Scheduling gossip
I don't want to announce when I'm not in Iowa....but it turns out everyone here knows anyway
Hello friend,
I’m back after several weeks outside of Iowa (more on that below). Here’s your immediate dose of #smalltownlife:
I had a doctor’s appointment when I got back last week. The nurse was someone I didn’t recognize because she was too many years behind me in school, but she knew who I was. She couldn’t find a vein for my bloodwork and had to go in through my hand, which is not my fave.
Making conversation to avoid throwing up, I told her I was probably dehydrated because I’d flown back from California a couple of days earlier [editor’s note: I’m dehydrated because I live on coffee and zinfandel].
And then, the conversation took a strange turn:
Nurse: Oh! That explains it. I took my grandma [who I’m in a secret society with; more on that another day] to look at flooring yesterday. We went up to X’s….
Me: She’s a deal, isn’t she? [“s/he’s a deal” is a midwesternism for someone who’s a character. The owner of the flooring shop is hilarious, but will remain nameless to protect her privacy and mine.]
Nurse: Yeah. She told Grandma that her brother was supposed to fix something at your house weeks ago, so maybe they could do yours at the same time as Grandma’s. And then Grandma told her that you’re in California, so not to worry about it. But I knew you were on the patient list for today, so I wondered what was going on but couldn’t ask.
I know the nurse didn’t tell anyone about my appointment (HIPAA overrides the gossip train for all the local hospital employees), because the flooring person called me this week and claimed that she’d just realized that my job was unfinished. I didn’t say that I knew she was aware last week, since I didn’t want to rat out the nurse. And one reason the flooring woman’s brother hadn’t come to my house was because he’d run into my brother someplace, who told him I was in California and not to bother for a few weeks.
Anyway. I try to be careful about sharing my location online, but small towns knew how to track people long before Facebook. My flooring will get finished eventually, once everyone picks up that I’m actually back. Spread the word that I’m in Iowa so that things get done here!
//
Separately — I’m sorry for not writing the last few weeks. I went to a friend’s birthday on the Oregon coast, then spent a couple of weeks in San Francisco, seeing most (but not all) of my oldest friends. I had intended to write and send newsletters while I was gone.
But as soon as I leave Iowa, it feels like a door slams behind me so that I can adjust to my ‘other’ life. I usually have two drinks at the Des Moines airport and another one in Denver…and by the time I hit the Pacific, I’ve reset into Coastal Sara mode.
Coastal Sara is the one who does all the fancy meals (too many to list); karoake (I sang Nickelback’s “Photograph” and immediately left before getting murdered); shopping (aka hitting every paper store in Japantown); conversations about the tech scene (tl;dr: AI is gonna change everything and we are not at all ready); and playing with friends’ babies (who are competing for private preschools even though AI will make kids obsolete). And while Coastal Sara is at the helm, Small Town Sara lurks in the background, trying not to wave at strangers on the street, or mispronounce menu items, or tell too many stories about raccoons, or otherwise give away that Coastal Sara is actually a hick in chic clothing.
But now I’m back in Iowa, and I’ve carefully packed away my ostentatious puffer coat and high heeled boots so that I can fit into farm life at the height of mud season. Now it’s Coastal Sara who has to sit back and not over-accessorize, or talk too fast, or take polenta to a potluck, or otherwise give away the game that Small Town Sara is playing to fit in.
Anyway, lesson learned — next time I leave, Small Town Sara will prewrite my newsletters before Coastal Sara starts drinking craft cocktails and forgetting everything she left behind.
Cheers,
Sara
I now need a newsletter entirely dedicated to raccoon's stories.
As a Southerner in California costume i can attest that while the inverse is instantly sniffed out, you CAN take grits to a coastal party and call them polenta. I’ve pulled it off many times.