A'camping We Did Go

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 shmancy amphitheatre 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.


I really hate that lake.

But this is what made it all worthwhile? This!?

In which the author comes clean about today's mode of transportation.

When I woke up this morning, my eyes were all crusty and red. My nose was all stuffy and my throat was scratchy. Even my hair was crusty. I got in the shower and thoroughly de-crustified.

When I emerged, rather drippily, a few minutes later, I felt better. However, my ocular orbs totally balked at the idea of wearing contacts today. (I wear hard contacts and sometimes there just ain't no way of getting your eyes to cooperate with that type of intrusion.) I put on some war paint and smacked some gel in my freshly decrustified hair.

Then I threw on some shorts and a t-shirt and had breakfast. I dutifully packed my little backpack full of semi-professional clothing (casual Friday, dontcha know) and trudged out the front door.

That's when I was hit in the face with the wind. It is freakin' June and the wind was coming straight out of the north. It was only about 15 miles an hour - maybe 20 - but I was going to have to ride straight into it. And it was cold. Cold, I tell ya!

My steely resolve melted totally at that point and I turned on my miserable heel and went right back in the house. I changed into my semi-professional clothing and then drove Earl the Truck to work.

I've been sitting at my desk all morning, sneezing and wheezing. I tried whining to Mindy but she gave me some bullshit about suckin' it up and getting to work and how I would feel better and if not she'd just kick my butt or something. I told her to get the hell out of my office. She laughed, (laughed!) and said that is the speech I always give her when she shows up in a whiny mood.

I hate her.

But, I'm still here. My eyes are still crusty and my nose is all runny. I can't go home, 'cause this is a child free weekend and I really want to go out and play tonight. My mom always said if you're too sick to go to school, you're too sick to go out and play. Geeze. So now I have to stay here all damn day so I can go out and play tonight. (Jackson and I are going camping this weekend!!! Yay!)

Dammit!

And now for something completely different:



Here's a photo just for beth. Took this one the same day as the god-forsaken cow/windmill landscape. We do have a few pockets of beauty around here. ha ha!

Friday Cemetery Blogging

So far I have survived a week of bike riding to and from work. I did wimp out yesterday and call Jackson to come pick me up after work. I would've had to ride south into a 45 mile per hour sandstorm.

Today I road into the wind again, but it was only 10-20 miles per hour. It was fine until I crossed the railroad tracks about a mile and half from my house. The wind picked up and I didn't think I would make it. But I made it home, probably within minutes of stroking out on the side of the road.

I stopped at one of the larger intersections on my way home. I was in front, waiting at the stop sign. A car pulled up next to me on the left and we both waited patiently for an opening in the 5:11 to 5:13 p.m. rush hour traffic. All of a sudden, a dinky little car pulled up on my right.

It was a BMW Spider convertible, driven by one of our friendly neighborhood lawyers. He had the top down and was evidently not content to wait for me and the other car to get out of his way. Silly lawyer.

His car is so small, that sitting on my bike, I was looking down on the top of his head. I almost reached over and smacked him on the forehead. I gave him the evil eye, instead. He had the good grace to look a little embarrassed before squeezing through the 6 foot space between me and the curb and zipping on down the road. Silly lawyer.

I also saw little david on his way home. (He's just returned from Kenya.) Then I waved at the truck who I always cross paths with at the exact same spot on South Broadway every morning and every evening.

I've also made a new friend this week. I don't know his name, but he walks to work down Broadway street every morning. I usually pass him between the convenience store and the Baptist Church. Then when I get to work, I generally sit in the gazebo on the courthouse lawn for about 15 minutes and read a book so I can cool off before going into the building. He passes me then and always wonders at how I got that far that quickly. I always tell him it's because of my superfast bike. Every morning we've had this exact same conversation. Maybe next week we'll try throwing in some discussion of the weather.

But that's not what you were interested in, is it?

Last Sunday I took off and did a little cemetery exploring. Didn't find anything terribly exciting, but I did see some gorgeous landscape and had a really peaceful time. The picture I'm posting is not very good, technically speaking, but it was a neat experience.

Have you heard the legends of crows as death messengers? Sent to fortell death or to accompany a soul to the afterlife? Evidently this crow takes her work home with her and is living in the cemetery. She jumped up and flew at me - I guess I got too close to a nest or something. Or maybe I just scared her. Anyway, I managed to snap a photo before she was completely gone.

And this is another photo I took that day, just to show you that we do indeed have some real bovines here in Fake Cow County.

