Vee Day

Another Valentine’s Day and I could not be happier to have it over. The day of commercialized love was manufactured by card companies and further promoted by purveyors of jewelry, flowers, stuffed animals and chocolates. Sans Valentine, I feel the sting of loneliness on this day more than most others. For those who are partnered up or perhaps courting a potential suitor, the day can be fun. Expensive, perhaps. Maybe even stressful. But it’s a nice warm, fuzzy feeling when choosing a gift for the object of your affection and receiving one purportedly chosen with you in mind (or quite possibly the first thing found in the budget range and snatched off the rack). I miss having someone to bake cookies for.

For singletons with no romances in the works, I would hazard a guess that psychological counselors see a boom in appointments from those of us for whom there are no floral arrangements, chocolates, jewelry and pretty cards, and who have the appropriate health insurance coverage. For those without the luxury of insurance, it’s probably a date with a liquor bottle. Some of us will seek solace in the discounted bins of candy beginning on the 15th and continuing until the discounts have reached 80% and all supplies are exhausted. At least THAT is something to look forward to.

Valentine’s Day, bad blood and I go way back. In high school, we had carnation sales where you could send a white, pink or red carnation to someone you “wanted to get to know,” “liked” or “loved.” Every time the door opened to a classroom and a carnation arrived, I hoped and prayed it was for me, but I never received any and was too proud (and broke) to send myself one. While other girls walked around with bouquets, I slunk through the hallways flower free.

Memories of romantic entanglement involve many quiet dinners cooked at home, (by me, just like every other day of the year) and altar-sized floral arrangements. X-man loved to send flowers when there was an audience for his display of romantic generosity. Maybe that was the universe’s attempt to make up for the tragic high school years. If Valentine’s Day fell on a weekend, there were never floral deliveries to the house, but if it was a workday and I had co-workers to impress, huge arrangements arrived at my desk – gigantic enough to result in near death experiences during transport home. Driving is tricky when peering around bobbing helium-filled balloons and trying to avoid a dislocated shoulder while attempting to keep a vase upright at every turn. Throw in some winter weather and it becomes an Olympic-scale event filled with danger and excitement. To cement his imagined position as husband of the year, he’d engage in an interrogation concerning my coworkers’ level of jealousy over my flowers, until I was finally forced to fabricate a story about women weeping at their desks, watering their suddenly less grandiose arrangements with their tears and men dashing out to supplement their suddenly meager offerings.

After years of deliberation, I still can’t decide which is worse – having no Valentine at all, or having one who doesn’t seem to know me. In the dusty memory banks of Valentine’s Days past, there are gifts from alleged loved ones that seem like they weren’t intended for me at all. The ex-husband who loved to buy jewelry never bought anything I liked, no matter how many times I showed him in pictures and real life examples. I don’t understand how I could manage to remember what type of power tools (Stanley), cigars (Black & Mild) and chocolate covered cherries he preferred (the ones with the syrupy stiff and not the cream), but he couldn’t grasp the concept that I don’t like dainty jewelry, even after handing me the Ross-Simons catalogue and having me circle everything I liked.

There was the card from a boyfriend I lived with for over a year that noted in his neat, manly script that I am “a great person” and signed with his full name, as if I might have forgotten who he was since earlier in the day. After we broke up, I obsessed that maybe he mixed my card up with one intended for some new flirtation. There was a box of chocolate from a boyfriend who then got mad that I actually had the nerve to eat it without first segregating his favorites and leaving them for him. While adept at constantly pointing out my flaws, he somehow managed to overlook my one and only special super power – making a box of chocolates disappear.

I eagerly anticipate this year’s sales so I can further hone my chocolate disappearing act. I am going for new personal best speed record. With luck the resulting full belly and candy coma will cause temporary amnesia and overpower the toxic, bitter emptiness in my heart.

Bustin’ Arse

Last Monday at skate practice, we raced around the rink on our toe stops. With knees bent for balance and maneuverability, the voice of Miss Corliss, my first ballet teacher echoed in my head with “Never step on pointe with a bent knee – you’ll have big, ugly knees!” One second, I was rounding turn two, and the next second, airborne and then immediately, intimately acquainted with the wood floor. The fall was not forward onto padded knees and elbows like we practice, but onto my backside, which we avoid. It hurt enough to make me dizzy.

