The Catholics Never Let Me Try the Port

Once upon a time I was a Mystery Worshiper. 

Did you ever run across one of those?  I auditioned and got approved for the gig through the Ship of Fools website.  It was a lot of fun, but I quit because I was just using it as an excuse for snarking.  I'm not saying snarking is bad.  After all, sarcasm is my spiritual gift.  But when that's all you're doing, you're not really being fair.

God knows I don't need that kind of karma.  So, I quit.

Today I was sort of back at it again, just for grins.  There was no mystery to it this time, but I attended another church in another town and it made a great excuse to have lunch with the kid. 

For those of you keeping score at home, the kid is doing well in nursing school, working at a hospital part-time and making a mint teaching pitching lessons and clinics on the side.  She is so busy, just listening to her makes me tired.  Things are not perfect, but she's tapped into an extraordinary level of self-sufficiency which leaves me a bit breathless.  And proud.  Mostly proud.

Before all that though, there was church.  It was enjoyable to see a different group doing the same things differently.  This was only the forth Episcopal church I've ever visited.  (When I was Mystery Worshiping, I confined my choices to places I knew I'd hate.  Didn't ever go to an Episcopal service.)

Y'all know about my addiction to Gothic arches and such.  Unfortunately, this building was more New Mexico than New England, but it had it's charms.  The audio speakers attached to the ceiling reminded me of every West Texas Baptist church I've ever been in.  There readings were faintly dramatic and there was that one completely unexpected soprano in the choir. 

Lord, they had a lot of people in white robes.  Wonder if they get a discount for buying in bulk?

There were lots of robe-wearers to help serve communion.  One of my oddly favorite things about the Episcopal Eucharist has been the communion wafer.  It's weird, I know, but I find them cool. This church used bread instead of wafers. 

Damn, it was good bread.  Brown and sweet and super moist.

The progressive Baptist churches I've attended in the past have used similar bread, probably as a reaction to the Jeezus Chiclets we grew up on.  You know what I mean - those tiny, half-inch squares of crunchy dough that you get along with the thimble of Welch's Grape Juice.  It was like we believed that there was only so much Jesus to go around, and you only got a tiny piece of him so we wouldn't run out.  Because we knew that story about the loaves and the fishes and the five thousand but none of us really believed it.  We believed the basic story, but not that part about how no one went away hungry.  Everyone got a little bit, sure, but a little bit would have to do ya.  Right?

Anyway, the bread was good, but I like the wafers best.  Besides, we've already discussed (Haven't we?  Maybe we haven't.) that I am a huge fan of port and I'd really like to be last in line to finish that stuff off, or at least go back around and go through the line a second time.  With bread that good, it would be that much more of a temptation.

Gimme wafers. 

And of course, you can't get through a service without Passing the Peace. 

Earlier in the week, Lois posted a link to an article about this and asked my opinion, as someone who has long lamented the practice.

My opinion?  I still don't like it.  I'm an introvert and anything touchy-feely makes me itch.  I'd just as soon not do it, thankyouverymuch.  However, I do admit that I like official peace-passing much better than the less structured meet-n-greet.  In the Episcopal church I only have to touch your hand and say one word.  I can do that.  I don't love it, but I can do it.

This church is larger than the tiny one I attend.  All that peace passing takes a while, even when everyone is only saying one word, three at most.  I did my bit with the folks around me then just sort of stood back and watched the people travel back and forth through the aisle, greeting their fellows.

The priest made her way through the crowd pretty quickly, offering peace to each person in turn.  I'd said my one word to all but the nice woman sitting next to me.  She'd introduced herself and asked what I did for a living. 

I told her I was an adult probation officer, forgetting my pact with Mindy that this question is always best answered with "I'm a florist."  The woman seemed surprised and interested and was questioning me further about law enforcement when the priest reached her side.  The priest offered her one word of peace, then stepped towards me, grasping my hand warmly.  She leaned in just a bit and said,

"You left your pot in my car."

So What Do I Want to Do With the Rest of My Life?

Recently I have been thinking about the future, which is a depressingly conventional response to my slightly unconventional circumstances.  I'm eligible for retirement in three years.  There is a run-off election being held next month that will have a lot to do with whether or not I retire at my first eligibility.

If I did quit, what would I want to do?  Hell, I'll only be 48.  I could start a whole new career.  But honestly, I have no idea what I want to do.  And days like today make the decision even harder.  Because I have the best damn job.

I met with Jose this afternoon.  Jose is chronically depressed but not chronically sober.  For the moment he's stable.  He works graveyard shift at a convenience store and is attending Junior College.  He wanted to go into nursing, but his felony conviction makes that pretty much impossible, so he's decided to study psychology.

Jose is fairly typical of my caseload.  He's a young(ish), poor, Hispanic male who lives with his long-term girlfriend.  He became a father at a young age.  He's under-employed and works for minimum wage.  And he's in trouble for drinking.  I'd drink if I was him.

Jose's drinking led to someone losing their life.  Now he doesn't drink.  (Crossing my fingers that this holds true.)

Unlike most of the people I deal with, Jose has a high school diploma and has decided he needs to further his education.  For the last year he's been taking classes and we've talked about the benefits of this choice as well as how this may effect his already tenuous family relationships.  It's tough to keep a marriage together when one of you arbitrarily adds full-time student status to an already stressful situation. That's certainly proving true in Jose's case.  In the midst of all this tension, they had another baby.

[Condoms, people!  C'mon, it is not that hard!  (heh.)  Condoms, every stinkin' time, dammit.  Why, why, why must you procreate?!  Never, never, never fail to use birth control!]

All of which brings me to Winston Churchill.

Jose is reading a book on the British Prime Minister for a history class.  He's actually reading it - the whole thing.  And liking it. It's taken him two months to get it done, but he has become a fan of Churchill and seems to be thrilled with his ability to read, comprehend and enjoy an actual book.

Although I've not read the book, I at least know enough minutia about the man to carry on a decent conversation.  It did occur to me that perhaps the hard drinking Churchill was not the best role model for Jose, but he beats the shit out of Hulk Hogan or Donald Trump.  We spent most of our meeting discussing the book and what Jose has learned from it.  Jose agreed with me that Churchill must have been an absolute bear to live with.  His drinking habits and irascibility would have been a potent combination.

As our discussion wound down and Jose started to leave, I mentioned the famous Churchill anecdote about the stuffy society maven who berated Churchill for being drunk at her dinner party.  Jose had read the story and knew what I was referencing.  (Churchill told her he might indeed be drunk, but he'd be sober by morning and she'd still be ugly.)  We shared a polite laugh and Jose seemed to realize that he was engaging in actual college-student-type conversation. 

