Friday Cemetery Blogging

"Lost my head. But I've still got this cool flaming heart thingy."

The PTA is probably not going to call on me for guest speaker anytime soon.

Kate flipped through the pages of her science book as I drove her to school Friday morning.   She opened it to a chapter somewhere close to the middle and let out a sigh. 

"We have to do this chapter next week."

I glanced over at a two page spread on the reproductive system.  Sort of an educational centerfold.  I made some sort of non-committal noise. 

"That's why y'all had to sign that paper a couple of weeks ago."

"Ah.  Well, lucky you.  Looks like it should be fun."  She grimaced.  "I'm going to ask you lots of questions about what you learned when you get finished," I said, evilly.

"No, you're NOT!"

"Yes, I am!" I said, mostly because I'm really mature like that. 

"You know what I really hate?  When we have to go pick up trash around the school, there's all these used condoms everywhere."

"Ugh," I said, cause I'm full of really helpful commentary like that.  I wracked my brain for some sort of intelligent response.  "Well, if people are going to be so stupid as to have sex in junior high, at least they're using birth control."

"It's just gross," she said.  I couldn't argue with that. 

Then she told me about one of the girls in her class that's had a baby.  And another girl who's bragged about having sex.  That girl's aunt has told her she's putting her on birth control.  "Can you believe that?" Katie asked.  "We're in junior high and they're putting her on birth control!"

"I can't blame them.  If she's going to be that irresponsible, at least maybe they can prevent her from getting pregnant.  If she gets pregnant as a teenager, she'll end up ruining more lives than just her own." 

"Yeah, I guess," Kate said.

"If your friend keeps having sex, that's all she's going to know.  She'll never learn how to have a real relationship with anyone.  She won't learn how to talk to and connect with guys she's really interested in.  She won't know how to find someone that shares her interests.  That's the best part of hooking up with another person.  All she'll know how to do is screw.  Hell, dogs can screw!  People should be able to do better than that."

Kate looked at me sort of open-mouthed for a moment, then reclined her seat back as far as it would go.  "I'm gonna take a nap."

"We're six blocks from school!"

"I don't care."

"You just don't want me asking you any questions about sex ed," I accused.

She grinned and kept her eyes shut tight.

Friday Cemetery Blogging

Tombstone Theology:

"Those whom God loves die young."

Those who live to a ripe old age are not nearly so well liked by their creator. Evidently.

Nuthin' much.

Friday Cemetery Blogging

Well, dang. It feels like weeks since I've sat down to write anything. I guess maybe that's because it HAS been weeks since I've written.

I blame the railroad.

Up until just a month or so ago, I lived in a constant state of danger. Facing one's mortality at every turn stimulates the mind and force feeds creativity. I was on the edge. And living there made every breath more stimulating, everything was brighter, stronger, more pungent.

But now the danger is gone.

Blasted railroad.

Here's the deal. At the end of one of the roads leading away from my house, there is a railroad crossing. I've lived in this house for almost ten years, and I lived every day with the knowledge that the train was going to kill me. For years I've told my friends and family, when the train finally gets me, it will be my own fault. I forget to look both ways before sailing over the tracks. So don't sue the railroad.

Anytime Katie was riding with me and we encountered the train, I told her I could jump it with my truck. The tracks are five or six feet higher than the road. You approach them on a dirt ramp sort of thing. Perfect setup for launching the truck right over the top of the moving train. I watched the Dukes of Hazzard all the time as a kid, so I knew I could do it - no problem.

Kate wasn't so sure.

So, to keep from offending her delicate sensibilities, I'd have to come up with a new excuse for not attempting the jump each time we ended up there at the same time as the train. Sometimes it was my own fault - I'd not been paying enough attention and hadn't built up enough speed on the dirt road leading up to the ramp. The price of jet fuel was prohibitive on several occasions and I wasn't sure if I could reach launch velocity on the cheap low-octane stuff I was using. Every once in a while the angle of the sun interfered. Occasionally she was in the truck with me right after I'd completed a successful jump and to do it again, so soon, was to run the risk of showboating and I'd never want to be accused of that.

I was running short of Shinola. But then the railroad solved the problem. They came along last month and put in lights and those arm thingies. Now I have to stop -- I can't jump the train.

It's the law.

Thank God!

Friday Cemetery Blogging

Phallacy

The Bureaucratic Paper Fairy has dumped on me mightily this week. Have you noticed how that kind of thing will completely zap your creativity? This frumpy little freak sneaks into your office and litters your desk with page after page after page of useless muck. Then just when you think she's done, and you can get started on dealing with the mess, she backs a truck up to the door and dumps the whole load.

I hate her.

