26. I love and adore all things Edward Gorey.
27. I would really like to be goth, but I am too old and not nearly skinny enough. Plus, most of the music really grates on my nerves. But other than that, I am there!
28. Jackson and I love to go browse through Hot Topic. The sales staff always seems to think we are narcs.
29. I am voting for Kinky Friedman for governor next year. Of course I am. (No big surprise there. Even the Republicans are willing to vote for a yellow dog over Governor Good Hair.)
30. I wanna be Molly Ivins when I grow up.
31. As responsible parents, Jackson and I provided Katie's first drug experience. We bought a mexican blanket at a garage sale. The seller was one of my probationers. When we got in the truck with the blanket, the stench of marijuana permeated the vehicle. Three blocks later, Katie - who had just wolfed an enormous pancake breakfast - said "I'm sooooo hungry! When are we gonna eat?"
32. The thumbnail on my right hand is split vertically down the middle. Half of it is regular nail and half is papery-thin and downright unreliable. This is because my brother chopped that nail off with the post-hole diggers when I was in the seventh grade. It never grew back right. We were digging a fox hole in the back yard. He with the diggers and I with a railroad spike.
33. My parents never griped at us for the plethora of five foot deep holes that we dug around the yard. For years.
34. I really liked the movie "Holes." I bet the book is even better!
35. I collect movie soundtracks. Two of my favorites are The Commitments and Last of the Mohicans.
36. I have a really big nose. Yet I can't sing even remotely like Barbra Streisand. What a rip off!
37. I have prehensile toes.
38. I blame all of the world's problems on dispensational premillennialists. I am not above scapegoating.
39. Dispensational premillennialist has a nice rythm to it. Its fun to say.
40. I hate the words tarpaulin and dollop. Make my skin crawl. Don't say them to me.
41. I really want a tatoo. I know what I want and where I want it. It wouldn't even bother me to have it when I get to the rest home. However, I can't stand to leave my furniture in the same spot for more than a month, so how can I live with a tatoo in the same spot for the rest of my life?
42. One of my granparents friends always calls me "Red" because of my hair. I call him "Grey".
43. Another of their friends calls me "Blondie". I call him "Baldy". My hair is somewhat schitzophrenic.
44. I hate most oil paintings. Seldom look twice at watercolor works. But I drool over paintings done with acrylics. I think this is because I always wanted to be a comic book artist.
45. I collect crappy madonnas. The virgin, not the singer. My favorite is actually a very pretty handcarved and handpainted one from Italy. Someone put a cigarette out in her eye and gave her a black eye. I call her the "Crisis Center Madonna".
46. I also collect gargoyles.
47. I am allergic to the color pink.
48. We started down a slippery slope to moral degredation and wanton violence when we quit letting kids play dodgeball in school. Every Friday kids used to beat the crap out of each other with stinging rubber balls in P.E. Some kids got hurt. Lots of kids got mad. But we all got the chance to take out our frustrations on each other. No school shootings when we played dodgeball. Nosirreebob.
49. I love to have honeybuns and Tab for breakfast.
50. Googling honeybuns is not necessarily a good idea.
Friday, April 15, 2005
Thursday, April 14, 2005
100 Things
An exercise in narcissism:
1. I ride an elevator that provides a daily opportunity to renew my faith in life after death.
2. I have a hard time drawing things in correct proportion to one another.
3. I love and adore British comedy.
4. I was the year book editor in high school. Of course I was.
5. I got married on Halloween, six years ago.
6. I hate praise choruses. They never seem to finish a thought - just keep going in circles. My philosophy is that a praise chorus is to a hymn as a greeting card is to a sonnet.
7. When I come home from work my husband has dinner ready for me. Then he does the dishes. It has given me a skewed appreciation for the 1950's lifestyle. I will sooo miss this when he goes back to work.
8. I wore a tuxedo to the high school prom.
9. I wore a tuxedo and trench coat to get my driver's license renewed once. That was a great driver's license photo!
10. I graduated from college with a 4.0 GPA.
11. I still can't do fractions.
12. I also have trouble completing my time sheet at work in any sort of an accurate fashion.
13. My toenails are purple. So is my bathroom. Not lavender, not plum, not violet. By-God-Purple.
14. I still get stage-fright and carry a pen in my hand whenever I testify in court. I found that if I wind the pen through my fingers when I raise my hand to swear to tell the truth and don't make stuff up, then my hand doesn't shake. So far no one has asked why the hell I can't leave my pen on the table - you don't need it on the witness stand.
15. I am addicted to playing The Sims. Currently playing the Sims2. I am generally a benevolent Sims god, although I sometimes enjoy going Old Testament on their soddenly little lives. Bwaaahaaahaha!
16. I flunked out of dog obedience school once. The instructor said the dog was doing fine, that it was all my fault.
17. I had the same alarm clock from junior high until just a couple of months ago. Now I have discovered the joys of clock radio. Wow! Who knew?! Waking up to NPR is so much less stressful than BEEEP BEEEP BEEEP. Generally. This morning the alarm came on just as Toccata and Fugue in D minor started. They played pretty much the whole thing. (This is one of my favorites, being SpookyRach and all.) I didn't hear any of the report that went with this and it was somewhat disconcerting at 5:40 a.m.
18. I got my hair cut. It is shorter than I intended and somewhat reminiscent of the Nancy Drew do from the 1950's. I like it.
19. I love potatoes. In any form.
20. I can sympathize with Dan Quayle. I would have so screwed up that spelling thing the same way.
21. I really, really miss Murphy Brown.
22. I was always a dog person. 'Till I married Jackson. He likes cats. I have learned that cats are zero-maintenance pets compared to dogs. I will probably always have cats. And besides, none of my Dobermans ever slept on my toes. Although I did have one that would try to sleep on my chest. I get short of breath just remembering that.
23. I love, love, love camping.
24. My friends have started a camping club. Its called the Justice Squirrels. It is way hokey, and if my parents had tried making me do something like this I would have thought they were insanely uncool. Katie the Fabulous Stepkid is either not quite old enough to catch on to how nerdy this is or is either collecting material for future therapy and screenplays.
25. I am basically a slacker at heart.
I am 1/4 of the way done. As soon as I do the other 1/2, I'll post it!
1. I ride an elevator that provides a daily opportunity to renew my faith in life after death.
2. I have a hard time drawing things in correct proportion to one another.
3. I love and adore British comedy.
4. I was the year book editor in high school. Of course I was.
5. I got married on Halloween, six years ago.
6. I hate praise choruses. They never seem to finish a thought - just keep going in circles. My philosophy is that a praise chorus is to a hymn as a greeting card is to a sonnet.
7. When I come home from work my husband has dinner ready for me. Then he does the dishes. It has given me a skewed appreciation for the 1950's lifestyle. I will sooo miss this when he goes back to work.
8. I wore a tuxedo to the high school prom.
9. I wore a tuxedo and trench coat to get my driver's license renewed once. That was a great driver's license photo!
10. I graduated from college with a 4.0 GPA.
11. I still can't do fractions.
12. I also have trouble completing my time sheet at work in any sort of an accurate fashion.
13. My toenails are purple. So is my bathroom. Not lavender, not plum, not violet. By-God-Purple.
14. I still get stage-fright and carry a pen in my hand whenever I testify in court. I found that if I wind the pen through my fingers when I raise my hand to swear to tell the truth and don't make stuff up, then my hand doesn't shake. So far no one has asked why the hell I can't leave my pen on the table - you don't need it on the witness stand.
15. I am addicted to playing The Sims. Currently playing the Sims2. I am generally a benevolent Sims god, although I sometimes enjoy going Old Testament on their soddenly little lives. Bwaaahaaahaha!
16. I flunked out of dog obedience school once. The instructor said the dog was doing fine, that it was all my fault.
17. I had the same alarm clock from junior high until just a couple of months ago. Now I have discovered the joys of clock radio. Wow! Who knew?! Waking up to NPR is so much less stressful than BEEEP BEEEP BEEEP. Generally. This morning the alarm came on just as Toccata and Fugue in D minor started. They played pretty much the whole thing. (This is one of my favorites, being SpookyRach and all.) I didn't hear any of the report that went with this and it was somewhat disconcerting at 5:40 a.m.
18. I got my hair cut. It is shorter than I intended and somewhat reminiscent of the Nancy Drew do from the 1950's. I like it.
19. I love potatoes. In any form.
20. I can sympathize with Dan Quayle. I would have so screwed up that spelling thing the same way.
21. I really, really miss Murphy Brown.
22. I was always a dog person. 'Till I married Jackson. He likes cats. I have learned that cats are zero-maintenance pets compared to dogs. I will probably always have cats. And besides, none of my Dobermans ever slept on my toes. Although I did have one that would try to sleep on my chest. I get short of breath just remembering that.
23. I love, love, love camping.
24. My friends have started a camping club. Its called the Justice Squirrels. It is way hokey, and if my parents had tried making me do something like this I would have thought they were insanely uncool. Katie the Fabulous Stepkid is either not quite old enough to catch on to how nerdy this is or is either collecting material for future therapy and screenplays.
25. I am basically a slacker at heart.
I am 1/4 of the way done. As soon as I do the other 1/2, I'll post it!
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
One man's trash...
There has been much unwarrented speculation among my friends and family as to the origin of Carmelita.
Carmelita came to live with me some time in the early 1990's. She has graced my walls for nearly ten years thanks to a bet, of sorts, with a friend.
Janet and I debated amongst ourselves about who knew the ugliest cemetery. My contender was the cemetery in O'Donnell, Texas. When I was a kid and family members were being planted there right and left, I remember it as a sandy, weedy, wind-swept place. It was hot. And very, very dry.
One Saturday we packed lunch (and Gerald) and set off for O'Donnell. I have to admit I was disappointed.
Somewhere through the years the home town of Hoss Cartwright had developed enough civic pride to start a cemetery association. The graveyard was clean and apparently had been watered on a fairly regular basis. There was actual green grass.
We explored a bit and found the trash pile in a back corner. I saw something sitting atop a mound of rotting flowers. It was half of a large wooden cross. It was missing its right arm, which I found further down in the pile. The cross was obviously handmade and the inscription consisted of a single word - Carmelita. The bottom of the cross was caked with oily mud from where it had been ripped from the ground and tossed away.
Janet helped me load Carmelita into the car and we brought her home. She has presided over my house ever since. I've never know her to cause any mischief, but I think that's because she likes me. And she knows if the house ever catches fire, she will be the first thing I save on my way out the door.
One of these days I am going back to the O'Donnell Cemetery. Partly to pay respects to three generations of my family buried there and partly to look for Carmelita's grave. Hopefully hers is not one of the 74 un-marked graves.
Jackson's Apple Tree
We returned from wildflower infested East Texas to find this. Evidenly, Jackson's spindly little apple tree has decided against sterility. It didn't do a lot to help us feel better about living in a barren wasteland, but it helped some.
Monday, March 28, 2005
Friday, March 25, 2005
Corporate Culture Stomp
Evidence that everyone at this office has become un-supervisable:
1. The hallway from the lobby to the offices contains many interesting things. It is a long, dark, depressing hallway that has been christened "The Solarium". Of the Solarium's many wonderful items, my personal favorite rests on the top of a low bookcase. It is a plastic skull, wearing a red clown nose, sitting atop the 1922 hardcover edition of "Etiquette" by Emily Post.
2. On days when everyone else in their right mind has taken the day off - like today - Marty and I have eyeball races. You remember those balls with the eyeballs floating in them? You roll them, but the eye continues to stare straight up. We have a secret collection of them that we race in various venues around the building. The reason we only do it on days when almost no one else is here? We don't wanna share the eye-balls with everyone else and when the boss wants to play, you pretty much have to let him win.
3. The big chart with a thermometer-style, color-in, progress graph that was supplied by the American Cancer Society to show the progress of our collections for our Relay for Life Team hangs in a small foyer outside the employees restrooms. It says:
OUR GOAL IS: Ambiguous
People have started measuring themselves and writing "Ester is this tall" or "Mindy is this tall!" on it.
4. There is a sign directly across from my office door which says: "In case of terrorist attack, WALK, do not run, to the nearest exit."
I am ready to WALK, do not run, home.
1. The hallway from the lobby to the offices contains many interesting things. It is a long, dark, depressing hallway that has been christened "The Solarium". Of the Solarium's many wonderful items, my personal favorite rests on the top of a low bookcase. It is a plastic skull, wearing a red clown nose, sitting atop the 1922 hardcover edition of "Etiquette" by Emily Post.