Admittedly I was somewhat dismayed over the fact that I'd remembered the drunk story rather than the "never give up" bit or something else which would have been much more appropriate for our situation.  Oh, well.

Jose left considerably less morose than he'd arrived and even appeared to be proud of himself.  And rightfully so.  I was proud of him, too.

After Jose, I had an appointment with Isabella.  She came rushing in, apologizing in her two-pack-a-day-phone-sex-voice for wearing shorts, but she'd been busy unloading a trailer full of bulls and she'd barely been able to make it to the appointment on time.

Isabella is a new case and so we started in on the state's newest prescribed bit of paperwork, a somewhat over-valued interview questionnaire.  We didn't even get through the first page.  The conversation took an unexpected turn when we discussed the motivation behind her methamphetamine use.

She's an introvert.

Isabella had never heard that term before.  All she knew was that her five seriously extroverted sisters and parents have always told her there was something really wrong with her.  One way she tried to fix herself was getting amped up on meth.

I explained the terms - the difference between extroverts and introverts.  We discussed how the extrovert draws energy from those around them, and the introvert replenishes energy by spending time alone.

She likes to read.  Check.
She likes living in the country all by herself.  Check.
She talks to the bulls when she needs to talk to someone.  Check.
She doesn't like having kids around.  Check.
She'd rather do the work herself, rather than having to supervise someone else.  Check.
She enjoys her family, but dreads the thought of all of them being in her house at once.  Check.
She's recently divorced.  Her husband left unexpectedly, when she didn't even realize there was anything wrong with the marriage.  Check.

Do you ever just sit in amazement contemplating how the universe throws the exact right person at you, who, at the exact right time, would benefit from your own exact experience?

I don't normally talk about myself with my people.  Not about my personal life or living arrangements.  It's not that it's a secret, it's just a professional choice.  We all live in the same small town.  They all know where I live, what I drive and what I like on my breakfast burritos.  They see me at ball games and in the convenience store.  But I try not to give them information about myself during our conversations.

Today was a little different.  I had the best time extolling the virtues of introversion for Isabella  Using my own experiences, I went through a laundry list of things she probably likes and dislikes, guessing correctly most of the time.  I told her how to enjoy dining out alone.  I talked about my awareness that as much as I love being alone, I need to make an effort at more human interaction and ways I am working on that.  Most of all, I told her she's not broken.  She's just different.

She ate it up.  And then volunteered to come to the drug/alcohol group therapy meeting.  That's like volunteering for foreign missions at the end of the revival service.  Which makes me the traveling evangelist.  Only without the traveling.  Or evangelicalism.  (Or the friggin' love offering!)

It made for a great afternoon and I'm really glad I've got at least three years before I have to decide what I should do with the rest of my life.  I want to leave while I still love this work.  I want to go somewhere else and be something else before I burn out, or age out, or get too complacent.  But this is the best damn job and I can't imagine what else could even come close.  

The Fourth Part - 100 THINGS DIVORCE HAS TAUGHT ME

31.  He had a messiah complex.  I never needed a savior. 

Network Path Invalid

I hate and despise the fact that I hate and despise the new copy machine.  I never wanted to become THAT person who can't embrace the new technology for love of the old.  But, damn.  I miss that old machine and its limited capacity for both performance and screw up. 

Just now I tried to scan a document.  I have to scan to a flash drive because the almost brand new copier doesn't 'network' with Windows 10 and has decided my computer doesn't actually exist. 

No matter what I did, it would not scan.  It just sat there, all smug and shit.  I ranted.  I raved.  There might have even been a trash can that got kicked. 

Words were said, many of them comprised of four letters.  Some were longer and more descriptive of both the machine and its dubious parentage. 

Finally, before reaching the Thing Throwing Stage, I gripped the edges of the adjustable touch screen display and tilted it so that the overhead light wasn't glaring on it.  My eyes are evidently aging and I need a little extra help to see stuff sometimes.  I flipped through the various menus looking for something - anything - that might explain why the scanner simply would. not. scan. 

I set and reset the settings.  I jammed and unjamed the pages into the document feeder.  Buttons were punched with grim determination and perhaps slightly more than the necessary force. 

And then I saw the small print.  At the very, very bottom of the display screen.

"Please insert USB device."

And I looked down at my clenched fist. 

And registered the small red flash drive that I still held in my hand. 

And sighed.

I hate that smart-ass machine.  

100 Things Divorce Taught Me: Part The Third

21.  I didn't necessarily learn this from divorce, it's just a recent epiphany that was probably hugely obvious to everyone but me.  Turns out, I really like damaged people - damaged people whose circumstances, combined with their inner strength, have shaped them into something amazing.
22.  We're all damaged.
23.  Damaged or not, I'm pretty sure me on my own is a better person than me attached to someone else.  At least for this point in my life, that's proving to be true in lots of ways, big and small.
24.  Adaptability is one of my strengths.  But maybe, juuuuust maybe, I adapt a little too easily.  Maybe not.  Jury's still out on that one.
25.  One thing I've not adapted to is hugging.  Still don't like it.  I'm still only a social hugger.  But the other day someone grabbed me in an unexpected bear hug and said "I'm so glad you're here and that you're weird!  I've been waiting for someone weird for a long time!"  That was not a bad hug.
26. A few days ago, for no real reason, I looked around and thought 'Hey!  I'm really pretty damn happy!'  Just that simple realization increased my contentment level exponentially. 
27.  Evidently divorced me is more attractive than single me.  Unfortunately I would never actually date any of these people who seem to have noticed. The idea of dating anyone is an anathema at this  point.  Maybe that will change.  Maybe it won't. If  you wish to introduce me to some highly intelligent, hugely wealthy, incredibly gorgeous man who feels the need to throw himself at my feet, feel free.  Just don't expect me to answer his phone calls.
28.  I am losing weight and I'm a little pissed off about it.  Pissed off because several well-meaning individuals have assumed it's because I'm looking for a man.  Or maybe a woman.  Or that I'm depressed.  They're wrong.  I'm just bored.  A friend invited me to a work out group and I liked how strong it made me feel (once I overcame the soul-crippling agony of the initial experience).  So I keep going back.  Plus, I don't like my own cooking.  
29.  I eat a lot of Grapenuts.
30.  I just told someone "my time is my own".  And it's true.  Life isn't perfect, but I have the personal and professional freedom to pretty much come and go as I please.  That's awesome. 

