There are some things I’d like to learn. I’ve kept a list of these semi-essential skills for years. So far, it consists of:
Eating with chopsticks – Learned!
Karate – Learned! (With somewhat mixed results.)
Fencing -
Riding a Unicycle -
And this week I’ve added something new: Reading Tea Leaves. I mean, they’re there – why not do something with them? And they do sorta look like they would know stuff.
So. I’ve known Ester for SIXTEEN years. Sixteen years! Longer than I’ve known Jackson, the kid or most of you. I thought I knew her well. But it turns out she’s been keeping a dark secret from me.
Well, not necessarily a dark secret, but a secret nonetheless.
Ester owns a unicycle!
Can you believe it? And can you believe that she never, ever mentioned this in casual conversation? We have some odd conversations, y’all – you’d think it would have come up. For example, at lunch today we had a communal recital of the lyric poem “Copacabana” by B. Manilow. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary and no one batted an eyelash. You’d think that in this sort of environment there would have been a point in the last sixteen years that the phrase “I have a unicycle” would have been the perfect segue. But no. Not until now.
She’s letting me borrow it!
I told Jackson and Katie I was going to learn the unicycle. There reply, in unison, was “"NOOOOO!” Katie said “You’re so going to end up in the hospital, Rachel!” Jackson said he would be glad to take me to the emergency room because he wants to the see the look on the doctor’s face when I tell him that all my broken bones are due to “a unicycle accident”.
Unbelievers!
I looked it up on the internet – googled “how to ride a unicycle”. All the sites seem to encourage “recruiting a couple of friends” for help. I told Ester and Mindy they were elected. They have agreed, but say their involvement will be limited to dialing 9-1-1. They fully expect me to be unable to operate a cell phone following my first riding attempt.
Doubting Thomases!
Ester’s son brought the unicycle to work today. HE didn’t make any wise cracks. I’ve always liked that kid.
Rose and M2 just rolled their eyes and refused to have any part of the coming apocalypse.
The boss kept walking down the hallway and laughing uncontrollably whenever he passed the unicycle.
Bebo stopped by the office to see Mindy while I was in court. Rumor has it that he pointed at his mother and said “YOU are gonna get hurt,” then pointed at Ester “and YOU are gonna get hurt and SOMEONE is going to be mad!”
I have no idea what he’s talking about.
I’ve decided to that the office hallway is the best spot for my initial unicycling lesson - which will commence tomorrow at 5:00 p.m. (Mindy claims she’s bringing her camera.)
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.
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)
This photo is another that I took in Dallas. Thanks to Dijea to pointing this shot out to me. I love the colors. (Haven't tweaked 'em. This is straight out of the camera.)
I feel like writing, but the well is dry this evening. I came home from teaching a class of alcoholics about stress relief to find Jackson in the mood for CFFG. (Chick Flicks For Guys) I had to endure the last five minutes of 8 Seconds and the last 45 minutes of Radio.
(Have I mentioned that he also likes those gawd-awful country songs that are saccharinly weepy? Like "Butterfly Kisses" and that sort of ilk? There are some things that we are so not compatible about.)
Anyway, that sort of crap will suck all the good thoughts right out of your head.
Phoenix was a lot of fun. The temps were just thinking about becoming hellishly hot, and the weather was pretty darn perfect while we were there. And they have NO MOSQUITOES! Jackson wants to live there.
Of course, he wanted to live in Colorado the year we went there. And New Mexico every time we go there. And... However, he's actually been offered a job in Phoenix. That's always a plus. Unfortunately, although it pays well, it doesn't pay enough for me to quit working and become a faineant, feckless artist. Or even just a kept woman. So we shan't be moving anytime soon. (Probably not for ten years, eleven months, and eleventy-ish days.)
This was Katie's first trip on an airplane. She white-knuckled the arm rest a time or two, but over all she thought it was great. While we rode the shuttle between the airport and the rental car terminal in Phoenix, she was curious about the large, heavily padded golf bags standing up across the aisle from us. She asked what they were.
