Barbara’s Adventures in Poe Land

So, I’m a huge Edgar Allan Poe fan. I’ve wanted to go to his gravesite in Baltimore for years. It’s on my bucket list, so when the community college where I work offered a bus trip to Baltimore’s Inner Harbor for $25.00 and I realized that most of the Poe sites
in Baltimore where close to the Inner Harbor, I agreed to go on the trip.

For years, I had a list of Poe sites in Baltimore saved on my computer: The Poe House, Poe’s Gravesite, The Poe Collection at The Enoch Pratt Free Library, Edgar Allan Poe Statue, Church Hospital, The Horse You Came In On Saloon, The Poe Suite at Scarborough Fair Bed & Breakfast, and The Annabel Lee Tavern. I’ve been planning to go to Baltimore for a few days and cover it all. Sadly, due to expense, this never happened, but here was my opportunity to visit some of the sites.

Knowing that we would arrive in Baltimore around lunch time, I decided to start by visiting The Horse You Came In On Saloon because it was open at noon.

Now, keep in mind that no one on the bus wanted to visit any of the Poe sites with me. I even begged people on Facebook to go with me. Where are the freaky people who would love this? I thought I had freaky friends like me, but this is not the case. Sadly, I do a lot of things alone. I’m beginning to wonder if there is anyone out there like me, not in the sense that I’m a unique treasure, more like a freak show oddity.

But I boarded the bus with taxi money and was ready to go. Here was my first concern. Being from the country, I’ve called for a cab, and when I lived in the city, I took the bus. I was too poor for a cab. So, I never actually hailed a cab, but I figured I would learn quickly, which I did. Although a couple of times, I just gave in and called. Hailing a cab is a skill I’ll need to work on.

So, the bus dropped us off at the aquarium. I said good-bye to my friends and hailed a cab. The cab driver was from Nigeria.

When I told him my plans for the day, he said, “Why would you want to go to a grave?”

So much for cab drivers understanding Poe or even knowing where things would be located.

He took me to Fell’s Point. It was around 11:15 a.m., so I had 45 minutes until The Horse You Came In On Saloon opened. Luckily, there was a farmer’s market. I was able to buy some jalapeno jelly, which I love. I had a student who introduced me to this sweet yet spicy treat. I cannot remember her name at the moment, but I will always be grateful for this. There were also some great little shops in the area, so I occupied my time there, but I started to get nervous. The Poe House is only open from noon to 3:30 p.m. If The Horse You Came In On Saloon opened at noon, I would have just enough time to eat and then go to The Poe House. At noon, I went there.

It was closed, but a woman walking down the street said, “Honey, it’ll be a few minutes until we can open.”

I said, “I really need to get to the Poe House. I don’t think I can wait.”

She shrugged and said, “Oh well.”

So much for a friendly greeting. If you are supposed to open at noon, you should open. I grabbed a slice of pizza from
a local shop. It was good, but pizza made at small shops always gives me terrible heartburn. I can eat Pizza Hut pizza no problem, but that type of pizza kills me. I wonder what ingredient does it. Oh and I got a fork to eat the pizza but didn’t use it. I put it in my pocket. This will be important later.

So, I hailed a cab and headed to The Poe House. This cab driver was from West Africa. He had never heard of the Poe
House, and I gave him the physical address. Oddly, as we drove, he began a rant on how Black Americans do not like Africans. “They say we’re slaves to the white man. Black Americans need to get over slavery. Slavery is in the Bible. God knows what he’s doing.”

Now, at this point, I’m thinking that this black man is trying to convince me that slavery is a good thing, and I’m wondering how we got to this conversation because the only thing I asked was where are you from.

Thankfully, we arrived at our destination except it was the Poe gravesite not the Poe House but no big deal because I needed to go there anyway, so I got out of the cab, and there it was  the Holy Grail. I wish you could understand how much this meant to me. As a writer, I should have the words, but I don’t.

So, I walked through the iron gate. There was a man and woman there. She was as excited as I was, but they were visiting
a friend in the hospital, so their parking meter was running out. I told them Poe’s original grave was there. They went in search of it. I tried to take pictures of myself at the gravesite. Here is where I needed the friend. When they came back, she offered to take a picture for me. The kindness of strangers! She hugged me. A Poe bonding moment!

So, I took pictures and found Poe’s original gravesite. There were three people sitting on the stairs by his grave. I’m not
sure, but I think they were getting high or already high. One said hi to me.