Probably Should've Googled That Name at the Library

It was all Violet's fault.

Violet Bradshaw was the postmaster in Podunk, the little Texas town where I spent a big chunk of my teenage years.  Big, blonde, and brassy; Violet was a formidable personality.  She knew everyone and everything in that tiny town.  There was no secret-keeping around her when she wanted to know something.

Knowledge can be a powerful weapon.  Violet was a warrior with hers.  She liked me well enough, but she still scared me.  Violet liked to find your weakness and exploit it just enough to make you squirm.

The weakness Kincaid and I had was weirdness.  It was only a weakness because we hadn't fully come into our own and recognized it for the fabulous super-power that it is.

I was a year or so older than Kincaid, so I left for college first.  This was before email and snap chat, so we kept up a vigorous exchange of correspondence.  I miss that tremendously.  To this day there remain few pleasures in life more exquisite than a letter - a real letter - from a friend.

The two of us, convinced of our own hilarity, assumed that the rest of the world was as interested in the minutia of our daily life as we were.  And of course we suspected Violet Bradshaw of perusing our post for delectable tidbits of information.

Neither of us was up to anything particularly delectable nor tidbit worthy, but still...

We started writing on the outside of the envelopes.  Or sending post-cards.  Anything to put the story out there for Violet to see.  It became a habit.

And, as is my habit, my messages evolved into the occasional cartoon.

After a year or so of this, Christmas card season rolled around.  Sending cards - finding the perfect statement for a person or situation - is one of my favorite things.  (I'm still mourning the closure of my all-time favorite card shop.  Haven't found a replacement yet.)  This was a few years before I started the Gravestone Christmas Card tradition.  I'd been to the stationery store and carefully chosen individual bits of holiday hilarity for several friends.

Kincaid's card, of course, had room enough for my chatty scribbles, as well as the requisite Xmas greeting for Violet.  Xmas because Violet did not like things that smacked of ungodliness; important things such as persecution by a holiday abbreviation and the like.

I sent other cards at that same time.  Cards that would be routed through Dallas on their way to their final destination.

My timing was spectacularly bad. As was that one cartoon...


********************************************************************************


If you are a regular reader, you know that I've used a pen name for many years now.  It's a practice that started years and years ago, before junior high.  I don't really remember why I started but now I use the name to help preserve a thin layer of anonymity between my creative work and my professional "acquaintances".

More than once I have developed long-term, deeply personal relationships with people who have never known my last name.  It's not a secret, it just never comes up in conversation.

The pseudonym wasn't always spookyrach.  The original one was somewhat less original, but no less long-lived. I used it for all sorts of things, things such as the return address on cards and letters.

Those cards I sent, including the ones going through Dallas?  They were all from The Lone Avenger.

You think this is going to end badly, don't you?

It did.

Trench-coated characters in fedoras were one of my favorite cartoon subjects.  I'm still drawing those same spies and private eyes today.  (And occasionally a similarly garbed bishop.  Here's looking at you, Amy H.)  So it was only natural that I would choose to decorate one of those cards with a spiffy little spy dressed like Humphrey Bogart.

It should've been okay.  It would've been okay.  Except for one small addition.

On one of those cards bound for the big city, below the Lone Avenger's return address and next to the comically sinister spy, I wrote:

LETTER BOMB ENCLOSED
PLEASE DO NOT X-RAY

I said please 'cause my momma raised me to be all polite and stuff.

It still would've been okay, except for the really bad timing thing.


********************************************************************************


One sunny December afternoon, sometime before the Xmas break, I'd been out running an errand for my employer.  I was a student worker in the Dean of Students' office.  The disciplinary office, among other things.

Oh, the irony.

When I returned to work, my boss, the Dean's secretary, met me with wide-eyed worry and said I was supposed to call someone at the postal inspector's office.  In Dallas.

As if!  You can't kid a kidder.  She owed me payback for some prank or other I had pulled recently and I knew this was just a set-up to get me back. She couldn't fool me!

But she was insistent, so eventually I dialed the number, ready for whatever silliness was on the other end of the line.

Only it wasn't silly.  Not much at all.

Perhaps you remember Ted Kaczynski?  The Unabomber?  (I feel a little disconcerted after having googled how to spell his name.)  Mr. Kaczynski had recently murdered a federal judge, among others.  That letter bomb had gone through the Dallas post office.

Which is why I can't really blame the postal workers who freaked right the hell out about my ridiculous little envelope.

They immediately put the Christmas card in an isolation room and contacted the authorities.  Authorities with a  capital A. 

Said same Authorities tracked The Lone Avenger back to her villianly lair.  Not difficult since I'd used my correct address on the envelope.

By the time the postal inspectors were finished with me, large chunks were missing from my posterior.  And back then I didn't have a lot to spare.

The recipient of the card never did receive it, although they did finally agree to release it to her if she came down to their facility in person to pick it up.

She declined.

I leaned my lesson.  I quit sending postal products as The Lone Avenger.  If I send you a letter nowadays it is for sure going to say

                  from

                        spookyrach.

100 Things Divorce Taught Me: Part The Second

12.  I haven't taken a decent picture since the split.  Not one.  I've barely even had my camera in my hand.  I guess that's one of those bits of creativity I'm going to have to practice.  And practice I will because I absolutely, completely and adamantly refuse to give that up. Not for anyone.
13.  I am appalled by how happy I am about going back to church, which sort of pisses me off.  I have a bit of a fear that I'm merely returning to my roots - that this is how I was raised and so I've reverted to what is comfortable for me.  I do not want it to be about that.  Not by a long shot.
14,  I've been vaguely thinking about retirement for the past several years.  No real plans, because I am not a planner.  Now my thinking has shifted from 'where will we live' to 'what will I do'?  I still hope to move somewhere else, somewhere more urban probably, but what do I want to do?  Before I was going to get some sort of fluff job and let Mr. PhD support me.  Now, not s'much.
15. There is an empty pizza box in my refrigerator.  It's been there for two weeks.  Partly because it helps the fridge look less empty and mostly because if I throw it away, I'm going to have to take out the trash.  I have learned I hate taking out the trash.

16.  I'm thankful for guy friends and for women who don't mind their husbands being my buddies. So far, I've only had one couple mark me as 'unclean' and remove me from contact with the male half of the double. If you asked he would tell you it's not me, it's him.  He would tell you he was removing himself from the appearance of evil.  He would tell you he's turning away from temptation.  He would tell you that as a 'man of the cloth' he can't take chances with his reputation.  He would be lying.  Don't be that guy.   

