Nearly Naked Little Palestinian Man

We teach several alcohol and drug education courses at the probation department. Every two years, those of us who teach the drug offender classes and those who teach repeat DWI offender classes are required to attend a week-long training program. The first year we went, and every year subsequently, it has been held at the San Luis Resort in Galveston, Texas. (Eat your heart out, Jonboy.) We thank God on a regular basis for this because the San Luis is super-way-all magnificent.

You may have gathered from previous posts that the people I work with are, shall we say, interesting. They are for the most part female. They are loud, opinionated, and laugh-till-your-nose-runs funny. Being paid to tell other people what to do with their lives tends to make us a bit bossy.

Four of us, Mindy, M2, E. and myself, drug our small-town selves into the resort the Sunday afternoon before the conference. You know Mindy. M2 is a deceptively mischievous chica who can make grown men twice her size tremble with fear. She also collects stray cats and sings along with Barry Manilow whenever possible. She is short, stubborn, spiky-haired and has a slicing wit.

E. is the oldest of the group. I tell you that only because I tell you this - she looks just like Sophia Loren. She is intelligent and deeply empathetic to the deserving. She is eye-gougingly tough on the undeserving. She is also dingy as hell.

When the four of us drug out bags into the sumptuous lobby, the desk clerk only had eyes for E. Since I am somehow always stuck being The Designated Adult, I was getting us checked in. E. stood beside me, just being herself - gregarious and awe-struck. Poor little Richard the clerk was a bit awe-struck himself. We conducted the entire transaction without him ever actually looking at me. The good thing about all this was that he upgraded all our rooms to the penthouse floor. Score!

Well, yeah, but this is a card-access-only floor. No big deal, right? Richard gave us our cards and explained we just needed to insert them into the elevator control panel and we could access our floor. We lugged the luggage to the elevator, smiled our weary thanks to Richard, inserted the card and pushed the button. The doors closed.

The doors opened. We hadn't gone anywhere.

We laugh - ha, ha, silly us - and try again. Insert card, push button, doors close. Doors open. Richard looks up from the desk. We laugh, we wave, we insert different cardpushbuttondoorsclose.

Doors open. We try to look inconspicuous while we INSERT CARD. And PUSH THE DAMN BUTTON. We wait - and the doors open to the lobby once again. Then M2 says she has had enough of this and is going to ask Richard what is wrong with their elevator. Doors close behind her. Doors stay closed. We are going nowhere. Wonder if we will ever see M2 again, but are glad she left her luggage behind as we plan to rummage inside for snacks.

Doors open. Richard and M2 are standing there - Richard looking a little peeved like he obviously made a poor choice about who to spend a precious few upgrades on. We laugh, nervously, and Richard gets on the elevator and personally escorts us to the floor. He gave us a tutorial on the way, which consisted of "insert card, push button".

The conference was great. The food was incredible. And the classes ended early enough each day to allow for sight-seeing and whatever. One night after dinner, we strolled along the sea wall. It was getting dusky. E. and M2 were in the lead. They stopped and leaned over the edge of the wall. Down below the waves were licking the huge chunks of granite. Suddenly E. straightened up and yelled at Mindy and I - "Y'all - Come look at these rats! They're as big as - as beavers!" Not being too cultured to turn down a good rat sighting, we sprinted over to the wall.

We must have presented quite a picture to the passers-by. Four variously sized posteriors addressing the street as we leaned out over the wall, looking for rats. The debate rages today between the rat-seeing and the non-rat-seeing factions as to whom among us has ever seen a beaver and could a rat possibly be that big?

A couple of days went by and our only complaint was that this sizeable hotel had only one bank of elevators. There was another conference going on in addition to ours. Sometimes the wait for an elevator was pretty long. The hotel also liked to keep the stairs hidden away from view and actual use.

Along about Thursday, someone at the hotel decided to paint the elevators. Not a problem. Except that they couldn't paint a moving elevator. They had to be stopped in the basement for painting. Again, not a bad idea for a graveyard shift project. Except that they decided to do it at 4:00 in the afternoon. This was just the time both conferences let out for the day. This meant at least 250 people were milling about in front of stubbornly closed elevator doors, trying to get to their rooms.

We were at the front of the crowd. There were only two people there in front of us and they obviously weren't attending a conference. There were a small, elderly couple just returning from an afternoon by the pool. The man was wearing his swim trunks and standing at attention by the elevator buttons. After a few moments, you realized there was a woman standing behind him. She was so mousy and withdrawn it took a while to register her presence.

We all waited. And waited. There began to be mumbling. And gnashing of teeth. The cattle were restless. We were bored with waiting. It is not good for E. to be bored. She is generally so hopped up on caffeine and nicotine that she requires constant stimulus. She engaged the robust little man in conversation.