So, when I came out of the cemetery, I saw a sign that said Poe House a half a mile, so I walked up the hill. Slowly, it dawned on me that I was in a very bad neighborhood. What could I do but turn back? So, I moved on and asked someone where the Poe House was. He kindly pointed the way. I kept going, smiling like a lunatic. I figured smiling would make me seem like a harmless country bumpkin or crazy. At the end of the corner, two men were standing. At this point, I started to get nervous, but as I got closer, I saw them move away cautiously. After seeing the pictures of myself in the outfit that I choose that day, the outfit that makes me look special and/or crazy, I realized they were probably more afraid of me than I was of them. I kept going. I turned the corner and asked two more people where the Poe House was. They pointed at it.

I said, “It’s so tiny. I almost missed it.”

The woman said, “Wait till you go inside.”

At this point, I saw a police car sitting on the corner with its lights flashing. I didn’t think anything of it, seeing as I was in a bad neighborhood.

By the way, there is a sign on the door of The Poe House that says, “Don’t count your money on the street. Knock to be admitted.”

So, I got to visit the Poe House. It truly is tiny. I know it’s morbid and weird, but I really wanted to see Poe’s and Virginia’s hair and the piece of Poe’s coffin. A sign said they had been moved. The worker at the museum had no idea where they were.

Poe’s bedroom is in the attic. You have to climb these narrow stairs to see into it. The stairs scared me too much, so I only got a brief snapshot.

Sadly, the worker said the city of Baltimore will no longer fund the Poe House, so they were looking into private donations. This upsets me so much. I’m thinking of ways to raise money.

So, I donated $10 and asked about getting a cab. She called for one. She said, “Cabs won’t come here unless we call.”

So, she told me to wait outside for a cab. I noticed the cop on the corner was still there, lights still flashing.

Now, it dawned on me that he’s there to protect people like me.

Now, in fairness, I painted a bleak picture of the neighborhood, but everyone there was wonderfully nice to me. I felt nervous, but I think it was because of my own perceptions of what is dangerous, not anything they did.

So, the cab driver arrived, and we discussed the neighbor and what it’s like to be a female cab driver. She seemed to like her job.

I arrived at the Poe statue. I took some pictures, and once again, I needed a friend. So, I stopped a lady, and she took my picture. Sadly, when you rely on the kindness of strangers, sometimes they cannot take pictures, so the pictures were awful. This was also where I realized that my outfit made me look special and/or crazy. Sadly, sometimes, I think I need supervision.

As I took pictures, I realized that the sculptor had decided to include some unique features. One, there was actually a button hole for a flower. At least, there was one in there. The second feature, well, let’s just say Poe is packing some heat.

So, I needed a cab to take me to the Annabel Lee Tavern. This was my last stop. I had trouble hailing a cab at this point, so I had to call. The cab driver arrived. He was not friendly, and he kept burping.

I arrived at the Annabel Lee Tavern an hour and a half before it opened, so luckily, there was a street fair going on, so I was able to absorb some of the local atmosphere, so I wandered around for an hour and a half. This is where I decided that it was ridiculous to carry a plastic fork around in my pocket, and I threw it away.

So, when I arrived at the tavern, I met a man and woman, and we had another Poe bonding moment. The Annabel Lee Tavern
is so cool. If I had a house, I want to decorate it like this place, purple and Poe themed. The food was good. I also had a drink called “The Raven”. Now, these are the ingredients: Stoli Raz, Stoli Blueberi, Stoli Blackberi, Stoli Vanil, Blue Curacao, Cherry Juice and Cranberry. It did not occur to me that this would turn purple and taste like grape soda. I hate grape soda. So, I admit I’m anidiot, but what ingredient would make it taste like grape? Anyone?

Now, I love Red Velvet cake, so I ordered a piece to go. I didn’t realize they’d drown it in whipped cream but more on that later. It was time to return to the aquarium for the ride home.

This cab driver was nice, and he knew about Baltimore’s history. He said John Wilkes Booth was buried in Baltimore. I goggled it when I got home, and he was right.

So, I had some time to kill before the bus, so I went to Barnes and Noble and purchased an Edgar Allan Poe bag. It was then that I realized that the red velvet cake was leaking from the melted whipped cream, and I should eat it. This is when I knew I needed that fork. Life lesson, if the universe gives you a fork, don’t toss it; you’ll need it. I ate the cake with my fingers, and it was good. Maybe that’s the life lesson; cake is always good, with or without a fork.

There was an art festival by the Inner Harbor, so I wandered around the booths. Oh, how I love artists. I envy their talent, but here is a funny story about why artists are poor. I stopped at a booth filled with beautiful art. The artist was talking to two very young, very pretty, not so bright girls.

He was showing them an abstract painting that was obviously a bird. They were guessing everything but a bird.

At one point, he asked one of the girls what she did, as in a job.

She said, “Oh, I don’t do anything.”

