Debacle Daughter

I'll be in my boudoir...

2012-02-09T16:23:00.002-06:00

I'll be in my boudoir... by texzenniki featuring tahitian pearl jewelry

TexZenNiki on www.polyvore.com

2012-02-09T09:48:00.002-06:00

A.A.hhhh....

2012-02-02T06:33:00.000-06:00

"And there I would rest, and lie,
My chin in my hands, and gaze
At the dazzle of the sand below,
And the green waves curling slow
And the grey-blue distant haze
Where the sea goes up to the sky."

-A.A Milne, "The Island", from When We Were Very Young

Recipe - She's Crabby Soup

2012-01-14T11:51:00.001-06:00

She's Crabby Soup

16 oz fresh baby carrots
32 oz chicken broth or pho-starter
8 - 12 oz fresh pico de gallo (chopped tomatoes, onions, jalapenos, garlic & cilantro with lime juice)
8 - 12 oz fresh she-crab meat (can be any kind of crab, but now the name makes sense)
4 oz heavy whipping cream
salt & black pepper to taste

Bring chicken broth & about 4 cups water to a boil, then add carrots and cook until tender enough to mash to bits (almost puree consistency.)
Add pico de gallo and crab meat. Stir well.
Add cream and stir well. Warm all ingredients through.
Season to taste, and serve.
Curl up in a quilt with a big bowl and watch all 5 seasons of The Wire until all your angries are gone. ;-)

Independence Days

2011-07-04T16:45:00.000-05:00

I remember days of independence held not to confines of calendar, but isolated, instead, to quadrants of memory clutched closely to chest. Each anniversary is a celebration of them, an honorary tip of the hat to the significant place in history that they hold. Not all are happy, not all are triumphant, but all are well-worn, battle-hardened, and a bit weary, sinking with a smile into a welcome embrace.
There were long summer nights as a child when the air was thick with humidity and the soil was verdant and deep. The vines of mustang grapes clambored and wove a stealthy shade amongst live oaks and briars, and Saint Augustine knelt with deep respect to the shadowy respite from the sun amongst trails worn thin by barefooted children and old dogs. Twilight was sung by whippoorwills, tree frogs, and katydids, and none of us could be stalwart in their swoon.
There were many unseasonal campfires lit for the sole purpose of blistering hot dogs and marshmallows on old coat hangers while kids played with Black Cats, bottle rockets, and Roman candles in the red dirt driveway with claiche embankments. These years were marked with particular benevolence, save for the sporadic murders of copperheads who snuck into home territory with lusty intentions toward she-serpents and malicious intent for bare feet and honest dogs.
These were the nights when teenaged girls pressed warm cheeks against the shoulders of high school linebackers on motorcycles and noticed knots of spider webs forming in pre-dawn blackberry brambles of fencerows along dusty county roads.
Regretfully, there are memories of darts being thrown at patio parties where only lights and voices cut through the darkness that sank around a broken heart, cut and quartered within clear view of all there to see.
As life resurfaced in the desert, pregnant mamas climbed stairways with hopeful, unabashed toddlers, clinging to mama's hands in order to catch a glimpse of the magnificent views and startling spectacles.
Roots deepened again as mama hid tears within shrugged shoulders and deflective elbows and guided her young ones through the Cowgirl Museum with a bewildered grandfather in tow. These preceded the misnomer holiday when two people tried in vain to make silk from a sow's ear and paraded themselves forth with brave smiles.
Long came the next year, and the mama released her darlings beneath a brilliant sky in safe pastures lined with ice cream vendors. The three ogled the beauty of exploding fire while keeping their secrets to themselves. Each missed him, but they knew his prescence would lead to arguments and ruined evenings, so they were lonesome for him quietly, secretly, in their own way while grateful for the beautiful reprieve.
By the time the holiday came to pass again, they were packing their bags once more, hopeful for all that the future might hold. When another year rolled past and found them here again, the pattern became evident, and a new appreciation for Independence Day was clear.
Life will strain and worry. Battles will be fought, won, and lost. The valiant beauty of life will prevail and will also succumb at times. The cycle will continue, and the brave heart will endure. Each year that comes round again to hear that heart's story will be a moment to celebrate.
And so, with tears shed, scars healing, and hopes abound, I wish you a happy Independence Day, and I pray to meet again next year.