2. On days when everyone else in their right mind has taken the day off - like today - Marty and I have eyeball races. You remember those balls with the eyeballs floating in them? You roll them, but the eye continues to stare straight up. We have a secret collection of them that we race in various venues around the building. The reason we only do it on days when almost no one else is here? We don't wanna share the eye-balls with everyone else and when the boss wants to play, you pretty much have to let him win.
3. The big chart with a thermometer-style, color-in, progress graph that was supplied by the American Cancer Society to show the progress of our collections for our Relay for Life Team hangs in a small foyer outside the employees restrooms. It says:
OUR GOAL IS: Ambiguous
People have started measuring themselves and writing "Ester is this tall" or "Mindy is this tall!" on it.
4. There is a sign directly across from my office door which says: "In case of terrorist attack, WALK, do not run, to the nearest exit."
I am ready to WALK, do not run, home.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Beat with a Stick
Received this stick from Reverendmother:
1. You're stuck inside Fahrenheit 451; which book do you want to be? I am assuming this to mean what book would I destroy. It would have to be pretty much anything by Mary Higgins Clark. I am a big fan of fluff mysteries - you know the kind where the main character is some suburban chick with a catering business or a writer or something and people she is vaguely acquainted with start dropping dead? And this happens book after book after book, yet no one considers that this chick may well be a serial killer who is really adept at foisting blame for her crimes on other eccentric townspeople? Yeah. I like that crap. But I can't stand Mary Higgins Clark. I dunno why. I also don't know why I own about half of her books and have read them even though I know they will make me nuts. I just don't have the guts to get rid of them myself.
2. Have you ever had a crush on a fiction character? Robin Hood.
3. The last book(s) you bought: The Care and Keeping of You and The Feelings Book, both by American Girl Publishing. Before you drop yer teeth in yer tea - Katie the Fabulous StepKid is that age and her mother is clueless. So, in the best Mrs. Cunningham fashion, I bought books and we have been reading them. (And just in case you are in need of this stuff - I really recommend these books. They are all about plain-speaking, but the way they are arranged make for a really stress-free situation for both you and the kid.)
4. The last book you read: A trilogy of Mary Roberts Rinehart novels.
5. What are you currently reading? "Wake Up America" by Tony Campolo. Don't ask me any questions, I've only had time for the first few pages!
6. Five books you would take to a desert island: I would not use one of my choices for the Bible, because I have great faith in the Gideons.
1. It by Stephen King - this was the first of his books I read and remains my favorite.
2. Oxford Dictionary of Quotations - "It is good for the uneducated man to study quotations" - Benjamin Franklin.
3. Complete Book of Herbs by Lesley Bremness. I really want to steal Reverndmother's "Worst Case Scenario" idea. With this book I'll at least know a little bit about what I can eat and what will cure me when I eat something I shouldn't.
4. Complete Collected works of Jane Austen - Yeah, I know. You can't believe I read this stuff. I can't either. I hate romance as a general rule, but I can read her books over and over again. Don't know why. Don't much care. I guess that's why they are classics, huh?
5. Lake Wobegone Days by Garrison Keillor - Another author I never tire of. I love his style and I am addicted to hearing him read his works. Word of caution - When leaving home at 4:00 a.m. for 8 hour drive, don't listen to Keillor. You will just be lulled right back to sleep. The highway patrol frowns on this.
So that's it. Passing it on to Mindy.
1. You're stuck inside Fahrenheit 451; which book do you want to be? I am assuming this to mean what book would I destroy. It would have to be pretty much anything by Mary Higgins Clark. I am a big fan of fluff mysteries - you know the kind where the main character is some suburban chick with a catering business or a writer or something and people she is vaguely acquainted with start dropping dead? And this happens book after book after book, yet no one considers that this chick may well be a serial killer who is really adept at foisting blame for her crimes on other eccentric townspeople? Yeah. I like that crap. But I can't stand Mary Higgins Clark. I dunno why. I also don't know why I own about half of her books and have read them even though I know they will make me nuts. I just don't have the guts to get rid of them myself.
2. Have you ever had a crush on a fiction character? Robin Hood.
3. The last book(s) you bought: The Care and Keeping of You and The Feelings Book, both by American Girl Publishing. Before you drop yer teeth in yer tea - Katie the Fabulous StepKid is that age and her mother is clueless. So, in the best Mrs. Cunningham fashion, I bought books and we have been reading them. (And just in case you are in need of this stuff - I really recommend these books. They are all about plain-speaking, but the way they are arranged make for a really stress-free situation for both you and the kid.)
4. The last book you read: A trilogy of Mary Roberts Rinehart novels.
5. What are you currently reading? "Wake Up America" by Tony Campolo. Don't ask me any questions, I've only had time for the first few pages!
6. Five books you would take to a desert island: I would not use one of my choices for the Bible, because I have great faith in the Gideons.
1. It by Stephen King - this was the first of his books I read and remains my favorite.
2. Oxford Dictionary of Quotations - "It is good for the uneducated man to study quotations" - Benjamin Franklin.
3. Complete Book of Herbs by Lesley Bremness. I really want to steal Reverndmother's "Worst Case Scenario" idea. With this book I'll at least know a little bit about what I can eat and what will cure me when I eat something I shouldn't.
4. Complete Collected works of Jane Austen - Yeah, I know. You can't believe I read this stuff. I can't either. I hate romance as a general rule, but I can read her books over and over again. Don't know why. Don't much care. I guess that's why they are classics, huh?
5. Lake Wobegone Days by Garrison Keillor - Another author I never tire of. I love his style and I am addicted to hearing him read his works. Word of caution - When leaving home at 4:00 a.m. for 8 hour drive, don't listen to Keillor. You will just be lulled right back to sleep. The highway patrol frowns on this.
So that's it. Passing it on to Mindy.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Florida here we come...
I like snow. I really do!
But it was 80 degrees on Saturday. Make up your mind, Mother Nature!
But it was 80 degrees on Saturday. Make up your mind, Mother Nature!
Monday, March 14, 2005
Carne Guisada Burrito, Enchilada Style, With Rice and Beans
You know you are in a rut when:
You go out to lunch with a friend. You go to the same restaurant you have been frequenting at least weekly for the last ten-plus years. You order the same thing you always order.
After you've ordered and are sitting back with some chips and hot sauce, enjoying some good conversation, one of the waitresses comes out of the kitchen, scans the dining room and sees you. She comes to your table and says:
"I didn't hear ya'll come in! But I knew when I saw the cook making those plates that you must be here."
You go out to lunch with a friend. You go to the same restaurant you have been frequenting at least weekly for the last ten-plus years. You order the same thing you always order.
After you've ordered and are sitting back with some chips and hot sauce, enjoying some good conversation, one of the waitresses comes out of the kitchen, scans the dining room and sees you. She comes to your table and says:
"I didn't hear ya'll come in! But I knew when I saw the cook making those plates that you must be here."
Friday, March 11, 2005
Bookishly.
A few days ago, I read a post by Reverenmother that started me to thinking about what books and music have influenced me. I have come up with a couple of classics:
The first is a book whose title I have forgotten. When I was in the fifth grade, I found the book in the church library of Second Baptist Church in Lamesa, Texas. I probably checked it out five times that year and devoured it each time. It was ostensibly written by J. Edgar Hoover in the 1950’s as a propaganda/recruitment tool for clean-cut, white-bread, American boys. It told about how the greatest crime-fighting force in the history of mankind to date was the FBI – the G-Men. The book told young men how they could become clean-cut, white-bread, American G-Men. (J. Edgar was real big on being clean-cut.) As I understood it, the closest I could come to being a superhero was to become a G-(wo)Man. It never occurred to me that this did not apply in my case and J. Edgar Hoover would have wanted nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with me.
Joining FBI was my life’s goal until well into college. At that point I discovered the feds have no sense of humor. (That is a really good story that I will tell you about sometime after the Patriot Act has been repealed.) I did some intern work for the police department and decided that was all well and good, but not really about Truth, Justice and The American Way. So, I went to work for adult probation. It has its flaws – one of the chief of which is that it has been bureaucratically renamed Community Supervision and Corrections – but I like it. It fits me well. And I guess I have to thank J. Edgar Hoover for that. Him and the total lack of appreciation for humor among federal law enforcement personnel.
Another book that has contributed greatly to who I am is And So It Goes by Linda Ellerbee. My good friend Kincaid (kudos, Kincaid!) told me about this book when we were in high school. I read it several times then and it hasn’t left my side since. Ellerbee talks about always having a copy of “Catch 22” on her desk when she worked in television news. Today, Ellerbee’s book sits on the bookshelf in my office, where I see it peeping over the shoulder of people who sit in the chair opposite me.
I was reading And So It Goes during lunch a few weeks ago and realized again how the unusual situations and the dark humor she writes about have always appealed to me. I love close encounters with reality - far removed from soccer moms and minivans - in the company of friends and gallows humor. I know I live in a comfortable, WASPish, middle-class world, (I don’t own a minivan, though I do end up riding in them a lot). But I like to look past my world as much as possible and see what is going on elsewhere. I am lucky to have friends and family who are willing to go along with me.
And we laugh a lot.
The first is a book whose title I have forgotten. When I was in the fifth grade, I found the book in the church library of Second Baptist Church in Lamesa, Texas. I probably checked it out five times that year and devoured it each time. It was ostensibly written by J. Edgar Hoover in the 1950’s as a propaganda/recruitment tool for clean-cut, white-bread, American boys. It told about how the greatest crime-fighting force in the history of mankind to date was the FBI – the G-Men. The book told young men how they could become clean-cut, white-bread, American G-Men. (J. Edgar was real big on being clean-cut.) As I understood it, the closest I could come to being a superhero was to become a G-(wo)Man. It never occurred to me that this did not apply in my case and J. Edgar Hoover would have wanted nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with me.
Joining FBI was my life’s goal until well into college. At that point I discovered the feds have no sense of humor. (That is a really good story that I will tell you about sometime after the Patriot Act has been repealed.) I did some intern work for the police department and decided that was all well and good, but not really about Truth, Justice and The American Way. So, I went to work for adult probation. It has its flaws – one of the chief of which is that it has been bureaucratically renamed Community Supervision and Corrections – but I like it. It fits me well. And I guess I have to thank J. Edgar Hoover for that. Him and the total lack of appreciation for humor among federal law enforcement personnel.
Another book that has contributed greatly to who I am is And So It Goes by Linda Ellerbee. My good friend Kincaid (kudos, Kincaid!) told me about this book when we were in high school. I read it several times then and it hasn’t left my side since. Ellerbee talks about always having a copy of “Catch 22” on her desk when she worked in television news. Today, Ellerbee’s book sits on the bookshelf in my office, where I see it peeping over the shoulder of people who sit in the chair opposite me.
I was reading And So It Goes during lunch a few weeks ago and realized again how the unusual situations and the dark humor she writes about have always appealed to me. I love close encounters with reality - far removed from soccer moms and minivans - in the company of friends and gallows humor. I know I live in a comfortable, WASPish, middle-class world, (I don’t own a minivan, though I do end up riding in them a lot). But I like to look past my world as much as possible and see what is going on elsewhere. I am lucky to have friends and family who are willing to go along with me.
And we laugh a lot.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
It might be the food.
Last week was the first week of my three month rotation in County Court. Didn't see Frank this time. Towards the end of the morning, we had a hearing on a big ol' boy from Stephenville. (Actually, Lingleville, but who knows where that is?) He had gotten arrested while driving through Fake Cow County with a suspended driver's license. He hired an attorney and was pleading guilty, hopefully to be placed on probation and sent back East with the customary judicial pronouncement of "Go and sin no more!"
My customary perch in the courtroom/basement is right next to the lone window. By this time, my attention had begun to wander outside. Big ol' boy was explaining to the Judge what had happened. I didn't pay much attention, except when he said "I had moved back from Hawaii a couple months earlier and I just hadn't gotten a Texas license yet." To which the Judge replied with a lecture on how it is your responsibility to get a new license within 30 days, etc. etc. He ended his diatribe with - "I don't care where your license was from - Hawaii, was it? Probably got a damn pineapple on it."
"Worse than that," big ol' boy said. "Its a rainbow."