Translation, I have no money to buy your painting. There were three middle aged women in the booth. Clearly, we probably
had careers and cash. Artists, thinking with their dick and not their brains, no wonder they’re all starving.

So, it was time to come home, and I was completely happy, living the Poe dream.

I ain’t that country. Parts I and II

I ain’t that country Part I

So, I was invited to a bon fire. Yeah, and it had nothing to do with a football pep rally, which I think was probably the last time I went to a bon fire, but there I was accepting the invitation. Of course, it had something to do with a man and my muse, two things that always cause me trouble.  

So, I headed to a farm. Yes, a farm. Now, I live in the country, but I don’t really go to farms. In fact, I cannot recall the last time I was on a farm or near a farm, but I was going, so I MapQuest the farm, which I soon realized was in the middle of nowhere. Of course, I did not get Deliverance scared until I turned up a road. Yes, the road went up a mountain. As I turned on this road, I saw a sign. Road closed for winter.   Now, who, I wonder, lives on a road that closes for the winter?

But I’m committed (or should be).

Anyhow, I go there. Three giant dogs greet me. Not to worry, I think, after realizing they are not attack dogs.

Then, I walked to the backyard, which was filled with multiple gardens. As we admired the gardens, they discussed what vegetables they can. Hell, I can barely use the can opener, and honestly, I think I have better things to do although I did love the sunflowers.

But, the people were friendly and welcoming.

“I live right down over the hill,” a neighbor informed me. He also assured me that only part of the road is closed for winter.

So, I shared some pleasant conversations, and then they decided to give a tour of the over one hundred years old farmhouse.

On the tour, the mother, who is in her 70s, turned and said, “I needed a bookcase, so I built this one.”

Okay, I ain’t that country. I can’t even put together a Wal-Mart shelf.

So, I returned to sit by the bon fire. My friend pointed out the fireflies. I commented on the view, which was incredible. It was a cloudy evening, but when the stars are out, I bet it is spectacular. So, I guess I’m just country enough to visit, admire the view, and return to my air conditioned room with my computer.

I ain’t that country Part II

Okay, so I purchased an antique trunk; unfortunately, it had a horrible odor, so I read that cedar chips would take away the smell, so I decided to pay a visit to Tractor Supply since it seemed to me a place that would sell something like cedar chips.

Now, I had never been in Tractor Supply before and what I discovered was a country wonderland.

To the right, there were Wrangler jeans and cowboy hats and striped cowboy shirts that I had not seen since Garth Brooks wore them.

Everywhere I looked I found a trap for something, and if you did not want to kill it, you could feed it because they had feed for every animal you could think of and some I hadn’t thought of feeding and/or trapping.

So, I purchased my cedar chips and headed toward the register, making sure to admire the star and cross jewelry lovingly displayed in a case. Nothing I would be caught dead in, but again, I ain’t that country.

At the register, I stand in line behind a man and woman.

He says to the cashier, “Ring these up separately. They’re for the fairgrounds.”

I look down, two giant rat traps. I was not going to the fair because I ain’t that country, and now, I’m not going because of the rats.

The cashier wore a nametag made from masking tape, and she had a very deep Southern accent. Now, I live in the mountains, and I have a twang in my voice, but this was deep, deep Southern, so I wondered, was she from the South or did she acquire it by standing here amongst the gun safes and tractor gears?

Sadly, I realized that I have to use the restroom. What did I discover? Even the bathroom is country. It looked like a bathroom at the fairgrounds or a truck pull. I could not seem to locate a soap dispenser. Thank you to all those people who gave me little bottles of hand sanitizer during the flu scare. I have several bottles in my desk at work and a few in my car. I never knew I’d need to use them in case of country.

As I drive out of the parking lot with my cedar chips, I see a van filled with Mennonite women.  I bet they’re just country enough for Tractor Supply, and I bet they can and build bookshelves, too.

Random Acts of Internet Porn

Now, I need to start with a disclaimer. I did not view internet porn for several reasons: one, I find it degrading to men and women, two, I have a healthy imagination, so I really don’t need it, and three, and this one is the most important, when I die in a freak accident and/or I’m killed by a deranged student, I don’t want anyone finding internet porn on my computer. My family would be so embarrassed, and I know they won’t believe me, but I really try not to embarrass them. 

That being said, the other day, I was viewing decorating ideas on the internet. I looked for bohemian decorating. This led me to wonder if the word Bohunk comes from the word Bohemian.  So, I typed in Bohunk. Surprise! Gay men having sex. Now, I have never actually seen gay men having sex. I have gay friends, but they don’t invite me over to watch them having sex. Neither do my straight friends, for that matter, which is also a good thing.  So never having seen gay men having sex, I had to look at the pictures. (I know, as my brother says, just because it’s on the internet doesn’t mean you have to look at it.)