Sunflower, face tilted up

2011-05-15T17:11:00.000-05:00

This is my bit of sky, this parcel of blue right here, straight up from where I stand. It used to stretch from horizon to horizon as I twirled in a circle with my arms open wide. Now, it is only a mouthful, rising over the pear and mulberry trees in the east, running along the southern neighbor's roof, triple-jumping over the silver maple and the chimney where the sun sets, and sliding across the northern elms. The stars are tipped a bit here, hitting their marks at a slightly different angle, and I am visited by different clouds. But I have done what I can in this bit of sky that is now my home. I have made the grass green and lush. I grow vegetables to feed my babies, and I watch the trees grow heavy with fruit in the summer sunshine. This is my sky, and I am trying to grow beneath it.

Darrell Scott - East of Gary

2011-04-03T22:37:00.000-05:00

Bill and His M-Farmall

2011-03-27T18:11:00.000-05:00

For ages, hardy souls with leather hands have worked the earth. Driven by a will to survive and desperate dreams, they entered the fields with the daylight and stayed for a lifetime. The solitude of timeless hours sometimes witnessed a strange bond emerge between the yeoman and his reluctant beast or oily machine. As countless clods turned, respect leafed into affection for an ox with no tail, or a mule named Highlow, or the M-Farmall with a blade on the front. Seared by heat, iced by wind, and worn from work, an enduring union formed. As one entity, soldier of the soil and his witless lieutenant inched toward a distant turnrow and an unknown harvest.

Such a team is William Riddell and his fine red tractor. After service in World War II, Bill bought his M-Farmall on a G.I. loan. The two have pulled together for over fifty years. During that time, land on the Riddell place was cleared for farming, terraces and ponds were built to control watershed, fields were plowed, planted, and harvested, hay was stored and fed, sick and ice-bound cows were lifted and tended, and many strained eyes stared from a muddy ditch on some lonely, School Hill road to see an approaching man/machine rescue unit, protected only by a wet felt hat.

Despite this record, the intangible is the most unique feature of this 'relationship.' Bill's pride and appreciation for his powerful pardner, his intelligence and attention to detail, his romantic vision of place, history, and life, and his humorous command of language, both colorful and formal, inspire an understanding of how strongly he feels about his tractor.

Sure, Bill spent time in the oil field and the peanut mill to support his family. And yes, he skillfully maintained county roads for many years on a yellow grader with cheese, crackers, Coke, and a trailing dog named O.G. It's true that Bill chews tobacco, is a sports fanatic, and has always been a hound man to the bone. (Oma Lee has been known to mention a few other faults.) But, my favorite image of Bill is atop his trusted tractor, pulling a load of hay. He idles down the engine and grins with happiness about the field of square bales that he just hauled singlehandedly. He reaches down a hard, blunt hand and jokes because he is my friend. In his face is a weathered strength of character that will outlast youth and physical prowess. Bill is a man with the grit to face any difficulty that the future may hold. And, if he ever does need any help, just bring him his sturdy M-Farmall, and together, they will get the job done!

by Gene Grimshaw

Snow Globes

2011-02-01T12:57:00.000-06:00

It's a rare and wonderful snow day in Texas, and my babies (one of whom is now bigger than me) are tucked with me in our flannel pj's and quilts with tomcats keeping our feet warm. The stunning stark light that bounces off the ice and breaks in through the windows is disparate among the grey shadows of the house. We are nappy and snuggly, and we yawn with kitty-cat breath. This will be among the happiest days of my life.
I remember another snow day when the kids were toddlers that set the bar a level higher in counting those happy moments. I was a stay at home mom then, and we lived next to a park called Boys Ranch. So, when the snow fell thick and cold, we bundled up and stomped to the playground instead of staying in. There were geese on the steaming pond, and the world was washed in shades of grey. We were alone in the vast blanketed snowscape, and all sounds were hushed and muted beneath the quiet sky. My children and I were delighted to find that the winds which usually twisted little dirt devils across the open space were capable of doing the same thing with snow. Powdery flakes danced around us, so marvelously graceful that at first we could only watch in still silence, afraid movement might spook them away, I guess. But then we began to pretend that we were in a snow globe, and each flurry meant that someone was shaking our little orbed world. We wobbled, staggered, and fell while loudly overdramatizing these imagined upheavals, feigning difficulty in maintaining balance in what was, probably, the most stable moment I've ever known.