Time became fuzzy. People came over to help. I rolled onto hands and knees, which felt better. Someone from the training crew (HiLee?) had me lay flat on my stomach. Ice was offered and declined, and when the dizziness subsided, I crawled/scooted to the center of the rink to get out of the way. Caitlyn hung with me, providing welcome (and possibly unthanked) company while I assessed my body parts. And then, like a cloud passing, it didn’t hurt anymore. Well, not much, anyway. I finished practice. Putting all my weight on my left leg hurt, which was a practical reminder to stay balanced over both legs.

Falling was purely a matter of time, and based on some of the commentary now filtering in, my odds-making friends had been quietly making book on it happening months ago. It took a solid six months longer than I figured it would, which makes it worse, as I should know by now how to fall. Whatever. Stuff happens.

After practice I hobbled to the car (or whatever you call a CR-V). It hurt getting into said vehicle, but once in, it was okay until time get out. The queasiness in my stomach cancelled the idea of supper, and prompted a choice to hit bed early. It hurt laying on my back and it hurt to roll over. I don’t think I moved all night, but I have long had a special talent for sleeping relatively motionless, and if I slide out of bed sideways like a paper doll, making the bed is a breeze in the morning. This talent was perfected in high school when I fancied myself some sort of efficiency expert for the precious three minutes saved per day. No, I am not kidding.

Tuesday morning delivered mostly major stiffness. Oh, and screaming pain if I moved either of my legs laterally. Putting pants on hurt. Finally dressed and at work, I moved more deliberately and slower than usual, which mostly means I was not flying through the office like a tornado. The co-workers probably appreciated the absence of my usual high speed travel. Sitting was not a problem, so, armed with my extensive medical education from Word of Mouth College and WebMD-dot-com Medical University, a broken coccyx was ruled out, as everyone I know who broke theirs (there are many) listed that as the primary symptom. I could (and did) sit all day. Walking around or standing was less fun and more painful, so it was avoided. I made it to belly dance class after work.

Tuesday night it snowed and Wednesday morning there were several inches on the ground. I got ready for work, slowly. Stuff still hurt when moved certain ways, so putting on socks felt like a feat worthy of Cirque du Soleil. While Moose did his business outside knee-deep in snow, lacking a practical snow removal tool like, say, a snow shovel, I swept the walk with an indoor broom. The sweeping motion was most unpleasant and my pelvis screamed at me in painful bursts and stabs which made my stomach churn. I looked at the feeble broom, and across the suddenly expansive yard to the snow-covered CR-V. I considered my four bald tires (pointed out by the oil change tech back in the fall with a cautionary note to replace them before the winter weather), and the incline of my driveway. The idea of clearing the walk, car, and driveway to reach side streets of unknown condition felt like a challenge akin to climbing Mount Everest. A call to the office yielded a roads report and calendar update. Two people out of ten had made it in, and some were coming in late. I had no meetings on the calendar. It was settled – sick day for me.

Thinking my pelvic area would soon stop hurting with rest, I took it easy and gave it a chance. The snow and ice caused Wednesday’s skate practice to be cancelled. Thursday, while hobbling around the office in semi-slow motion, it occurred to me to call my chiropractor, not for an adjustment, which seemed too painful a proposition, but for an x-ray. He has spinal x-rays from my initial visit there and would have something for comparison, if needed. Unfortunately, as so often happens , I got busy doing the work my bosses expect of me in exchange for a nice, steady paycheck.

Suddenly, the clock read 5:30 and I was a half-hour late for the museum fundraiser. Instead of a grand entrance perched upon my usual three inch heels (a clever ploy to avoid hemming too-long pants, with the added psychological benefit of making me feel model-tall), I slunk in wearing sensible low heeled boots that handle well on ice, and my newest fat ass wool pants from Goodwill. Derby has helped several teammates lose a pant size or two, and unfortunately, I am finding them. The closet now holds, at best, three pairs of pants that fit without danger of busting the back seam open upon sitting.

Casual Friday had me wearing a skirt, boots, and a hoodie to work because none of my jeans fit and sweat pants are not allowed in the office. While laboring over a newspaper ad schedule, with a new sore throat and earache, I sneezed, which caused my pelvis to feel like it was splitting in half. And because I almost always sneeze in pairs, I waited for the other sneeze to fall. It came with another shot of pain, which settled it – somebody was going to look at this. The chiropractor is closed on Fridays, so my primary care doctor won the raffle.