In which the author feels all self-righteous and thin.

Guess what!



I rode my bike to work today.



Do you know how cool that is? Well, it's way cool. That's how cool it is.



We have no public transportation here in Fake Cow County. Not really. There is a government subsidised van service that provides transportation mostly for MHMR clients and disabled vets back and forth to doctor's appointments and part-time jobs. It is technically open to the public, but I've never known of anyone else who's actually used it. Part of the problem is it doesn't have a set route. You have to call 24 hours in advance to schedule your "pick up". The Metro it ain't.



I've always been jealous of bloggers who talk about riding public transportation. It sounds so, well, interesting! Then my stinkin' brother bought a bike and has been riding back and forth to work. That wasn't any big deal because he lives only 4 blocks from his office. So, I wasn't impressed, but I was kind of jealous.



M2 is kicking my butt on the cholesterol contest, so I know I need more exercise. And I could stand to lose 10 or 90 pounds, too. It also cost me $65.00 last time I filled my truck with gas. I really, really wanted to ride a bike to work.



I have a 10 speed bike. You cannot imagine how much I hate it. I hate it a lot. Therefore, I never ride it. In fact, a few weeks ago, when I first thought about this, I checked it out and found the front wheel had been mangled up, evidently by Jackson or I crashing the riding lawnmower into it. I was not sad.



On Memorial Day I borrowed my sister-in-law's bike. She has the girl version of Jonboy's bike. I rode it from my house to my office. When I got back home, Katie said "You're already back? Wow."



Wow, indeed. I loved that bike. So I bought one just like it. It's simple. It has no brakes, really. And no stupid gears. And it's not pink. And you can actually sit mostly upright while riding.



And today I rode it to work and back.



Have I mentioned that I live four miles from my office?



Uphill, both ways.

Friday Cemetery Blogging

It rained again last night. This has been a really wet spring. I love nothing more than rain - the sound, the smell, the taste. Flashes of light and thunder at midnight. It's all good! As a result of all this rain my flower beds look wonderful and I've barely had to water my garden. The weeping willow tree hasn't yet gone into water shock and lost half its leaves, but the grass/weeds have to be mowed more often.

There is a national wildlife refuge not far from here, south of a town called Muleshoe. Jackson and I sometimes stop there in the dark of the night. There is a picnic area at the top of a hill on one side of the draw that runs through the reserve. We like to pull off the highway and park next to the picnic tables. There are no lights for miles. We sit in the back of the truck and listen to the howling coyotes. In the spring you can hear the cries of the baby coyotes. If you have never heard that, you've missed something incredible. You would swear it was a human child screaming somewhere out in the middle of the night. Coyotes are extremely cool.

One day we ended up at the reserve during the daylight. We decided to drive down the long dusty road that lead to the ranger station. I remember wondering what sort of federal sin a ranger had to commit to get banished to such a god-forsaken outpost. The wildlife they are reserving at this place? Rattlesnakes, lizards, jackrabbits, all manner of insidious bugs and the aforementioned coyotes. Nothing cute and fuzzy. Nothing large and impressive. Maybe a ratty old white-tailed deer on a good day.

Sure enough, the ranger turned out to be an old guy about two days out from retirement. He was pretty philosophical about it all and genuinely glad to see other human beings. He showed us around and then set up the interpretive slide show of the reserve for our viewing pleasure.

We viewed it. With pleasure.

There were an awful lot of pictures of beautiful wildflowers in the photos. I've lived around this area all my life and I've never seen anything that looked as well populated, botanically, as these pictures. I mentioned this to the ranger. He just grinned.

He said the slide show had been produced about ten years ago after one of the wettest spring seasons in history. They had wildflowers everywhere, many of which sprouted from seed that had lain dormant for decades. It was the only time before or since that he'd seen anything like that either. The government sent a photographer out from back east to do a slide show for the reserve.

The ranger laughed about how tourists (tourists? here?) occasionally come through the area, see the presentation and then are horribly disappointed by reality. He'd had a group of people from Great Britain just the week before (really? here?) who had been rather shocked by the barren expanse they were expected to explore. (Not much exploring to it - just stand outside the front door and look around. You can see it all from there.)

And what does this all have to do with cemeteries?