Kneeling by the Stream of Conciousness

2011-01-24T20:10:00.001-06:00

A few free-flow thoughts...
~ Nightmares all night, restless, anxious, noticed alarm and finally realized that I had been asleep after all. Stretching and gasping beneath a lightening window and a shining wish star (that is really a planet)
~ Dawn memory of coaxing rescued rabbits from beneath a rough, autumn-colored couch in the library with the one French door while Mama listened to Shakespeare on records, took notes, and wrote papers. "To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come?"
~ Spent a few brief moments contemplating involuntary committal, how it helps and how it hurts, what questions arise regarding personal rights, how my family's life might have been better (and my mother's, too) if we had stepped on her rights and forced her into care...made peanut butter sandwiches for my son's school lunch...thought with unquestionable conviction about the importance of freedeom and rights, credited my mother with seeding that conviction in me...printed out 5 copies of my son's history report on the Treaty of Versailles per his instructions, checked his grammar and counted 7 instances where he reiterated the phrase, "They had no choice." How many lives did the November Criminals save or make better? Had the other signators upheld their ends, could the millions more have been saved? Or, would they have been saved by the November Criminals not agreeing, sending their nation into a kamikaze tailspin before names like Auschwitz and Dachau were known as a final destination and a cancerous blight of human nature.
Only results produced by deliberation were two peanut butter sandwiches and 5 copies of homework. This morning in my kitchen, absolutely nothing was done about what has already happened.
~ Understood how disliked I must have been way back when I knew everything and had the world before me as I watched my supervisor try to adjust to her new position. Understood how one can think that the lead position must be held by someone without fault, unquestionable, the ultimate authority and final say. Appreciated cut and dried view. Found said view ridiculous. Disliked presumptions made by person trying to be a step ahead, tried not to hold missed mark against said person. I used to think that I had to know everything and could not be found in err. No vulnerability was allowed.
A good leader is not without fault - she assumes all faults of those within her lead. She accepts responsibility and leadership by owning results and moving towards change, not by force but by inspiration.
"If you want to build a ship, don't drum up people to collect wood and don't assign them tasks and work, but rather teach them to long for the endless immensity of the sea." - Antoine de Saint Exupéry
A leader is a good shepherd. The flock is guided and kept within bounds, but the flock is also protected from predators and shown the way when the path is dangerous or unclear. The shepherd answers for what happens within that flock. The good shepherd watches the flock daily, tends problems that might shape, and solves before those problems are accountable while still earning the appreciation and respect of those who grow the wool.
~ I did not mean to get into any of that. Julie went shopping on her own and ended up purchasing a quart of Listerine. On the same day, she said that her favorite song was ACDC's Highway to Hell...no, wait, she just remembered The Cranberries "Linger." Okay, in that order, then.
It has taken me 38 years to reach this romantic yet utterly jaded view. Thank God my daughter has found it in only 10 years.
Wait, really? It is good that progress has been made, but at what cost? Is wisdom worth innocence?
Is care worth freedom?
Is acquiescence worth agreement?
Is liberty worth right?
I am right back where I started this morning.
~ "To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come?"