If I ever get my hands on her grey polyester skirt suit (you know the one I mean - and she always wears a plain white blouse with one of those floophy 'lady' bow tie things at the neck.) I'm gonna strangle her with the mouse cord. I'm gonna sharpen some pencils and stick 'em as far up her nose as they will go. I'm gonna wad up all those papers and stuff them down her throat, one by one. Then I'll beat her about the head and shoulders with my phone. After that, I will run over the dang phone with my truck. Repeatedly.

And after that?

After that I'm gonna get really creative. You got any suggestions?

Domestic Felicity Day

Guess which two people found the perfect Valentine's Day card for each other this year?

 

Friday Cemetery Blogging

Not So Much, Anymore.

I wish

...that I understood French. All the naughty bits in the book I'm currently reading are in French. Hard to enjoy peaceful perusal of mysterious tomes when the laptop is propped open on one knee so I can look up the translations. (It's a British mystery written in the 1930's; therefor the naughty bits consist of lines such as "You intoxicate me" and "I wish I were in his shoes" and "now is the time for him to learn the difference between kissing and embracing" and the like.)

...Sinclair would stop eating the trees and digging up the yard. Other than that she's the perfect dog. She's so mellow. And she's rubbing off on Zoe just a bit. Zoe is ever so slightly less bouncy now that Sinclair is here.

...it were possible to fast forward to the end of this week. The stress! Argh! (But I am taking a few hours off on Friday the afternoon in honor of the thirteenth.)

...y'all could've seen the guy's face stopped next to me at the red light this morning. (Notice how it's "the" red light. 'Cause there's only one. Ha!) I like to listen to my music LOUD. So did the kid in the little Toyota. His hip hop was no match for my Puccini.

(I'm not an opera connoisseur as a general rule. This was just a fragment from Turandot - Nessun Dorma - that was included in the movie soundtrack that I was listening to.)

...someone could explain to me why the movie "My Bloody Valentine - In 3-D!" came out in the middle of JANUARY??? And now it's gone, gone, gone. Guess we'll have to see the new Friday the 13th movie, instead. Darn it.

So far this morning...

...everyone who's come in the door has stopped and taken just one more deep breath. Then they turn to the rest of us and say "It smells soooo good."

Moisture. Actual humid-type stuff. In. Our. Air.

Not a cloud in the sky, but we can still smell the rain.

Friday Cemetery Blogging

      Fievel's tombstone.

...and now I'm goin' to bed!

I started teaching another drug class today.  On a Monday of Mammoth Misery, Mishap and Misfortune.

I didn't know it was such a Monday when I left home this morning.  In fact, I didn't realize it until I got to the office.  Once I arrived and popped my oh-so-healthy sausage biscuits into the microwave, I went to the water cooler to fill my cup.  It was then that I looked down at my feet.  It took me a few minutes to realize what was wrong, but I finally figured out that I was wearing one black boot and one brown boot. 

That was the start.  Things went downhill from there.

I haven't had my blood pressure medicine since Friday.  Ran out and have no refills.  I spent the morning trying to call my doctor's office every time I had a moment.  Took me half the morning before I got anything other than a busy signal. 

I was in such a hurry to make it to work this morning following my masochism catechism class at the YMCA, that I forgot my rings.  That was one of the few happy accidents of the day, because no doubt they wouldn't have fit on my swollen fingers.  Did I mention I ran out of blood pressure medication?

At the end of the day, I rushed out of the office to go pick up aforementioned medication and a sleazy burger that I could gulp down before class started.  I careened into the oddly angled CVS drive-thru and screeched to a halt inches from the pharmaceutical window, where I demanded my drugs.  The nice little chemist tried to hand me one package. 

"There should be two," I said - somewhat panicky.  "One I called in Saturday and one the doctor's office called in today."

"They did call one in, but it's the same one you called in."

They called in the wrong prescription!  I was briefly incensed until the whole thing became tragically moot when I realized that I had no money.  I lost my debit card holder thing-y.  Couldn't find it anywhere.  Had no cash and no checks.  I never have cash or checks because I live and die by the debit card.  Which I had lost.

Furious, I peeled out of the drive-thru and headed for my house, trying to remember the last time I had it.  I found it in the pocket of a recently worn jacket.  Managed to make it back to town in time to grab the burger, snarf it successfully and get the class set up.

In all my above whining, did I mention my back has been nagging at me for the last couple of weeks?  No?  Well, it has.  And tonight, two hours into the class, I dropped my dry erase marker.  I didn't really have a pressing need for the dry erase marker.  But they won't allow me to carry a security blanket a la Linus Van Pelt - well, maybe they would, I haven't asked - so I always make do with carrying a dry erase marker while I teach.  I needed it.  And it was way down on the floor. 

I knew I couldn't bend my knees to pick it up.  I can't actually bend my knees for the first two days after M. C. class.  So, I bent from the waist and swooped down to grab it up off the floor.  I'd like to point out that thanks to my snazzily well stretched hamstrings - thank you pilates - this was not a problem and I had the magical marker back in my hand in the blink of an eye.

But I couldn't straighten up.  My back was stuck. 