Just this - I thought I would post pictures of one of the ugliest cemeteries ever. This place is somewhere between Fake Cow County and Muleshoe. Here is the cemetery sign:

Notice that they recycled a sign from a defunct church and spray painted the cemetery name on it. BULA CEMETERY. This is the lovely view from the gate:

And the only monument:

Evidently, something happened to all the individual stones - I have no idea what. This is the only monument in the vast expanse. It lists all the names of the previously deceased. But what I really wanted to show you was the vast and verdant landscape stretching out behind the monument. If you look closely, you will see, well... nothing.

Do we know how to do wide open spaces around here, or what?

Friday Cemetery Blogging

Ho hum.

I've been in a bit of a this week. Nothing major, I'm just bored, bored, bored. I really need to be able to take some time off to sit at my house, doing nothing, until I get so bored that I want to go back to work. Then all will be

Lula Belle Bliss. What a name!

Happy Birthday

Katie has a birthday this week. She'll be 11. Last year we tried to convince her that she was on a downhill slide because she had hit the double digits. She wasn't buying it.

This year, however, she's worried. Why?

Because she can no longer has enough fingers to count her age.

Swabbing the deck...

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?)

Now I just need to decide on the entertainment…

Friday Cemetery Blogging

My photo software and I are not seeing eye to eye today, so that's why you only get this picture of a really cool monument. I have a thing for the Gothic arch/window shape, which forms the main part of stone. Add in the symmetrical urns and the bored woman and you have an almost perfect tombstone.

I think maybe Mr. Manziel and I would have gotten along really well. If nothing else, we could have agreed on the decor.


P.S. I fixed this so you can leave comments now. Dunno why you couldn't before.

Cancer Boy's Last Days

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!

Friday Cemetery Blogging

"If I've swept this place once, I've swept it a thousand times! If those rotten zombies don't stop traipsing through here, leaving their slime everywhere, heads are gonna roll!"

Have y'all noticed how eternally bored the angels are in cemeteries? You never see a happy one. I guess that would be considered bad form.

They remind me of the poor highway patrolman who gets stuck working in the driver's license office for the entirety of his career. Some of 'em, both the angels and the driver testers, are downright surly.

Greetings, Earthlings!

I have more stories to tell you, and I really, really intended to do that this week, but I'm all blah about it. Do you ever get like that? The creative lightbulb above your head gets burned out? It happens - no big deal.

Maybe it's the rain. I find myself hanging my head out of doorways and car windows, just to taste and smell the stuff. I really, really, really like rain. And clouds. And drippy plants. Drippy cats - those I don't like so much.

So, the rain is supposed to end today and perhaps that will force me to actually think up something mildly entertaining to post.

Until then, here is a picture of Jackson and Katie for yer viewin' plehzure:

Friday Cemetery Blogging

"Y'all better keep quiet! Jesus left me in charge, and I'm taking names. When he comes back he's gonna be mad!"

Interview Meme

Go visit Mindy and ask her to send you five interview questions to answer on your blog. Its fun!

1. If you could only read one blog, which blog would it be? What a horrible choice! I guess, if I were limited to one, it might be WaiterRant. I adore his writing style - it is absolutely beautiful. His is one of those mondo-blogs that has gotten all wicked famous. I never leave a comment, and now I find myself missing a lot of his writing because my feed-reader doesn't pick up the site. But when I'm there, I am totally wowed.

What was the first blog you ever read? Mine was Real Live Preacher. I'd never even heard of blogs, but a friend told a friend who told me about him. I came, I read, I was hooked. Sort of a six-degrees of separation kind of a thing.

2. Sock sock, shoe shoe? or Sock shoe, sock shoe? It depends. Whatever the fancy strikes me. Sometimes its sock, sock, shoe, shoe. Sometimes its pant leg, sock, shoe, pant leg, sock, shoe. Sometimes its... I'm just wildly unpredictable that way. Living on the edge. Flirting with danger. Yessirreebob.

3. What has been the *photo that got away*? Wow. I originally thought this would be an easy question to answer, but now I'm drawing a blank. Two things I regret about my photographs in general: I never label them. One of these days I'm gonna be dead and gone and some poor soul, probably Katie, is going to be stuck with all these photos and no idea of what or where or when they are. I could kick myself for that. I've tried to rectify it. But nothing bores me more than trying to go back and label the durn things. The second one is not actually a regret, just something I want to do differently. I almost never take pictures of people. (I do photograph carnies, but that's a whole 'nuther story.) When I go on vacation there are tons of scenery shots, but no happy folks. I always feel a little bit embarrassed about photographing people, and I have no idea why. It feels sort of intrusive, I guess. I'm working to change that, because I really love portraits (especially candid ones) that tell a story. So, smile everybody!