I told her they were cases for transporting dead bodies. That's how you get back home if you die somewhere else and they have to ship your mortal remains back to Hoboken or wherever. She was shocked, but seemed to believe me - for about thirty seconds. Then we turned a sharp corner and the bag in front teetered slightly, and fell over into the aisle.
Everyone at my house has been sick this weekend. A rather grouchy Jackson has frequently reminded me that I started it, and therefore it is all my fault. I'm a giver.
On Saturday afternoon I added a new location to my P.I.P. tour of Big Flat City. Not to be confused with a V.I.P. tour, the P.I.P. tour showcases Places I've Puked. There's a story behind that which I'll tell you another time.
This time I had to veer over into a mostly deserted parking lot half a block from a busy intersection and a Walgreen's store. I revisited the contents of my breakfast while Jackson hoofed it to the drug store in search of medicinal relief. Katie cowered in the backseat of the truck, no doubt with fingers stuck in her ears, trying not to join in on the festivities.
I must have looked rather pathetic, bent over, one hand clutching the bumper and the other holding my hair out of my face, all the while trying to aim away from my tennis shoes and bare legs. A nice lady in a silver Buick pulled into the parking lot to see if I needed any assistance.
I had trouble seeing her because I was still wearing my sunglasses and they were thoroughly bespattered with tears that sort of involuntarily spurt out of your eyes when you feel rotten enough to abandon your vehicle and toss your cookies alongside a public street.
Desperately gathering my shredded dignity, I thanked her for her offer, and told her help was forthcoming as soon as Jackson returned from the drug store. She looked like she didn't believe me - surely I didn't look THAT pathetic - but she finally nodded and slowly drove away.
Jackson brought me some good drugs and even gave me the shirt off his back to wear - as he would want me to note - and we went home. By nightfall, he had succumbed to the same bug and we spent a lovely Sunday grumbling and grousing as we moved back and forth between the bed and chair, trying to get comfortable. By eleven o'clock Sunday night, Katie had joined the ranks of the living dead.
This morning I felt better, but I stayed home with the kid, who'd had a pretty sleepless night.
After getting Katie set up with a blanket, some juice, a couple of crackers and full access to the Disney channel, I did the dishes and cleaned the kitchen. After a while, I sat down across from her to play on the computer. Then the evil kid then changed the channel so she could watch Full House reruns.
She does this mostly because she knows Full House is like Kryptonite for me and she enjoys watching me squirm. I hated that show the first time around and I cannot comprehend what she finds so appealing about it. After wailing and gnashing my teeth, I told her I would keep quiet, as long as she would at least pretend to take a nap. After working out the details of the nap pretense - eyes would be closed, but she could stay in the chair and not have to move to a fully prone position on the couch - she started her pretend nap and I continued to play on the computer.
Finally, when I thought she'd moved past the pretend stage and was fully engrossed in the nappage, I eased out of the chair and started to stand with the intent of wresting the remote control from her fevered grasp. Just as I moved, her eyes shot open and she said:
"You're just like Barbie."
Not. bloody. likely.
Suffice it to say that I did not invest a lot of time in my appearance this morning. I managed to brush my teeth a put on clean clothes, but that was pretty much the extent of my morning ablutions.
I was wearing a pair of pyjama pants decorated with retro spark plugs and a raggedy old red t-shirt. My feet were cold so I'd been padding around the house in a pair of granny-lookin' house shoes which, although red in color and therefor coordinated somewhat with my red t-shirt, that accident of fashion did nothing to improve my overall appearance. I hate to admit I even own house shoes, much less find them sometimes cozily useful.
I hadn't done anything with my frizzy bed-head hair, other than twist it up in a clip on the back of my head. And of course, make-up would have been a laughable waste of animal by-products at this point. I hadn't even popped in my contacts and was still wearing my glasses.
And yet -
"You're just like Barbie."