Upon hearing the symptoms of my feeling-fractured pelvis, along with the bonus sore throat, earache and super-sensitive scalp, the nice lady on the phone said, “Well, if you can sit, it’s not a broken tailbone.” One of the doctors at the night clinic near the mall had an open appointment at 6:10.

They did the usual vitals – weight (up six pounds?!?!), temperature (98.6 – a full degree high for my norm), blood pressure (110/64) and a throat swab. The x-ray showed a broken coccyx, (better than a fractured pelvis!). The (cute) doctor sent prescriptions to Walgreen’s through the magic of the Internet.

Walgreen’s was like a scene from a movie. The electronic doors opened and greeted me with the strains of The Ramones “I Wanna Be Sedated.” I swear I am not making this up. I laughed the whole long walk to the Pharmacy window where I received my medicines and a lecture from the pharmacist about Hydrocodone. On my way out, I noticed beer in the cooler. Dang! Good music, beer – Walgreen’s may become my new hangout.

Snowy Day

This afternoon it snowed. Wet, sticky, clinging snow. It started early this afternoon with what my grandmother had forever called “snizzle” (snow and drizzle mixed) when she delivered weather reports from her cozy (real estate code for ‘tiny’) apartment on the 14th floor of the senior high rise. She was something else, that one. Decades ahead of the rest. I cracked up when I heard a TV meteorologist use the word about 20 years later.

I had mocked the school system’s early release day when it hit noon and not a drop of precipitation was falling. But once the snizzle hit, it turned to snow and started sticking on the grass and the cars. The roads were wet, but it was cold, so it was likely they’d be slick in no time. We’d received word earlier from one of the partners to use our discretion about staying at the office. When the snizzle started, I chose to skip lunch just in case we left early, and by 3:30, most of us were packing up to leave.

Back in October or November during a routine oil change that turned into a full-blown brake job, the technician cautioned that my tires were, in his words “bald,” and “should be replaced before the winter sets in.” You mean they aren’t supposed to be all smooth and flat on the edges? Hmmm. I didn’t have the money then to fork out for four tires and I still don’t, so it hasn’t been done. And up until now, I’ve been pretty lucky with the weather and road conditions not being all that bad.

After resisting the urge to start flinging snowballs at the graphic designer getting into her car across the parking lot, I cleaned my own car and headed out. Slowly. Tentatively. Not at all like I usually drive.

As I crept across town with the rest of the traffic, tense and fearful with my tread-free tires, I realized I had suddenly become one of those people who drive too slow, like the classic 100 year old crypt keeper in the vintage Cadillac, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I still feel the sting from the $6,000 little auto accident in 2009, every time I see the mismatch of old and new paint on the rear quarter from halfway across a parking lot.

A potential detour to the grocery store for milk and food was nixed on the assumption there were probably a hundred other people there, and I was not going to starve. I’d made extra rice last night, and there is powdered coffee creamer for morning coffee.

At my new elderly driver’s pace, the roads seemed pretty good all the way to the front of my house – at the same spot where a driver crashed into my cedar tree and mowed down my mailbox one icy night in the winter of 2008. Yikes. The antilock braking system kicked in on the approach to the hard right hand turn into the steep driveway and potential slide directly into the woods. Fortunately, the shift from D to 2 worked, the CRV with bald tires did not transform into a bobsled, and I maneuvered the car around to face up the driveway for a straight line out the morning.

Once inside the house, I spent the remaining hour of daylight goofing on the computer and watching the snow continue to fall. It was pretty. It was quiet. It collected on the trees and the ground and covered everything in a fluffy blanket. Moose snoozed on my lap and on the floor next to my chair and behind me on the chair. When he finally went outside to potty, the poor little guy was knee deep in snow trying to do his business. It was funny. Well, probably not to him. And the snow is still pretty.

Da Bomb

The funky, retro clock on the living room wall measures each second audibly. There is no elegance in the movement of the second hand. With a complete absence of grace, it jerks along, one second at a time. The clock is reminiscent of one my parents owned in the 1960s and 70s that makes occasional appearances in the family photo album featuring images of assorted relatives lined up smiling for pictures. That is exactly why I bought it. Lately, it seems to be the only reliable, steady thing in my life. My mind lacks focus and clarity. My heart behaves like a see saw. My alleged career circles the toilet. My temper flares more frequently. My doubts and regrets result in looking back and wondering, “What if?”