4. If you could give me something nice (besides anti-paranoia meds) what would your gift to me be? Hmm... maybe a trip around the world. We'd go to all sorts of art museums and do our "15 Minutes of Culture" thing. Then we'd write a book, a la Sister Wendy, except our book would be horrifically misinformed yet terribly funny. Then we would parlay our rednecks-at-the-Louvre shtick into a long-running PBS series and we'd never make any money but we'd be nerdy icons, known the world over, and we'd make occasional appearances at County Fairs and Star Trek Conventions.

Which reminds me - the student art show at the Abraham Gallery only runs through the end of this week (I think). Which day are we gonna go? (We usually go during the lunch hour. Anyone else want to come and play?)

5. You are given the chance to earn $5,000,000.00 for one years work. The catch? You have to be a tour guide for the Precious Moments Museum and Factory and you have to be NICE and say NICE and POSITIVE things about Precious Moments for that entire year. You cannot utter not one bad or negative thing (or write it) Do you take the job or forfeit? Why or why not? You are such a bitch. I withdraw my offer of an around the world trip. You know I would totally take the job, certain that for that kind of moolah, I could keep my mouth shut. I would try really, really hard. I would keep telling myself that I could write all about it once I finished my year of purgatory. And then two days into it I would be caught drawing mustaches and leftist T-Shirt slogans on the murals with my happy Sharpie. By the third day, I would have hit someone. Then I would be unemployed and possibly incarcerated.

Thanks for ruining my life!

The Voice Mail Lady hates me.

I have a new phone at work.

I am not happy about this.

This phone is nice. It’s black and matches my décor much better than the old one. (To be honest, I don’t really have a “décor”. If I do, it would probably called Graveyard Eclectic. I should totally post some pictures of all the junk I have in here…) The phone blends well with the gargoyle pens. I am a total button geek and the new phone has many, many buttons for me to push, which is cool.

This phone is totally freaking me out, though. It has a huge display of the day and date. The number 7 is mysteriously blacked out anywhere it appears in the display. It’s odd. I reported it to the phone guy, but I’m sure he thought I was a total loony. I wasted a lot of time on Friday, the 27th, staring at the screen, waiting for the time to change to some sort of variant of seven, just to make sure I wasn’t nuts. I wasn’t, as I discovered at 7:35, 8:57 and 9:17.

The 7 thing is weird. Also weird is the fact that the computer-generated operator-voice is the same exact voice our old system had. Makes me think maybe there is some well modulated, out of work switchboard operator living in the storeroom next to my office.

But what really freaks me out is the fact that the phone displays my name. Not my full legal name, like in my signature, which would give it sort of a professional, impersonal feel. It simply says my name. My Name. It’s way too personal for a damn phone.

It’s sitting right in front of me, staring at me and making unauthorized use of my name. Every time it catches my eye, I can hear Anthony Hopkins’ voice.

“Clarice…”

Friday Cemetery Blogging

This stone gives me the creeps. Bizarre Freudian creeps.

It makes me think this poor woman had a pale, unemployed, unhappy son living in her basement.

The next one, however, makes me think this guy was a ton of fun. Don't you wish you'd known this poor nut who couldn't make up his mind which nickname to use?

He probably died with his boots on.

If you would like to make a call, please hang up.

The antediluvian town of Fugly McCreepyville, which is 30 miles to the north of here, got blown halfway away in a tornado Saturday night. The same storm smacked our office building with a huge electrical body slam.

A dozen valiant little surge protectors paid the ultimate price to keep our computers in mostly working order. Their charry remains sizzled and smoked a bit on Monday morning. The hotwater heater was a casualty, as were all the security cameras. The cameras were not much of a loss because all but one monitor had died of natural causes over the last couple of years. The one remaining monitor is somewhat off the beaten path, and therefore remains perennially unmonitored.

And then there was the good news: Our phone system was fried. Toasted. Cremated. Annihilated. It perished in the smite-yer-ass storm. Adios. Sayonara. Goodbye. Do not dial nine for an outside line.

And the really good news: Its going to be two weeks before we can get a new system installed!

In celebration of this most joyous occasion, I thought I would post a few pictures I took of my tulips a couple of weeks ago.

Random Thoughts For Monday

I bought two books on Saturday: Dragon Art: How to Draw Dragons and Other Fantasy Creatures and Drawing Cutting Edge Comics. They are so cool! Especially the dragon book. I spent Sunday night drawing a nifty little dragon while watching Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves.