At first we were too busy grumbling, mumbling and gnashing our teeth to pay attention. E. was flashing the man her friendliest smile and inquiring about his vacation. She explained why we were there. She asked the man where he was from. He said "Jerusalem."

"Ohhh!" said E. "You're Jewish!"

"I. AM. NOT. JEWISH. I AM ARAB - PALESTINIAN!"

The crowd was hushed. The gnashing ceased.

"That is what is wrong with all you Americans," the man practically spit. "You think anyone from the middle east is Jewish!" He then launched into a long tirade about the atrocities committed against his ancestors by these retched Jews. They had taken his land, the land of his ancestors and he had been too much of a coward to fight against them! He'd come to the United States in the 1960's and if he were not too old he would be back in his homeland today fighting the Jewish thugs. The Palestinian bombers were not terrorists - they were freedom fighters, bent on driving out the scourge of the Jews! No more was he a coward! One day he would go back to help his people and to reclaim the land that was rightfully his! His eyes were blazing and he was practically foaming at the mouth.

All during this, his poor pitifull wife slunk deeper and deeper into the tiny space between him and the elevator door. She seemed mortified by the situation, but not surprised. Evidently she'd heard all this before.

E. stood there, open-mouthed, until he said he would help drive out the Jews.

"Wait a minute!" she said. "Don't you know the Jews are God's chosen people?"

250 heads snapped in her direction. Jaws dropped.

She looked him in the eye. "Do you know Jesus Christ as your personal savior?"

250 people collectively drew their breath and took two steps back. In unison. It was like Moses had parted the moat of people that surround E. and the nearly naked angry little Palestinian man. The man had turned a freaky shade of red and looked ready to stroke out.

250 people also apparently all appealed to whatever deity they worshipped because just then, the elevators came back to life and all the doors opened. The small sea of humanity enclosed E. and the man again as we rushed into the cells. We pretty much gang tackled E. and pushed her inside. We managed to get the doors closed before the man could jump inside and proceed to strangle which ever of us he reached first. Insertcardpushbuttonprettydamnfast.

The really amazing thing is E. never really understood why the man was so upset.


Two years later, M2 and I went back to Galveston to attend this same conference in the same hotel. M2 is not a breakfast eater, so I left early each morning with a book in search of a food. One morning I stopped at Whataburger.

I was minding my own business, reading and munching. I heard a voice from a couple of tables over, but didn't pay any attention. But the voice kept getting louder and more strident.

Nah, I said to myself. It can't be.

I lowered my book ever so slightly and peeked over the top. I could see the back of a grey-haird man's head. He gestured wildly as he talked to the man in the next booth. Across from this man sat his wife - quiet and mousy, solemnly eating her breakfast sandwich as she stared at the floor. She sank deeper and deeper into the hard plastic seat.

He was railing against the Jews who had driven him from his homeland. One day the tide would change he said. He would do all that he could to eradicate them from his holy land.

I sat there and stared in amazement. I desperately wished M2 was there because who was going to believe I had seen nearly naked angry little Palestinian man again? Clothed this time.

They finished their breakfast and left. I guess I had been pretty obvious in my eavesdropping because the minute they were out the door Palestinian man's audience of one turned to me.

"Do you know how to make tamales?" he asked.

"Excuse me?!"

"Well, don't let those Mexican women fool you! They try to make it sound hard so they can take all your money! Its not hard. I make them all the time. I always start with the filling first. You take the meat and you shred it up real fine. Did you know some of those Mexican women use cats? That's illegal, but they do it anyway. Well, not me! What I do is..."


Next year we're going back to Galveston again. Should be fun.

The Meme I Forgot to Do

Thanks to Halloweenlover for the tag.

Total number of music files on my computer: 726. I am surprised to know it is that many.

The last CD I bought: The soundtrack for Don Juan DeMarco (because I am finally started to replace all the great music I have on cassettes. I'm a little slow, I know.) and the Lilith Fair album that Reverndmother recommended containing The Water is Wide. (God, I love Amazon!)

Song playing right now: Moment of Passion by Sugar Ray and the Bluetones (Best $2.00 CD I every bought.)

Five songs that I listen to a lot:
1 - Son of a Preacher Man - Dusty Springfield
2 - Righteous Love - Joan Osborne
3 - Shine - Collective Soul
4 - Pepper - Butthole Surfers
5 - Money Can't Buy It - Annie Lennox

So there it is. Anytakers?

Meme means not having to think of stuff on your own.