The clock, meanwhile, ticks off the time whether I am there or not. It predictably gains about five minutes a month, every month, as if it is trying to hurry me along to something. Unlike some people, it doesn’t present itself as one thing in my presence and become something different when I step away. It doesn’t deliver lies of omission, outright lies, half-truths or shaded truths and then follow up with ex post facto, half-assed rearrangements of the truth under the claim of being considerate of my feelings, which half the time, even I cannot decipher. It doesn’t try to hijack my mind, my body, my wallet, my time or my possessions (including major appliances) for its own convenience or gain, and then when I remark on the ruse, christen me as cynical.

It indicates the time. It adorns the wall. It is just a clock—purchased as a clock, hung as a clock, it remains a clock. For now, anyway. The way the bullshit-tainted winds of turmoil and change blow through my life, it is entirely possible I may awaken one day to discover the clock has become a potholder or a chinchilla collar or a banana nailed to the wall. The way things happen around me I will probably not even be surprised. It would be just another confusing incident in a life that usually feels like a chapter plucked from Alice in Wonderland or Through the Looking Glass – people talking in riddles, nonsensical gibberish and outright falsehoods, and things never quite what they seem.

In the frequent stillness of the house when the heating system is not actively blowing and the refrigerator is not humming and gasping, the ticking of the clock is sometimes the only noise. In those moments, it sounds like an overdone movie effect for the timer on a bomb about to blow – a perfect reflection of how I feel. Like my life is a ridiculous, over-budget Hollywood movie with a stupid and incomprehensible plotline. Like I am the bomb about to go off. The audience can see it, but the main character remains ignorant of how much time is left on the timer buried in the back of the brain, or what moment, word or action triggers the detonator. It is a life lived frequently on edge. On the wavering line between kindness and cruelty. On the border between rational and illogical. On the infinitesimal sliver of heart between love and hate.

Staying busy sometimes crowds out the real life issues. The overwhelming emptiness of it. The emotional land mines. The weight of loneliness and the scars of a thousand wounds, real and imagined. By staying busy, the clock rules my life, unwittingly at first. Unkindly at present. It mocks from its lofty position on the wall.

Tick. Tick. Tick. You’re late. Late. Late.

The rest of the world moves forward into the arms of love and friends and family and happiness. The rest of the world makes progress in careers and forms happy homes and makes babies and more money. And you, my dear, are isolated and paralyzed in time. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Sacker Slacker

Today it snowed. It began in the morning, with lazy, floaty flakes that drifted in the air, sideways and downwards and loopy and swirly and criss-crossed the road in paisley patterns.

For most of the morning, I sat in my office in my pajamas, cropping images and working on some Christmas gifts. Usually, I would have slipped on my favorite sweat pants -- the gray ones with the white stripes down the sides and the drawstring in the waist, but this morning, they were in the laundry. It was a chance to practice sitting around in PJs for the roller derby team Christmas party, which has a jammies theme I've been reluctant to buy into. In fact, if you ever see me in WalMart wearing pajamas or anything that looks like pajamas, you can assume something has gone terribly, horribly wrong. Like maybe my house blew up and all that remains are my pajamas, most of which are a bazillion years old.

Sitting in my hideous and unflattering pink pajamas, I was chilled from the drafts from the two walls of windows. For one thing, I was wearing half the usual number of layers for December day wear. I drank coffee and multiple cups of fruit tea to stave off the chill and realized that unless the temperature at the jammie party is at least 80 degrees, I'll freeze my arse off. Nope, no jammies for me, unless I layer three or four pairs, which would be nuts because I don't even own that many.

I finally finished monkeying with photos, got them uploaded, and dressed with the intention of going to the skating rink for open skate, (aka in our derby circle as "Skate Church"). Skate church dress for me is jeans and a long sleeve tee shirt, and in the cold weather, like now, my team logo hooded sweatshirt. With my knit hat on, I finally raised my body temperature enough to stop shivering.

The snow was still blowing around and sticking to the ground. A herd of at least a dozen deer ran through my yard, high-tailing it from the direction of the houses and road and into the woods behind the house. I debated blowing off Skate Church, a reversal of my earlier resolve to actually get there right at 2:00 when it begins instead of my usual 2:30 or 3:00. I finally got off my butt and went.