Katie had never seen that movie, or any Robin Hood movie. And she’s never read the book. Poor kid. That’s like growing up without ever going to Sunday School. (You think I’m kidding – I’m not. If I had to choose between the normal Sunday School claptrap and a great hero myth on film, the kid is totally going to the movies every time.) So, that, coupled with the fact that she also had never seen Alan Rickman in anything besides Harry Potter movies and can’t comprehend why I find him so ab-so-lute-ly divine, meant we needed to watch this movie.

I can’t stand Kevin Costner. I really can’t. He makes me want to hit him with my car. He just grates on my nerves something fierce. Unfortunately, I really like a lot of his movies. The aforementioned Robin Hood, (although he was the most god-awful wimp of a forest-dwelling outlaw that has ever graced the screen), Silverado, Bull Durham, and Open Range to name a few.

Anyway, I hadn’t watched this particular movie in years. Since sometime before 1999. It took on a whole new feel and was actually very timely. About halfway through the film, Katie said, “Hey! He said Allah! He’s a Muslim!” She was horribly surprised that he was a Muslim AND a good guy. Verrryyyy timely.

I planted my garden yesterday. I still have to go get tomato and pepper plants. I planted seeds for peanuts, black-eyed peas, sugar snap peas and bits of Yukon gold potatoes. I’ve never planted any these, other than the blackeyed peas, before. I totally ignored the planting advice and sowed ‘em all together in a tiny space. And I think the potatoes had molded. It will be interesting to see if this works.

My back is killing me.

That’s partly because of the gardening. And partly not.

Yesterday I discovered that good nylon rope only lasts three years when tied to a tree in my backyard.

I’ve always wanted a hammock. I finally bought one four years ago. Since there is no way you’re going to find two hammock-suitable trees in any sort of close proximity out here, I sunk a random 4x4 post in the middle of my yard and twisted an eye-bolt into its side. I hooked one side of the hammock to that and the other to a really good bit of nylon rope, tied around a tree trunk. It was well with my soul.

Yesterday, I hopped on the hammock and the rope snapped. I crash-landed. It was ouchy. And now my back hurts.

Friday Cemetery Blogging

In honor of Presbyterian Gal's quest for the strange this week, I'm posting a strange stone for you. This is the side that faces the cemetery road:


At first glance, it appears to say "Young". But it really starts with a backwards J, followed by y, o, u, backwards n and g. The back side is equally enigmatic:



No names, just Father, Mother, and the date they died. In 1926. Any ideas?

I feel like a character in West Side Story

So, I decided I wanted to start carrying my briefcase again. There is a reason why, but it is so convoluted and ultimately insignificant that it's not even worth explaining. Suffice it to say, I have spent the last three days making half-hearted attempts at finding the damn thing. Last night I came home determined to tear the house apart if need be to find it. I knew it was there somewhere - I just couldn't find it.



Turns out, it was in the last place I looked!



(Ain't that always the case?) (heh, heh.)



So, I opened it, expecting it to be a yawning chasm of empty space, pleading for me to fill it with accumulated crud. It wasn't empty.

Do any of you who actually know me in surreal life recognize this knife? Seriously? I don't carry weapons, as a general rule. My theory is if you need a weapon, you're not talking fast enough. I don't remember this at all. Where did it come from? Why the hell is it in my briefcase?

Its old and the leather sheath is brittle and cracked. The knife is a little rusty but its still quite sharp. It has a comfortable heft and fits nicely in my hand. When I hold it, I have an almost overwhelming urge to stab things.

Jackson doesn't recognize it. No one I work with claims to know anything about it. In the most approved CSI fashion, I analyzed it carefully and determined that the rubber band is of a type found in my grandfather's rubber band stash. And the knife is impressively sharp like he would have kept it. However, the sheath and blade show evidence of having liquid spilled on them and he would never have let something like that happen. No sir!

So, my forensic investigation has gotten me no where.

I am clueless. This puzzle remains unsolved. Anyone else wanna take a stab at it?

Friday Cemetery Blogging

He's a really nice guy, even if he is a poo doctor.

I took Katie to the doctor on Monday. She was out of school anyway, so we scheduled her semi-yearly checkup with the pediatric gastroenterologist.

Say that three times fast.

It must take some special sort of weirdo to want to be a pediatric gastroenterologist. Maybe that’s why Katie’s doctor is the only one of his ilk this side of Dallas. Gastroenterologists are basically poo doctors. When we entered the doctor's waiting room we were immediately greeted with the stench of dirty diaper. Ugh. Not much in the world smells worse.