My uncle once: paid for my dinner. It was last night. I was happily grazing the chinese buffet and enjoying a good book. He was eating there with friends and picked up my check. Thanks!
High school was: when I got a ton of good reading done. Not as an assignment, but kicked back at my desk waiting for the next class.
I will never forget: my first cell phone number - xxx-9666.
I once met: A nearly naked, angry little Palestinian man.
Once at a bar: I heard a really great jazz combo that I swore I would keep up with because I knew they would be famous one day. You notice I didn't list their name under the "I will never forget" entry.
By noon I'm usually: Hungry, thirsty, and wondering what to draw.
Last night: I had the evening to myself so I naturally spent it productively by playing The Sims2. (One of my Sims had twins. I tried to let one of 'em croak because they were a real pain. I feel a bit bad about that.)
If only I had: the power to fly.
Next time I go to church: Ester and I will be walking to church after work to do what we laughingly call a workout.
When I turn my head left: An Edward Gorey poster.
When I turn my head right: I see a stack of stuff to do. Thankfully it is smaller than it was when I got to work this morning.
You know when I'm lying when: I say "Oh my gosh! That is too too adorable! I just love pink, don't you? Where did you get it? I just won't breathe again until I have one too! Cute, cute, cute!!"
Every day I think about: Methamphetamine.
By this time next year: I will have already harvested tomatoes from my not-so-weed-infested garden.
I have a hard time understanding: The love of NASCAR.
If I ever go back to school I'll: Study art. Or maybe English. Hell, no. Not English. Just art.
You know I like you when: I don't clean up my language around you.
If I won an award the first person I'd thank is: Depends on what I won.
My ideal breakfast is: Bacon, Egg, Cheese and Potato burritos with mucho hot sauce.
A song I love, but do not have is: A really good version of The Water is Wide.
If you visit my hometown, I suggest: Slow the hell down! Or you'll miss it! They took out the stoplight so you really have to be looking for it to find it. Remember City Grocery? Its closed. (Yeah, I know, I know - that automatically makes me old.)
Why won't anyone: learn how to paint some decent graffitti around here? Amateurs, they're all amateurs!
If you spend the night at my house: Don't be skeered! You can use the towel in the guest bathroom that says "Property of the Bates Motel" and the skull and crossbones nightlight will cast an eerie glow that will help you find your way.
I'd stop my wedding for: Johnny Depp and/or Krispy Kremes.
The world could do without: Network television.
I'd rather lick the belly of a cockroach than: tweeze my eyebrows.
Paper clips are more useful than: Geeze, I hate paperclips! They smack of indecision. Either staple it or leave it loose but keep yer clips away from me! And did I mention their breeding habits? Its just gross to imagine what sort of carnality is going on in your desk drawer, even as you read this.
If I do anything well: I owe it all to comic books.
And by the way: I keep losing my pepper spray. If someone tried to attack me I'd be asking them to have a seat while I search my desk. Doesn't matter anyway, because I'm pretty sure I would point it in the wrong direction if I tried to use it. Wonder why they don't give me a gun? What I really need is a bow and arrow. I used to be a good shot with arrows.
The last time I was drunk: Never been drunk! I have enough fun on my own.

From the little not black book...

We were supposed to go camping last night. You may remember how we cancelled because of the impending apocalyptic weather? Yeah. Nothing. No rain, no wind, no cow-grabbing tornadoes.

So, this morning we packed up and went to the canyon to do some fishing and hiking. Jackson fished, Katie and I hiked. Now Katie is fishing with her dad and I am kicked back by the edge of the lake.

The weather has been weirdly wonderful. It started out foggy and cool. The fog stayed until nearly noon. Now the sun is burning off the clouds and the wind has picked up enough to blow out the humidity.

Jackson and Katie have moved to the other side of the lake in search of fish. The lake has more water in it than I have ever seen. The fishing dock no longer stretches out over dry ground and the grass in the swimming cove is actually covered with water. It almost looks like a real lake and not an oversized puddle.

I guess everyone else heeded the spurious weather warnings as well because I am totally alone. There is a bullfrog hiding in the reeds of the shallow water. He's singing Barry White songs. The cottonwoods are rattling thier leaves - it sounds like distant applause. I think I am going to take a nap in the shade...

Violent Pink Cotton Candy

These are storm clouds as seen from my back porch last week. One of the best things about living here is our weather. Like anyone else, we complain about it all the time. We tell the same tired old jokes about our weather that you tell about yours - "Don't like it? Give it a minute, it'll change!"

The sand storms suck. Well - blow, actually. Most farmers are using some modicum of soil conservation techniques these days, so they aren't nearly as bad as they could be.

It's hot, of course. But not nearly as hot as the land down off the caprock and besides, "its a dry heat". Hell yeah, its dry.

But we also have cool, calm mornings, summer nights that last half the year, and incredible sunrise and sunset light shows and the biggest canvass God ever made to view them on. And of course, storms.

This is tornado alley. We love to make fun of the Chicken Little-esq Weathermen and all their goofy gadgets. They interrupt regular programming at will and stay "Live On The Air" until the wee hours in hopes of being the first to find a tornado. There is radar and satellite imagery. There is a small armada of storm chasers who constantly phone in reports, sightings and digital pictures. They are an excitable cadre of boy scouts and you'd better get out of the way if you see them careening down the backroads. They're watching the skies, not the traffic. Its all fun and games until they start talking about your county and how the storm is headed for your house and then you're glad they're there.