Poor kid must be more ill than I thought. Had her fever made her delirious? Should I feel her forehead? Press a cool compress to her brow? Call the doctor? Or just move right on to boiling water and tearing sheets?
"How, pray tell, am I just like Barbie?" I queried, frozen halfway between sitting and standing.
"When you stand up your knees pop just like Barbie's do when you bend her legs."
If she's still sick tomorrow, her daddy's staying home with her!
I had this really great post that I was going to do tonight. (Well, not really great, but at least mildly entertaining.) However, I left the scrap of legal pad that it's written on in my office. I had a long wait in court this morning, which is the only place on the planet that I submit to the torture of waiting without a book, so I tend to fill the time with writing.
Unfortunately, when I don't bring the drabblous scribblings home with me, it does none of us any good.
So, speaking of waiting, I find myself becoming more and more intolerable of it. I can wait for days on end, as long as I have a book to read. If not, I ain't doin' it. No way. No how. I refuse to even pull into the parking lot of the doctor's office without a significantly weighty tome. (Nothing deep - just something lengthy.) I even read when I'm in line at the drive through at the bank. Although I've not stooped to my father's low of taking a book to the movies to read by what might as well be distant candlelight, that's only because I don't usually get there before the previews start. I've even taken a book to a funeral.
What is the weirdest place you read?
That being said - I've sadly neglected reading over the last year or so. I've done it in fits and starts in lines and at restaurants rather than sitting down at home and doing some serious page-turning. But I plan to change that. I'm halfway through the first Stephanie Plum novel by Janet Evanovich. Y'all were right - she's just too dang funny. Please feel free to send more suggestions my way.
I've been reading this evening because Jackson is watching TV. Now that Katie is in bed, he's indulging in his most gawd-awful, divorce-inducing, eye-gougingly irritating habit. He's watching 'rasslin'.
Is there a support group for people whose cohabitants indulge in watching wrestling on a weekly basis? I guess I shouldn't complain. He doesn't get drunk and mean. He doesn't beat the kid. He doesn't gamble uncontrollably or snort cocaine. As far as I know he's not cheating on me with some redneck floozy - although we might could work something out if she was willing to dust - and he's generally kind to animals.
But, damn.
And he doesn't watch it quietly. He has rasslin' deafness, which means he claims not to be able to hear it unless it is excruciatingly loud. Makes me want to ream out his ears with a Dremel tool. He just left to grab a coke. I turned it down to an almost normally level. He won't notice the difference when he returns but he'll turn it up a couple of notches anyway when he gets back. He knows I always turn it down when he's not looking.
God, I hate rasslin'.
I blame my father-in-law. He used to make his living as a professional wrestler on the local circuits. His career ended early due to an injury, but not before he thoroughly indoctrinated his kids. (His dad moved from rasslin' to a career as a fake heroine dealer. But that's a whole other story.) So every Monday night, this stuff pervades my abode, assaulting my senses and lowering our collective IQ.
And if the 'show' weren't bad enough, the commercials that accompany it are downright insulting.
So, before my brain totally liquefies and oozes out my ears, I will give you a bit of hard-learned advice: Don't change your ringtone to Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. Even thought it's a really good idea and it will make you grin like an idiot whenever your phone rings, don't do it. Because each and every time the phone rings, you will find yourself duty-bound by the irrevocable laws of the universe to answer the phone in your best Lurch voice.
Questions 1. Guess what you have not done yet? 2. Guess who took notice this morning? 3. Guess what was not in your truck?
Answers: 1. Expired inspection sticker 2. Our friendly local Fake Cow City Police Officers 3. A new/current insurance card
After dropping Katie off for school, a nice police officer pulled me over and pointed out to me that the inspection sticker on the 2001 Ford F-150 was expired and I was asked for my license and insurance verification. But a current insurance card was not located in said truck, only expired ones. So then the nice policeman lectures me for 5 minutes on the state law which requires a vehicle receive an annual inspection which must be kept current at all times and the law requiring that current proof of automobile insurance be made available at all times while operating a motor vehicle on a public highway or street in the State of Texas. I was then questioned as to why I was driving a vehicle registered to another person and when I informed the nice policeman that the registered owner of the said vehicle was my spouse, I then had to go into the explanation as to why the registered owner of said vehicle which I claimed to be my spouse had a different last name.