I grabbed the edge of the podium and finally pulled myself back up to a standing position and managed to stymie the rasping gasp that tried to leak out of the sides of my mouth.  Thankfully, the class didn't last much longer.  I'd already decided it was time to wrap it up and get the hell out of Dodge.

Why, you ask?

Because, at the point when we were discussing the history of drug use, and I was supposed to talk about the rise of designer drugs in the 1980s, I was going to make a point about the drugs crack and ice. 

I said "crack and ass".

Friday Cemetery Blogging

How 'bout them wings?

This was an interesting statue. Beautiful from a distance, but the closer I got, the less I liked it. It has no detail up close. It's like someone sort of erased bits of it. But it was still pretty cool.

Had a great time in Athens, which is where, more or less, this photo was taken.

(C. Wright - tell G that I got my book back!)

Friday Cemetery Blogging

Friday Cemetery Blogging

 

                                    Well, uh, yeah.  I am.

Friday Cemetery Blogging

"Blue skies
Smiling at me.
Nothing but blue skies
Do I see."

Irving Berlin

Trying Something New

 

I'm trying out a new program.  It's called Windows Live Writer and it's a free download.  It allows you to type blog posts and then posts them for you.   The reason I'm using it is that I've heard it makes the gawd-awful blogger photo uploads a thing of the past. 

So far, so good. 

Friday Cemetery Blogging

Can you believe I forgot it was Friday? Even after griping all day yesterday about how I had to work today? Oops.

I took the top photo in a cemetery in White Oaks, New Mexico last week. I've written about this place before. It is one of the unintentionally spookiest places I've ever been. It is becoming more of an artist's colony type of place, which is zapping some of the spooky out of the atmosphere, but it's still cool. The next picture is one of the houses there. I've never seen anyone in or around this house - although it's obviously inhabited - but you can feel the eyes behind the curtains watching your every move as you make your way around town.

How I Spent My Christmas Vacation

I’m sitting in the casino restaurant on Christmas night. I would be sitting in the bar, but for two things. Firstly: Have you ever tried to read in a bar? Not easy. Sometimes not even possible. Secondly and most importantly: The State of New Mexico does not allow package or bar sales of alcohol on Christmas day. They could serve me a margarita with my meal, but no other drinking allowed. I never have more than one anyway, so no harm done.

Jackson is making money hand over fist at the penny slots in the casino. Well, as much as that is possible, what with the payouts being in pennies and all. I won absolutely nothing in the half hour I spent there. Feeding money into little machines and getting nothing in return bores me frightfully, so I have vacated the premises in favor of pen and paper to be followed quickly by the perusal of an as yet unread Dorothy L. Sayers.

We arrived here yesterday afternoon and managed to find our cabin with very little difficulty. We tend to argue vociferously over direction when traveling; each of us equally convinced of our navigational superiority. Sad to say, he appears to have the upper hand in arguments so far, having been right 2 1/3 times. That is enough to drive me to drink in and of itself, but I shan’t give in to such shallow temptation. The time he was 1/3 right he convinced me to drive all the way around the mountains this afternoon – in what I was certain was the wrong direction – instead of going over the mountains in the right direction as I had postulated.

I begrudged him the one third win when his rout was confirmed by a convenience store employee when I stopped to fill up with gas after having made snide remarks about needing to conserve as much fuel as possible for our foray around the entire mountain range. I may have to concede him a full half win and admit that his route, however circuitous and indirect, saved me from driving over the mountains during an afternoon sleet storm.

However, that was not what I intended to write and it appears that I have gone far afield and completely lost my point. Where was I?

Ah, yes. We arrived yesterday. After a late lunch/early supper we went back to the cabin to putter around a bit. Embarrassingly, we were both so tired that by six o’clock, when the sun been down for more than an hour, we were both stretched out on the living room furniture and snuggled under blankets, fast asleep.

We woke around mid-night, thoroughly refreshed. And who wouldn’t be, after a six hour nap? It was by then definitely time to open presents - regardless of whether you belong to the Christmas Eve or Christmas morning camps of present openers.

Jackson’s presents took longer than mine and we were both fascinated about what was in the heavy box with his name on it. I’d totally forgotten what it was, even though it was from me and I’d wrapped it myself only days before. I blame this gift and its capturing of our attention for the remainder of this story.

Jackson really wanted cash for Christmas to use for a specific project he’s working on. Just before we started opening our gifts I slipped a hundred dollar bill into the folds of gift wrap on one of his gifts. That gift. In the heavy box. You can see how I got a bit distracted, can’t you?

I really don’t want to tell you what happened. You can see it all coming, can’t you? You can see that I forgot about the money and never told him it was there. You can imagine how the feisty little bill held fast and never slipped out of the wrapping paper and managed to get bundled up with the rest of the discarded wrappings and carted off to the dumpster, outside. In the cold. Outside to the dumpster where it was deposited amongst the detritus of the neighborhood. Where it would languish until sometime later when a blinding flash of memory sent one of us out to the offensive skiff, faced with the prospect of sorting the trash to retrieve the treasure.

