Friday Cemetery Blogging

This is another of those photos I like but for no good reason. No bad reason either. I just don't have a reason.

How has your week been? I survived another night of drunk class and now I'm parked in front of the TV watching Stephen King's Rose Red for the umpteenth time. The poor old guy from Emergency is fixin' to bite the big one.

Geeze, I loved Emergency when I was a kid.

Tonight was family night in drunk class. The one thing I was looking forward too was finally meeting Magdalena's husband. Magdalena is the only woman in the class. She's been on my caseload for several years now and she is nuts. Shoebox-full-of-antipsychotics-nuts. You just can't help but love her. She's absolutely kooky.

Ever watched any of the novellas - the soap operas on the Spanish channels? Or am I the only one who watches soaps in languages they don't really understand? Well, if you've seen them, you've seen Magdalena. There's always at least one matriarchal type who wears her hair up, overdoes the rouge and dresses out-outrageously. That's her. You know the over-wrought emotions and the over the top facial expressions? That's Magdalena, too. She's highly entertaining.

For years, her one constant, her only support has been her paramour, Cortez. She always calls him by his last name and she pronounces it with this fabulous novella-esque accent. Cortez. I wish you could hear it.

Last week she came to me in tears. Which is not at all unusual. She was sobbing over the fact that she had no one to bring with her to family night and she knew that meant she would be dumped from drunk class. Her family are all worthless; her kids are drunken freeloaders and troublemakers. Her only hope - her only light - is Cortez.

Cortez.

But he doesn't speak English. Whatever would she do? Much weeping ensued. I knew she'd been looking for over a month for someone to bring with her. Sadly - pathetically, even - she hadn't been able to find anyone. Not anyone, except Cortez.

Cortez.

I finally asked her if Cortez understood English. Her face brightened and the tears quit falling. Of course he understands English. He understands everything she tells him. He just can't speak it.

Ok, I said. If he understands, bring him along. He doesn't have to talk.

Magdalena and Cortez were among the last to arrive. Tonight she was dressed to the nines in black leather and a white cotton blouse. She normally wears her long, curly black hair piled on the top of her head with a couple of long ringlets framing her face that would make any hasidic rabbi deeply jealous. Tonight her hair was pulled up in the front with the rest flowing down over her shoulders and back.

Magdalena is a tall woman. She can pull off an imposing posture when her body is not wracked with gut-wrenching sobs. Tonight she strode purposely into the room, knowing full well that all eyes were on her. She smiled broadly and just a little shyly, then stepped to one side so we could see who she was pulling along behind her.

The fabulous Cortez.

Turns out he's skinny little old man and his first name is Wilbur.