At this point I was leaning up against the window frame, which you can almost feel move as it strained to keep out the wind. Right now there is no sand, but the wind is starting and I remembered this is March and the sand will come. The grass looks pretty good - the jail inmates just finished mowing it for the first time. This bit of grass is one of the few in town that will remain green through the summer. At the edge of my view a couple of those dumb daffodils jumbled around, just waiting to be cut down by the last freeze. The freeze is coming too. Just like the sand.
The hearing is concluded. I make a few quick notes on my courtsheet. The Judge asked big ol' boy if he had any questions. He didn't. "I have one!" I said. "Why in the world did you move back to Texas from Hawaii??!"
"I dunno," he grinned and looked out my window. "There's just something about Texas." As he spoke he twirled his big ol' cowboy hat on his hand. He grinned again, then he turned on his boot heel and followed the bailiff from the courtroom.
My customary perch in the courtroom/basement is right next to the lone window. By this time, my attention had begun to wander outside. Big ol' boy was explaining to the Judge what had happened. I didn't pay much attention, except when he said "I had moved back from Hawaii a couple months earlier and I just hadn't gotten a Texas license yet." To which the Judge replied with a lecture on how it is your responsibility to get a new license within 30 days, etc. etc. He ended his diatribe with - "I don't care where your license was from - Hawaii, was it? Probably got a damn pineapple on it."
"Worse than that," big ol' boy said. "Its a rainbow."
At this point I was leaning up against the window frame, which you can almost feel move as it strained to keep out the wind. Right now there is no sand, but the wind is starting and I remembered this is March and the sand will come. The grass looks pretty good - the jail inmates just finished mowing it for the first time. This bit of grass is one of the few in town that will remain green through the summer. At the edge of my view a couple of those dumb daffodils jumbled around, just waiting to be cut down by the last freeze. The freeze is coming too. Just like the sand.
The hearing is concluded. I make a few quick notes on my courtsheet. The Judge asked big ol' boy if he had any questions. He didn't. "I have one!" I said. "Why in the world did you move back to Texas from Hawaii??!"
"I dunno," he grinned and looked out my window. "There's just something about Texas." As he spoke he twirled his big ol' cowboy hat on his hand. He grinned again, then he turned on his boot heel and followed the bailiff from the courtroom.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
QUIZ: What theologian are you?
I don't know what this means, but it sounds fairly accurate:
What theologian are you?
A creation of Henderson
| "We reject the false doctrine that the church could have permission to hand over the form of its message and of its order to whatever it itself might wish or to the vicissitudes of the prevailing ideological and political convictions of the day." |
| You are Karl Barth! You like your freedom, and are pretty stubborn against authority! You don't care much for other people's opinions either. You can come up with your own fun, and often enough you have too much fun. You are pretty popular because you let people have their way, even when you have things figured out better than them. |
What theologian are you?
A creation of Henderson
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
Romance In The Car - Part II, or I Fixed Her Van
Perhaps you remember this guy, who sent me the letter from jail about how he'd been arrested for violating a protective order after a joyously tasteful reunion with his estranged wife in the backseat of his car?
Well, today he faced the music in County Court. I don't know how your county court works, but ours is exactly like an episode of Night Court - bizarro characters and all. I got called over to the court house from my extra plushy office because somebody wanted my testimony at the hearing. Doesn't that sound official and Perry Masonish? Translation: I went into the courtroom where a herd of people were milling around, chewing cud and the judge stopped what he was doing, looked at me and pointed to a guy in the back. "I need you to talk to Frank," he said, and then resumed the hearing in progress. I took my file over to sit by a guy on the back pew. (There are only two pews. Its a small, cramped room in the basement of the courthouse where misdemeanor cases are heard. The Judge's bench is pushed up in a dark corner and it makes you feel sort of hunched over when you stand before him.)
Frank was wearing the ever popular orange jumpsuit and a prodigious number of shackles. I am guessing that was due to the fact that Frank is freakin' messed up. He is fried. He has cooked himself on methamphetamine for just too damn long. When he talks to you his eyes begin to roll around in his head, eventually rolling up to the point that all you see is white. I can't prove it but I swear to you his eyes roll in different directions and at different speeds. Then he makes hand gestures - the more agitated he gets, the more he gestures. I wish I could show it to you, but imagine fingers twisted into claws and swirling around the room with an effect reminiscent of the head spin from The Exorcist.
"What's the deal, Frank?"
"I want to get out of jail," he hissed at me.
"I don't think that's gonna happen, Frank. You got a new charge for violating you wife's protective order."
"I gotta get out of jail." His voice starts to get louder. "My little girl is sick and I gotta get out and help her."
"She still livin' with your parents, Frank?" "Yessss." He hisses some more.
"Well, what's the problem?" At this point the freaky-looking guy sitting in front of us turned around and began to tell me how he is Frank's dad and the little girl has kidney disease and she is going to have to have surgery and Frank just needs to get out of jail.
"What are you going to do if you get out of jail, Frank?"
"I'm gonna get the hell out of this county! You people all have it in for me. I am going to Mineral Wells to live with my brother - he's a state cop and he won't let me use. I'm clean now and you just won't believe me!"
"Of course you're clean, Frank - ya been in jail for the last three months! But once you get out you and I both know you won't stay clean. How long did you stay in treatment last time?"
"Three weeks." Lots of hand gestures. Eyes are rolling like dice.
"No, man. How long did you stay at the treatment center before you tried the suicide thing and they took you to Big Springs?"
"Three days."
"Well, I gotta tell ya, I cannot in good conscience recommend to the judge that he just let you out of jail. If he does let you out, you are going into drug treatment."
"I never have trusted you!" His voice keeps getting louder. "You had it in for me from the start, cuz you're Debbie's officer too and she poisoned your mind against me!" Hand gestures, eye-rolling and nods from Dad.
"Well, your doing a pretty good job of getting yourself in trouble without help from me, Frank."
"I don't need no treatment. I'm clean."
"I'm not discussing this with you any further. We'll talk it over with the Judge when he calls your case."
Miffed silence. Dad and Frank begin to grumble to each other. I scoot a little ways down the pew and try to ignore them. In a few minutes, Frank wags an eye at me. "Did Debbie pay her probation?"
"You know I can't tell you that."
"Well she should have." Gestures. Eyes doing the hokey-pokey in his head. "I gave her the money."
This time I am the one yelling in the courtroom. "What are you doing giving her your money Frank? You aren't even supposed to go anywhere near her!"
"Well... she's a mother." He sniffles superiorly and turns his back to me. Frank and Dad grumble to each other some more. Dad starts feeling bold and while sending me eye daggers he tells Frank in a loud voice "If I was you, I'd stay in jail another week and get me a lawyer! Seems like that might do you some good!" No response from me. They grumble together some more. Then Dad stares at me again and says "I drove trucks for 30 years and took that meth stuff because I had to. The minute I quit driving trucks, I quit using it. I think this treatment crap is just a bunch of bullshit!" My eyebrows raised and the deputy who brought Frank up from the jail takes a step closer to us. Frank puts his head in his hands and says "Dad! Stop helpin' me!"
Finally, the judge called our case. I know in your mind you picture a bailiff stepping up to the bar and announcing The State vs. Frank and people standing to attention as their attorneys announce their intentions in the case. In County Court it means the judge looked over at us and said "Y'all ready?"
Frank and I stood in front of the bench with the assistant district attorney. (Night Court, remember? Except instead of Markie Post - the public defender, they get me - the probation officer.) I tell the Judge that Frank would really like to get out of jail. However, Frank has a real big ol' problem with drugs and with beatin' up on Debbie. (Both of Frank's eyeballs appear to be in just one eye socket at this point.) "I don't think we can just turn him loose. I told him if his probation is continued I want him in drug treatment." The judge nods and starts to ask Frank a question. Frank interrupts with a gesture or two and said "Judge - you know I love that woman - and I gave her my money and look where I am now! I talked to you and you said I could be with Debbie. The only person here who don't want me seein' her is Miss Rachel!" Claws are thrust in my direction.
"Me and the judge in Flat Land County who issued that protective order against you!" I said. Loudly. At this point I get all southern. I can't help it. I don't want my accent to show that badly, but some people cain't understand whut yer sayin' unless yew speak their language and yer raisin' begins to tell and ya start to talk real bad. "Look here, man! Yew are goin' to prison if yew don't leave that girl alone! Ya done been put on two probations fer beatin' her up and now yew got this new charge in Flat Land County for violation' that judges order." I glare at one and/or both of his eyes and he waggles his finger-claws at me.
Suddenly, the constable/bailiff, who has been snoozing in a chair in the makeshift witness stand, wakes up and says "Whut? You gotta protective order against you, Frank? Then what were you doin with Debbie when I arrested you on this probation violation!?"
All eyes, including some of his own, turn on Frank. He ducks his head and grins. "I was fixing her van. You know I love that woman!"
Thanks to Headless for title inspiration.
Well, today he faced the music in County Court. I don't know how your county court works, but ours is exactly like an episode of Night Court - bizarro characters and all. I got called over to the court house from my extra plushy office because somebody wanted my testimony at the hearing. Doesn't that sound official and Perry Masonish? Translation: I went into the courtroom where a herd of people were milling around, chewing cud and the judge stopped what he was doing, looked at me and pointed to a guy in the back. "I need you to talk to Frank," he said, and then resumed the hearing in progress. I took my file over to sit by a guy on the back pew. (There are only two pews. Its a small, cramped room in the basement of the courthouse where misdemeanor cases are heard. The Judge's bench is pushed up in a dark corner and it makes you feel sort of hunched over when you stand before him.)
Frank was wearing the ever popular orange jumpsuit and a prodigious number of shackles. I am guessing that was due to the fact that Frank is freakin' messed up. He is fried. He has cooked himself on methamphetamine for just too damn long. When he talks to you his eyes begin to roll around in his head, eventually rolling up to the point that all you see is white. I can't prove it but I swear to you his eyes roll in different directions and at different speeds. Then he makes hand gestures - the more agitated he gets, the more he gestures. I wish I could show it to you, but imagine fingers twisted into claws and swirling around the room with an effect reminiscent of the head spin from The Exorcist.
"What's the deal, Frank?"
"I want to get out of jail," he hissed at me.
"I don't think that's gonna happen, Frank. You got a new charge for violating you wife's protective order."
"I gotta get out of jail." His voice starts to get louder. "My little girl is sick and I gotta get out and help her."
"She still livin' with your parents, Frank?" "Yessss." He hisses some more.
"Well, what's the problem?" At this point the freaky-looking guy sitting in front of us turned around and began to tell me how he is Frank's dad and the little girl has kidney disease and she is going to have to have surgery and Frank just needs to get out of jail.
"What are you going to do if you get out of jail, Frank?"
"I'm gonna get the hell out of this county! You people all have it in for me. I am going to Mineral Wells to live with my brother - he's a state cop and he won't let me use. I'm clean now and you just won't believe me!"
"Of course you're clean, Frank - ya been in jail for the last three months! But once you get out you and I both know you won't stay clean. How long did you stay in treatment last time?"
"Three weeks." Lots of hand gestures. Eyes are rolling like dice.
"No, man. How long did you stay at the treatment center before you tried the suicide thing and they took you to Big Springs?"
"Three days."
"Well, I gotta tell ya, I cannot in good conscience recommend to the judge that he just let you out of jail. If he does let you out, you are going into drug treatment."
"I never have trusted you!" His voice keeps getting louder. "You had it in for me from the start, cuz you're Debbie's officer too and she poisoned your mind against me!" Hand gestures, eye-rolling and nods from Dad.
"Well, your doing a pretty good job of getting yourself in trouble without help from me, Frank."
"I don't need no treatment. I'm clean."
"I'm not discussing this with you any further. We'll talk it over with the Judge when he calls your case."
Miffed silence. Dad and Frank begin to grumble to each other. I scoot a little ways down the pew and try to ignore them. In a few minutes, Frank wags an eye at me. "Did Debbie pay her probation?"
"You know I can't tell you that."
"Well she should have." Gestures. Eyes doing the hokey-pokey in his head. "I gave her the money."
This time I am the one yelling in the courtroom. "What are you doing giving her your money Frank? You aren't even supposed to go anywhere near her!"