17.  That being said, I'm not so thankful that it's evidently ok to be more touchy-feely with me now that I'm not wearing a wedding ring.  It's very subtle.  And I'm not even sure that it's a conscious thing.  But I get patted on the shoulder more.  Or elbowed in the ribs after the really stupid joke.  Or just leaned on.  Stop that.  Don't be that guy.  

18.  This one is just free advice.  I've always thought it was the height of insecurity to do things like having a joint Facebook account.  I still think that.  Don't be those people.  Trust each other.  If you can't trust, then get some help.  You need it. (And yes, this is relationship advice from a divorced person.  That doesn't make me any less right.)  ((See #20.))
19. That time I said I was working to sublimate my natural hermit tendencies and how it hadn't killed me?  I think I might have been premature with the not being killed part.
20.  Being divorced means I am always right.  I was always right before, but now I don't have to prove it to anyone.  It's my way or the doggy door these days.  So far, so good. 

100 Things Divorce Taught Me, Part The First

You know what I got for Christmas?  I got a divorce.  Got it on New Year's Eve to be perfectly accurate.  It's been a strange, strange ride.  Up until Labor Day weekend I thought I had a great marriage.  Who knew?  Not me.

In the past few months I've learned a few things.  I expect to learn a great deal more.  I'm keeping a list.  You have to read it.  And comment.  Because I said so.


1.  I need smoke detectors.  How did my house pass inspection without them?  My previous house had them wired into the electricity, so I didn't have to think about changing the batteries.  I've lived in my current abode for five years and not until I started doing my own cooking did I realize that I don't have any detectors. 

2.  Too few people in this town listen to gossip.  I keep running into people who have no idea we split up. I told a few choice people and fully expected then to pass the word. They must have utterly failed me. Next time I will swear them to secrecy...

3.  Don't buy the super large pack of toilet paper.  I bought a huge package of Charmin Basic right about the time he vacated the premises.  It's a fine butt wiper, but the rolls are too large to fit into my toilet paper holder.  And it's going to take me months to use all of them!
4.  I'm mourning the fact that I have absolutely no reason to go to Costco.  None.  Dammit.
5.  Why did I think doing taxes was a big deal?  I haven't done my own taxes for 16 years.  Took me only about an hour all told.  And I got money back.  Yay, me.
6.  My dogs love men.  Love them.  They can smell the testosterone and breathe a huge sigh of relief whenever someone is exuding it in their presence.  This sort of pisses me off.
7.  Divorce and menopause.  Two great tastes that taste great together.  Or maybe not.  I can't decide if this co-occurrence will be the best of all possible worlds are the most intense shit-storm ever.  So far, so good.  Relatively speaking.
8.  There are exactly zero absolutes in life.
9.  Being a single parent to five animals, three of which are pretty much self-sufficient, is a chore.  How do women parent actual children?  Seriously?  I see no way that is humanly possible.
10.  Early on I knew I needed to balance my natural hermit-like tendencies with positive human contact.  My current living and working situation sort of lends itself to isolation, so I've made a conscious effort to step outside my comfort zone a tiny bit.  Just a bit.  It hasn't quite killed me.  It has come close, but not quite.
11.  I need to practice creativity.  Practice, practice, practice.

To be continued...

Spooky's Super Short Movie Review

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies takes itself very seriously, which makes it pretty...delicious.

The Bishop's Bitch Slap

Last Sunday I was confirmed and I have been goofy happy about it all week.  Joining the Episcopal Church is the first religious decision I have made completely and entirely on my own, with no consideration for any one else. 

That may run counter to the principles of playing well with others, but seeing that the others have taken their football and left the playground, it seems legit.

Sunday morning I was awake by 4:00 a.m. - excited and a little anxious, I guess.  I tried all manner of things to go back to sleep, but gave up and decided to do something productive.  Like getting dressed.  On Saturday I attended confirmation class with a couple of college students who were going through the ceremony at another church.  Mother Jay, who I am pretty sure was even more excited and anxious than me, suggested that we wear "Sunday Clothes".

I took the hint and dressed up.  A bit.

Episcopalian Confirmation Services have joined funerals, football games, and a host of other events on the list of things I'm not willing to wear a dress for.  Or pantyhose, for that matter.  But I did wear something more appropriate than jeans and a t-shirt.  And I wore heels.

Her second request was that I arrive at the church early to meet with the Bishop.  She promised there wouldn't be a test, but that we'd do a walk-through of the service.

I can be early.  I was up at 4:00 a.m.  I can be damned early.

When I arrived I found about half the congregation already there.  The three of them were frantically searching for confirmation certificates, oil for the Bishop to consecrate, and the parish register so they could affix me to the 'permanent record'.

When Jay registered my presence, she smiled like I was the guest of honor - something she's good at - and stepped closer for a hug.

Then she hesitated, uncharacteristically, arms out-stretched.  It took half a moment for me to process.  She'd never seen me in heels before and the extra inches put her face right at boob height.  It was gonna be an awkward hug.

I bent down so she could reach.




The paperwork procured, I was given the task of completing my own certificate, having been declared to have the best handwriting.  Things were coming along rather nicely and when finished I stood in the hallway outside the church office, talking to a friend.  Jay joined us.

"I think we've got everything ready."  She relaxed a bit and we chatted for a few minutes before she turned to go into the sanctuary.  She threw this comment back over her shoulder,  "I suppose I should warn you.  Sometimes bishops slap the candidates on the face during the service."

"Wait -- WHAT?!"

Jay turned and walked back, grinning like a cat full of canary.  "I've seen it done.  The Bishop gives the candidate a little slap on the face."  She reached up to demonstrate and I flinched. "But don't worry.  I've never seen our Bishop do it."  And with that she walked away.

"Oh...Oh yeah?!" I stammered towards her retreating back. "Well--thanks for the warning!"

(I told this story to my friend Cyn in a San Antonio Starbucks while waiting for a flight back home.  At this point she exclaimed, "Thank God she warned you!  If not I know what your exact reaction would have been during the service!"

I nodded and in unison we shouted, "WHAT THE HELL, DUDE?!")  

The bishop arrived and true to Jay's word he was an complaisant man with a talent for putting everyone at ease - making the way smooth.

He asked if I wanted to stand or kneel for my part.  Being born a Baptist who inherited a pair of gimpy knees, I opted for standing.  All was well until he realized that even when standing on the altar, his recent shoulder surgery prevented him from laying hands on the top of my head.

I bent down so he could reach.