Feline Contentment

2010-12-14T19:43:00.001-06:00

I am quite sure that cats are great lovers of literature, perhaps even prolific creators thereof. What else could they be thinking about while spending hours in sunlit squares of quilt? There is very likely a curse, likened to the feminine Curse we blame upon Eve, from which cats suffer. I imagine that the premier angelic cat noticed - mutely, with only a slightly raised cat brow - that perhaps God's creations were not entirely perfect. Let's face it, creativity is a challenge. Even months or years after compiling that quintessential scrapbook or baking the ultimate artisanal bread or manufacturing with thine own hands some gallant creation that is remarkable in the maker's eyes, a source of pride, and of profound and poignant beauty perhaps because of its loveliness in spite of imperfections, the creator is inclined to tweak the effects a bit, just a bit, but oh how necessary the improvements.
I'm just saying that we can all sympathize with the ... episode... of noticing that perhaps our amazing bit of art ... could be improved upon ever so slightly in this one... these few... just a couple of ways... only these points here, really. It happens. No one could fault God in spying these few ~~tiny~~ ... ~~a couple of~~ perhaps maybe not so much omniperfect aspects of Life.
And yet, such questions are not permitted and cannot be without undermining Supreme authority. And thus, blame was laid squarely upon the nearest closest proximation of perfection. - Lucicat. (previously a favorite of God's, but... you know... how it goes.) Suddenly, one finds oneself cast out, brushed from the sunlit squares on the providential quilt, banished to lands of kibble and litter, subject to stupid lesser beings, and deprived of thumbs and all sources of recording the brilliant thoughts and great literature that leap through the minds of cats with the nimble agility of a gymnast and the grace of a ballerina. The cruelest blow is that Human - source of bacon bits, chin scratches, tummy rubs, stinky gym shoes, and delightful dutch-oven farts - is given dominion thereof. *ack ...cough...crgghh...hairball*
Cats bear witness to the fact that God in all great glory, righteousness, mercy, and all-powerful magnitude is actually a lleeettllle bit vindictive, too.

False Advertising

2010-12-07T20:14:00.002-06:00

*phone rings*

Me, pretending not to have Caller ID: Hello?
Mama: Hello?
Me: Hello?
Mama: I don't think I dialed right. Can you hear me?
Me: Yes, I can hear you. I'm just waiting for you to say something else for me to respond to.
Mama: What?
Me: Dammit.
Mama: Hello?
Me: Just start talking, Mama.
Mama: Oh, hi! :-) I was just calling to see how you were doing because it's been several weeks since I talked to you, and I was worried about you.
Me: It's only been three days.
Mama: Is today not Thursday?
Me: No...wait, which one?
Mama: Huh?
Me: You said it's been several weeks - which Thursday are you asking if it is?
Mama: Well, I don't know. I guess it could be any of them.
Me: It's not Thursday, and it's only been three days. Is your leg better?
Mama:   Oh yeah, yeah, it's just fine. I just - no, that wasn't anything - (sounds of vicious dog growls in background) Yeah, yeah, that's no problem at all. Quitit. Stopthat. Shhh.
Me: Who are you talking to?  Have you taken in more strays?
Mama: Oh no no no no noooo...that was just, uh, no my leg is just fine.  I don't know. Why? What? Can you hear me?
Me: Yes, I can hear you. (big sigh - choose to abandon search for direct answer) Mom, I messed up.
Mama:  What? Ludicrous! That's crazy. How is that even possible?
Me: I know, I know, I'm as dismayed as anyone. I advertised myself as being funny when most of the stuff I've written lately has not been funny at all. They've been the anti-funny. You have to go way back for the funny stuff. And read the tags. If it is not tagged as funny, it certainly is not; and even if it is tagged as funny, it may be only marginally so. Not funny at all, really. (disgusted sigh) Now I'm ruined. It's all ruined, and I'm going straight to hell. And I'm dragging everyone I ever knew with me. Especially you, Mama, in fact you will be first. It's so bad that not only am I going to hell and dragging you with me, but I'm pushing you in front of me as a human shield. I'm ducking behind you while dragging you to hell with me.
Mama: Well, you should. No one deserves to go to hell more than I do. I should go first. I should go so that you don't have to.
Me: No, no, this is all on me. You are utterly without blame on this one, blameless and innocent and thrown upon the sacrificial stone.
Mama/Me, chiming in concordant tones of contrition: Mea culpa! (beating chests) My fault, my fault, my own most grievous fault! (crying and lamenting...sighing and catching breath)
Me: Okay, that's not fun anymore.
Mama: But it's always fun!
Me: I know, but I'm impatient today. Let's skip ahead.
Mama: Okay. Are we moving directly to the commiseration, or do you need to be berated first?
Me: Let's mix it up. I like it when you mix it up.
Mama: I do, too. Do we have a safe word?
Me: Hhmmm...I think it should be BLOG.
Mama: I don't know what that is.
Me: It's okay, you don't have to know the meaning of the safe word to use it as such.
Mama: Blob!
Me: No, Blog. And I have to throw a flag for premature use of safe word. (frowns and shakes head disappointedly.) I know you're getting older, but there are pills for that.
Mama: Do I get to throw a flag for you using "disappointedly" as a word?
Me: It's a word. It's an adverb. It has -ly on the end.
Mama: No, it isn't. You can't just put -ly on the end of any word and make it a word.
Me: Yes, I can, and it is now. It's in the new dictionary.
Mama: I guess I don't have the new dictionary. I just have the old correct one.
Me: Yours smells like cat pee.
Mama: It's still correct.
Me: It stinks of correction. The odor of your righteousness confounds the nostrils.
Mama: Did we change the game?
Me: I guess so. I'm bored. And I'm not funny.
Mama: Well, I'm not either. But you are funny looking? (helpful tone of voice)
Me:  Well-played, Mama, well-played in a real half-ass sort of way.
Mama: I'm here for you. (background noises of cats & dogs, fighting, growling, hissing, disemboweling each other)
Me: I know you are, Mama. I'll call you Thursday.