"Well... she's a mother." He sniffles superiorly and turns his back to me. Frank and Dad grumble to each other some more. Dad starts feeling bold and while sending me eye daggers he tells Frank in a loud voice "If I was you, I'd stay in jail another week and get me a lawyer! Seems like that might do you some good!" No response from me. They grumble together some more. Then Dad stares at me again and says "I drove trucks for 30 years and took that meth stuff because I had to. The minute I quit driving trucks, I quit using it. I think this treatment crap is just a bunch of bullshit!" My eyebrows raised and the deputy who brought Frank up from the jail takes a step closer to us. Frank puts his head in his hands and says "Dad! Stop helpin' me!"
Finally, the judge called our case. I know in your mind you picture a bailiff stepping up to the bar and announcing The State vs. Frank and people standing to attention as their attorneys announce their intentions in the case. In County Court it means the judge looked over at us and said "Y'all ready?"
Frank and I stood in front of the bench with the assistant district attorney. (Night Court, remember? Except instead of Markie Post - the public defender, they get me - the probation officer.) I tell the Judge that Frank would really like to get out of jail. However, Frank has a real big ol' problem with drugs and with beatin' up on Debbie. (Both of Frank's eyeballs appear to be in just one eye socket at this point.) "I don't think we can just turn him loose. I told him if his probation is continued I want him in drug treatment." The judge nods and starts to ask Frank a question. Frank interrupts with a gesture or two and said "Judge - you know I love that woman - and I gave her my money and look where I am now! I talked to you and you said I could be with Debbie. The only person here who don't want me seein' her is Miss Rachel!" Claws are thrust in my direction.
"Me and the judge in Flat Land County who issued that protective order against you!" I said. Loudly. At this point I get all southern. I can't help it. I don't want my accent to show that badly, but some people cain't understand whut yer sayin' unless yew speak their language and yer raisin' begins to tell and ya start to talk real bad. "Look here, man! Yew are goin' to prison if yew don't leave that girl alone! Ya done been put on two probations fer beatin' her up and now yew got this new charge in Flat Land County for violation' that judges order." I glare at one and/or both of his eyes and he waggles his finger-claws at me.
Suddenly, the constable/bailiff, who has been snoozing in a chair in the makeshift witness stand, wakes up and says "Whut? You gotta protective order against you, Frank? Then what were you doin with Debbie when I arrested you on this probation violation!?"
All eyes, including some of his own, turn on Frank. He ducks his head and grins. "I was fixing her van. You know I love that woman!"
Thanks to Headless for title inspiration.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
Damn Daffodils
Stupid flowers. Every year the same thing. You'd think you would learn. But no, you poke you little stems out of the ground waaay to early. Then it freezes and you die. Geeze! I know there is an object lesson here about optimism and hope and all that good stuff. But not today. Today you are being stupid. Well, that and dead. Stupid and dead.
Monday, February 28, 2005
Wild Sunflower
I took this on our last camping trip of 2004. I think it was in September. Reason No. 143 for living here - camping in September. We were at Caprock Canyon State Park.
I am sooo ready to pitch the tent this year! Mindy got new lights for Christmas! Jackson got a couple of cast iron dutch ovens and a tripod. I'm hoping for a new sleeping bag. All of the Justice Squirrels should be getting new t-shirts - if we get to work on them. Can't wait!
Nobody brought Tuna Casserole...
If I were a preacher, this Sunday's sermon would have been about faith.
I live in the South. In the bible belt. In a place where the frequency of your actual Sunday attendance may not matter so much, but you damn well better be able to roll the name of your church off the end of your tongue when asked. And you will be asked. Hell, I've been asked in a job interview.
So, in the face of all this religiosity - why don't you have faith? I'm not talking about big, scary faith: mountain-moving, risk-taking, societal warrior kind of faith. I'm talking about Pot Luck.
We had a pot luck dinner scheduled last week following our quarterly staff meeting. Pot luck - the staple of church fellowships and tupperware parties for the past couple of centuries. And yet, people began to freak out. "What are you going to bring?" "I don't know if I should bring potatoes or dessert?" "Meat! Who's going to bring meat?"
Finally things deteriorated to the point where people were clamoring for a list! A list so they could sign up for what to bring!
Shocking, isn't it? These are all, every one of 'em, church-going people. Have any of them ever witnessed a pot luck dinner that didn't work out? No, of course not. Pot luck is one of the most concrete proofs of the existence of the divine - it never fails. Who says God doesn't perform miracles any more? The loaves and fishes were a pot luck success if I ever saw one! Have some faith, people!
Naturally our dinner worked out. Plenty of loaves. Plenty of fishes. Several baskets of left-overs. So that would have been my Sunday sermon. Stirring stuff, eh? This guy spoke at our church on Sunday. Appropriately enough, it was about the loaves and fishes. He didn't mention pot luck, though. Too bad.
I live in the South. In the bible belt. In a place where the frequency of your actual Sunday attendance may not matter so much, but you damn well better be able to roll the name of your church off the end of your tongue when asked. And you will be asked. Hell, I've been asked in a job interview.
So, in the face of all this religiosity - why don't you have faith? I'm not talking about big, scary faith: mountain-moving, risk-taking, societal warrior kind of faith. I'm talking about Pot Luck.
We had a pot luck dinner scheduled last week following our quarterly staff meeting. Pot luck - the staple of church fellowships and tupperware parties for the past couple of centuries. And yet, people began to freak out. "What are you going to bring?" "I don't know if I should bring potatoes or dessert?" "Meat! Who's going to bring meat?"
Finally things deteriorated to the point where people were clamoring for a list! A list so they could sign up for what to bring!
Shocking, isn't it? These are all, every one of 'em, church-going people. Have any of them ever witnessed a pot luck dinner that didn't work out? No, of course not. Pot luck is one of the most concrete proofs of the existence of the divine - it never fails. Who says God doesn't perform miracles any more? The loaves and fishes were a pot luck success if I ever saw one! Have some faith, people!
Naturally our dinner worked out. Plenty of loaves. Plenty of fishes. Several baskets of left-overs. So that would have been my Sunday sermon. Stirring stuff, eh? This guy spoke at our church on Sunday. Appropriately enough, it was about the loaves and fishes. He didn't mention pot luck, though. Too bad.
Monday, February 14, 2005
St. Valenwhosis Day?
"Well, sir, what do you suggest? We stand here and shed tears and call each other names, or shall we go to Istanbul?"
If you listened to NPR this morning, you too know that today is the 75th anniversary of the Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett. Read a few pages and you will be ready to pack up and move to San Francisco - if for no other reason than to wander the streets at night in the mist and the rain, watching the shadowy figures behind the drawn window shades of the upstairs apartments. (Never mind that this would get you a. arrested, b. assaulted, or c. worse.)
I love Sam Spade. I love Humphrey Bogart and Neil Simons' versions of Sam Spade. I spent way too much time reading and watching this stuff as a kid. That's not to say it didn't pay off. It did. When I first started working as a probation officer, I had no idea what I was doing or what to say to the people sitting expectantly across the desk from me. I found that you could bend a few Sam Spade lines to meet just about any situation. If you throw in a couple more lines from the movie Casablanca, you got it made.
As time went by, I got better at the job and didn't have to rely on Spade and Bogart for filler material. But, every once in a while, especially on rainy, foggy days, I break out the Spade-speak with some of my people. Nobody gets it and it doesn't really help matters any, but its fun. And fun, well, 'that's the stuff that dreams are made of. '
If you listened to NPR this morning, you too know that today is the 75th anniversary of the Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett. Read a few pages and you will be ready to pack up and move to San Francisco - if for no other reason than to wander the streets at night in the mist and the rain, watching the shadowy figures behind the drawn window shades of the upstairs apartments. (Never mind that this would get you a. arrested, b. assaulted, or c. worse.)
I love Sam Spade. I love Humphrey Bogart and Neil Simons' versions of Sam Spade. I spent way too much time reading and watching this stuff as a kid. That's not to say it didn't pay off. It did. When I first started working as a probation officer, I had no idea what I was doing or what to say to the people sitting expectantly across the desk from me. I found that you could bend a few Sam Spade lines to meet just about any situation. If you throw in a couple more lines from the movie Casablanca, you got it made.
As time went by, I got better at the job and didn't have to rely on Spade and Bogart for filler material. But, every once in a while, especially on rainy, foggy days, I break out the Spade-speak with some of my people. Nobody gets it and it doesn't really help matters any, but its fun. And fun, well, 'that's the stuff that dreams are made of. '
Monday, February 07, 2005
Today's Horoscope Says:
"Your friends will definitely not recognize you for a while, maybe even a long while. You've already changed, seemingly overnight, from being reticent and polite to being bold and brazen -- but today you'll be adding a touch of rebellion into the mix. This is just not your usual style -- but hey, don't rein it in. Not one inch. It's good to keep 'em guessing. And fun, too!"
HAAAAAA! HA HA HA! "This is not your usual style" - HAAAAA!
Sorry. Going back to work now...
HAAAAAA! HA HA HA! "This is not your usual style" - HAAAAA!
Sorry. Going back to work now...
Friday, February 04, 2005
Tonight's Forecast: Partly Stary with Widespread Darkness
Being the weather-face on a national news morning show must be just embarrassing. You stand in front of a map and tell a camera what the smiley-faced symbols behind you imply about the day's weather. You have to do this in the most general and benignly non-specific way possible. Your co-workers try oh-so-hard to make you seem significant and necessary. No one really buys it though. After all, you are imparting information that even the densest among us could improve upon by investing in a glance out the nearest window.
The smiley weatherguy's job reminds me of a story I heard several years ago about the Border Patrol.
Politicians were grousing about our borders once again. They seemed certain that if we prevent all those undocumented aliens from strolling into this country to work at minimum wage jobs, then we will have solved America's drug and welfare problems. The powers that be wanted to increase the presence of security types along our open border with Mexico. But God forbid we spend any money to hire actual people and then give them actual training for this job.
It was decided instead to hire someone's brother-in-law to manufacture a large number of cardboard border patrol agents. The pasteboard patrol, as it were.
These low-pay, non-union, agent substitutes were placed in official-type green vehicles and stationed along the border. Every few hours a three-dimensional border patrol employee - college-educated, linguistically trained and tactically prepared - came along and moved the vehicles a bit so it looked like they were actually patrolling the vast wastelands of the American southwest.
This continued for several months until an especially bright bureaucrat connected los carton verdes with the astonishing drop in morale and performance that had occurred in the border patrol. Seems that it is hard to put much effort into a job that could be performed just as effectively by a cardboard cutout. The cardboard agents were sent to recycling.
So what does this have to do with the continued existence of the network weather-reader? Nothing, really. Its just when I am forced to sit for long periods of time, with nothing to do but watch network television, my mind starts to wander. And wonder.
I gotta get a new book to read.
The smiley weatherguy's job reminds me of a story I heard several years ago about the Border Patrol.
Politicians were grousing about our borders once again. They seemed certain that if we prevent all those undocumented aliens from strolling into this country to work at minimum wage jobs, then we will have solved America's drug and welfare problems. The powers that be wanted to increase the presence of security types along our open border with Mexico. But God forbid we spend any money to hire actual people and then give them actual training for this job.
It was decided instead to hire someone's brother-in-law to manufacture a large number of cardboard border patrol agents. The pasteboard patrol, as it were.
These low-pay, non-union, agent substitutes were placed in official-type green vehicles and stationed along the border. Every few hours a three-dimensional border patrol employee - college-educated, linguistically trained and tactically prepared - came along and moved the vehicles a bit so it looked like they were actually patrolling the vast wastelands of the American southwest.
This continued for several months until an especially bright bureaucrat connected los carton verdes with the astonishing drop in morale and performance that had occurred in the border patrol. Seems that it is hard to put much effort into a job that could be performed just as effectively by a cardboard cutout. The cardboard agents were sent to recycling.
So what does this have to do with the continued existence of the network weather-reader? Nothing, really. Its just when I am forced to sit for long periods of time, with nothing to do but watch network television, my mind starts to wander. And wonder.
I gotta get a new book to read.
Saturday, January 29, 2005
Goals, Goals, Everywhere Goals, Blocking the Scenery, Breakin' My Mind
Speaking of quotes, here is another of my favorites:
"Distrust any enterprise that requires new clothes." - Henry David Thoreau
We are taught that we must have goals to have a meaningful life. If you don't have a goal, you don't have a destination. If you don't have a destination, you can't take a journey. And we all know life is a journey, right? No goals = no life. That's what I hear.