At 4:00, the rink DJ announced it was still snowing and cautioned, kiddingly, that when we left the rink, our "skating experience might continue." At 5:00, it was blustery and blowing snow in every direction.

The roads were covered up and there was no indication any of our many salt and brine trucks had been out. The main roads were snow covered and the lane markings couldn't be seen. Several times I experienced the  sensation of the pumping action of my anti-lock brakes, and uttered "oh, oh, oh, crap!" While on the tough-to-navigate 101st Parkway, I debated stopping at Kroger for milk and baking supplies and Walgreens for the photo prints I ordered in the morning. I was already out, so what the heck? And stopping then meant avoiding the agggravation of a cat meowing angrily when his cries produced no refreshing milk. He'd already been on a two-day hunger strike/meow-fest that ended only when I got more Meow Mix to replace the food he didn't like.

Kroger was less packed with people and more full of bread and milk than I expected. At the checkout, I chose the lane with the mile of empty conveyor belt. It turned out the customer had forgotten her Kroger card and gone out the car to get it. Really? I thought it was a joke at first, that we were standing there doing nothing. My few items were all arranged on the belt, so there was no turning back. When my stuff was finally being checked out, the girl packing the groceries into my ecologically-friendly reusable bags was lecturing the cashier about laying the milk down on its side "so it doesn't fall over." She packed my two bags, then left me trapped in the checkout row by my empty cart and the cart she'd set my groceries in. As she stood there staring vacantly into space, I considered shoving the cart closest to me to bust my way out, but instead, cleared my throat while thinking, "Ah ... doofus, help me out here." She helped clear the logjam so I could leave.

In the vestibule, I decided to leave the cart in the store and carry my bags two to the car. I picked up one bag and nearly ripped my shoulder out.

When I was in high school, I worked in a grocery store. In the olden days of paper sacks, we were trained in bagging -- things like "keep the bag square -- no bulges" and "don't put all the heavy stuff in one bag." Apparently, these archaic basics are no longer taught at grocery store orientation and the rocket scientist who packed my bag had a different philosophy. I've noticed, usually as the handles to the plastic store bags are shredding in the parking lot, that many baggers operate under a different model than what I was taught.

The first bag removed from the cart, the one that nearly crippled me, held a quart of coffee creamer, a half gallon of milk, five pounds of flour, four pounds of sugar (the chic new size in sugar), a pound of butter and a can of pineapple chunks (1 lb., 4 oz.). The other bag held a loaf of bread and a backage of cookies. There's some balanced packing for you. I set the bags back in the cart and began to repack them. A thought stream was tearing though my brain, the gist of which was "What idiot puts ALL the heavy stuff on one bag?" but the tone was harsher and the words were richer and more colorful. The kind that might bar my entry into heaven.

What Luck

It’s holiday time. That means gift shopping. And stress. Traffic. And stress. Potluck holiday parties. The biggest stress of all.

I totally get the concept of potluck. Everyone brings something, and everyone eats a bunch of stuff. The term “potluck” has origins in “the luck of the pot,” which suggests there is a factor of mystery, potential risk, you know … “luck.” With luck, the food items will be great and you’ll like at least one of them (probably the one you brought in).

What I don’t get is the sign-up sheet to list what we’re bringing – and not just “side dish” – the menu Nazis usually want details. What side dish? What’s in it? I don’t know. I’ll decide the night before and the end result will be completely dependent upon what time I actually arrive home and how much time is available for its preparation. It is highly likely that my contribution to the event will be whatever is available at Kroger on my way to the event. I am rarely home (awake) long enough to make myself a proper supper never mind whip up a potluck dish. Unlike some potluck participants I have known in the past, my dish is not an attempt to win a popularity contest.

In my mind, once the menu planning comes into play, there is no luck involved in the potluck. It’s now a catered event. Might as well just bring in Martha Stewart and have her start dishing out assignments. My friends who specialize in improvising and accuse me of over-planning everything will probably be surprised by this, but I hate the management and planning aspects of a potluck, which just feels like more of the logistics I have to deal with at work every day.