You know that’s what happened, don’t you? And you’re wondering which of us made the dive?

Well, you’d be wrong. Very wrong.

What really happened is that as we finished our holiday plunder party the room began to get a little chilly. That’s because the fire in the fireplace had gone out.

Oh no? Oh, yes.

Jackson bent to gather an armful of wrapping paper to throw on the embers.

”Wait!” I cried. (Admit it – you breathed a sigh of relief here, thinking I’d remembered the $100 just in the nick of time and all was well. If so, you‘re wrong. Again.)

“Don’t just throw the paper on the fire – roll it into a log kind of thingy,” I commanded.

Jackson obeyed. He set the paper log on the fire and soon it was blazing brightly.

We sat back, admiring his fiery handiwork and fiddling with our gifts. It was at least five minutes before realization struck and our domestic tranquility was shattered by me leaping to my feet and attacking the fireplace amidst a hail of repetitive profanity. Reasonably startled, Jackson made use of some profanity of his own as I drug the remnants of the paper log out of the flames and onto the hearth, filling the room with smoke. I frantically peeled back its now smoldering layers in search of cooked currency.

I never found it. Not even a trace. Money burns very well, if you had any doubts about it.

All we could do was sit back and laugh, while I tried not to touch anything until I’d washed the soot off my hands and face.

This will certainly be a memorable Christmas. And if Jackson wins a hundred bucks in the casino tonight, I’m not gong to tell you. You’d never believe me anyway.

Friday Cemetery Blogging

Been playing around with Photoshop and layers and textures. So far, so good.

How has your week been? I've had a cold or some sort of flu or something all week long. This afternoon I finally started to feel human again. I'm really glad I'm getting over this before next week. Everyone is going in different directions this year, so Jackson and I are doing something we've always wanted to do at Christmas. We're going spending it in a cabin in the mountains in Ruidoso, NM. Should be fun!

What are you doing for Christmas?

Friday Cemetery Blogging

I don't know where they bury the brides...





This sign is in the same town:





Transubstantiation, anyone?

Pilates and Pelvi

Texas, in the fall, is a hard place to breathe. Once corn harvest starts, followed immediately by gin season, our air quality rivals that of Houston and Los Angeles for uncleanliness. We like to think that our pollution is of a more natural nature than theirs. It makes us feel more self-righteous, secure in the knowledge that the spring sandstorms will blast our air achingly clean again.

I was contemplating this during Pilates class this morning. We’re all overcome with rampaging sinus crud. Everyone is snorting and suffering. Several people brought piles of Kleenex that they put on the floor next to their mats. As we hung upside down, suspended like bats from our own pelvi*, the tissues quickly migrated from the new to the used piles.

I could feel my head swell and expand as the stuff that had settled in the back of my head drained to the top while I was upside down. I wondered how big my head would get before the snot started to push my eyeballs out of their sockets.

Then we stood up.

And I almost fell down. The fluid had shifted so completely that I had no equilibrium. I was not alone. We all staggered significantly before being able to stand upright unassisted.

I wiped the sweaty hair out of my mascaraless eyes and surveyed the other, similarly unmade-up, women around me. None of us would set foot out of our houses looking this bad, except under cover of darkness, to go to an exercise class with other equally unkempt people.

God, we’re horrific. Unwashed hair, blemished skin and chapped noses. I wonder if this is why there’s never been a man attend this class for more than one or two sessions?

One Sunday morning at church a total stranger – lovely woman – came up to me and reminded me we’d moved the start time for the Monday morning class from 6:00 a.m. to 5:45 a.m.

I had no idea who she was!

She introduced herself on Monday morning. I knew her then. The fact that she was able to recognize me in real life, clean and coiffed, was a little bit disconcerting. Do I generally look that much like the wretched leviathan that I am before showering? I hope not.

I’m hoping maybe she just recognized my nose.

*I know this is not really a word. But it’s so much more fun to say than pelvises. Bleh. Try it. Pelvi, pelvi, pelvi. Much, much better, don’t you think?

Just some stuff...

We're a little weird about water around here. Yesterday and today I listened to people arguing about it. Yesterday it was strangers in a store.

"Hey y'all! It's snowing out there!" Guy 1 said to the assembled shoppers.
"It is not. That's just rain," scoffed Guy 2
"No way - some of it is flakes," Guy 1 said.
"You're kidding!"
Guy 2 goes out the door and stands in the parking lot.
Guy 2 comes back inside and said: "You're right! It is snowing! Kinda."

Today it was people at work and the conversation was essentially the same.