Everybody I know has goals. For some they are material, for others - more ephemeral. Jackson's goal is to one day get his PhD. I have friends who want to run the various dog and pony shows they have devoted their lives to. Others are saving for retirement or getting more education or are bursting to travel.
Not to be outdone, I too have a goal. Just one. (There used to be two, but now I own a motorcycle. And it is big and will whup yer butt all over the highway! Oh, yeah!) My goal is to wear jeans. Everyday.
Yep. That's it. Blue Jeans. Someday I will be in a position that will allow me to wear jeans all day, every day. Jeans. Blue ones. It may mean I am terminally unemployed. It may mean I have taken over the world. I am working towards the day when there will be no more panty-hose, no more dress pants, no more By God Casual Friday tantalizing you with what could be but currently isn't. Just blue jeans. That's my goal.
"Distrust any enterprise that requires new clothes." - Henry David Thoreau
We are taught that we must have goals to have a meaningful life. If you don't have a goal, you don't have a destination. If you don't have a destination, you can't take a journey. And we all know life is a journey, right? No goals = no life. That's what I hear.
Everybody I know has goals. For some they are material, for others - more ephemeral. Jackson's goal is to one day get his PhD. I have friends who want to run the various dog and pony shows they have devoted their lives to. Others are saving for retirement or getting more education or are bursting to travel.
Not to be outdone, I too have a goal. Just one. (There used to be two, but now I own a motorcycle. And it is big and will whup yer butt all over the highway! Oh, yeah!) My goal is to wear jeans. Everyday.
Yep. That's it. Blue Jeans. Someday I will be in a position that will allow me to wear jeans all day, every day. Jeans. Blue ones. It may mean I am terminally unemployed. It may mean I have taken over the world. I am working towards the day when there will be no more panty-hose, no more dress pants, no more By God Casual Friday tantalizing you with what could be but currently isn't. Just blue jeans. That's my goal.
Certain Dark Gardens
I am a huge fan of quotes, quips and one-liners. There is something immensely satisfying about a masterfully crafted sentence or two capable of evoking an encyclopedia of meaning in just a few words.
One of my all time favorite quotes is this one from Robert Louis Stevenson:
"Some places speak distinctly. Certain dark gardens cry aloud for a murder; certain old houses demand to be haunted; certain coasts are set apart for shipwrecks."
In my mind this quote is irrevocably linked to this photo:
This is probably my all-time favorite photograph. I took it several years ago at the old zoo in Pueblo, Colorado. This was part of a closed-down exhibit that had housed monkeys. I imagine it has been renovated and reopened by now. Probably all bright and shiny and full of happyish spider monkeys. Some days I can tell you exactly what is at the top of those stairs and some days I have no idea.
I tell you that to ask you this - do you have a favorite painting? Something you lust after? Something you own? You lost? My favorite painting looks a lot like this photo. I saw it in an upstairs room of a junky antique store on Route 66 in Amarillo. Imagine a stone cross at the top of the staircase in this photo. It is night and a young girl in a white shift is draped over the monument, probably mourning. It was horribly hokey and I didn't buy it. I have regretted it ever since. I can't tell you what I really like about it, but it is a quest for me. Each antique store, garage sale, or thrift shop I enter could be hiding that painting. One day I will track it down. I have no idea why I was/am so fixated with the painting. [Insert psychoanalytic mumbo-jumbo here.] It is really frighteningly bad - the proportion was screwy, the subject matter maudlin, but...
What do you quest for?
One of my all time favorite quotes is this one from Robert Louis Stevenson:
"Some places speak distinctly. Certain dark gardens cry aloud for a murder; certain old houses demand to be haunted; certain coasts are set apart for shipwrecks."
In my mind this quote is irrevocably linked to this photo:
This is probably my all-time favorite photograph. I took it several years ago at the old zoo in Pueblo, Colorado. This was part of a closed-down exhibit that had housed monkeys. I imagine it has been renovated and reopened by now. Probably all bright and shiny and full of happyish spider monkeys. Some days I can tell you exactly what is at the top of those stairs and some days I have no idea.
I tell you that to ask you this - do you have a favorite painting? Something you lust after? Something you own? You lost? My favorite painting looks a lot like this photo. I saw it in an upstairs room of a junky antique store on Route 66 in Amarillo. Imagine a stone cross at the top of the staircase in this photo. It is night and a young girl in a white shift is draped over the monument, probably mourning. It was horribly hokey and I didn't buy it. I have regretted it ever since. I can't tell you what I really like about it, but it is a quest for me. Each antique store, garage sale, or thrift shop I enter could be hiding that painting. One day I will track it down. I have no idea why I was/am so fixated with the painting. [Insert psychoanalytic mumbo-jumbo here.] It is really frighteningly bad - the proportion was screwy, the subject matter maudlin, but...
What do you quest for?
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
Reasons why it was Monday:
1. Aimed a loud and abrasive lecture at the heater vent in my office. It went something like this: "You are a friggin' heater. You either heat or shut the hell off. Get it? If you don't have anything warm to say then shut yer ass off! Why do you continuously blow air, hour after hour, day after day, when you are not friggin' heating? My toes are numb. I can't type with blue fingers, and I have to wear my hair down all the time to try to keep my ears warm! It is damn well warmer outside than it is in this office. What the bloody blue hell is your problem?!!" Realized it was a Monday for others as well when this highly professional outburst was met only with faint applause from down the hall.
2. Absorbed the joys of the day through a steely filter of back pain. Decided the best possible remedy was a hot bath, steaming with an ungodly amount of milk bath. Got the water just right. Got the milk mixture dissolved and doin' its thing. Got ready to step in and discovered there is a full roll of toilet paper sitting terribly out of place on the edge of the tub. Discovered this as said roll was halfway through a glorious arcing dive into the bath water. Roll of paper sank into the milky water, which - thanks to milk - was the same color as the paper. Managed to fish out the roll and a huge hunk of melting paper. Climbed into the tub. Settled back. Started to realize why this toilet paper promises not to clog your septic system. Spent 10 minutes rolling tiny pieces of toilet paper off my skin and into a growing pile on the edge of the tub.
3. Finally gave up and started to step out of the tub. Was confronted with a lifesize reflection of self in mirrors that surround tub and wondered what sort of sick bastard designed this bathroom? The only other more tastelessly placed mirror I've ever been victimized by was a full length mirror on the inside of a bathroom stall door at a gas station in Tucumcari, New Mexico. Found a couple more pieces of toilet paper, stuck to self, thanks to mirror.
4. Put on comfy sweats and settled down to watch Mystery Monday on BBC America. Tomorrow is not Monday.
2. Absorbed the joys of the day through a steely filter of back pain. Decided the best possible remedy was a hot bath, steaming with an ungodly amount of milk bath. Got the water just right. Got the milk mixture dissolved and doin' its thing. Got ready to step in and discovered there is a full roll of toilet paper sitting terribly out of place on the edge of the tub. Discovered this as said roll was halfway through a glorious arcing dive into the bath water. Roll of paper sank into the milky water, which - thanks to milk - was the same color as the paper. Managed to fish out the roll and a huge hunk of melting paper. Climbed into the tub. Settled back. Started to realize why this toilet paper promises not to clog your septic system. Spent 10 minutes rolling tiny pieces of toilet paper off my skin and into a growing pile on the edge of the tub.
3. Finally gave up and started to step out of the tub. Was confronted with a lifesize reflection of self in mirrors that surround tub and wondered what sort of sick bastard designed this bathroom? The only other more tastelessly placed mirror I've ever been victimized by was a full length mirror on the inside of a bathroom stall door at a gas station in Tucumcari, New Mexico. Found a couple more pieces of toilet paper, stuck to self, thanks to mirror.
4. Put on comfy sweats and settled down to watch Mystery Monday on BBC America. Tomorrow is not Monday.
Friday, January 14, 2005
Hanging out by the well...
Co-Worker: "He gets paid in goats?"
Me: "Yeah. He's working for his wife's father. I asked how much his father-in-law is paying him. He told me they live on the farm for free and last week he got about $500 worth of rabbits and cages and goats. Mostly goats."
Co-Worker: "Goats? They are paying him with livestock?"
Me: "Yep. So he says."
Co-Worker: "So, does Jacob's wife have a sister, or what?"
See! We have been paying attention in Sunday School!
Me: "Yeah. He's working for his wife's father. I asked how much his father-in-law is paying him. He told me they live on the farm for free and last week he got about $500 worth of rabbits and cages and goats. Mostly goats."
Co-Worker: "Goats? They are paying him with livestock?"
Me: "Yep. So he says."
Co-Worker: "So, does Jacob's wife have a sister, or what?"
See! We have been paying attention in Sunday School!
Sunday, January 09, 2005
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
Stuff of Wonder and Amazement
Check out what Jackson got me for Christmas! It is sooo cool. Now when I am driving down the highway in Bob T. Truck and I slam on the brakes to avoid one of those freakishly huge jackrabbits, I can yell "Sweet Jesus on a Spring!"
Speaking of sooo cool, check out this article on a speech by Bill Moyers. He rocks.
Speaking of sooo cool, check out this article on a speech by Bill Moyers. He rocks.
Friday, December 31, 2004
Moderately
And finally - this year's card! Hope you like it. Have a Happy New Year and hopefully you will be blissfully bereft of boozers.
As near as I and Janet the Archivist can tell, this is the entire collection of cards. (Except for that one with the spider who caught a man in her web which was so dreadfully below par that none of us even saved it. But we won't mention that here.) Just like every year I am resolved to find my card photo early and avoid the holiday rush. And just like every year I will probably be skulking the cemeteries sometime around December 15th with a harried and desperate look about my person that many a caretaker has mistaken for the grief of facing the holidays without Aunt Whomever.
Spirited
The year 2000 was a bit of a ho-hum card year. I do kind of like the vague, twilight feel of this photo, however.
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
Still laughing...
Last year I was in a rush. (As usual.) Down to two weeks before Christmas and no card photo. (Nothing new.) I took the afternoon off from work and made a quick trip to Amarillo. Just after passing through the cemetery gates, I turned a bend and tuh-duh! The Hallmark Card is one of my all time favorites.
Pals
This one is not one of my favorites, but I was hard up this year. Don't know when this was, probably 1996 or 1997. The scan doesn't let you read the inscription which says: "Pals" and lists the names of William H. Bonney, Charlie Bowdre and Tom O'Folliard. This is one of the gravesites of Billy the Kid. Notice The Kid is still in jail. This is in Fort Sumner, New Mexico.
Howdy Folks! Y'all looking for something nice in a used stone?
I am assuming (hoping?) this was a mock stone to illustrate the quality of the cemetery superstore's machine made tombstones. The blue sign says "This monument is available for sale. To be moved to selected lots." However, it had nothing setting it apart from the stones surrounding it, except for the terse little blue sign. Well, that and the insipid "Her hugs were the best" inscription. But who knows? Maybe they were the best.
Monday, December 27, 2004
Keep The Home Fires Burning
This card is my favorite so far, although there are a couple of others that come close. I took this photo while visiting my brother who was the newspaper editor for a small town in the Kiamichi Mountains of Oklahoma. One evening he got a call that the antiques store, in an impressive three story Victorian gingerbread house, was on fire. He rushed out to take photos of the inferno and I grabbed my camera and tagged along. Look closely at the middle and you will see an antique sewing machine silhouetted in the flame. This was in 1995 or 1996.
Queen of the Single Wide...
I took this photo on my honeymoon and sent it out for Christmas 1999. It is on the side of a God-forsaken stretch of road between Los Alamos, New Mexico and Juarez, Mexico. This charming fixer-upper was the only structure visible for miles and miles...and miles...
Slaughter - The First Card
This card was the first - 1994. I was on vacation in Saint Jo, Texas. (Don't laugh - it was really interesting and I had a great time.) While in the local cemetery, skulking around, I turned to take a look at this field of stones, all facing the other direction. The only inscription showing was on the large stone in the back. It says "Slaughter". That was the inspiration and the beginning.
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
The Last Noel
This is a card I sent out in 1997 or 1998. Maybe '96? Who knows?
I should have been keeping better records of this. So, for the next few weeks, as time allows, I plan on posting my last 10 years of Christmas cards. If I am guessing right, 2004 is the 10 year anniversary of Skewed View Christmas Cards.