Last month we made national news (slow news day) because we had 10 tornadoes in a single evening. Tonight is supposed to be much the same.

We'd planned to go camping this weekend. We were headed to Caprock Canyon tonight. Then we watched the Wednesday night news. The Weatherboy said this was a first - the national weather service issued a warning of a moderate risk of severe storms for Friday night. He'd never seen them issue any kind of a warning three days early. Hmm...could that be a sign?

Also, Jackson and I have concluded there is someone in Silverton, a town not far from the canyon, that just ain't living right. They have gotten their butts kicked by every storm we've had this year. Any cloud that forms any where between here and Albuquerque heads straight down their gullet. Perhaps this is not a good night to be there. In a tent.

So we'll sit around the house, watching the weather dudes and arguing whether or not my motorcycle is under the carport far enough to avoid hail damage. I'll probably mope around the front door considering the viability of throwing myself on the flower beds as a means of saving the plants. But they'll grow back. It won't be boring. And it will always be gorgeous.

Inmate Number 015382

It's Opie Capone! (Still time to contribute to the Save Your Dignity Campaign before I dig deeper in the family photo archives.)

Zoom, zoom.

Jackson and I went for a motorcycle ride on Monday. Since I had the day off for Memorial Day, we decided to go find a cemetery or two. I wondered why there were so many people at the cemeteries - who goes to a cemetery on a Monday afternoon? Other than people like me who are looking for interesting stones and stories and possible Christmas card material? Then I remembered why it was Memorial Day and felt like a real dolt.

Back to the motorcycle story. We were about 50 miles from home and stopped in between two sides of a divided highway. Jackson was talking some trash about who knows what and made me laugh. He took off across the highway and when I kicked it into gear and let out the clutch - clunk. My bike died. When I pushed the starter - nothing happened.

If you are surprised by this, don't be. I am a talisman of mechanical doom, an amulet of engine despair, a ravaging grigri of ruination to any sort of two-wheeled motorized vehicle. I'm getting a real complex about it. I can think of maybe two times when I have gone on anything more than a short ride around town that did not end in mechanical failure of some sort.

At first I thought it was just my bike. I started out on a Honda CB9000. It was a perfect bike for me. We fit each other just right. But I seldom ever made it home on this bike. The local rice-burner mechanic developed a close personal relationship with Jackson and probably acquired some vacation property over that bike. I finally gave up and bought an old Yamaha XS1100 Midnight Special. It rides like a tough little dream.

Jackson also has an XS1100. His never broke down. I've ridden home on the back of it a lot. One spring evening a couple of years ago, Jackson had to go teach a class at the prison. He asked if I would take his bike out for a ride to make sure the battery stayed charged as we had been too busy to ride for a while. I got about 15 miles down the road and the bike died. Thankfully I had a cell phone and I called my brother to come pick me up. By this time it was getting dark. I was dressed in black, wearing a black helmet. The bike did not even have power to run the lights. I sat on the side of the two-lane blacktop and waited. No one came.

My brother claims he spent an hour going up and down the road looking for me but could never see me. I don't know how much I believe that. You might think it is quiet on the side of a deserted highway at night. It's not. The pavement cracks from the receeding heat. The crickets do their thing and the coyotes get vocal. At least it wasn't boring. Jackson doesn't let me ride his bike anymore. It never broke down again.

I can't tell you how frustrating this is. I don't ride alone anymore - Jackson has to be there to help push start the bike or to give me a ride back home. Its downright embarassing. Monday he pushed me into oncoming holiday traffic and yelled "Let out the clutch!" Hmm...

We made it back home just fine and he has figured out that the problem is my starter celonoid. (I'm just amazed by this. I was raised by book-worms, which is the cosmic opposite of being raised by wolves. I've not had experience with mechanically-minded folks. I am way impressed by his ability to repair things like cars and dishwashers and lawnmowers and whatever else I break.)


So, as soon as the part comes in the mail, I will be back on the road. Literally. Sitting on the edge of the highway, leaned up against the back tire of my bike, listening to the buzz of the bugs and braiding the long grasses.

Check this out:

My brother has started blogging. He goes by the pseudonym "Jonboy" instead of his real name, which is Opie Capone. Check it out at www.vacantstares.blogspot.com.

And yes, I will be posting the Opie Capone picture unless there is some significant fiduciary incentive applied to keep me from doing so.

It may be Tuesday.

But it feels like Monday.

Luke, I am your father...

We went to see Star Wars Episode III last night. Opening night. Sure did.

I really loved Star Wars as a kid. I was pretty traumatized by the whole Jar Jar Binks thing, though. Episode III was certainly the best of the three "new" movies.