I do not know what gods were shining down upon me but they had to have been since I only received a warning and not a ticket. Long story short, you need to get the said vehicle (2001 Ford F-150) inspected and the registration expires at the end of this month.
Grocery Store Flunky (We had four aisles and a meat market!) Secretary/Office Jester Probation Officer Superhero-In-Residence
Four Films I Could Watch Over and Over:
Much Ado About Nothing THE Star Wars Trilogy (you know, the real ones, the ones that don’t suck.) Manhattan Murder Mystery (I really like most of Woody Allen’s movies, but I have to watch them a minimum of four times before I really, really get them.) The Blues Brothers
Four TV Shows I Watch:
The Shield (Jackson watches this religiously and I have sort of gotten hooked by osmosis.) Pretty much any/all mystery shows on BBC America The Simpsons Whatever’s showing on the Discovery/History/Learning channel. It’s much less effort than watching drama and I hate sitcoms and reality/game shows.
Four Places I’ve Lived:
Welch, TX Post, TX Roby, TX Whitehall, Montana (You could put the entire populations of all of these places together and still probably have less people than in this year’s graduating class at Fake Cow High School. Home of the Fake Fighting Canines.)
Four Favorite Foods:
Sincronizada (a hyped-up quesadilla from my favorite Mexican food place.) Jackson’s ribs (they’re like candy, I tell ya!) Chicken Milano from Johnny Carinos (because I just don’t get enough cholesterol in my daily diet) Tator Tots
Great Britain Transylvania (I keep trying to convince Jackson we should go there. I can’t tell you how unimpressed he is with that idea!) Camping Snuggled up in bed in an ice-cold room, under a ton of blankets, listening to the rain outside.
Four Names You Love, But Could/Would Not Use for Your Children: Lucifer Sarek (Aw, hell. That’s all I could come up with. I’ve been thinking about it for two days! I think I have some sort of mental block when it comes to considering having children, with or without names. So, I’m giving up and posting this as is.)
You might remember last week that I mentioned that Jackson and I were going camping for our child-free weekend?
You also might remember that I have remarked several times about the vastly unusual amounts of rain we have gotten so far this spring?
Putting two and two together yet?
Jackson really wanted to go fishing, so I agreed to go Redneck Camping. Redneck Camping is what happens at Buffalo Springs Lake, a former sewer subsidised by Big Flat City. (Ok, it wasn't really a sewer. Not officially.) We hadn't been there in several years. With good reason.
It isn't a state park, which means it is a for profit kind of place. It is also an urban playground, which means all the college kids from We Think We're So Much More Important Than We Really Are University come out there to get drunk and dunked. All the kids who had to work out there doing community service for juvenile probation come back to camp there as well, with all 900 of their closest family members. It. is. crowded. I really hate it. But there are actual fish in the lake, or so Jackson claims.
"Trust me! You'll love it!" he said in with his sleazy used car salesman smile.
This time was better, I must admit. They have done extensive work to the lake. (Did you know there is only one naturally occurring lake in this whole dang state? And we have to share that one with Louisiana.) They dug out tons of cattails and weeds. There are new bridges and a nine whole golf course (kind of) on the edge of the lake. There is a fancy shmancyamphitheatre and lots of improvements to the marina.
Jackson assembles his fishing paraphernalia.
The campsites are still way to damn close together and there are too damn many people there, but I was prepared to change my mind and have a good time. We set up the tent and Jackson got his fishing gear together. He wandered off to fish and I sat in the shade with my book and my camera. Just across the road, right next to the lake, what a mini-stage. The Big Flat Firefighters Association had booked it for the day. Bands played all afternoon while they cooked bbq, drank beer and admired each other's impossibly clean motorcycles. The bands were progressively better as the afternoon wore on and I was having a good time.