He didn't slap me.

My parents were there for the service.   It was nice to have someone standing in my corner, or my pew, as it were.  Also they raised the weekly attendance by 22%.  (Yeah.  I did the math.)  Everyone was very welcoming and especially accommodating of my mother, whose cerebral palsy has confined her to a wheelchair for the past decade.  When the service was over, I gave her a hug.

I bent down so I could reach.




There's probably a lesson in all of that.  I'm leaving you to work it out for yourself.  But, since I've sat through a lifetime of evangelical sermons, I just can't leave the Three Points without a Poem.  And in honor of that same conversation with Cyn, in which we discussed many important and useless things I have managed to find a snippet of Helen Steiner Rice that has no doubt graced some complicated frippery of drug store stationery in years past:  

God has a much bigger vision
and He tells us it’s only a bend
For the road goes on and is smoother
and the pause in the song is a rest
And the part that’s unsung and unfinished
is the sweetest and richest and best.

 HSR is probably full of crap about the road being smoother, but I know that you do have to be willing to bend. 

I'd Settle for Seattle. Or Even Galveston.

Have I mentioned I'm getting confirmed?  Sunday?  With a real-live bishop and everything?

I am.

I'm not going to wear my big bishop-esque vampire-repelling cross.  And I'm not going to dress like Anton LaVey.  Still not going to wear a dress, though.  Check off another box on the List of Things I'm Not Willing to Wear Panty-Hose For.  Anything else I should do or not do?

Oh, and I gotta remember to go to confirmation class on Saturday.  That's really why I am writing this.  It's a big ol' sticky note in the blogosphere to help me not to wander off on Saturday morning and forget all about my immortal soul and such.

This past Sunday, the Priest told me, all casual and off-hand, that she'd done some research and someone my age doesn't have to have a godmother for confirmation.  She would just act as my sponsor.  I smiled and nodded, but in reality I was all "waaaaaiiiiiit!  Fairy Godmother?! I might want one of those! Do they come with their own wand?  Do I get three wishes?  Should I bring a bottle?  An apple?  Some cooperative house mice?!"

So many questions.  But I don't know them well enough at this point, so I just kept my mouth shut.  And that right there was a miracle. Kept my mouth shut.  Y'all remember this and eventually, when I'm up for canonization, this bit of thaumaturgy will help get me my own feast day.

Does Transylvania already have a patron saint?  What are my chances?  I don't wanna get stuck being the Benefactor of Akron, or something lame like that. 

Spooky's Super Short Movie Review: The Hateful Eight

Agatha Christie on LSD develops a raging social conscience. 

And They Said the Priest Is Gregarious

I should be an Episcopalian.  I've known that for years and just haven't done anything about it.  It's not especially easy to be one of those in this part of the world.  Not especially hard, either, but not easy.  My world has shifted pretty dramatically in the last seven days and it seemed like now would be the perfect opportunity to correct this oversight and join up with the smells and bells crowd.

The closest Episcopal church is 20 miles away in Fake Cow City.  I checked the website and found the service starts at 10:00 a.m. on Sunday.  Perfect time.  I'd been sloughing off of services at the Catholic Church I'd been nominally attending partly because it started at 9:00 and I had to be to intentional about getting out of bed to get there on time.  Truthfully, that isn't the only reason I was seldom attending church, but it's as valid as any of the others.

Sunday morning I got dressed, hopped on my motorcycle and rode west.  When I got to the church I was surprised to find that no one was there.  I must have had the time wrong, but no.  I checked the sign out front and it said 10:00 a.m. in big bold letters.  Checked my phone - 9:48 a.m.

I circled the block and saw two cars parked on the side, towards the back.  I groaned.  Great, just great.  I rode around the block.  I needed a crowd, somewhere I could be inconspicuous and just go along with the flow, not standing out.

After circling the block again and seriously considering going back home, I came up on the two cars again and pulled off into the parking lot.  A moment's thought and I decided take the plunge.  I'd probably regret it, but I'd come this far and I was damn well darkening the church door before heading back home.  I started to park next to them, but the cars were on an incline that would have asked far more than my kickstand could reasonably be expected to provide.  I made the block once more , still debating returning home.

This time I parked in front of the church and removed my helmet.  My hair was everywhere all at once.  (I really need a haircut, but the earliest appointment I could get was October 9th.  October 9th!  Honestly!  There cannot be enough blue-hair traffic in my county to fill a hairdresser's schedule three weeks in advance, even though the county is named after a barber!)

After corralling the wayward tresses with a hair band, I slung my back pack on my shoulder and climbed the stairs to the Gothic doors.  As I reached for the handle, I paused and glanced back at the bike. 

This is America, the South and it's the year 2015. 

I was about to enter a small church service carrying an incongruously firearm sized bag.  I was dressed in biker boots and a leather jacket.  And we've already mentioned my crazy lady hair.  Briefly I considered leaving the bag on the bike, but that was akin to leaving your purse on the hood of the car while doing your grocery shopping at Wal-Mart.  So, trusting that my middle-aged white-lady status would trump the crazy-ass church shooter vibe, I opened the doors.

It was at that moment that I realized how seriously non-high church Fake Cow City really is.  Episcopalians are very few and far between.  I found myself striding down the aisle, closer and closer to the front than I'd had any intention of sitting.

"Come on in," a friendly woman waved me forward.  "There are plenty of seats!"

There were more than plenty. There were all of them.

Only three people occupied the space, all crowded around the lectern.  One man and two women.

Three.

The friendly woman met me in the aisle and introduced herself.  The man was her husband and he would be doing the readings.  Their companion was going to read a sermon.  The priest was not present this week.  She serves one week a month at a larger church in another city, so they do only morning prayer on the weeks she is gone.

Some of the parishioners don't especially care for the morning prayer service and this accounted for the sparse gathering that morning.  "Although," the woman explained somewhat sheepishly, "for us, seven is a full crowd."

I managed a breath and a weak smile, and parked myself on the nearest pew, about a quarter of the way back from the front.  My back pack landed heavily with a suspiciously metallic thump, on the pew beside me.  I have no idea what made the metallic sound but when it happened, I involuntarily glanced at the man at the pulpit.  He glared at me.  Seriously glared.

His wife and their friend blathered on gregariously and more than conquered my initial discomfort, but the guy and I?  We'd shared A Moment. 

The three of them had been debating vigorously the readings for the day.  As in, which ones were they to do.  The wife thought she'd printed them for the husband to read, but they'd been lost somewhere along the way and he was not the sort to improvise.   It was obvious he did not have an improvisational cell in the whole of his being.  Not one.  The lack of a ritualistic road map proved problematic.