After I got home, Katie and I had to venture back out into the wintry weather in search of a vacuum cleaner. (I had to buy one now, so I wouldn't get one for Christmas!) Tiny flecks of white had accumulated in the corners of the windshield. There were maybe 10 or 15 flakes on the hood of the truck. Katie eyed them eagerly. "Maybe we won't have to go to school until 10:00 tomorrow!"

Hope springs eternal, but the water has already stopped falling.

I was afraid the lady at Sears was gonna bust a gut when I told her that bit about buying a vacuum to avoid getting one for Christmas. Not a lot of funny stuff happenin' at Sears these days, I'm guessing.

Friday Cemetery Blogging

The Christmas Cards are here! If you would like a tombstone Christmas card, email me your address and I'll send 'em out as long as they last.

If you happen to be in Fake Cow tomorrow night, Rose and I will be doing our once yearly good deed. We'll be ringing bells for the Salvation Army at Wally-World from 5:00 until 8:00. It's supposed to be pretty dang cold, so stop by and keep us company.

Here's a bit of a challenge for you - these two stones represent my all-time favorite TV show. What is it? (It's really pretty easy, but first one to figure it out is my bestest friend for the day.)

Dog Blogging

Jackson decided Zoe's life was not complete without a playmate. So, this is what's been going on at our house lately:

It's Sinclair! She's a pound-dog. Paroled after serving 5 months of her 7 month existence behind bars.

Sinclair is happy! Zoe is happy! Rachel is surprised.

Sinclair loooves Jackson.

Friday Cemetery Blogging

Natural Enemies

Friday Cemetery Blogging

See that light? That light is the WEEKEND approaching, boys and girls. Happy Weekend, everyone!

Random Stuffs of Wednesday Wickedness

* I miss Ester when she's not at work. We get THIRSTY in the afternoons when she's not there to make the Sonic run. Not thirsty enough to get off our collective posterior and go do it ourselves, but thirsty nonetheless.

* The dog shall. not. be. ignored. If you attempt such a dissing, she will bite you on the butt. Nip-ishly. Purposefully.

* I'm actually having a hot drink (chai) at the coffee shop while waiting on Katie to be spewn from the bowels of the youth group tonight. The poor little coffee girl nearly choked on her clove gum. I hate coffee and, to date, have been strictly an Italian soda drinker.

* Weirdest thing I've said today: "I think the word 'gonads' gives it a certain panache." (Side note - I did not say this at work. For once.)

* I'm shopping for T-Shirts online. I seldom buy them, but I love shopping for them. One of my all-time favorites - one that I tried to buy, only to find it had been discontinued - had a picture of a U-Haul truck being loaded at night by stealthy figures. It said: "I pack normally, but I move mysteriously".

* I would really like to be an evil genius, but I lack motivation.

* I've drained the big cup. I'm running out of little bullet-spiders. And still the phone. does. not. ring. Gah! How long does the pre-pubescent Jeezus love-in last??? We adults got our worshipin' done over an hour ago.

* Dang ol' Jackson is sitting at home watching Countdown and IM'ing me all the good bits. I hate him. (He SAID he was going to go home and STUDY.)

* Phone still silent. Considering bashing it on the table in hopes of getting it to do something. Lord Almighty, those choruses are just the same half-finished thought, over and over and over. Cut it off and go the hell home already!

* It's ringing!!!

Phall Photo

We worked hard today.

For reals.

Link for RevKim

Click here for the post with the wedding picture.

Happy Halloween

This Halloween I will be married nine years. Or is it ten? [does the math] Nope, just nine. Jackson and I got married on the last Halloween of the 20th century. Sounds pretty ponderous, doesn't it? I know I've mentioned that before and even posted a picture or two, so that's old news.

What I've never told you was how we ended up getting married. I have no idea why I never talk about it - it's a good story. But I don't think I've ever told anyone the whole thing. Dunno why...

I met Jackson in sex class.

Seriously.

He had been to my office once a few months before this. He was working as a probation officer in Big Flat City. Scarlett, one of our officers, had worked with him there before she came to work with us. Jackson had to testify in court in Cool City so stopped to say hi to Scarlett on his way back home. She introduced us. We said 'hi, how are ya, nice to meet ya' and shook hands. That was that. He went back home and I went back to work. Didn't think anything more about it.

In April of 1999, Jackson ended up at the same three day alcohol and drug symposium that Rose and I were attending. We had to go to an HIV/AIDS seminar and Jackson sat at the same table Rose and I did.

I don't know if you work in a profession that requires annual HIV/AIDS training, but if you do, you know how boring and repetitious that becomes. The information doesn't really change much from year to year. So, the trainers try to spice things up in order to keep you awake and hopefully paying attention. Its a sexually transmitted disease class, so you can imagine how 'spicy' it might get.

It was during this class that Jackson and I learned we shared the same thoroughly juvenile sense of humor when it comes to buckets of free condoms and the various uses for which they were never intended.