Then, of course, I had to answer the call of nature. No worries, there was a restroom within easy walking distance. I headed that way and went through to door to find NOTHING but a huge pile of sledge-hammered porcelain in the middle of the floor. I went back outside and checked the teeny tiny sign that said "Restrooms Closed for Remodeling". In June. How is that a good idea? Why couldn't they have done this in January? But nooooo. Instead, they have demolished the restrooms (probably with the help of some of those juvenile delinquents!) and put a row of port-a-pottys out front.
I have never used a port-a-potty in my. entire. life. I admit it - I am a restroom snob. There are just some things I will. not. do. I would totally rather go out behind a bush somewhere than in one of those plastic poo pods. In fact, I decide that the bush option would be much more preferable at that point in time, but given that the place is freakin' crawling with people, I couldn't do that either.
In the end, I drove to the Marina and made use of their not very much nicer restroom facilities. When I got back, I tramped over to Jackson's fishing spot and enlightened him as to the irony of the whole situation. I may have used phrases such as "kick your ass" and "never again". I don't remember for sure.
I went back to the shady spot and cracked my book and a new bottle of water. The new band that was playing for the drunken firefighters was really good, so I stopped seething.
He continued to fish. At less than 20 miles an hour.
After about an hour, the band stopped in mid-verse. They were playing "Last Dance With Mary Jane" which is one of my all time favorite Tom Petty songs. The lead singer made the following announcement: "Uh, y'all...they just told us there is a big ass storm headed right this way. There's lots of lighting and hail and 70 mile an hour winds. If you're camping out here, you better batten down the hatches. Can anybody come up here and help us pack up this sound equipment? Quick!?"
I looked towards the south and sure enough, heavy dark clouds were rolling in fast. Crap. I met up with Jackson and we proceeded to pack everything away inside the truck or the tent. All the while we debated whether or not to stick it out or go ahead and leave. The rain had started, so we decided it was too late to leave, and we huddled in the tent.
It would have been fun.
Except that no tent, unless maybe it's army surplus, is made to withstand 70 mile an hour winds. We ended up packing our crap in the fastest campsite tear-down on record, in the driving, pouring rain and getting the hell out. We were soaked. Through and through.
We stopped at the marina to check out the weather on their TV. Turns out the storm we were sitting through was headed east and there was an even worse storm about to whack Fake Cow County. We sat around for a while until our storm passed. Then we headed north, planning to stop at the Acuff Steak House for dinner. If you've never eaten there, you have missed out on another Real Life Redneck Experience. Suffice it to say we figured they would never bat an eyelash at us in our completely dishevelled state.
When we got there, they were closed. I forgot they rolled up the sidewalks at 6:30 p.m. there. Everyone else waits until at least 8:00. We headed on up Farm To Market Road 400 to Idalou. We thought we could probably get a meal at what used to be the "Crossroads Restaurant". This week is was Miguel's House of Something or Other. They do wait until 8:00 to roll up the sidewalks in Idalou, but evidently Miguel had big plans for the evening, 'cause his sidewalks were stowed by 7:30. In the end we grabbed a Country Basket at the Idalou Dairy Queen.
Small town Dairy Queens are always prime people watching territory. This one was no exception.
We finally made it home about 10:00 p.m. It rained on us, and all our gear, all the way back from Idalou. The storm we were trailing left water knee deep on both sides of the road. Our ditches were rolling with whitecaps.
You’ll be pleased to know that significant progress was made on the deck this weekend. I may indeed have facilities available to help ease my transition into Merry Widowhood in time for the post-funeral festivities.
How long do you think I should wait before sending love letters to Alan Rickman and that guy from Dirty Jobs? A month? Maybe two? I’d hate to appear crass.