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
Head Swells, Then Bursts
I am a superhero. I can do anything. Yes - Its true. Just ask my niece. Whenever I say "Who is Ray-Ray?" she knows to say "Ray-Ray is Wonder Woman".
My powers, which are far beyond those of mortal men, were put to the test this weekend. Jackson was in the hospital with a gaping, toothless, mouth-shaped wound in his gut. (Not to fear - it was supposed to be there.) The wound has to be packed so it can heal from the inside out.
We were about to leave to go home on Sunday when the nurse, a very nice Asian lady with a heavy accent, came in to change the dressing.
"Stand back," I said, adopting my best superhero pose. "I will have to do this at home, so let me try it out now."
The nurse gave me the packing material (unfortunately not bubble wrap) and some long, wooden-handled Q-tippy things to poke it in with. I went to work and was doing what I thought was a damn good job - not feeling woozy or nuthin.
Then, just as I finished -- BLAM! The wooden Q-tip handle thing snapped in two! ZING - half of it flew across the room!
"Ahh..." said the nurse. "You a little tense, no?"
Heh. Heh. Maybe just a little. Heh.
My powers, which are far beyond those of mortal men, were put to the test this weekend. Jackson was in the hospital with a gaping, toothless, mouth-shaped wound in his gut. (Not to fear - it was supposed to be there.) The wound has to be packed so it can heal from the inside out.
We were about to leave to go home on Sunday when the nurse, a very nice Asian lady with a heavy accent, came in to change the dressing.
"Stand back," I said, adopting my best superhero pose. "I will have to do this at home, so let me try it out now."
The nurse gave me the packing material (unfortunately not bubble wrap) and some long, wooden-handled Q-tippy things to poke it in with. I went to work and was doing what I thought was a damn good job - not feeling woozy or nuthin.
Then, just as I finished -- BLAM! The wooden Q-tip handle thing snapped in two! ZING - half of it flew across the room!
"Ahh..." said the nurse. "You a little tense, no?"
Heh. Heh. Maybe just a little. Heh.
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
Let's Go to a Cafeteria for Supper Tonight!
I took a huge and probably irrevokable step towards looming, hulking, stale-smelling adulthood this week. We purchased matching recliners.
Not only that, when we got them home, I discovered the only way to satisfactorily place them in the house is to use the Grandma design schema. You know - two chairs next to each other seperated by a small table on which to pile the remote, your glasses, and whatever you are attempting read during the commercials.
That is bad enough. But... then I realized there is a perfect space between the chairs and slightly under the table for the wastebasket. At first I was excited about this - the elegant efficiency of the whole arrangement. But then I took a step back and realized I had achieved an almost perfect replica of my grandmother's living room.
Its soooo ordinary. Like mashed potatoes...
Not only that, when we got them home, I discovered the only way to satisfactorily place them in the house is to use the Grandma design schema. You know - two chairs next to each other seperated by a small table on which to pile the remote, your glasses, and whatever you are attempting read during the commercials.
That is bad enough. But... then I realized there is a perfect space between the chairs and slightly under the table for the wastebasket. At first I was excited about this - the elegant efficiency of the whole arrangement. But then I took a step back and realized I had achieved an almost perfect replica of my grandmother's living room.
Its soooo ordinary. Like mashed potatoes...
Sunday, November 28, 2004
Damn, That Really Hurts...
|
You Are Mashed Potatoes |
Oridnary, comforting, and more than a little predictable You're the glue that holds everyone together. |
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
Sorry Cat Walks on Scanner
I have this year's Christmas card photo. Now I just have to come up with a caption. Don't get excited - it ain't that great. Sort of like this one from 2002 - does anybody even remember it? Not me! I just found it in my desk!
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
So, to make a short story long...
I had to buy a new bible. Mine broke. It didn't wear out (no object lesson there!) and I didn't need a different translation - it just broke. Right in the middle of Sunday School, it pretty much exploded. That may well be some sort of an object lesson, but it shan't be explored here today.
So. Being the good little secular, liberal, somewhat Gnostic Christian that I am, I went to Barnes and Noble to purchase a new tome de sacredness. While they had many bibles, nothing was really cool enough to justify the expense. I gave up, promptly set aside my oft espoused principles and proceeded to Mardell's - a place I had religiously avoided in the past. It is a way too scary right-wing Wal-Mart of a bible store in Lubbock. Ugh. Spit.
I had to trek through a plethora of Republican-inspired office decor items to get to the Wall-O'-Bibles. You know the type of stuff I mean - how many different eagles in flight can you fit into your cubicle? All of them replete with quotes about how God loves America. God may visit your backwater country on occasion - sort of a working vacation, perhaps - but everyone knows he lives in America, right? And if you live in America you need to be sure you wear your colors and have your eagles and maybe a yellow ribbon in plain view on anything and everything you own. After all, how will the Fuhrer know how deeply you support the Fatherland unless you display the correct insignia... oops. I digress. Anyway, I found a nifty little green and cream colored leather NIV bible that I thought was way worth the money. I was grudgingly happy.
After snagging my fairly cool bible, I decided to look for a particular C.S. Lewis book. I looked and I looked, but no C.S. Lewis. Ah-ha! This bore out my long-held belief that this was nothing more than a right-wing, goose-stepping, fundamentalist, censorship-loving sham of a bookstore - no C.S. Lewis here! Ha! I began to spout about this and rail against the closed-mindedness of it all until I walked past an entire row of Lord of the Rings books. Hmm...
Admittedly I was surprised by the fact that they sold Lord of the Rings at the right-wing store. We all know that C.S. Lewis and JRR Tolkien were big buddies and free thinkers and etc. etc., right? I began to lose a little steam and then one of the employees came along and showed us an entire section devoted to C.S. Lewis.
Well, crap. So maybe I was wrong. I began to feel a little closed-minded. Felt a little guilty about jumping to conclusions. Just a little.
But then, Jackson pointed out to me that no one we had spoken with so far had spoken to me. They directed all their comments to him - Mr. Appointed-by-God-Almighty-as-Head-of-the-Household. I was again righteously incensed. However, I must admit maybe they just thought I was nuts and they were trying to avoid direct eye contact with me.
Finally, I took my way cool bible purchase to the front, having decided against their cheap-ass version of Mere Christianity because it was sadly packaged in a ugly cover and a book like that just deserves better, (although this mass produced version was handily priced and affordable to practically everyone, regardless of social class - but I preferred to ignore that point and proceed with the leftist harping). The squeaky-clean, closely-shorn, checker-outter boy asked did I wish to have the bible engraved?
Ah-ha! Once again the greed-serpent of morality marketing had appeared! I am afraid my exact works were something along the lines of "Hell no - not unless you want to do it for free!" Yep. Thass what I said. Feelin' all self-righteous. Yessiree.
Checker-outter boy looked a bit frightened and said sheepishly that, well, yes it IS free and they could do it right then while I waited. My balloon burst, yet again. On my way over to the engraving counter, I broached the idea of having SpookyRach engraved on the bible, but had to agree with Jackson that at this point I would be risking hellfire if I did that. Nor for having that name put on my bible, you understand, but just for being a pain in the ass with nothing but my own generally mistaken assumptions backing me up. Damn.
Oh well. Most of 'em still wouldn't talk directly to me and I can be righteously pissed about that. A little. Maybe...
So. Being the good little secular, liberal, somewhat Gnostic Christian that I am, I went to Barnes and Noble to purchase a new tome de sacredness. While they had many bibles, nothing was really cool enough to justify the expense. I gave up, promptly set aside my oft espoused principles and proceeded to Mardell's - a place I had religiously avoided in the past. It is a way too scary right-wing Wal-Mart of a bible store in Lubbock. Ugh. Spit.
I had to trek through a plethora of Republican-inspired office decor items to get to the Wall-O'-Bibles. You know the type of stuff I mean - how many different eagles in flight can you fit into your cubicle? All of them replete with quotes about how God loves America. God may visit your backwater country on occasion - sort of a working vacation, perhaps - but everyone knows he lives in America, right? And if you live in America you need to be sure you wear your colors and have your eagles and maybe a yellow ribbon in plain view on anything and everything you own. After all, how will the Fuhrer know how deeply you support the Fatherland unless you display the correct insignia... oops. I digress. Anyway, I found a nifty little green and cream colored leather NIV bible that I thought was way worth the money. I was grudgingly happy.
After snagging my fairly cool bible, I decided to look for a particular C.S. Lewis book. I looked and I looked, but no C.S. Lewis. Ah-ha! This bore out my long-held belief that this was nothing more than a right-wing, goose-stepping, fundamentalist, censorship-loving sham of a bookstore - no C.S. Lewis here! Ha! I began to spout about this and rail against the closed-mindedness of it all until I walked past an entire row of Lord of the Rings books. Hmm...
Admittedly I was surprised by the fact that they sold Lord of the Rings at the right-wing store. We all know that C.S. Lewis and JRR Tolkien were big buddies and free thinkers and etc. etc., right? I began to lose a little steam and then one of the employees came along and showed us an entire section devoted to C.S. Lewis.
Well, crap. So maybe I was wrong. I began to feel a little closed-minded. Felt a little guilty about jumping to conclusions. Just a little.
But then, Jackson pointed out to me that no one we had spoken with so far had spoken to me. They directed all their comments to him - Mr. Appointed-by-God-Almighty-as-Head-of-the-Household. I was again righteously incensed. However, I must admit maybe they just thought I was nuts and they were trying to avoid direct eye contact with me.
Finally, I took my way cool bible purchase to the front, having decided against their cheap-ass version of Mere Christianity because it was sadly packaged in a ugly cover and a book like that just deserves better, (although this mass produced version was handily priced and affordable to practically everyone, regardless of social class - but I preferred to ignore that point and proceed with the leftist harping). The squeaky-clean, closely-shorn, checker-outter boy asked did I wish to have the bible engraved?
Ah-ha! Once again the greed-serpent of morality marketing had appeared! I am afraid my exact works were something along the lines of "Hell no - not unless you want to do it for free!" Yep. Thass what I said. Feelin' all self-righteous. Yessiree.
Checker-outter boy looked a bit frightened and said sheepishly that, well, yes it IS free and they could do it right then while I waited. My balloon burst, yet again. On my way over to the engraving counter, I broached the idea of having SpookyRach engraved on the bible, but had to agree with Jackson that at this point I would be risking hellfire if I did that. Nor for having that name put on my bible, you understand, but just for being a pain in the ass with nothing but my own generally mistaken assumptions backing me up. Damn.
Oh well. Most of 'em still wouldn't talk directly to me and I can be righteously pissed about that. A little. Maybe...
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
Vote Early, Vote Often
Texas has a great early voting policy. I love to vote early and I was going to the doctor with Jackson so we decided to stop at the courthouse and do our civic duty on the way. Early voting is a simple and easy thing to do. In most cases. In some places.
Being an election official carries some sort of vicarious prestige, I guess. I know it does for the guy who is always in charge of it here. It seems each time I vote, I come back armed with yet another chapter in the on-going saga of "how does that racist, elitist, fundamentalist, dunder-headed Nazi get the idea that I like him and want to talk to him?!"
I knew exactly where our voter registration cards were. Jackson's was on the kitchen counter and my was in my desk at work. Since I had taken the day off work, I didn't feel like going in to get my card. We just took Jackson's. This should not be a big deal. There is a huge 3-ring binder right at the desk where you pick up your ballots. It has the alphabetized names of each registered voter and the corresponding precinct numbers. I know I live in precinct one. I just didn't know if it was 101, 102, 104, or 112. Did I mention Jackson brought his card? He did. But we lost it in the truck on the way over. It is a little truck. We searched it well. Couldn't find that bastard.
So, we go in to vote, driver's licenses in hand. For the first time in a long time, Mr. Jones, my aforementioned nemesis, was not the one I dealt with. He was busy telling the nice people behind me how he humiliated and embarrassed a voter who was Hispanic and how he was offended by this Hispanic person's over-reaction to his overtly racist comments. Nope, didn't have to deal with him. (It seems that there is some sort of rule around here that if you use the word Hispanic instead of Mexican, it somehow white-washes your racist intent. So to speak.)
I dealt with Mr. and Mrs. Senior-Citizen-Volunteer. They are very nice people. But damn, they are concrete thinkers. No abstraction for them.
You don't have your cards?
Well, do you know your precinct?
Well, what part of precinct one?