The Cheshire Mama, part two

2010-11-21T15:10:00.001-06:00

There was one day when I was at school that my mother took my toddler brother for a walk down the sandy dirt road away from our house. The sky's exorbitant blue and drifting puffs of cloud gave no compas indications, and the fields of sandy peanut rows and acres of coastal pasture stretched on in every direction. Tiny black helicopters began to sink from the sun and float just outside of my mother's grasp. A static noise came from them, trying to communicate garbled signals from elsewhere. Bits of speech, exclamations, pleading voices appealing for help, stern reprimands, and whispered intimations of dire circumstances spoke to her, whirled around her, here, there, that side, this. A disorienting jumble of plans gone wrong, betrayed friendships, self-serving power figures, and valiant pawns within the game treatised her, called to her, begged for her help, chided her, slapped, and ultimately led her astray. She was miles away from home. The sun was now high, bearing down, no longer an ambivalent force behind sheep-like puffs of white. Gnats buzzed, and bullnettle whipped her ankles. There were no cows. There were supposed to be herds of cows grazing peacefully on either side of the road, but no other living being was within sight. Quiet descended, without even the whir and whip of the helicopter blades, and the full horror set in that she was not only lost in native lands, not only absent of familiar sights, not just disoriented by hallucinations, but she had lost her child. She ran in the direction she thought was towards home. She ran a tangent of it when it did not seem right. She ran without plan or reason on any compelling path. She was fly fishing, casting herself, floating briefly, pullling in and casting in another direction, trying to find a bite, to land something that would reel in, that would be real.
*pop*poppop*pop*pop*
Her gait slowed and eyes turned toward a lane in the woods. Bullets? Firecrackers? Something fired repeatedly, quietly, steadily. Her mind wanted to drift to holocaustal horrors. The tiny black helicopters whirred nearby in her mind. An enormous yellow school bus, Bus #12 driven by Vietnam veteran Ray McLearen, emerged from the line of trees at the riverbed, bringing me home from school just as her three year old stepped out of the wooded trail with his popcorn-popper push toy.
She dropped to her knees, then sat in the sand. With her in the open, her children made their way towards her, each thinking they had been adrift in the world and grateful to find their touchstone waiting for them.