I watched an listened and tried to figure out how it could possibly matter one way or another when it had been just the three of them present when the scope of the liturgical tragedy was discovered and initially discussed.  They could have read pretty much anything.  Or nothing.  And it wouldn't have really mattered.

(Perhaps I have a ways to go before achieving full-on Episcopalian sensibility.  Maybe a long ways.)

As the husband and the companion were debating the scripture choice, the wife engaged me with lots of friendly questions.  I could see the husband keeping a cautious eye on me from his pulpit perch.  When I told her what I did for a living - that I was the chief probation officer for four neighboring counties - the man visibly relaxed.  I'm pretty sure he'd been holding his breath.  I caught his eye and grinned.

"Oh, I'm glad to hear that," he said, referencing my occupation.  "Then you'll understand this."

He reached into the lectern and pulled out a .45 automatic which he brandished in my general direction before laying it on top his copy of the Book of Common Prayer.  "Some day someone may come in here shooting.  But they aren't going to get out of here alive."

He did.  Yes, he did.  He pulled a gun on me right there in front of God and everybody.

But I had the best time and we're buds now and I'm pretty damn sure I'm going back again next Sunday. 

Mike the Bike

One of the patterns of my life for the past three years has been a fairly pleasant commute.  My department covers four counties running along and below the Caprock Escarpment.

From Wikipedia: The Caprock Escarpment is a term used in West Texas and Eastern New Mexico to describe the geographical transition point between the level high plains of the Llano Estacado and the surrounding rolling terrain. In Texas, the escarpment stretches around 200 mi (320 km) south-southwest from the northeast corner of the Texas Panhandle near the Oklahoma border. The escarpment is especially notable, from north to south, in Briscoe, Floyd, Motley, Crosby, Dickens, Garza, and Borden counties. 

Four of those counties are mine and getting to my various offices is almost always a refreshing drive.  The problem has been the wear and tear on my car.  Mileage payments cover the cost of fuel, but don't really provide for buying a new set of tires each year, the depreciation of high mileage on a new vehicle, etc.  A couple of months ago I convinced myself that the best solution for this was to buy a motorcycle.  Obviously.  

Mike the Bike is my new best friend.   

It's summer in Texas and that means most of the time I'm riding in shirt sleeves.  Some mornings I throw on a windbreaker, but not often in the last couple of weeks.  I need to buy a new leather jacket for the cooler months.  Inexplicably, the one I wore ten years ago is too small.  Who knew leather would shrink up like that, just from hanging in the closet?  

I bought a new 'big shirt' this weekend and wore it for the first time today.  The shirt doesn't go too well with my full-face black helmet, but that's ok.  I wasn't going to wear the windbreaker just for fashion's sake.  Comfort out-ranks fashion these days.  

I likes me a full-face helmet because I am not at all impressed with the sensation of bugs in my teeth.  There are some drawbacks, though.  Vision is slightly curtailed with this helmet.  Peripheral vision is not bad, but I can't glance down without lowering my head.  If I need to see me feet for some reason, I have to actually look down by dropping my head, rather than just glancing down. And the full helmet is hotter.  Way, way hotter.  

It wasn't terribly hot this morning when I first got on the bike and rode through town.  Riding from one side of town to the other took all of three minutes.  And that's because I had to stop and wait on a car to pass before I turned on to the highway.  Once I got up to highway speed the wind felt a little chilly.  The thin cotton shirt wasn't blocking any air at 70 miles an hour and I was a bit shivery.  

Regardless, it was a gorgeous morning.  The clouds were plentiful enough to be interesting.  The cotton fields are just starting to bloom.  The air smelled fresh and clean.  Traffic was fairly light, as usual.  A few of us headed in to town for work.  A few farmers headed out of town for the same reason.  A few truckers headed through the town on their way to somewhere else.  

The road curves as you enter the north side of the county seat.  The speed limit drops to a sedate 35 miles per hour.  About a half a mile through town is the county's only stop light.  Today I got lucky and it was green - I didn't have to stop, just slowed down a bit.  The convenience store on the corner was doing a brisk beverage and gasoline business.  

A block further on I turned left and rode past the funeral home, two banks, a beauty shop, a CPA, the radio station and the drug store.  I stopped at the intersection between the pharmacy and bank before riding the last half block to the courthouse.  The County Judge lets me park my bike under the covered pavilion so my seat is not so scorchingly hot when I leave at five o'clock.  

I coasted up the short sidewalk, past the 'No Vehicles Allowed Beyond This Point" sign and around the interior of the pavilion before parking.  The pavilion sits at the south end of the courthouse, next to the sheriff's office.  I dismounted then worked to wrangle the helmet's chin strap free. It's always kind of a chore, and once I get the helmet off, my hair blows all around. 

It was then that I looked down.  

And saw my shirt.  Unbuttoned all the way to the waist.  Blown back off of my chest, leaving my bra and torso, in all it's pale, rolly-poly glory, fully exposed. 

I was more than a little surprised.  

And then offended.  

I rode half naked for 15 miles and right through the busiest intersection in the county and - evidently - not one person noticed.  No one honked.  No one leered.  No one even freaking waved.

I don't know quite how to take that.  Either our rural society is much more open-minded that I'd previously imagined or my naked torso is completely and pathetically uninteresting.  

All I know for sure is if I ever get a titty tattoo it's gonna say "Honk If You Can Read This".  

And now I have to ride home...

Hear Us Roar

I am the president of the Lion's Club.

Yeah.  Let me give you just a minute to let that sink in.

It's not like I wanted to be president of or even wanted to join the club.  But the third time Jo, the county treasurer, hit me up about it, she caught me in a weak moment and I said yes.

Joining a small town civic club is much the same as joining a small church and my warm body was quickly foisted into a leadership/grunt-work position.  I started at the bottom of the hierarchical totem pole last year and this year made a miniscule upward movement before Tommy, the club treasurer and the only person who did any of the administrative work, decided to retire.   Once the dust settled - boom! - I'm president.

Every Thursday we gather at the Cassey Event Center for lunch.  The center is a fellowship hall without a church attached.  We share Juanita the Cook with the Rotary Club.  The Rotarians rotarianate on Wednesdays.

There are a couple of people who belong to both clubs.  One out of an abundance of civic pride and one for business contacts as well as fiscal responsibility since dues for both clubs are cheaper than eating out for those two meals each week.

