she shopped, I would happily park myself at the microfiche machine for hours scanning through old copies of the local newspaper. I loved the library then and I still do. 

My favorite part of our local library is the cookbook aisle. There are plenty of books on cupcakes, healthy eating, international fare, meals in minutes, and two whole shelves devoted to crock pot cooking.  I find that last one disappointing.  I know lots of people, especially working moms, love, love, love their crock pots. I suppose I am the exception.  I don't want to smell something cooking ALL DAY LONG.  I have no appetite for it come dinner because I feel like I've already consumed it through osmosis. 

Most slow cooker recipes require the dumping in of various canned, bottled, and packaged ingredients.  I am not a fan of that.  All those canned goods just cause whatever you make to be overly salty, and do you feel good after eating it?  You know you don't. Crock pot cooking is easy, and it is great if you don't have the time or energy to cook a hot meal at the end of the day.  It just isn't always that healthy and sometimes does not even taste that great. 

My own crock pot and my rarely used crock pot cookbook. 

That being said, there are a few recipes that I do make with my crock pot, mostly for my husband's benefit. I made up a recipe for sort of a Tex-Mex pot roast that he really enjoys. The last time I made it, I used a beef round rump roast, but I have used a chuck roast in the past with delicious results.  I season the roast with a fajita seasoning blend. Toss it in the crock pot with a can of Ro-Tel tomatoes, or any other brand of chopped tomatoes and chilies. I add to that a chopped onion, a diced jalepeno, a good handful or more of chopped red and green bell peppers, and two cloves of garlic minced.  I season with Mexican oregano, cumin, coriander, and chili powder.  How much you ask?  I don't know. A good pinch of all but the chili powder which you can add something like 2 teaspoons to a tablespoon of that without it being overpowering. Next, to make sure it stays nice and moist, I add about a cup of low sodium beef broth, or some beef base dissolved in water. Set it and forget it on low for several hours. Before serving, shred the beef with two forks and remove any fatty bits. Nobody wants to eat that.  Taste it and adjust the seasonings if necessary. You can serve the roast with soft tortillas, or wedges of corn bread, slices of avocado, and a salad.