The Cheshire Mama

2010-11-21T13:24:00.000-06:00

PART ONE

Growing up with a bipolar mother is not all it is cracked up to be, no matter what they tell you in the pharmaceutical commercials. Still, there were some bright moments when I was caught like a deer in the headlights, and now all I remember is the glow. I have a limited knowledge of astronomy (one semester in college that was, disappointingly, all math.) However, I have intimate knowledge of giants, supernovas, and black holes. I am the progeny thereof.
As a child, I accompanied my mother to Harry Dark Cakes to procure a wedding cake for my aunt and spent the afternoon listening to a debate as to the nuances of peach versus apricot colored frosting with Harry himself. The same shop later became The Shutterbug, and my mother displayed her black and white photography there. It was all rather hairy and dark to me, but it was fertile ground in which I grew.
Evenings were spent at the university library while Mama went to classes for her Masters Degree in English with a focus on literary archetypes. I had rescued two wild rabbit kits from the dogs , and I played with them in the library while she listened to Shakespeare on record albums. I loved Macbeth.
A college student once found himself in line behind me at the vending machine and asked this pint-sized pseudo-professor, "My God, woman, where is the rest of you?" I answered that she was in class right now, and I am now rather haunted by the fact that I considered myself such an extension of Mama and that others would naturally assume me to be, as well.
When I was a toddler, Mama taught English and government at Carbon High School. She was a fierce advocate for truth and justice, and I knew her as a raging force. But as an adult, I met one of her students who said the only time he saw her anything other than funny and pleasant was when her UIL team had received unfair treatment at a meet. She taught half days when I was very little, and we watched the Watergate trials when she came home. I don't remember those. I do remember a black Lab/Collie with white tips & keyhole named Gordon and two hills covered in purple irises. My mother's first name was Iris, but she didn't like it. Apparently, she was named for Iris Murdoch, but I guess she disliked the pre-ordained structure within which she fit so well. Her father chose the names for his kids, and his is a story much further down the road that I look forward to telling as I pick my way through the past, the stepping stones that have led to where I stand, looking back.

The Potato Buddha

2010-06-05T15:52:00.000-05:00

"The problem is," she said as she dug at a crack in the earth with a metal implement formerly known as a tablespoon, "that he still thinks his happiness is supposed to be supplied to him by someone else."
"Well, that is how it is," he stated flatly as he tossed a green one that had seen too much sun over the fence.
"Nawsir, it idn't," was her authoritative reply. "A person can let it be that way, or they can accept responsibility for their own happiness. Then, happiness will not be given to us, but it can never be taken away by anybody, either. Our own happiness begins and ends with us." Her breath was labored from stooping over the plants in the full sun of the garden, and sometimes she farted as she bent to work a stubborn potato loose. Fortunately, he noticed neither because his hearing was bad, and hard work was to be expected. "Now, don't get me wrong," she continued. "There are plenty of joyful moments shared by others, and there are some kind deeds that are quite pleasing. But, these are responses to actions and perceptions, parcels of a whole. One's happiness is a state of mind that twists and tangles itself around the soul like a vine. You plant your own seed. You tend it as you will. Are you growing a vine that flourishes, that bears blossoms or fruit, or are you growing kudzu? For some, it's just a barren landscape. Those who have their plants delivered only sit and watch them fade and die, always awaiting the next shipment."
The combination of bending over to dig potatoes, acute acid reflux, and listening to her try to skirt around the original subject left a foul taste in his mouth. No amount of artful confusion could distract from the ugly original truth, which was the potential harm she was about to do, seemingly at a whim.
But, whims were not the stuff her thoughts & dreams, days & nights, weeks & years were made of. All was carefully considered and chosen for a greater good. One would never guess that, though, watching her amble between the rows with cow-like, stubborn grace.
"Finish him off, then," he harumphed with angry disappointment.
"I have to get these children grown," she said, mistaking "him" for "them" and disdain for grim approval. Her errors made her seem all the more calculating.
"The fact is, I'm lonely, and I miss my friend. And, I've been proven wrong so much that I don't really mind it anymore. If I can make things better, I will. Running the risk of messing up is the mountain in front of me at every turn. Odds are that I am going to wreck almost all of it. Having done so on many occasions has only taught me that the bits I am able to salvage from those wrecks are valuable, and they end up being the stuff my story is made of. Does the water break when dashed upon the rocks? Or does it go right on being water, flowing on and picking up rich sediment along the way."

She actually did not say any of this, having never been good at vocal expression, but the stooping and farting in the garden part is true. Instead, she asked how to do that when he told her the potatoes they had dug would need to be parboiled before cooking.
"I figured you for a parboiler from way back," he said, almost moving on from the previous subject.
Her own bitter gripe set in as she snapped, "Now, how was I supposed to learn stuff like that while Mama was sitting in the kitchen sink, raging at imaginary enemies and talking in sign language to invisible helicopters outside the window, and Granny told me not to practice cooking here because the home that used to be mine was where she was teaching Sis?"
Having arrived upon the scene, Granny quickly and easily described the parboiling method in less than a minute, and they all made their way across the porch and through the house, each one viewing the world through the window of their own experiences, none of them quite ready to toss out the original water.