We laughed, we snarked, we passed the test at the end of the program. And as we left the class Rose looked at him appraisingly. "I think he can hang with us," she said. High praise, coming from Rose.

At the end of the three day program, Jackson had my phone number. That Friday he came to Fake Cow and we went out to dinner. We had a great time. I learned some things about him that I didn't know. Such as the fact that he wasn't quite divorced.

He called me the next day and wanted to know when we could go out again. I assured him that I'd had a fabulous time and I would love to go out again - as soon as his divorce was final.

Being the good boy that he was/is, he didn't whine or make excuses, but said he completely understood. We exchanged a few more pleasantries and hung up. I was hoping to hear from him in a few months time. That was on Saturday.

He called me on Tuesday.

"Guess what I did today?" were the first words out of his mouth.

"What?"

"I got divorced."

Turns out his divorce lawyer was one of his buddies. He traipsed down to the guy's office on Monday morning and wanted to know what had to be done to finalize his de-nuptualization. His buddy-lawyer told him there were papers his ex had to sign and then a court appearance to have the judge approve the settlement, followed by having things filed with the clerk of the court. The lawyer said he wasn't too terribly busy and he could probably have it done within a couple of weeks - a month at the very latest.

Jackson said, "Give me the papers."

He took them to his ex-wife's house and insisted that she sign. She agreed. Then he took them to the judge's office. Since he was a probation officer for that county, the judge knew him and agreed to give him a few minutes time on the docket. Jackson explained to the court that all he needed for his divorce to be final was the judge's signature and the papers to be filed. Everything else had already been handled. The judge looked over the decree, agreed that it was all in order and signed the papers. Jackson walked them over to the clerk's office, filed them and gave me a call.

Who was I to say no?

Six months later, on Halloween, we got married.

The End.

(Maybe next year I'll tell you about the Prairie Dog proposal and the Make-Out Church)

...or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Recession.

Saturday morning I drove into Quitaque.

(It's pronounced "kitty-quay". There's a sign on the edge of town that verifies this for the uninitiated. It's supposed to be an Indian word meaning "end of the trail".)

We were camping again, and the state park is just four miles north of town. My brother and I were hungry, so we decided to cook. I opened up the brand new box of pancake mix proceeded to stir it up. The more I stirred, the more I thought something wasn't right.

"Eew! This stuff is full of weevils!"

Jonboy peered into the bowl. "Either that or this is a rice flour mix."

Ick. So I hopped in the truck and headed for town.

Quitaque has one itty bitty grocery store, which appeared to be deserted. To my surprise, the door was open. It's a grimy little store, not unlike the one I worked in all through high school. The elderly linoleum is peeling away from the floor in huge asbestos-y chunks. The lone freezer case chugs loudly and a "Caution: Wet Floor" sign marks - permanently - the puddle of its lifeblood that they have stopped trying to squeegee away.

I heard some scrumbling at the back and by the time I pushed the creaky basket down the second aisle, I was approached by what I wasn't sure was an employee. He smiled and asked, "How's it going?"

"So far, so good," I lied, not sure if he was someone I could inquire of as to the whereabouts of rice-free pancake mix. However, given the limited number of aisles - four - and my temerity in mercantile exploration - 'It's gotta be around here somewhere' - I knew I could find it one my own.

And I did. Aisle three. I headed towards the meat case in search of more bacon. You always need more bacon. It was there I was assured of my little friend's employment status while I pretended not to notice him leaning into the case and waving away any flies that might have congregated there.

He was a small wiry man, a little shorter than me, and probably in his late 50's. He wore a red bandanna wrapped tightly around his head and a mostly grey handlebar moustache. Pale blue eyes crinkled behind his little square Ben Franklin specs.

Scraggly blond ringlets hung out of the back of the doo-rag, reaching to just below his shoulders. I'd almost guarantee you that he was bald under the doo-rag. He also wore the ubiquitous Harley Davidson t-shirt.

When I got to the front, we both paused while he chose which of the two checker stands to use. I asked him if they sold firewood. He grinned and said "I'll give you the same spiel my boss does." He proceeded to tell me to drive south and find a two-story brick house. Turn east and look for the barn. When I find the barn, I have to go around behind it and find a big pile of junk wood. There is all kinds of wood there - logs, boards, junk of all kinds. After taking whatever I want, I was to return to the store and pay him what I thought it was worth. "My boss has some P.T. Barnum in him," he confessed.

"And I won't get shot?" I asked.

"No," he laughed. "That's just small town living for you."

"I know about small towns. That's why I asked."

He laughed again. "Yeah, I know what you mean. I was a bit culture shocked when I first came out here."

"Where are you from, originally?"

"Big Sur, California."

I put down my grocery bag, knowing I had to ask. "How the hell did you end up out here?"

He dropped his gaze and said sheepishly, "I was a minister. My wife and I came out here with another couple to work with the congregation here." With very little prompting, he told me his story.