Movies have always been a big part of my life, but for the last few years I have seen tons of kid flicks and extremely few grown-up movies. I can rent 'em, I know, but don't get me started on that. Certainly you can enjoy a movie in the comfort of your own home, but you will never recreate the collective solitude of the theatre experience. If it is a movie worth seeing, its worth seeing right.

Anyway, a couple of weeks ago, Jackson and I discovered that we are real grown-ups and if we want to go see a movie on a school night, then by-God, we can! So we now have a weekly appointment (sans kid) with the local cinema.

It was a small crowd, although anything more than three is an above average mid-week crowd. There were a couple of families with their kids, but it was mostly people my parent's age. I found that odd. Where are all the people my age - the kids who grew up on this mythology? Didn't it become an ingrained part of their moral development? Didn't they accept that there is a connectivity to the entire universe and everything in it? Didn't they understand that your sixth grade English teach who used to complain because they didn't use any capital letters in the credits on Matlock was just an unwitting pawn of the dark side? Didn't their dad's preach sermons about the theology of Star Wars when they were kids? Or was that just me?

Oh, well. The movie was good. Not great, but good. Good enough that when we left, in the dark, and I shifted the truck into gear and pulled out on the highway, I could pretend that it was my own X-wing fighter.

And I flew it all the way home.

Its not a millstone, Its a milestone!

I don't like to staple things, much. It seems as soon as I wed a couple of sheets of paper together, I just have to break them up again. Perhaps that's not the best analogy, but you get the idea. I hate paperclips even more. That kind of indecisiveness gets on my nerves. I like my papers to be free-flowing and open to change. This is really just a lot of bull - and helps explain why my desk is in a mess most of the time.

Anyway, I have had the same box of staples for the entirety of my current employment. It was a big, new box handed to me the day I started. It held 5,000 staples. Every time I moved to another office, or got a new desk, or was hit with a fit of spring cleaning, the box of staples went with me. I began to think it was like the hourglass in the Wizard of Oz - the staples were counting down my existence and when I ran out of staples I would have to leave, a la Shane or Mary Poppins.

Today I have completed 12 years at my job. And I ran out of staples.

What are the chances? Not only the chances of these two events occurring simultaneously, but that the first occurred at all. Not many Generation Xers can say that. (Or would want to!) I just happened to stumble into the perfect job for me and I have stayed here. When I have tried to leave, I couldn't get any other employer to even acknowledge my existence, much less give me an interview.

I got my annual retirement benefit statement in the mail a couple of months ago. Right in the middle, in big black letters it says: First Retirement Eligibility - Age 48.

That means there's no getting rid of me now! That means that at age 48 I can shove this job and become the weird lady at the fair who draws charicatures on the cheap.

That means I can quit my 8-5 and open a photography studio where you could get bridal pictures done, but not wedding pictures. And when you come in to sit for the portraits, your mother has to sit in the car. With no keys. With the windows rolled up. Especially if it is August. And did I mention I ain't gonna take pictures of yer family, especially yer mother of the bride, at the church?

That means I can open a bookstore on the square like the lady in Sweetwater - remember her, Kincaid? - who was always interested in whatever you were into and had just been reading a book about it and it was freaky but in a good way.

I've got 14 years to go. Gonna have to make this new box of staples stretch a little bit farther.

This is where I wish I was today.

And I wish I still had those legs.

Awash in liberal-ly goodness.

I am: 7% Republican.

"You're a complete liberal, utterly without a trace of Republicanism. Your strength is as the strength of ten because your heart is pure. (You hope.)"

Are You A Republican?

Interview Game: "If you were a tree..."

I have been tagged by Mindy with the interview questions. These are her questions and my answers. If you want to play, read the directions at the end and I will be more than happy to spread the germs.

1) What are you truly afraid of since it is not ghosts, cemeteries or things that go bump in the night? Oh geeze, I dunno. I work really hard to conquer fear. It is not always 100% successful, but I find that if you are willing to do what you fear then it lessens that fear exponentially each time you do it. HOWEVER, as I write this, I am confronted by my own raging hypocrisy because I realize I do have a fear which I have had an opportunity to confront and I wussed. The opportunity may come around again and damn, now I'll have to do it or be branded a lying wussie. The Horror! By the way, Janet just gave me a way cool journal with an even more way more cool quote from Eleanor Roosevelt on it: "Do something every day that scares you." Words to live by, if ya ask me!

2) What is the most trashiest book you have ever read? Hmm... I guess it was probably Hotel by Arthur Haley. How horribly nerdy is that?

3) In camping, what is the #1 rule to remember? Duh! Always have tortilla chips on hand for starting fires! We shall be putting this rule to good use this weekend, I hope.