All very valid questions. But then, when they realized they were going to have to open the Book Of Names Of People Who Can Vote, they went into a tailspin. They took Jackson's license first to find him in the book. If he was not there, I think I would have been barred from voting. They found him. I gave them my license and name. It is different from Jackson's last name. I didn't see any need to change it just because I acquired a permanent roommate. (He didn't see any need to change his name either, so it has worked out well for the both of us.)
I could not make the nice man understand that my name was different. I said it LOUDLY and s l o w l y. I spelled it. I pointed to it on my driver's license. He continued to look for me under Jackson's name. Finally his wife caught on.
"Are you Alvin's daughter?" She asked out of the blue. Yes. Yes I am. (Its a small town.)
"Well! You will find it is just much easier if you take his name." She indicated Jackson with a haughty wave of her hand.
Jackson felt the need to intervene at this point, probably in hopes of preventing a nasty scene.
"Oh, I don't want her to have my name. Its easier to deny knowing her that way." He joked. Mrs. Senior-Citizen-Volunteer does. not. joke.
"Well, I know Alvin - he's a Baptist minister - and I know he didn't teach you that." Much haughty eye-rolling.
"Oh he's taught me a lot worse than that," Jackson snapped. At this point she obviously consigned both of us to the fires of hell as she had done all she could to prevent our careening down the slippery slope to eternal damnation, and told her husband loudly "She has a different last name."
He looked up from the bowels of the book. "Oh! Do ya'll live close to each other or something?"
*sigh*
The civil rights movement still has a ways to go out here.
Being an election official carries some sort of vicarious prestige, I guess. I know it does for the guy who is always in charge of it here. It seems each time I vote, I come back armed with yet another chapter in the on-going saga of "how does that racist, elitist, fundamentalist, dunder-headed Nazi get the idea that I like him and want to talk to him?!"
I knew exactly where our voter registration cards were. Jackson's was on the kitchen counter and my was in my desk at work. Since I had taken the day off work, I didn't feel like going in to get my card. We just took Jackson's. This should not be a big deal. There is a huge 3-ring binder right at the desk where you pick up your ballots. It has the alphabetized names of each registered voter and the corresponding precinct numbers. I know I live in precinct one. I just didn't know if it was 101, 102, 104, or 112. Did I mention Jackson brought his card? He did. But we lost it in the truck on the way over. It is a little truck. We searched it well. Couldn't find that bastard.
So, we go in to vote, driver's licenses in hand. For the first time in a long time, Mr. Jones, my aforementioned nemesis, was not the one I dealt with. He was busy telling the nice people behind me how he humiliated and embarrassed a voter who was Hispanic and how he was offended by this Hispanic person's over-reaction to his overtly racist comments. Nope, didn't have to deal with him. (It seems that there is some sort of rule around here that if you use the word Hispanic instead of Mexican, it somehow white-washes your racist intent. So to speak.)
I dealt with Mr. and Mrs. Senior-Citizen-Volunteer. They are very nice people. But damn, they are concrete thinkers. No abstraction for them.
You don't have your cards?
Well, do you know your precinct?
Well, what part of precinct one?
All very valid questions. But then, when they realized they were going to have to open the Book Of Names Of People Who Can Vote, they went into a tailspin. They took Jackson's license first to find him in the book. If he was not there, I think I would have been barred from voting. They found him. I gave them my license and name. It is different from Jackson's last name. I didn't see any need to change it just because I acquired a permanent roommate. (He didn't see any need to change his name either, so it has worked out well for the both of us.)
I could not make the nice man understand that my name was different. I said it LOUDLY and s l o w l y. I spelled it. I pointed to it on my driver's license. He continued to look for me under Jackson's name. Finally his wife caught on.
"Are you Alvin's daughter?" She asked out of the blue. Yes. Yes I am. (Its a small town.)
"Well! You will find it is just much easier if you take his name." She indicated Jackson with a haughty wave of her hand.
Jackson felt the need to intervene at this point, probably in hopes of preventing a nasty scene.
"Oh, I don't want her to have my name. Its easier to deny knowing her that way." He joked. Mrs. Senior-Citizen-Volunteer does. not. joke.
"Well, I know Alvin - he's a Baptist minister - and I know he didn't teach you that." Much haughty eye-rolling.
"Oh he's taught me a lot worse than that," Jackson snapped. At this point she obviously consigned both of us to the fires of hell as she had done all she could to prevent our careening down the slippery slope to eternal damnation, and told her husband loudly "She has a different last name."
He looked up from the bowels of the book. "Oh! Do ya'll live close to each other or something?"
*sigh*
The civil rights movement still has a ways to go out here.
Thursday, October 14, 2004
And give me $10 on pump #3...
I went into a convenience store this morning. Had to get a gut-grenade breakfast burrito. Felt like taking some risks with my cardio-vascular future. Anybody familiar with Allsups? I am not a cook - that's Jackson's job - and I am not nearly as discriminating as I should be with my nutritional choices. But even I normally steer very clear of the Allsup's fried burritos. But sometimes...
Everybody does it. Sometimes. When a group of friends gets together and start sharing secrets, certain things always happen. Somebody will always eventually bring up the burritos. (Although if you've recently imbibed, the burritos will come up on their own.) At first, you'll deny it, but you won't be able to meet anyone's eyes. Then you will come clean as you pick at the taco sauce stain on your jacket. You will admit that you too sometimes hear the siren song of the belly bomb. And then someone else will sit up a little straighter, get some backbone in their voice and inform the group that this week you can get two burritos and a tallsup for a buck-ninety-nine. And you know then what you're having for lunch. Yeah.
So, anyway, today I went in search of a sausage and egg burrito. Fried. With extra taco sauce. As I perused the lineup in the hellish heat-lamp diorama, I saw a small sign in the bottom right-hand corner: "Allsup's catfish - cooked on request."
*shudder*
Perhaps I need to rethink my life insurance coverage.
Everybody does it. Sometimes. When a group of friends gets together and start sharing secrets, certain things always happen. Somebody will always eventually bring up the burritos. (Although if you've recently imbibed, the burritos will come up on their own.) At first, you'll deny it, but you won't be able to meet anyone's eyes. Then you will come clean as you pick at the taco sauce stain on your jacket. You will admit that you too sometimes hear the siren song of the belly bomb. And then someone else will sit up a little straighter, get some backbone in their voice and inform the group that this week you can get two burritos and a tallsup for a buck-ninety-nine. And you know then what you're having for lunch. Yeah.
So, anyway, today I went in search of a sausage and egg burrito. Fried. With extra taco sauce. As I perused the lineup in the hellish heat-lamp diorama, I saw a small sign in the bottom right-hand corner: "Allsup's catfish - cooked on request."
*shudder*
Perhaps I need to rethink my life insurance coverage.
Sunday, October 10, 2004
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
Waiting for Janet
Its a little like waiting for Godot.
Well, that's a lie. Its not at all like waiting for Godot. Except, maybe, for the weirdness. Janet is weird. I am weird. And I am waiting for Janet.
Since the start of this blog, I have expected her to find me. Eventually she will. Its all a game.
I left a clue for you yesterday, out on the web. It won't be long now.
When Jackson and I spent the weekend with you in Athens we spoke about how we have a shared addiction, for no good reason, to The Main Point. I started to tell you then. But that would have ruined the game. I know you will find this on your own. So when you do - Howdy! Been waitin' for ya!
An aside - please don't misunderstand me. There are thousands of good reasons to be addicted to Michael Main. Its just that we aren't addicted for any of those good reasons. Go read him yourself and you'll find plenty of good reason to read more.
Well, that's a lie. Its not at all like waiting for Godot. Except, maybe, for the weirdness. Janet is weird. I am weird. And I am waiting for Janet.
Since the start of this blog, I have expected her to find me. Eventually she will. Its all a game.
I left a clue for you yesterday, out on the web. It won't be long now.
When Jackson and I spent the weekend with you in Athens we spoke about how we have a shared addiction, for no good reason, to The Main Point. I started to tell you then. But that would have ruined the game. I know you will find this on your own. So when you do - Howdy! Been waitin' for ya!
An aside - please don't misunderstand me. There are thousands of good reasons to be addicted to Michael Main. Its just that we aren't addicted for any of those good reasons. Go read him yourself and you'll find plenty of good reason to read more.
Friday, September 24, 2004
Am I getting old? Already?
Lord Almighty. I am in pain.
This is the third day of wallpapering. I didn't think it would be such a big deal. I was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Every muscle in my body hurts. The insides of my elbows hurt. My toes hurt from gripping the edge of the rickety step ladder rung. Typing sends dull throbbing pain up my forearms> (So why am I doing it?)
It better look reeaaallly good when its all finished. Even if it looks horrible, we are going to have to live with it for the next five years while I try to recover.
Ow.
This is the third day of wallpapering. I didn't think it would be such a big deal. I was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Every muscle in my body hurts. The insides of my elbows hurt. My toes hurt from gripping the edge of the rickety step ladder rung. Typing sends dull throbbing pain up my forearms> (So why am I doing it?)
It better look reeaaallly good when its all finished. Even if it looks horrible, we are going to have to live with it for the next five years while I try to recover.
Ow.
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
The Fair Queen - Part 3
Sadly, the story doesn’t end there. The next night after surviving the parade, we donned boots and jeans - no doubt in an effort to look like we might have a horse and it was just taken ill, leaving us unable to ride and participate in the real pageant – and assembled at the back of the rodeo grounds. There we were pinned with the sashes bearing the names of our various sponsors – Miss Co-op, Miss Silver Star Café, etc. One of my good friends, Maria, had also been suckered into participating. Maria was in a wheelchair. This became significant.
After a few minutes of milling around, not unlike cattle in a pen, a truck arrived, pulling a large stock trailer with the sides removed. “Oh no!” you say.
Oh yes. We were herded onto the trailer. The rodeo queen contestants all ride around the arena and are presented to an adoring crowd. We, the poor unfortunates, were not to be denied the same opportunity. The rodeo queen contestants rode horses. We vied for the honor of being Fair Queen. That rates a ride around the arena in a stock trailer.
You wouldn’t think it possible, but the irony of this seemed lost on everyone at the time. Everyone, perhaps, except Maria and I. Have you ever tried to wheel a chair into a stock trailer? There is no ADA requirement there. Someone provided a couple of 2 x 4’s and I managed to help wheel her aboard. She locked her wheels and I clung to the chair’s handles in an attempt to remain upright for the ride. Rodeo arenas are meant to be traversed by four-hooved animals, not pickups.
It turned out, much to our expectance, that neither Maria nor I were destined for Fair Queendom. I don’t know about Maria, but I couldn’t hope but feel that was a good thing.
The next year brought big changes to town. I left to go to college and Lizzy Johnson even moved on herself, down the road a few miles to the brighter economic prospects of prison guard employment in a neighboring town. I don’t know what happened to the Fair Queen. I don’t even really remember who became Fair Queen. But Lizzy’s well meaning lapse into social equality has served me well over the years. It seems each time I begin to feel too “big for my britches” I’ll come across a box in the back closet. I can’t help but open it. And there, on the top, every time, is that sash – Miss City Grocery and Deli.
Its good to remember where you came from. Especially if you are headed in the opposite direction.
After a few minutes of milling around, not unlike cattle in a pen, a truck arrived, pulling a large stock trailer with the sides removed. “Oh no!” you say.
Oh yes. We were herded onto the trailer. The rodeo queen contestants all ride around the arena and are presented to an adoring crowd. We, the poor unfortunates, were not to be denied the same opportunity. The rodeo queen contestants rode horses. We vied for the honor of being Fair Queen. That rates a ride around the arena in a stock trailer.
You wouldn’t think it possible, but the irony of this seemed lost on everyone at the time. Everyone, perhaps, except Maria and I. Have you ever tried to wheel a chair into a stock trailer? There is no ADA requirement there. Someone provided a couple of 2 x 4’s and I managed to help wheel her aboard. She locked her wheels and I clung to the chair’s handles in an attempt to remain upright for the ride. Rodeo arenas are meant to be traversed by four-hooved animals, not pickups.
It turned out, much to our expectance, that neither Maria nor I were destined for Fair Queendom. I don’t know about Maria, but I couldn’t hope but feel that was a good thing.