This led me to wonder, How much random porn can you view on the internet without typing obvious words like sex, lesbians, or lesbians having sex? Thus, began my brief stint in the internet porn world. Type lingerie, better yet type BBW lingerie, it is fascinating yet traumatizing. Type art and nudes. Oh, you’ll get a few paintings, but mostly the nude.

So, here are my findings on random internet porn.

1. In the porn world, everything is bigger.
2. Group sex is popular, but it is usually a woman with several men.
3. Sex between black men and white women seems to be very popular.
4.  You will see a lot of women performing oral sex on men. Who knew so many women were willing to be photographed in that less than flattering position?
5. Oh, and less than flattering is the use of unnaturally colored toys.

But, the most surprising thing about internet porn is the women themselves. Not many of them are under the age of 30. Most have vacant stares on their faces. They look bored and/or stoned.  They look like the women who sit at the end of any dive bar in America. To borrow a country expression, “Rode hard and put away wet.”  In short, they are not attractive, but like a bad car accident, you just have to look.

So, there you have it, random acts of internet porn with apologies to my family and anyone adversely affected by the porn industry.

Oh, and by the way, bohunk is related to the word bohemian.

I need a husband or I’ve given up on the feminist movement.

I need a husband or I’ve given up on the feminist movement.

Now, before my feminist friends disown me, I am indeed willing to turn in my feminist card to make my life easier, and after 42 years, I have finally learned that if you cannot beat them you must join them. So, I need a husband. Why a husband?

Recent events such as rats invading my apartment and sexist mechanics have made me realize that I need a husband. Note, I did not say want. Want implies the romantic life you envisioned in your 20s. Now, I feel that having a husband might be a sound business investment.

Clearly, in any business investment, you must start from a mutual point of negotiation.

I have a car. You must have a car. It must be a car that runs (not the one on the blocks in your mother’s backyard) because I’m searching for someone to handle my car repair issues.

I have a job. You must have a job. (Selling drugs or scrap metal is not a real job. You must have a job that gives you a regular paycheck.)

I have teeth. You must have teeth. (Dentures are acceptable, but you must wear them in public.)

I have good personal hygiene. You must have good personal hygiene. (If you do know what good hygiene is, we cannot negotiate any further.)

So, that is where we start negotiations.

As stated, I am looking for someone who can handle car repairs and/or go to a garage and blend into their sexist, Neanderthal world enough to get my car repaired in a timely and inexpensive way.

I need someone to deal with all rodent problems which will include relocation as soon as possible.

I need someone who has a pickup truck and/or other large vehicle to haul things and to pull vehicles out of snow banks when needed. If you do not own said vehicle, you must have access to one.

I need someone who owns and can operate tools like drills, screwdrivers, hammers, etc.

Now, I hear the feminists’ voices protesting, “Why don’t you just get these things for yourself? Learn to do these things, and you won’t need a man.”

Clearly, I have survived for 42 years, so I have dealt with all of these issues. I no longer want to deal with them. I’m waving the white flag of surrender. I want an easier life.

“But,” those feminists’ voices declare, “Why a husband? Couldn’t you get a boyfriend or even a girlfriend to do these things?”

Yes but, whether we like it or not, for a woman in our society, having a husband does elevate our status.

Imagine you’re a sexist mechanic.

Now, read these examples.

“My boyfriend will bring my car over for repairs.”

“My girlfriend will bring my car over for repairs.”

“I will bring my car over for repairs.”

“My husband will bring my car over for repairs.”

You feel it now, the connotation, the change in the atmosphere. I do; thus, I need a husband.

So, now, I know the men (if the word feminist has not frightened them away) are wondering what they are getting from the deal.

Well, I have medical insurance, which you can be added to rather cheaply if we’re married. (See the way society works.)

I am a U.S. citizen.  (Homeland Security, please note that I do realize that marrying someone to gain U.S. citizenship is illegal, and I do not advocate such actions.) 

In addition, sex is negotiable. (After all, I’ve given it away for a lot less)

Finally, I’m willing to negotiate other aspects of the contract.

So, there you have it, why I need a husband. I’ll be here waiting for the applications, but I’ll keep my feminist card just in case.

In the beginning…

So, all of these crazy things keep happening to me, and I willingly share these misadventures with my Facebook friends, and they keep saying you have to create a blog. I was reluctant because I thought it would take away from my “real” writing, but since my “real’ writing is not happening, and I’ll explode if I do not write something, Being Barbara, the blog, has begun. Enjoy the ride!