4) Just what DID you tell the Postal Inspector? I said: "Is this a joke?" followed by a whole lot of "Yes ma'am." and "No ma'am." and a promise not to mail anything else with such amusing labels as 'Letter Bomb Enclosed - Please Do Not X-Ray.'

5) What is your biggest pet peeve? Today it is snot and the lack of attention afforded it by the whole industrial/energy community in this country. If we could find a way to utilize it as an alternative fuel source, my production alone could rid Nebraska of its dependence on foreign oil. If nothing else, there ought to be a market for it somewhere as an industrial lubricant.

The Official Interview Game Rules If you want to participate, leave a comment below saying "interview me."I will respond by asking you five questions - each person's will be different. You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Nothing to see here. Keep moving.

Some pictures from East Texas. (Happiness is
friends who don't mind that you stop at all the
cemeteries.)

Note: I see that the names on the stones are not very readable.
They are: 1. Lively, 2. Hill/Bush, & 3. Shotwell. Sorry!


Not likely.


Or maybe Tree?


If a job is worth doing, its worth doing well.



Maybe it was because we saw this on the way home
from the sex offender trainging, but we found this
sign to be somewhat disconcerting.

M is for "Mutha"

I live in a dry county. Sale of alcohol is prohibited except in private clubs. How does one establish a private club, you may ask? In most cases you put a spiral notebook by the door. Membership is conferred by signing a name in the book on your way in. Not necessarily your own name, you understand.

A condition of probation is that thou shalt not drink. Another is thou shalt not hang out at the clubs. So, myself and the other officers would make the rounds of the bars on the occasional Saturday night to see which of our people were there. And which of them had been dumb enough to sign their real name in the book. Generally, this was bad for business at the clubs.

One particularly sleazy bar is the laughably named Social and Charity Club. Its been around for as long as I can remember. Its a dark, smoky, violent place - one of those building that looks as if a good stiff wind would flatten it. But it perseveres. Even when they lost their liquor license for two years a while back their business didn't seem to suffer much. Given its location on just outside the city limits on the north side of town, it was usually the last stop on our tour of the local nightlife.

My most memorable visit to the Social and Charity happened one Saturday night right before mother's day. It went as usual - we walked the rooms squinting through the smoke, trying to hear over the pounding music, hoping to recognize faces in the near total darkness. Truth be known, we probably would never have caught anyone if they didn't get so nervous. Luckily for us, most people with a drunk and guilty conscience would try to hide behind their girlfriends, or behind a hat or turn their face to the wall. It got to be pretty funny at times.

It was almost midnight when the six of us, including our boss at that time, decided to leave. We headed to the entrance.

Just as we got to the door, which was in a pretty cramped space, a group of about equal size came inside. We stood across from each other for a long moment.

The other group had us way out-classed. They were dressed to kill - hats, boas, sequins and bright silk suits. The man in the center, who had a woman hanging on each arm, was the owner of the club.

The moment drew out uncomfortably as we silently debated who would step aside to let the others pass. Then, the owner doffed his fedora and looked my boss in the eye.

"Why Ms. Barton," he drawled. "Its always such a pleh-sure to see you and your friends."

He smiled broadly, his teeth glowing in the blacklights, and eyed us all.

"I would just like to wish you all a happy Mother's Day." He bowed deeply and gave us a wicked grin. "Cuz you all's a bunch of muthas!"


They let us pass.

Would you like a ribbon with that corsage?

Last week Mindy and I went to a small town about 80 miles north of Houston for training. We arrived the afternoon before the the conference began, so we explored the town. It was a decent little east Texas town - pretty, but not too exciting.

Being the thrifty (cheap)people that we are, we found a consignment shop on the courthouse square. Being the friendly (nosy) people that we are, we struck up a conversation with the proprietress and her assistant.

It didn't take her long to discover - "Y'all aren't from around here, are you?" We confirmed this and asked a few questions about the area.

She assured us repeatedly that she did not live in this town. Oh, no. She was from the Woodlands, yet another Houston bedroom community. She also pointed out, on more than one occasion, that the houses in the Woodlands started at $350,000 and went up from there. We tried real hard to look impressed. She lives in the Woodlands and merely runs the business in this town.

This was followed by the pivotal question: "Well, did y'all come down for the flower show?"

I looked at Mindy. She looked at me. We were both obviously thinking the same thing, "Just say yes." We could've said yes and told her delphiniums are really not our specialty and no, we don't know how to cure rust on roses. We could have told her that and waltzed on out the door. But, nooooo. We told her why we were in town. Stupid, stupid us.

"We're here for to attend training for probation officers on the risk assessment of sex offenders."

If she'd been a Pekinese, her ears would have pricked up and she would have tilted her head to the left and let her tongue hang out. She immediately launched into every story she ever knew about sex offenders and any kind of maybe, possible, sort-of encounters she or her family had experienced with anyone who might have been a sex offender or been just a little creepy. She even told us that this county has the fastest growing population of sex offenders and incest cases in the state. Did I mention she lives in the Woodlands and the houses there start at $350,000?