As if having to commit to a particular dish isn’t enough, there is the scrutiny of the list to deal with. Hearing someone whine for a week before the no-luck-involved potluck that “Nobody signed up for green bean casserole!” can really add a layer of poop icing to the crap cake. You know what? If the damned green bean casserole is that important to you, bring it yourself. I don’t know what it is, I don’t care if we have it, I don’t want to hear about it, and I will not be badgered into making it, whatever it is.

With three potlucks on my immediate horizon, I am stressing over them all, and haven’t signed up for anything yet. I expect the harassment to begin any minute now, and having to decide one to two weeks in advance what I am going to make and commit to it in writing on a sign-up sheet is stress I don’t need. Seriously, I can’t even decide a day in advance what to wear to work, or four hours in advance what to have for lunch. This is one big reason why I eat so much ramen – it’s fast. I can decide to eat, and in five minutes, be eating. If I could predict what I’d have time to fix (or feel like making) two full weeks from now, I could set myself up with a job in fortune telling.

Just trust people will bring something, and if you are lucky, they will. I like to live life on the edge. Or maybe I just have great luck.

Treasure Hunt

The Red River Sirens will be in the Clarksville Christmas Parade. We’ll be easy to spot – we’ll be the really cool looking ladies in the awesome black hoodies with the (NEW!) team logo on the front (in silver!), waving from our gorgeous and creative illuminated float and walking alongside it handing out candy.

What was NOT easy was finding the parade information for this year. Several weeks ago, I searched for it, because we needed an entry form and the parade theme for this year. Yes, they are themed – and not just “Christmas.” It seemed simple enough – search on “Clarksville Christmas Parade,” right? Any monkey could do it. Yeah, right….

The search on the keywords “Clarksville TN Christmas Parade” pulled up the entry forms for the 48th, 49th and 50th annual parades, which was nice, but this year’s is the 51st. There were stories of past parades and lists of winners. A visit to the City of Clarksville website (a co-sponsor) yielded nothing. The first time I searched, I somehow found it through an ad for the Downtown Association, which showed the date for the parade (which passes through downtown) and had a link to the entry form. Voila! Success! The form was retrieved and saved to the desktop of my lhome computer. Now I know how it felt to find one of Willy Wonka’s golden tickets.

In the course of things and upon my return to the ‘Ville from Thanksgiving visiting in the land of the Pilgrims, I picked up the entry check and a printed version of the form from a teammate (thanks, Heartless!), and proceeded to fill it out so it could be submitted to the Parks and Recreation Department. While filling in the info by hand at my desk at work (damned non-editable PDF files!), of course I make a mistake, used the correction tape and made a mess of that, and decided to print off a new form when no bosses were harassing me. That led to the second ridiculous search for the form, because I had messed up the printed one someone else found, and the PDF was at home.

I searched on “Clarksville Jaycees” (the other co-sponsor) which yielded listings of the organization in several directories and info about the Easter Egg Hunt (in 2008). Apparently hiding things is a special talent of this particular organization. The link titled “Christmas Parade Entry Form and Rules” (eureka!) near the top of the search results was, alas, for the 49th Annual Parade. You know, the one in 2008. And there was a list of the 2009 parade winners. It was all the more frustrating because I had already done this once. The form was right there on the desktop of my computer at home. But unless I could get Moose to unlatch his cage, fire up the computer and email it to me, it was of no use. And I didn’t have time in a 60 minute lunch hour to race across town (8 minutes each way in easy traffic), get the file, take it back to work to print it, (no ink in home printer) fill it out, and deliver it.

I have always had great research skills, but this was really putting them to the test. The search continued, using every combination of relevant keywords I could think of, including the name of the organization where I thought I saw the ad for the parade on the first go-round, and the most obvious – “Clarksville TN 51st Annual Christmas Parade,” which yielded a story in daily newspaper from December 1, which said, in its entirety, “There’s a parade Saturday. It’s downtown.” I finally found the blasted form through an online news source buried in an article about “Downtown for the Holidays.”

Man, it’s like this is the “Top Secret” themed parade, and it will be a surprise if there are any floats besides ours in it. I think the team deserves a prize just for the ridiculous level of nonsense it took to learn anything about it. In any event, it got done, and on time. The form turned in was clean and neat, with a separate sheet attached that describes the awesomeness of our “Tribute to Clarksville” themed float. Go to the parade if you want to see it. It’s Saturday, December 4 at 5:00. Wave to us.