Welcome to North Cackalacky

The people here are far more normal than the slang name for the state suggests. It may be because I am living in the college town of Greensboro, or it may just be that the toothless stay at home.

The architecture from the 1930s on Bruce Street is far from normal.

It was when I saw the size of my closet that I decided to turn my life over to God. And then again when I went into the Tag Agency and was overwhelmed by the Got Jesus? state issued licence plates. The state government here thinks the First Amendment says "Separation between church and every state besides North Carolina." There is no doubt that this is the bible belt. I can hardly sleep for the church bells. I don't know how those overzealous members expect the congregation to get to church on Sunday with all that chiming every fifteen minutes. When I really got pissed was when I was flipping through the local radio channels and started listening to an unfamiliar song that I almost liked. It was when the chorus hit that I realized that I had, for a second, liked Christian Rock. But seriously, a Holy Roller couldn't even hang his Sunday suit in my closet and close the door.

And then there is the bathroom. It's like something out of a teen slasher flick. The front part of the house is really pretty with high ceilings, molding and big, old doors. But the back part looks like someone split a trailer in half and attached it to the house to add a kitchen, laundry room and extra bathroom. That bathroom has wood paneling, a low ceiling, and carpet. Not just a low ceiling, but one that slopes and goes from about 7 feet high over the shower and swoops down to 4 feet over the toilet on the other side of the room. Upon move-in, I declared that I would not be using that bathroom. I mean, maybe I seemed a little spoiled, but whatever, I'm not going to risk having my throat slashed just to have a told-you-so moment with my new roommates. No, thanks. I'm here to study and become a nurse, not die in a creepy gnome bathroom.

I haven't even officially started staying in that house. I have been at my parent's place in the next town over. The lovely, hazy Winston-Salem. This is Tobaccoville, baby. Get-your-fix-here, NC. I've been in limbo because my parents are too cheap to buy a new bed. They have an extra one in a storage unit that is 20 feet long. The bed is on the far wall, held in place by 20 feet of boxes of shit. In order for me to have a bed in my new house, I would have to muster up the tolerance to hang out with my dad all afternoon in blazing heat to get that thing out. Thus, I am sleeping in my parent's guest room with my cat and his litter box in the same room so that their puppy won't eat the litter.

Charlie is still adjusting here and he doesn't know yet where to sharpen his claws. He had taken a liking to my parent's dining room chairs for the job. My mom wasn't having it, so last night, after Puppy School, we went to PetSmart and bought Soft Claws. This will sound inhumane but it's really better than the alternative (declaw). Soft Claws are rubber claw caps that you glue onto the cat's real nail with (cringe) super glue. They stay on for 1-2 months and then you have to replace them. As I type, Charlie is lying next to me, sporting hot pink rubber nails (they come in 6 different colors). I think I will take him to get 'em air-brushed when I get my next pay check. It's crazy though, because he picked at them for about 5 minutes, then lost interest and passed out which is not typical according to the instruction manual that warned of 5 days of non-stop crying and bad temperament. He returned to his homeostatic disposition of Mama's Sweet Boy within a day. It might just be me, but I think he's sittin' prettier than ever.

Things are pretty dull overall, but dull is what I have been craving.