Mindy and I edged towards the door. "That's nice." "Oh, really?" "You don't say?" We got as close as two counters and a clothing rack from freedom when she stopped in mid-sentence and whirled on her assistant. She crinkled her nose and said, "Well! I am just going to be nosy and ask!"

We could have skipped out right then. We could have made a run for it. We knew better. But we stayed.

She leaned over the counter and winked. "So, do y'all talk real mean to these people when they get out of prison?"

That's what she said. What she meant was: "Do they talk dirty to you?"

We could have tried to explain that we work with people who hopefully will not go to prison. We could have told her that yes, sometimes things get a bit graphic - in a health class kind of a way, but there is a fine line between being honest about an offense and retelling it for fun and we try not to go anywhere near that line. We could have explained that sex offenders are the most compliant group we encounter. (The idea being to cooperate so the authorities will not take a closer look at what you are doing.)

We could have told her all of that. But she didn't want to hear it and we pretty much bolted for the door. Finally. Next time I will listen to that little voice in my head and say, "Yes. I am a florist."

Four years later...

I planted a couple of Calla Lily bulbs four years ago. The don't grow real well here, evidently. Every year one or two brave leaves would push through the mulch and hang out for a couple of weeks. Then they crumple like a kleenex at a June wedding and die. This year! Finally! I have a flower!

Eat Yer Heart Out, Architectural Digest!

Annie asked about the coffin in my living room. The picture is not that great, but you get the idea. I bought this at a garage sale last year. An elderly couple was getting rid of years of accumulated stuff and decided this had to go. Their son built it and left it in their garage, where it sat for several years. They couldn't really remember why he built it.

The wife was overjoyed to sell it. Especially since her husband had told her no one in their right mind would want to buy a coffin at a garage sale. She grinned when she said that. She realized he might still be right.

Jackson and I loaded it up and took it home. I laid it down and used it as a plant stand in my living room jungle. But I tended to bang my shin into it, so I stood it up in the corner, more out of the way.

You can't tell it in this photo, but it blends pretty well with the bookcase next to it. In fact, most people who just drop by for a few minutes don't even notice it. Or if they do, they are afraid to say anything. This past Christmas I swore there had to be a better way to store the tree than what I was using - an old bicycle box in the closet. I tried the coffin, and sure enough, the it worked great.

Sometimes, you just have to think outside the box. (Saw that coming, didn't you?)

How did they know?

My Unitarian Jihad Name is: Sister Divine Hand Grenade of Mild Debate. What's yours?

100 Things, IV

76. My garden is made up of all the ingredients for good salsa, plus black-eyed peas.
77. My favorite sandwich is left over roast, mashed potatoes and blackeyed peas smushed in between two slices of bread with lots of Miracle Whip.
78. My husband and I have birthdays that are only 2 days apart. One year he told me he had a surprise planned. Even though I was deathly ill - coughing, hacking, barely able to stand - he drug me off to the 'rasslin' matches. I was the only one in the arena sitting down. The poor kid next to me kept trying to get away as I was obviously spewing typhoid. You still owe me for not divorcing you for that, Jackson!
79. I like to fish.
80. I never catch anything. Ever. In fact, this weekend I am going fishing and not even taking a pole. This will no doubt lessen the probability that I will catch fish. But not a lot.
81. I enjoy home tours. Especially if we can leave little glow-in-the-dark Madonnas behind at each stop.
82. I love people-watching.
83. I really like going to Jr. High and High School student art shows.
84. I am a Baptist who prefers Catholic services. Jackson is a Catholic who prefers Baptist services.
85. I may live in Texas, but I despise most country music. Especially anything recorded more recently than the 1980s. Willie Nelson doesn't count. He can do no wrong. Which reminds me, if you don't own this album, buy it NOW!
86. I am a preacher's kid, but I've never been arrested. Or drunk.
87. I don't understand the connection between Chuck Mangione and King of the Hill.
88. I am a Chicken Fried Steak connoisseur.
89. My back, hair and hat appear briefly in the movie Leap of Faith.
90. Cemeteries are funny places.
91. I watch a lot of cooking shows, even though I never cook. Emeril is a doofus.
92. I used to be a rule-follower. The older I get, the more I demand explanation and proof from authority figures.
93. I love thrift stores.
94. I was once investigated by the Texas Rangers. (Nothing too exciting. One of my sex offenders got ticked off at me and complained that I had violated his civil rights. He went to prison. The sex offender, not the Ranger.)
95. I still subscribe to Wonder Woman comic books. I have them sent to my office. They come in the proverbial plain brown wrapper and we used to have a secretary who really wondered what I was up to. I never told her.
96. Crunchy peanut butter ONLY.
97. Once, while at the sea wall in Galveston with friends, one of them shouted "Oh My God, y'all! Come look at these rats." And I went.
98. I have a coffin in my living room. I store the Christmas tree in it.
99. My earliest childhood memory is being afraid to climb back down off of the roof. This was right after my father freaked out. He was roofing. I tapped him on the shoulder and said "Whatcha doin' daddy?"
100. I don't believe in a Rapture. If there is one, I ain't goin'.