Club meetings are basically of just me and a bunch of old guys having lunch and listening to someone talk about something.  Sometimes I learn stuff.  Sometimes I don't. There are actually three female members including me.  One is the local CPA.  She's too busy to make more than a handfull of meetings a year.  The other owns an important retail business in the community.

The business owner usually makes only the last half of the meeting.  She works long hours and is very busy and she normally has to eat on the run. When I first joined the club I was appalled with how the men treated her.  They acted as if they could barely tolerate her - ignoring her suggestions or blatantly dismissing them.

Their attitude really bothered me.  I found it to be disrespectful and rude.  I tried to cultivate a relationship with her myself, letting her know I valued her input.  Now a couple of years later I find that I...barely tolerate her - ignoring her suggestions or blatantly dismissing them.

A more regular attendee is the insurance agent who likes to eat cheap and belongs to both clubs.  He  is also a big wig in the Llano Estacado Honor Flight.  It's a veteran's program that flies aging vets to Washington DC to see monuments to their dead compatriots and absolutely nothing else, evidently.  It's sort of a big deal.  He is very, very proud of this.  He mentions it rather a lot.

Since most Thursdays it's just me and the old guys, I have to entertain myself at these meetings.  In the interests of same, I've started a drinking game.  Any time Mr. Insurance can deviate a conversation into discussion of the Honor Flight, I chug whatever is remaining in my glass of tea.

I've drunk a lot of tea.

Jimmy is the multi-club member who is simply awash with civic pride.  His father actually started the Lion's Club in 1928. 

Yeah.  1928. 

Jimmy is 94 years old. He kind of bullies us all into being better people, but he's disgusted by the lack of participation of the younger generations.  Jimmy is used to doing business in the Mad Men era and before.  Back when everyone had a secretary and a wife at home, there was a lot more inclination to civic involvement.

Jimmy still has a powerful personality but at age 94 he is deaf as a post and nowadays his only job is to pray at our meetings.  There are a couple of reasons for this, one being that when called on he can deliver a flowing and flowery invocation.

The main reason for his status as chief benedictor is that he knows the spot int he program where the prayer always happens.   He can't hear much of anything, especially not female voices.  Apparently my voice is stereotypically female and even though he can't hear a word I'm saying, he knows when I look at him, following the pledge of allegiance, he's on.

At that point, Jimmy totters to his feet, grasps the handles of his walker and yells.

I kid you not.  He yells.

"MAY WE PRAY?!!"

It reverberates.  Dogs begin to howl outside.  Dishes quake in the kitchen and Juanita grabs the tea pitcher that someone set too close to the edge of the counter.

"MAY WE PRAY?!!"

Richter scales record a momentary blip from two states over.  The steeple on the Baptist church teeters just a bit and windshield cracks widen and spread all over town.

"MAY WE PRAY?!!"

We damn well pray. 

I Deleted The Department's Financial Records on Friday

This week’s events include the following snippet of conversation:

The Judge:  “Thanks for the candy.”

Me:  “Thanks for not sending me to jail.”

You know those bits of paper that the sheriff brings you now and then?  The one’s with the funny little Latin name?  Subpeonas?  Subpeonae?  Muchos Subpeonos?   

A deputy visited my office a couple of weeks ago with one of those little mandates clutched in his meaty little mitt.  My presence was ordered for a upcoming proceeding in the northernmost county of the jurisdiction.  

After a week and a day spent out of the office for training and a holiday that I had forgotten the county observed, (Who’s off for Columbus Day, anyway?  Hell, the banks barely even take that holiday.) I decided to go straight on to my office in the southernmost county on Tuesday morning, rather than stopping to check in with my main office, in the middle-most county.  The middle county office is the one that had the subpoena sitting right in the middle of my desk so I would be sure and see it first thing when I got to work.  

The only thing that saved me for stern judicial rebuke was that the defense attorney also forgot about the hearing.  And instead of using my tactic of confessing to one’s own special brand of dumbassery and apologizing profusely, he chose to try blaming the Judge’s secretary for not notifying him of the hearing.  That didn’t work out so well for him.  

I owe that lawyer some flowers.  

That’s how my Tuesday morning went.  Tuesday afternoon started with me driving back to work following lunch with the court reporter, who’d made it home from all the way across the district after the aborted hearing.  We stuffed our faces and when I got back to the office afterwards, there was a pickup and a stock trailer parked across the street, next to city hall.  That’s normally where I park when I return from lunch, so this time I parked next to my office.

Half an hour later, I got a call from the Chief of Police.  

The Chief shares a first name with Supergirl.  But that, coupled with a penchant for law and order, is where the resemblance ends.  She is short and solid - compact.  Her close-cropped, mousy, brown hair is turning grey at a pretty quick clip.   She wears a heavy gun belt, a shapeless uniform the color of her hair and large plastic-framed glasses.  

And she’s got a hell of a voice.  

When this woman opens her mouth, Lee Marvin comes pouring out.  Lee Marvin with a horribly draggy Texas drawl.  I kid you not.  Lee-effing-Marvin.

I’d seen her earlier that morning.  She came by to give me some papers to deliver to the District Attorney.  I’m sort of like the pony express for offense reports and such.  This morning the Chief had a cold and sounded like Lee Marvin with corks stuffed in her nostrils.  She was taking a sick day and heading home.  

When I answered the phone, she drawled my name and said, “I realize we have much more important stuff to worry about in this town.  I really do.  But I’ve had a complaint that your car is parked illegally.”  

“Well,” I said.  I thought about it for a moment.  “I suppose my car is parked illegally.”  The ‘as if it really matters’ remained unspoken but not unheard.

She paused for a beat.  “Yeah.”  

“Ok,” I sighed.  “I’ll go out and move it.”

“Thank you, so much.”  She sniffled.  “You’re a doll.”  

Lispy Lee Marvin just called me a doll and hung up the phone.  I had to smile.  

I stood, stretched the kinks out of my shoulders and went outside, car keys dangling from my fingers.  Stepping to the curb, I looked left.  Then I looked right.  Then, since my office is on the corner at a four-way stop sign, I looked in front of and behind me.  

Then I looked in all four directions again, just to make sure.  

Mine was the only vehicle for at least two blocks in any direction.  

I sighed, grasped the keys more securely and stepped off the curb.  Once I opened the door of my criminally positioned vehicle, I firmly planted my posterior in the driver’s seat.  I buckled the shoulder belt, adjusted my mirrors and looked both ways.  Just in case.  