The next year brought big changes to town. I left to go to college and Lizzy Johnson even moved on herself, down the road a few miles to the brighter economic prospects of prison guard employment in a neighboring town. I don’t know what happened to the Fair Queen. I don’t even really remember who became Fair Queen. But Lizzy’s well meaning lapse into social equality has served me well over the years. It seems each time I begin to feel too “big for my britches” I’ll come across a box in the back closet. I can’t help but open it. And there, on the top, every time, is that sash – Miss City Grocery and Deli.
Its good to remember where you came from. Especially if you are headed in the opposite direction.
Monday, September 13, 2004
The Fair Queen - Part 2
A few weeks later there was a meeting of the “contestants”, i.e. the poor, unfortunate, horseless girls, at which time they explained the intricacies of the pageant. Since we were in fact cursed with no horse, we would be cursed with a fashion show. So, on a hot, sticky Sunday afternoon our parents all crowded into the school auditorium – little more than an oversized classroom with a stage – while we paraded forth in casual wear and “dressy wear”. Luckily, being a conservative west Texas town, we stayed away from the evils of swimwear.
I have never been graceful and the mechanics of the step-turn were lost on me. There was no interview (which would have been small comfort at best, but I could talk better than I could walk) so needless to say I muddled through in a truly unremarkable fashion.
Later in the week the festivities began to reach a fever pitch. Wednesday was the day of the Rodeo Parade. Normally I enjoyed the parade from the middle of the 19 member marching band. We could all march, each of us to our own private drummer. It was more of a collection of individual performance artists than any sort of a cohesive band. Somewhere, I’m sure, we could have been a hit in a small, off-off-off little avant-garde theatre, but mostly we were just out of step.
This time, I was fated to enjoy the parade in a whole new way. The sponsor was saddled with the responsibility of making a float for the lovelies to ride on, in lieu of riding a horse. Aubrey Nell had not spent a lot of time in life learning the finer points of float design, what with running a business, a farm and a household. Such a waste. My job was to find a suitable prom gown in which to be ogled upon our float. I ended up in a fluffy mass of what would probably be labeled “sea-foam green” tule and taffeta. My chariot arrived.
Turned out they had decided I could ride on – on, not in – their big chunk of a cherry-red 1987 Chevy Suburban. And not on the hood – the roof. To this day I have not idea how I hauled myself and that huge dress to the roof of the vehicle or how I got down. It was evidently traumatic enough to block it from my memory, but somehow I survived to ride through town – green dress, red suburban and a poster board sign proclaiming I was the proud bearer of the title “Miss City Grocery and Deli”.
Part 3 - coming soon!
I have never been graceful and the mechanics of the step-turn were lost on me. There was no interview (which would have been small comfort at best, but I could talk better than I could walk) so needless to say I muddled through in a truly unremarkable fashion.
Later in the week the festivities began to reach a fever pitch. Wednesday was the day of the Rodeo Parade. Normally I enjoyed the parade from the middle of the 19 member marching band. We could all march, each of us to our own private drummer. It was more of a collection of individual performance artists than any sort of a cohesive band. Somewhere, I’m sure, we could have been a hit in a small, off-off-off little avant-garde theatre, but mostly we were just out of step.
This time, I was fated to enjoy the parade in a whole new way. The sponsor was saddled with the responsibility of making a float for the lovelies to ride on, in lieu of riding a horse. Aubrey Nell had not spent a lot of time in life learning the finer points of float design, what with running a business, a farm and a household. Such a waste. My job was to find a suitable prom gown in which to be ogled upon our float. I ended up in a fluffy mass of what would probably be labeled “sea-foam green” tule and taffeta. My chariot arrived.
Turned out they had decided I could ride on – on, not in – their big chunk of a cherry-red 1987 Chevy Suburban. And not on the hood – the roof. To this day I have not idea how I hauled myself and that huge dress to the roof of the vehicle or how I got down. It was evidently traumatic enough to block it from my memory, but somehow I survived to ride through town – green dress, red suburban and a poster board sign proclaiming I was the proud bearer of the title “Miss City Grocery and Deli”.
Part 3 - coming soon!
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
The Fair Queen Pageant, Part 1
Meanwhile, back in Roby, Lizzy Johnson gained a social conscience, to the detriment of all.
Lizzy had a cute little cowgirl daughter who was a regular entrant into the annual Rodeo Queen Pageant. Big doin’s for a little town. This particular year, she was just about a shoe-in to win. Well, it occurred to Lizzy in a blinding flash of social awareness and well meaning benevolent effusion that not all the lovely young ladies of the town had horses and were thus precluded from entering the oh-so-prestigious Rodeo Queen Pageant.
This would not do, Lizzy decided and took it upon herself to correct this injustice. The result of her endeavor was the Fisher County Fair Queen Pageant. Yee-ha, so to speak. At the time I was a senior in high school and continuing my career as all-around-general-flunkie at City Grocery and Deli.
City Grocery, all four aisles of it, was owned by Kiefer and Aubrey Nell Mauldin. Aubrey Nell was the day-to-day manager. She possessed a really quality soft southern drawl and the biggest, brownest, puppy-dog eyes you ever saw.
One day, not long after her conversion to social activism, Lizzy stormed through the double doors of the store with her frizzy red hair in a big cloud trailing out behind her. She managed to convince Aubrey Nell that it was her civic duty to sponsor a contestant in the pageant, so as to give some poor, unfortunate horse-less girl a chance at Small Town Stardom.
So, when I went in to work that afternoon and punched the time clock outside Aubrey Nell’s office door, I heard her plaintive “Raay-chel?” from inside. (In actuality, she always streched my name into three syllables, but I don't know how to spell it that way.) I stuck my head in to inquire. She explained that she had to come up with someone to be in this contest so she could fulfill her duty as a sponsor and would I please, pleh-eease consider it?
What could I do? There is just no way to say no to Aubrey Nell once those puppy-dog eyes connect with yours and turn your willpower into mashed potatoes. I became the first ever Miss City Grocery and Deli. Yee-ha and amen.
Part 2 to follow...
Lizzy had a cute little cowgirl daughter who was a regular entrant into the annual Rodeo Queen Pageant. Big doin’s for a little town. This particular year, she was just about a shoe-in to win. Well, it occurred to Lizzy in a blinding flash of social awareness and well meaning benevolent effusion that not all the lovely young ladies of the town had horses and were thus precluded from entering the oh-so-prestigious Rodeo Queen Pageant.
This would not do, Lizzy decided and took it upon herself to correct this injustice. The result of her endeavor was the Fisher County Fair Queen Pageant. Yee-ha, so to speak. At the time I was a senior in high school and continuing my career as all-around-general-flunkie at City Grocery and Deli.
City Grocery, all four aisles of it, was owned by Kiefer and Aubrey Nell Mauldin. Aubrey Nell was the day-to-day manager. She possessed a really quality soft southern drawl and the biggest, brownest, puppy-dog eyes you ever saw.
One day, not long after her conversion to social activism, Lizzy stormed through the double doors of the store with her frizzy red hair in a big cloud trailing out behind her. She managed to convince Aubrey Nell that it was her civic duty to sponsor a contestant in the pageant, so as to give some poor, unfortunate horse-less girl a chance at Small Town Stardom.
So, when I went in to work that afternoon and punched the time clock outside Aubrey Nell’s office door, I heard her plaintive “Raay-chel?” from inside. (In actuality, she always streched my name into three syllables, but I don't know how to spell it that way.) I stuck my head in to inquire. She explained that she had to come up with someone to be in this contest so she could fulfill her duty as a sponsor and would I please, pleh-eease consider it?
What could I do? There is just no way to say no to Aubrey Nell once those puppy-dog eyes connect with yours and turn your willpower into mashed potatoes. I became the first ever Miss City Grocery and Deli. Yee-ha and amen.
Part 2 to follow...
Thursday, September 02, 2004
In Which I Demonstrate Mangerial Prowess
Marty: "He thinks this guy is some kind of a victim!"
Me: "Um-hum."
Marty: "He even has him listed in the computer as a widower!"
Me: "Hmmm."
Marty: "You can't divorce your wife, then kill her and call yourself a widower!"
Me: "Well, that's a good point."
Marty: "I'm just going to change it!" She stomps off, bristling with corrective righteousness.
Me: "Ok."
Me: "Um-hum."
Marty: "He even has him listed in the computer as a widower!"
Me: "Hmmm."
Marty: "You can't divorce your wife, then kill her and call yourself a widower!"
Me: "Well, that's a good point."
Marty: "I'm just going to change it!" She stomps off, bristling with corrective righteousness.
Me: "Ok."
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
Boxing Bill
After a long morning in meetings and interviews several of my friends were ready to let off some steam and we went out for lunch. One of the guys told mother-in-law stories about how she wants to have her cats cremated. That reminded another friend, Elyse, of a story.
Elyse married at age 20, for the first time. She married Bill. They had a son together - Eric.
The good times didn't last and he eventually became very physically abusive. After a long time, Elyse got it together and left Bill. Time passed and Eric grew up. He finally reconciled with his father, following his own marriage. Not long afterwards, Bill was diagnosed with cancer. He soon died, was cremated and Eric came to be in possession of the ashes.
Eric and his wife began having problems of their own, so Eric moved back home for a few weeks. He brought Bill with him. Bill owned property on a lake near Dallas, and Eric had planned to scatter Bill's ashes there. Before long, Eric made up with his wife and packed his bags to head back home. He came to the box. The Box O' Bill.
"Mom... can you please keep Dad for me until I can get back?"
"Oh no! Not me! No way!"
Before long, Eric left and Elyse was official caretaker of the box. She agreed to hold it until Eric could return and take it to the lake. Elyse's mother is a staunch catholic of the old school variety. She was most shaken by Bills earthly remains and would not sit in the room with him. She crossed her self furiously each time she had to walk past the box and begged Elyse to get rid of the candles and palm fronds surrounding the box. Elyse said she'd never had a dead guy in the living room before and thought the candles were a nice touch. She muttered something about expecting he would feel at home, surrounded by flames.
We all thought there was more to the story and waited expectantly. There was not. That was it. Bill's earthly remains were incorporated into the living room decor, patiently awaiting a final trip to the lake.
After a moment's silence, everyone at the table burst out laughing.
Are you trying to get Bill to Dallas without buying a plane ticket? Dad's a carry-on! Or is it carrion? Box o' Dad! Goin' round and round the conveyor belt. What if they lost your luggage? Think outside the box - that's what Bill's doing? Dad, squared! And finally, when the laughter lulled just a little, the quietest voice at the table chimed in. "This brings whole new meaning to the bumper sticker "Ex-Husband in Trunk"!
Elyse married at age 20, for the first time. She married Bill. They had a son together - Eric.
The good times didn't last and he eventually became very physically abusive. After a long time, Elyse got it together and left Bill. Time passed and Eric grew up. He finally reconciled with his father, following his own marriage. Not long afterwards, Bill was diagnosed with cancer. He soon died, was cremated and Eric came to be in possession of the ashes.
Eric and his wife began having problems of their own, so Eric moved back home for a few weeks. He brought Bill with him. Bill owned property on a lake near Dallas, and Eric had planned to scatter Bill's ashes there. Before long, Eric made up with his wife and packed his bags to head back home. He came to the box. The Box O' Bill.
"Mom... can you please keep Dad for me until I can get back?"
"Oh no! Not me! No way!"
Before long, Eric left and Elyse was official caretaker of the box. She agreed to hold it until Eric could return and take it to the lake. Elyse's mother is a staunch catholic of the old school variety. She was most shaken by Bills earthly remains and would not sit in the room with him. She crossed her self furiously each time she had to walk past the box and begged Elyse to get rid of the candles and palm fronds surrounding the box. Elyse said she'd never had a dead guy in the living room before and thought the candles were a nice touch. She muttered something about expecting he would feel at home, surrounded by flames.
We all thought there was more to the story and waited expectantly. There was not. That was it. Bill's earthly remains were incorporated into the living room decor, patiently awaiting a final trip to the lake.
After a moment's silence, everyone at the table burst out laughing.
Are you trying to get Bill to Dallas without buying a plane ticket? Dad's a carry-on! Or is it carrion? Box o' Dad! Goin' round and round the conveyor belt. What if they lost your luggage? Think outside the box - that's what Bill's doing? Dad, squared! And finally, when the laughter lulled just a little, the quietest voice at the table chimed in. "This brings whole new meaning to the bumper sticker "Ex-Husband in Trunk"!
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