100 Things, III

51. I prefer to drive a stick shift.
52. I have never had a traffic ticket. (Knock on wood!) This is due in large part to the fact that my truck has a lawnmower engine and just won't go that fast.
53. I love the sound of baby coyotes howling in the fields beside my house.
54. I wish I had stuck with piano lessons. Who doesn't?
55. I used to take Karate lessons. One day the instructor said, "Gasp! Wheeze! You kick like a man!"
56. I have all but two of the 88 original Perry Mason mysteries. I have two of the pastiche Perry Mason books done by another author. Those two basically suck.
57. I think panty-hose are a harbinger of the apocalypse.
58. I think most of us pasty white women don't look good in a dress without panty-hose.
59. I wear a lot of pants.
60. I love pasties. Not that kind! This kind.
61. I almost never read articles in magazines. I flip through and look at the pictures. Dunno why.
62. I have a compost heap. I found an almost white frog in it last night. I guess he had lived inside the heap his whole life and never been exposed to the sun.
63. I love small town festivals.
64. I have an open marriage. Jackson and I have agreed that he can leave me at anytime for Sandra Bullock. I can leave him for Johnny Depp. No hard feelings, either way. (He wants to add Racheal Ray to the list. I just don't think that is fair unless I can include Alan Rickman.)
65. I love old-time radio programs. Especially The Shadow. Thanks to the internet I have hundreds of them to lull me to sleep at night. I never know whodunit because I always fall asleep.
66. I try to spend some time drawing in my sketch book every day at lunch.
67. The Avengers is one of my all-time favorite TV shows.
68. My Dashboard Jesus has developed a squeak. Now when I idle at the stoplight, I feel like Flipper is trying to tell me the third secret of Fatima.
69. Nudge, nudge.
70. Sorry 'bout Number Sixty-Nine. Running low on ideas!
71. I hate eggs unless they have picante sauce on them. Ketchup will do in a pinch.
72. I learned to like Brussels Sprouts when I realized they were just little Darth Vader heads. Death to the Empire! Munch, munch, munch!
73. Calla lilies are my favorite flower. They are very Art Deco, and
74. I love Art Deco.
75. Finally, number 75! Only 25 more to go!

Cora's Big Adventure

This vacant wooded lot in Athens, Texas reeks of adventure. It is dark and mysterious - surrounded by a low rock wall. I don't know much about it, except that it was once owned by the minister of the First Baptist Church.



The trees are beautiful. Especially the dogwoods. The blossoms seem to float in the air.



The only structure in these acres is this enclosure. it sits in the middle of the woods and marks the gravesite of the minister and his wife. It was erected in 1934.



This is the Reverend and his Lovely Bride. She died 10 years before he did. He was a wealthy man, according to local lore, and was no doubt courted by many blue-haired ladies with casseroles.



The Reverend Fuller. He fought the good fight, etc. etc. He died in 1944 and was 25 years the pastor of First Baptist Church.



This is Mrs. Fuller. She was the long time (long suffering) organist for the church. Her epitath is "She hath done what she could." Geeze!! How horrible is that?



This bench is constructed from the same stone as the enclosure and the wall. It sits a few feet from the graves. You can sit here and wonder at the greatness of God. Or Reverend Fuller. Whichever.



As I walked past the bench, I saw these keys on the ground. They had obviously been left there only days or hours before.



A little further down the path we saw this blanket in a tree. Hmmm....



We went back to the bench and began to scrounge around. Found a comb...



And her lipstick. By this time I was laughing too hard to properly focus the camera.



The piece de resistance: A yellow silk and lace thong. It too was lying in the immediate vicinity of the bench.



I couldn't resist. I left Cora's keys on the bench, with a note...

Dearest Cora,
Mine eyes hath seen they glory. Thy sins will find thee out. I pray thou change thine wayward ways.
- Reverend Fuller


Thank you! Thank you! Thank you, Annie Oddflower for showing me how to do this!

100 Things, II

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.

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!

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.

Yoga-Induced Laughter? Whatever works, I guess.

Janet sends this in response to that.

Happy Day After Easter

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.

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.

Florida probably has boring weather.

Florida here we come...

I like snow. I really do!

But it was 80 degrees on Saturday. Make up your mind, Mother Nature!

Stupid Daffodils

Told ya so!

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."

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.

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.

QUIZ: What theologian are you?

I don't know what this means, but it sounds fairly accurate:

"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

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.

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.