Then some poor woman hauled in an amazingly pale, 8 or 9 year old boy, wrapped in a blanket. The kid was obviously unwell. As they signed in, she asked “Can we have a trash can please? It’s been a really rough morning.”

I’ll take stinky felons over puking kids any day.

Katie gets really nervous about her doctor’s appointments – it’s somewhat embarrassing for her. So, one day I told her not to worry about it – bo-bos are his business. She found that hysterically funny and it’s become her new doctor visit mantra: Bo-bos are his business. (Can I just point out – I usually don’t use obnoxious kiddie-words for body parts, but somehow ‘asses are his assets’ didn’t work as well.)

I think I may be the one who’s a little nervous about her doctor’s appointment next time. You can’t believe all the stuff they expect you to know about the kid. You have to squirt out her date of birth without even thinking. I know the month and day, but hell, I hadn’t even met her father until a nearly three years after she was born. She was three when we got married, so it takes me a second to do the math and figure out the year.

By the time I got it figured out (with the help of Katie blurting out “1996!”) the nurse was quizzing me about her medications. I thought I was doing well to remember the names of them, but she wanted to know dosages as well. What’s up with that? It’s a green pill and a brown pill. That’s all I know. ‘Hell, y’all prescribed ‘em. Figure it out yerself,’ I thought. I tried to play it off with a ‘talk to the kid – she’s your patient, not me’ attitude. I don’t think she really bought that though, and I’m fairly sure there were some comments about incompetent adult supervision added to the file.

Witch.

Seriously – I am way behind the curve on this responsible adult business. The doctor told me her weight and height are on track. She’s starting to stretch out, he said. That I got. Then he went on with some schmaltz about her being in the 75th percentile. What is that about? Is she doing poorly on some sort of intestinal achievement test? Does she need glasses? Remedial reading? What?

I think I need a t-shirt that says something about “Not Officially a Parent”.

Somebody at church asked me a couple of weeks ago about when I was going to adopt her. Not if, when. If I’d known her better, I would’ve said “Well, hell! I never even thought about that!” Adopt her? Why? Is there something I don’t know?

I always sign her permission slips and medical forms and all sorts of other things that require a parent or guardian. No one ever questions it. And if they do, who cares? What are they gonna do, take away my PTA card? As if!

I like things the way they are. We’re on a first name basis – I call her Katie, she calls me Rachel. She sends mother’s day cards to her grandmothers. That’s cool with me.

She scares the crap out of me way too early in the morning by yelling “It’s EASTER!!” right into my sleeping face. And she gives me a bite of all her blizzards. I’m cool with that, too.

I’ve never wanted to be a mother and I’ve done my part by not contributing to global over-population. (My boss often leaves my office, shaking his head and telling anyone who will listen, “well, at least she never reproduced.” High praise, in my book.) I much prefer the role of bodyguard, chauffeur and official denier/granter of permission to do stupid stuff.

As we were leaving Big Flat City yesterday, we passed a few less-than-respectable joints. I asked her if she wanted to stop at one of them and get a tattoo. I told her I’d even pay for it.

She declined.



This time.

Friday Cemetery Blogging

Ok, I need milk, bread, and...

Then it played La Vie En Rose, which always makes me laugh...

I have switched from Yoga to riding the exercise bike at five-freakin'-twenty in the morning. Yoga was really good for the blood pressure, but not so much for the cholesterol. It's not that I'm all concerned about my health or anything, it's just the M2 and I both have high cholesterol and I don't want her to beat me at the numbers game.

We tend to be a bit competitive around here, heh, heh. We compete over who has the lowest delinquency rate (she always wins that one) or who can put the most members of a certain pathologically obnoxious family in jail for Christmas or who can collect the most urine or make the most people cry in one week, etc. etc. I'd be ticked if she got her cholesterol lower than mine.

I have a recumbent exercise bike that works out pretty good. You don't actually have to be awake to ride it. I just set the timer, and snooze while my feets do all the work.

The only problem is that I like to listen to the I-Fraud while riding. (Hat tip to Cheesehead and her T-Faux.) I've really got to do something about the music on that thing. When it plays the theme song from Speed Racer (Go Speedracer! Go Speedracer! Go Speedracer! Go! Go!) right before Barbra Streisand singing "Papa, Can You Hear Me?" it makes it tough to keep any sort of consistency going in the workout.