Upon arriving in town he was ready to do some hard work to get the local congregation back on track. What he didn't know was that this group had problems that were more deep seated than he'd been led to believe. He said the assembly had been a dynasty.

"Ah," I said knowingly. "A one family show?"

"Yeah, same family had been running it since the congregation was founded in the 1930's." Despite their best efforts, they couldn't help the group and things fell apart. "I traveled 650,000 miles in a three county area over a 10-year period," he said. "I went down every dirt road, every driveway and knocked on every door in these three counties. Needless to say, everybody knows me." His sheepishness returned. "I was a Jehovah's Witness."

I took an involuntary step towards the door.

"But I'm not a minister any more!" he was quick to assure me. "Not after I got divorced."

His wife got fed up and left him. After that, he picked up the guitar that had sat unplayed for the past 18 years. He started playing with bands and making the rounds of the bars and clubs. He did that for three years until he'd worked out all his anger and frustration. The music "probably saved me from killing some people," he said. He grinned again. "The sheriff knew me real well at that time."

After his stint as a honky-tonk maestro, he settled down on his piece of property near Flomont. "I have two acres of land that I paid for by selling the land all around it. I live in an 85 year old wood frame and stucco house with almost non-existent plumbing and a wood stove for heat. I have about 30 cats and there are probably 85 rabbits living around the house. A few years ago I bought a Harley. I still have my guitar and everything I need and now I'm perfectly happy."

"And I bet you couldn't care less about what's happening on Wall Street," I said.

"I pay $11.00 a year in taxes." He smiled even wider, if possible. "A lot of people tell you there's nothing to do in a place like this, but those people could live at Disneyland and still be bored."



Sometimes weevils are not a bad thing. Not bad at all.

Friday Cemetery Blogging

I am soooo sleepy.

Good night!

Gator's Meme

I am: in charge here. Muaaaahahahahaaaa! (Probably the only thing I have in common with Alexander Haig.)

I want: world peace. (Wait! This isn't a beauty contest. Hell, I don't even LIKE beauty contests. I want a cheeseburger and some really crispy tator tots.)

I wish: I could find some cool hair sticks. The dog chewed up the last pair I had and now I can't find any that aren't cute. In fact, I totally wish for non-cute hair accessories of any kind!!! Bah! The cuteness - so irritating!

I hate: cute.

I miss: Trailer Park Boys on BBC America. I think I've made this lament before. I love that show. They claim it was fiction, but I know better. Those are the people who darken the door of my office day in and day out.

I fear: other kid's mothers. They scare me a lot. Take Joan Cusack, for instance. I love her! But, dang, her characters really freak me out sometimes. Have you seen Raising Helen? Nine Months? Gah! I have never changed a diaper. Not one. Not in my 37 years of earthly existence. I never even WORE diapers, having been housebroken at birth. (This is a fact which my own mother disputes, but I'm pretty sure she's just talkin' trash.) Katie is cool. I don't mind her. But I should be banned from all inter-parental interactions.

I hear: Tito and Tarantula in my truck on the way to work.

I wonder: whether rawhide causes any sort of intestinal blockage or anything. You can't imagine how much of it my dog ingests on a weekly basis. Rawhide is her puppy-crack.

I regret: that I shall not be buying the black and white Chuck Taylor All Stars with the 4 1/2 inch spike heels. They were too damn cool, but why tempt orthopedic fate? If I wore them, I'd be sure to break my ankle a la some horror movie blonde bimbo.

I am not: terribly graceful.

I dance: like someone who grew up in the movie Footloose and who never dated a guy who liked to dance. Dammit.

I sing: even worse than I dance.

I cry: when something is really, really funny.

I am not always: kind.

I make with my hands: currently - with Mindy's help - I'm making Dead Baby Jars. This particular lunchtime craft project has resulted in a higher than average rate of eye rolling amongst our co-workers. Rose even refuses to sit on the same side of the table as us. She keeps muttering about lightening strikes.

I write: more than you know.

I confuse: Katie

I need: more motivation

I should: start working on my master's degree. Especially since I've decided on what degree to get - English. But I don't feel like taking the time to do it. I've been gnawing on the leg that is stuck in this trap of indecision for months now. I think I've finally decided not to fight my natural slacker tendencies and to be ok with that. I shall remain woefully under-educated for the foreseeable future. Unless...

I start: way too early in the mornings. And therefore want to finish way too early in the afternoon.

I finish: stuff. Eventually. If I had more motivation, I'd finish more stuff sooner.

I tag: any of you who want to give it a try! (I actually like reading people's memes. It's fun to see the different takes that different people have with the same prompts.)

Friday Cemetery Blogging

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

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

Geeze, I loved Emergency when I was a kid.

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

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

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

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

Cortez.

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

Cortez.

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

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

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

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

The fabulous Cortez.

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

Friday Cemetery Blogging

Wellllll...


