Plumb Tuckered Out

I'm back. It felt good to share Kentucky. Before I left, I saw this begging in the eyes of my family like, "Please don't leave." It was hard to see those eyes. I left anyway. The thing my family knows is I always leave. Kentucky isn't home anymore. Kansas City isn't home either. I don't know what home is, but I think it's the person you love. Whenever I'm with Josh, I'm home.

I got sick on bourbon. I will get sick on bourbon again. We did a bourbon tasting. I found my favorite bourbon. It's called 1792. That's the year Kentucky became a state. If you meet me and you have nothing else to say, you can say you know when Kentucky acquired statehood. I will give you a kiss on the hand.

I must have been looking in weird mirrors in Kentucky because I didn't notice the weight I was gaining. I went to the bathroom when we got back to Kansas City and I looked in the mirror, my mirror, the one that shows my true reflection like no other, and I could see the roundness returning to my face and belly. Oh well. I walk for a living pretty much.

My sister uses the word "plumb" quite a bit. As in, "I'm plumb tuckered out." Which is to say she's exhausted.

I want to use more Kentucky words, but I already don't like the faces people make when I speak. There were moments this past weekend when I started talking and the person I was talking to didn't know what to do with their face. It takes me a while to say anything. Josh calls my speech "melodic and deliberate." OK. It's more like I have blocks of words in my head and I'm trying to put them in some sort of order even as I'm saying them. The end result is a sentence that usually works better backwards. Imagine if people listening to me had to contend with that AND folksy regionalisms.

I ate a hot brown. It sounds gross, but it's tasty. My mother made fun of Josh for using the word "tasty" so much. I guess people in Kentucky don't say food is tasty. They just lick their fingers.

There's so much more Kentucky stuff and almost none of it matters. What matters is I developed a miniature crush on a bartender and I saw him on three separate occasions around town. The basis for the crush was the bartender's accent and how cute he looked wearing an apron. I cook all the time. Where's my apron? Where's my accent?

My seizure/museum story was accepted for publication by a magazine I've been crushing on. The story is bare bones and cold as a skeleton made out of frozen milk, but it's good. I'll tell you where it is when it's there. For now, I'm here again.