And it makes you weird.

Friday Cemetery Blogging

My muse had her tonsils removed a couple of weeks ago. She's milking it for all she's worth and refuses to come back to work yet. Oh well, her sick leave will run out soon.

Until then...

You wanna know what I love?

I love and adore the Geico commercial with the caveman in the airport. You know the one - he's on the moving sidewalk, listening to the muzak and he sees the billboard out of the corner of his eye.

I love that commercial so much, it's embarrassing.

And my favorite part? That damn tennis racket.

Cracks. me. up.

Friday Cemetery Blogging

You gotta go with what you got, I guess.

Have a great weekend!

I don't even like Steven Seagal.

Last night I wandered into the living room. Jackson was watching TV.

"Whatcha watchin'?"
"Rent and the Weather Channel."
"At the same time?! I'd really like to see Rent, but preferably in its entirity."
"Ok." He switched the channel to CSI-New York. "Let's watch this and you can live vicariously through them and pretend you're an FBI agent."
"Why the heck would I wanna do that?"
"Ok, fine. You can live vicariously through Steven Seagal, then."
"Steven Seagal?? What the hell!?"
"Well," he said, then switched into his best Hannibal Lector impersonation. "How about Clarisssse?"

At that point, I got up and left. He went back to watching whatever he wanted.

Which was probably exactly what he had in mind.

Just Another Manic Monday

...and I've nothing, really, to say.

But honestly, when has that ever stopped me?

I took some time off last week and recharged my batteries a bit. That was good. Once again I've been struck by the baseball bat of epiphany and remembered that my attitude is what shapes my reality. Therefore I went back at work with a bit of renewed attitude today.

They hired a new secretary last week while I was away. She hasn't started yet, but I'm excited about it. We never have any 'new blood' here. No one ever leaves. Occasionally they die, or retire or even get arrested, but no one never just quits to take another job elsewhere. Our rookie officer has been here for five years. This is really good, because it means we generally all get along. It can also be really stifling because we all know every tiny little detail of our co-workers lives and we act like a big disfunctional family at times. There is a lot of the 'boarding house reach' here and occasionally someone takes an elbow to the nose. So, it will be nice to have a new face and a new perspective.

Someday I'll tell you about who died and who got arrested. Those are good stories.

Jackson is convinced I have some form of raging tuberculosis. He's already planning how to spend the life insurance money. I am clinging to life just to spite him. And the cough is getting better.

Rose returned a couple of books today that I loaned her months ago. I had totally completely forgotten about them. Which is way weird, because I am a complete nazi about loaning books. Surely I'm not getting all mellow about this. Strange...

Its beginning to feel like spring here. The trees are budding. My damn daffodils have managed to survive long enough to have some decent blooms. (I really hate those flowers.) And the tulips have grown enough that they aren't of interest to the rabbits. I need to get out the seed catalogue tonight and place my order. Gonna try to grow some peanuts this year. Just for laughs.

That's what I know. What do you know?

Friday Cemetery Blogging

Harley Davidson meets Rolls Royce*

This is my all-time favorite cemetery angel, so far. My friend C.Wright found this in Palestine. Palestine, Texas. When I made a pilgrimage to her place last month, this was one of the cemeteries on my list that I was dying to visit.

I don't know who the sculptor is. His/her signature is engraved on the teal-colored base of the statue. I couldn't read it and wasn't able to get a good photo of it in the fading light. The statue doesn't mark any single grave and there is no plaque giving credit for its placement to the Order of the Eastern Star or The Ali-Babba Temple of the Shrine. It's just there.

At the edge of the cemetery, at the end of a star shaped sidewalk (don't ask - its hard to explain and even harder to photograph) which leads to the statue, there is this stone:

Art for art's sake. We could use more of that.

Thanks to Miss Kitty for the title this week. She captured the exact feel of this rusting chrome angel.

Grandmother's Send Off

We had my grandmother's funeral today. She was a cool grandmother who'd lived a long life. A couple of weeks ago she decided she was tired of being here.

So she died.

And that's ok.

My mother and uncle chose to have a graveside service. Early in the morning we gathered around the open grave, huddled together in the rain and mist, singing Amazing Grace a capella.

That's my idea of a good funeral. It was a scene to make Edward Gorey proud.

I learned a couple of things from this particular funeral experience. The first thing I've come to accept is that I have become a social hugger. I'm not proud of that fact, but that makes it no less true.