Then I executed a Shriner-worthy U-turn and whipped the thing across the street and into a legally parked position at the curb right across the street from my office.  I got out of the car, and stepped back up on the curb, listening to the silence of the empty streets.  

And then I went back to work.  

The Lunch Lady

The Turn Around Cafe closes soon.

For the past two years I've eaten lunch there every couple of weeks or so.  The food is good and the atmosphere is...unconventional.

The owner is lean, lanky, and prone to wearing hospital grade support stockings with her cut-off denim shorts. Her long ponytail is mostly grey.  She's quick on her feet and even quicker to swish a damp rag across a spattered tabletop.  She's also more than a little bit caustic.

The Turn Around sits on a corner at the edge of town, about a block from where the street dead ends.  The building started out as an old filling station.  The office area has been converted into the non-smoking dining room.  There's a sign on the front door that says "ring the bell".  The "dammit!" is implied.

The sign refers to a doorbell located just inside the door.  When you enter, you have to push the button so the bell rings in the kitchen to let the owner/waitress/cook know you are there.  Four tables fill the cramped space; you can take your pick.  Three of them seat four people and one old, yellow, Formica and chrome surface seats six.  If you want a menu, you have to get it your own damn self from a stack on the counter.

Eventually the owner/waitress/cook will appear from the back give you the daily special spiel. The special is always meat, bread, vegetable and cake.  It's good lunch-lady food.  Nothing fancy, just good, solid eats. There is only one problem.

Nine times out of ten, in my experience, the vegetable is Lima beans.  I hate Lima beans. 

Once she spouts the special you will be informed, with a scowl and a lip curl, that you could also order off the menu.  She hates menu orders as much as I hate Lima beans.

Generally I chance it, face her wrath, and order a burger.  She makes a mean burger and her French fries are pretty epic.  But it pisses her off something fierce when you don't eat the special.

Evidently no one else likes Lima beans either.  I usually get there a little early, just before the noonday crowd, so I can to watch the steam rise and her blood pressure visibly surge as diner after diner eschews the special in favor of menu fare.

By the time the last table is filled she's slinging napkin-wrapped silverware at menu-ordering noshers and all but throwing the menus at late-comers pushing the bell button on their way through the door.

Once I saw her refuse to even tell a customer what the special was because he wouldn't want it anyway and would just order a burger.  So, he was getting a burger and that was that.  He meekly agreed.

Today we watched  the crowd dwindle and change for a little longer than usual.  One of the tables was occupied by two electrical construction company supervisors from out of town.  The waitress  easily bullied them into the special.  They even ate most of their Lima beans.  Once they'd sopped the last of the gravy and left, the men at the other two tables exchanged looks and laughed.  "Brand X," one sneered.  "Wouldn't trust 'em,"drawled the other.  My friend Sherri explained the hometown guys were both employed by the local electrical utility.  Both home-towners managed to avoid the Lima beans.

A few moments later, three more young men opened the squeaky door and tentatively made their way to the vacated table.  They were out-of-towners; laborers, young and hungry.

The waitress heard them, eventually, as they didn't see the small, handwritten 'ring the bell [dammit!]' sign.  She entered the dining area with a heavy sigh, grabbed a stack of menus from the counter (which the newbies didn't realize they were expected to pick up themselves) and flung them onto the table. 

"The special is chicken strips with gravy, a roll, Lima beans, and strawberry cake.  Or," she leaned intimidatingly over the table and growled at them, "you can order off. the. menu."

"C-can we have a minute?" the table's spokesman managed.  Another of them reached timidly towards the stack of menus. 

She slapped the table with her order pad, making all three jump.  "Fine," she hissed.  "I'll be back."

The 'I'll be back' would have made Schwarzenegger cringe  and I thought the table spokesman might tear up and cry.  The tiro appeared to want desperately to get up and leave, but were obviously too afraid to move for fear of reprisal.  And possible retribution.

Sherri and I about fell out of our chairs, trying not to laugh out loud.  Good times, y'all. 

Alas, however, all good things must come to an end.  The Turn Around closes at the end of this month.  The owner is moving out of town, following her husband to his new job.

The Turn Around still smells like a gas station.  The non-smoking dining room reeks slightly of diesel fumes.  The bathrooms are still outside, remnants of a time when the key to such retreats came attached to a tire rim or a cinder block.  The smoking area is the actual garage area of the gas station.  It's much larger than non-smoking, I believe, but I've never been inside.  I can only imagine the heady aromas that must fill the air in there.

Fortunately all is not lost. Two of the Turn Around's most loyal customers have bought the business and plan to keep it open.  My fingers are crossed, but I have my doubts as to whether or not they'll be able to reproduce the same high quality food.

After all, The Turn Around Cafe made Texas Monthly's top 40 list of small town cafes a few years back. 

I am hopeful, however, that the new owners won't serve Lima beans.

And, in a shining stroke of good fortune, the cafe is staying open an extra week or two past it's original closure date while the new owners secure title insurance.  The owner is keeping it going for lunch.  When Sherri asked about it, the owner said she is through cooking supper -  no more nighttime meals these last two weeks.

So if you require sundown sustenance, you are on your own. 

Dammit. 

Have I mentioned her name is...Joy?

Wordless Wednesday

For My Consideration

Earlier today I was asked by a four-time loser in the marriage game if my husband had changed after we got married.  Had his behavior altered significantly from his dating persona to his spousal persona?  After a brief consideration, I said no.

I thought about that question for the rest of rest of the day.  I realized I was wrong.

When we were dating, he gave me roses.  Now he gives me rose bushes.

Make of that what you will.  




Edited to add:  Ahhhh, the irony. 
Here Lies Spooky's Marriage
Oct. 31, 1999 - Dec. 31, 2015

Just a quickie...

Do you remember Angela, the Taco Lady from my last post?  The one who stabbed her boyfriend because he couldn't produce the promised comestibles?  Or so she said, although it turned out to be more about him refusing to participate in a threesome with her and the neighbor lady, rather than a dearth of Mexican food.

Angela came to see me today.

Believe it or not, she is unemployed.  I began to question her about looking for work.  She receives disability for "mental issues", but can still work part time.  Paying for probation and paying off her bail bond, in addition to keeping a roof over her head, is going to take some doing.  She's going to need a part-time job.

When I presented her with that fact, her eyes widened with simulated horror.

"I can't!  I just can't do that!" she said, gasping for a panicky breath.  

"What's stopping you?"

"I have agoraphobia!  I can't be around people - I don't do crowds!"

As God is my copilot, so to speak, I did not say the first thing that popped into my head:  'Since when is three NOT a crowd?!'