I’ve told Jackson that next time I’m marrying for money. This love bit is ok, but I figure I need to try wanton fiduciary gain before I make any sort of judgment as to which is better - love or money. I’d hate to make an uninformed judgment without having fully experienced both sides of the issue.
Things worked out rather well this weekend – we hibernated around the house, something the three of us really needed. Then on Sunday, Jackson went to work in the back yard with copious amounts of power tools, chunks of trees and a bottle of spray paint. I lazed about in the house, making the occasional and rather ineffectual attempt at laundry. I think I also ran the dishwasher. I went outside once and offered him a coke, which made me feel very helpful.
Perhaps next weekend, he’ll be able to finish the regular deck and get started on the ramp. My mom will be happy once that’s finished. She hasn’t been able to get in my house since last summer!
Once he finishes the backyard construction, I’m going to have Jackson bbq a truck-load of ribs so I can eat ‘em after he’s checked out. I might share a few of them with you at the funeral after-party, but not likely, since my supply will be limited at that point. Instead, I will be serving Crunch-n-Munch and Doritos. Maybe a few Oreos, too. And I make a mean pitcher of sun-tea! (And did you know that Fritos mixed in Blue Bell Pecan Praline Ice Cream is ab-so-lute-ly sensational?)
Jackson and I were sitting in the living room one evening last week. He was working on his laptop and I was drawing and sort of halfway watching something on the travel channel. For some reason, something clicked in my head and right out of the blue I asked him:
“When is your five years up?”
There must have been some sort of telepathic wavelength that we were both tuned into because he said, without hesitation: “August.”
“Really? You only have three months left to live? That’s a bit of a shame. I certainly hope you finish building the backyard deck by then.”
He grunted something - something I found to be rather rude, actually - and turned his attention back to his online class or his online girlfriend. Whichever.
I think someone who only has three months to clean up their act before meeting their maker would want to be a little nicer than that. I’m just sayin’.
The End.
Well, ok, not really the end.
The reason Jackson only has three months to live is because he was diagnosed with colon cancer about five years ago. It was in one of those nasty later stages where it sort of explodes out of the confines of your lower gut and hooks up with a few friendly lymph nodes. The hippy-dippy surgeon took out a large chunk of his guts and told him to live fast cause he was sure as hell gonna die young.
Perhaps not in those exact words, but that’s what he meant.
They gave him five years. They also gave him radiation, chemotherapy and several other surgeries which eventually resulted in the removal of basically all of his guts. I like to refer to him on occasion as The Gutless Wonder. He is not nearly as appreciative of that as you’d think he might be.
Anyway, after realizing he only had three months left to live, I told him he ought to start planning his funeral now. I didn’t think he’d really want me doing that for him once he’s cashed in his chips and bought the farm. Sometimes we don't see eye to eye on those sorts of things. Although, I think most of us could agree that my dead party would be a lot livelier than anything he would plan.
His only plan is to be cremated so he can make sure can make for damn sure doesn't get stuck with this body again in the afterlife! He also has plans on what he wants done with the ashes, but I ain't tellin' ya that, because it's just gross. (Suffice it to say, don't eat the potato salad at the funeral meal.)
I hadn’t realized how much he’s changed in the past five years. I was going through some old photos, looking for more tombstone and I came across some snapshots of him that I’ve taken over the past five years. (I do occasionally take pictures of humans, and he’s used to me sticking a camera in his face.)
Here is what he looked like not long after we hooked up, which was two years before he became Cancer Boy:
This is him while he was on chemotherapy.
This is Jackson on steroids. Lots and lots of steroids. Not long after this, they finished ripping his guts out.
This is him a few weeks ago at a redneck wedding. (Don't ya love those kinds of weddings?)Notice the Crocodile Hunter hat. He is still in mourning for that guy.
So, you'll have to make plans to come for Jackson's funeral, sometime in August. And, provided he finishes that damn deck before he keels over, we might even have an after party in the backyard!