I am not a touchy-feely person. Its just not my thing.

But this is the the south, and I'm a woman and certain things are just expected. Over the years I've given up on trying to avoid the contact while avoiding hurting someone's feelings. Now I tend to initiate it to try and get it over with. Especially at funerals.

Sunday afternoon we had a big ol' hug-fest at the funeral home, while the family received visitors. I thought I was prepared. I had my fake huggy-smile all cued up and ready to go. While this was certainly a somber occasion, it was not unexpected and not at all angst-filled or wretched. Unfortunately, the first person to see me when I came in the door was Aunt Louise.

Now, y'all all have an Aunt Louise. I know you do. Aunt Louise has a penchant for TV preachers and Eva Gabor wigs. She's as tall as I am and pretty thin and spry. And she is a hugger deee-lux.

I saw her coming and was ready to go with a quick, mid-stride side hug. Its a good opening gambit and a way to breeze through the feely formalities while not lingering with someone who tends to count the hooks in your bra.

I seriously underestimated Aunt Louise. She was in full tragedy mode.

She snuck in under my outstretched arm and grabbed me by the armpits, throwing me into her chest. I had to break stride to keep from falling on top of her. She bear hugged me so hard I gasped out loud and the reflexive inhale caused me to choke on my cough drop. She interpreted my subdued gagging as proof of my emotional upheaval and she hung on for dear life.

I managed to catch my breath and gave her a friendly end-of-hug pat on the back. Then I stepped back.

She stepped with me as if we'd been doing the tango together for years. She was saying something about how tragic all of this was and how she knew I'd miss my grandmother and whatever would we do without her beatific presence in our sordid lives.

I knew it wasn't worth it to explain that although I will certainly miss the person my grandmother was, she was ready to go and the greater tragedy by far would have been for her to have been confined to a bed in a nursing home for any length of time. I just smiled and nodded.

Of course she couldn't see me smile because her chin was still digging into my shoulder and her wig was getting in my teeth.

She finally released the bear hug, but clung to my arm and directed me around the room to the rest of the mourners. Thankfully, most of them were satisfied with a handshake.

I may have to rethink my social hugger strategy. Maybe it would be easier if I contracted leprosy.

Now, that is not really the story I intended to tell you.

I really wanted to tell you about English Pea Salad.

My family and I have always been connoisseurs of funeral food. In small towns out here, the preacher is always expected to eat with the family when there is a funeral meal. And there is always a funeral meal. In the small towns I grew up in, the population was aging rapidly and it was not at all uncommon for us to have two and three funerals a week. The only way my brother and I got lunch was by partaking with the mourners, too.

There are some certainties to southern funeral food. There are only three dignified meat choices: Fried Chicken, Ham and Roast. BBQ is fine for a wedding or a revival meeting or at a booster club fundraiser before the football game, but its generally considered bad form at a funeral meal. All funerals have at least two of those meat choices and any really good send-off will have all three.

There is always one lady in the church who is unofficially designated to bring deviled eggs. She is generally the one who received one of those deviled egg platters as a wedding gift back in '52.

There will be a prodigious amount of mashed potatoes, yet this will always be the first dish to run out.

Hot rolls reign supreme. Some of the more hoity-toity churches have women who will make them from scratch. The down-home congregations use brown-n-serve.

Then there are the side dishes. There are two side dishes that are present at each and every memorial meal. English Pea Salad and Carrot and Raisin Salad. Evidently, no one but a godless communist would consent to be buried without their family partaking of these death salads. They are an ever-present harbinger of loss, feeder of grief, and satiate to those who remain.

I've been espousing the merits and short-comings of funeral food for years. My friends have smiling put up with my exhaustive diatribes on the subject. I even like to go through the line at Furr's cafeteria and tell the server I want some 'funeral salad' to see which one they pick.

At Grandmother's funeral, I was reminded that I have some really good friends. C. Wright lives way out on the other side of the state. When she heard that my grandmother died, she immediately contacted DW, another good friend who put up with me as her office jester for the four years while I was in college.

I didn't see DW until we were about to eat. She snuck up beside me with a big grin on her face.

"C.Wright told me your grandmother died. We got together and made sure you had enough salads."

Sure enough, when it was my turn to wind my way down the pot-luck table, I saw their two dishes sitting side by side - Carrot and Raisin Salad and English Pea Salad.

We got our burying done right.

Friday Cemetery Blogging

Ok, so its only Thursday. But I couldn't wait.

Be sure to turn the music on when the titles start.