I got home from drunk school just in time to catch the last half of the VP debate. I sat on the floor all through that so Jackson could massage my shoulders and those pesky little sinus pockets on the base of your skull that make you horribly dizzy when you stand up. (He's a nice person. Most of the time. )


So, then I managed to regain my feet long enough to make it to my chair.


It was at that point that I realized the external drive with all the pictures is in my bedroom. And that's waaaaay over there. And I'm waaaaaay over here. And my dog doesn't fetch. And Jackson already rubbed my neck for like half an hour without complaint, so I'd feel guilty about asking him to go get it for me.


Is this not the most pathetic post ever?


Its been a busy week and a weird, weird day. First, my desk ripped a big hole in the knee of my pants this afternoon. It ticked me off, but not as much as it would have had I not had a pair of jeans in the truck that I'd planned to change into to teach tonight. Jeans for the afternoon! Yay!


Then Joe Damien, a new wife-beater on my caseload showed up for his appointment. He has long flowing hair and a compact, muscular little body and a Romanesque nose and he thinks he is so very hot. He's doing everything he is supposed to, except for attending the Batterers Intervention program. The little jerk and I had a Come-to-Jeezus meeting last month about this. His first breath this month was spent informing me of his appointment time for the group meetings.


We concluded our business as quickly as possible because the little skeezoid makes my skin crawl. I handed him his next appointment card and motioned him towards the door, even as I turned toward my keyboard, intending to hurry him along.


He stood just inside my door while he stuffed the card into his wallet. As he did so, he said, "Can I ask you a favor?" I didn't even bother to look at him. "What is it?" I growled.


He cocked at finger at me like he was pointing a gun, clucked his tongue and said, "Will you promise me to have a really great day?"


I just stared at him. It was like an encounter with Disco Stu. I still cannot believe he actually did the finger-gun thing. Gah!


The next appointment on my calendar?


Bondage Roger.


Roger's first words on entering my office? I kid you not - he gave me a big goofy grin and said "They're not working you too hard, now, are they?" Geeze. Was the whole disco inferno vibe related to the fluorescent tubes in my ceiling doing a strobe light impression? Maybe so. Maybe no.


I'm goin' to bed.

Tag! I'm it!

Baby Gator has tagged me for a meme. I'm doin' it, mostly because I'm worried she might kick my butt if I don't. She used to be such a nice, sweet, young thang. But now she's a total badass.



Six Unremarkable Things About Me:



1. I freak out when it's hot in the bathroom in the mornings while I'm trying to get dressed. Totally freak the hell out. I come stumbling in after yet another masochistic session at the YMCA, only to find that Jackson has decided to take a HOT shower and has steamed the place up. (Just because the man has more hardware in him than Lee Majors ever did, he thinks he's entitled to HOT showers! The nerve!) Steam is so not my friend. I take a not-so-hot shower and still can't get cooled off. Have you ever tried blow drying your hair or applying make-up while you're still actively sweating? It can't be done. I freak out. I curse like a sailor and tend to throw stuff and plot vicious revenge scenarios on our pissant little air conditioner that won't effectively suck the heat or humidity out of the master bedroom end of the house. And then I think about how much I hate Annette. I hate her a lot. She's the one who talked me into this whole YMCA thing. Not only am I torturing myself at an ungodly hour of the morning, I'm also paying for the privelege. And last week we tried to convince the instructor to move the classes up to 5:45 a.m. instead of 6:00. What the hell is wrong with me?



2. Once I have some breakfast, I'm generally fine.



3. My spiritual gift is sarcasm. Joey and I decided in Sunday School yesterday that we both have this gift. Joey is a preacher's kid, too, which makes us experts in this field. We also agreed that little david shares our gift. We are inordinately proud of this gift. There are t-shirts.



4. As long as Amber, the college student with good taste in footwear, keeps coming, I am no longer the youngest person in our Sunday School class. I wonder who the oldest person is? Eh. Who cares?



5. I am painting a picture of a queen with multi-colored hair. When I finish that, I'm starting on an oranged-haired cartoon vampire that I saw on a Myspace ad while I was looking over Katie's shoulder last night. Much eye-rolling ensued when I said "Oh, wait! Go back! I gotta sketch that real fast!"



6. I have become a tea snob. I didn't mean to, it just happened. It started when an email friend in Denmark told me we Americans don't know crap about tea. To prove it, she sent me a box full of 16 different loose teas she picked up at the local tea house. (Wow! A tea house!) I was an immediate convert. I've been ruined. I no longer linger over the vast array of tea bags in the supermarket. I no longer lust over pre-trussed bits of leaf and herb in little baggies, although I admit to still being a sucker for their interesting packaging. Nope, I'm strictly an Upton's loose tea proselyte now. They have this Earl Grey blend that I would rob a bank for. Damn, it's good. Even in the weenie decaf version.



Hmm... I think this is enough memeing for one night. I gotta go boil some water.