Flashback of Last Year's Well-Woman Exam

2010-03-15T19:36:00.004-05:00

For the first time in almost a year, I was able to find something positive and useful that was gleaned from my annual well-woman exam last May. It happened while I was enjoying margaritas and cooking with my aunts and mama. Usually, information flows the opposite way, and I learn a lot from their wisdom, experience, good humor and sweet souls. But, this time, I had peculiar insight.

Aunt Brunette: I'm really not very good at drinking. The last time I tried, the bed was spinning, I threw up in the shower, and the next day was plagued by diarrhea.

Me: Ah! Ooh, ooh, I know this one. If the bed is spinning, put one foot on the floor.

Aunt Blonde: (raises hand while stirring at the stovetop) I knew that!

Me: The shower was a good move (preferably sitting down or even laying on your side, the left side is better for the kidneys.) Throwing up is good. Bite the bullet and let it go. Otherwise, try to find the greasiest, cheesiest food possible - Allsup's chimichangas were really good, the taquitos with cheese are a modern day substitute, with ranch dressing, of course. You may have to add your own chiles because (a) at this point you just don't care, and (b) it might be the only thing that makes you feel like you are still alive.

Aunt Blonde: Damn! I forgot to bring the jalapenos! I put some in these enchiladas, but we are going to need more. (shakes head sadly even though every thing tastes scrumptious)

Me: I can explain the diarrhea thing, too.

Mama: Oh, please don't.

Me: (my aunts look curious, in my opinion, so I continue) Bowel inflammation. Just like our fingers and ankles get puffy when we drink and the hangover headache is caused by our brains swelling from water retention, the bowels swell, too, and can't absorb any more liquid, resulting in a mass exodus.

Mama: (garbled noise of disgust and exasperation, turns away as she sprinkles salt on a pickle before munching it thoughtfully)

Me: (my aunts are grossed out, too, but have expressions that vaguely indicate they appreciate the explanation) I get bonus points for knowing that the blackish-green color comes from drinking red wine. *smiles proudly*

Aunt Blonde: (now stirring again) I knew that one, too!

Aunt Brunette: Now, how did you come about this...information?

Me: Oh, I learned it in my well-woman exam last year.

Mama: They have classes for being a well woman? And tests??

Me: No, that's just what the insurance calls it. It's just an annual physical for girls, only instead of finger-poking, turning and coughing, we get to ride in the stirrups with our butt hanging off the table. Gloves are still involved, though. BUT, girls get to have sweet extras like hot lights and cold gel because we're delicate like that, and the drape makes a curtain between our knees so that we can't see what's going on down there or which metal instrument is making that cranking wratchet noise.

Mama: I'm glad I'm too old for this.

Me: You're really not. You have just been remiss.

Aunt Brunette: I still don't understand what this has to do with drinking and diarrhea.

Me: Oohhh, right. Well, I was really not looking forward to the exam, particularly after reading that one should abstain from having sex 4 days before it, which reminded me that two years was probably enough time to have lapsed. Then, I got to thinking about the years leading up to the divorce and realized I really did not remember the last time I had sex and now I probably never will again. So, I ended up drinking too much, having the black diarrhea, spent a couple of drunk hours thinking I was dying of some kind of cancer, and asked about it in a wobbly voice during the exam.
A few lectures about overeating and alcohol consumption later, the doctor had explained it all. She also flashed some lights in my eyes and told me I had nyastagmus. Panic-stricken, I asked what that meant, and she said, "It means you are still a little bit drunk."
I was non-plussed at that point. So I said, "If we had to go through this whole exam just to come to the conclusion that I am a fat drunk, I could have saved a lot of time & money by telling you that when I walked in here. I saw how much you charged my insurance company for this." Then she was non-plussed. Come to think of it, it's about time to schedule this year's appointment...

Time is a Diamond

2010-02-02T16:27:00.002-06:00

I tend to have my favorite thoughts while I am in the shower because that is when I have time to let my mind wander off on its own while I am busy tending to mundane tasks that require no mental supervision, which might explain why I so often knick myself with the razor while shaving my legs. This morning, my stream of conciousness drifted down the road of time...

Time is not linear at all. That is only our perception of it based on our progress through life and our record of history. A line exists, and it is the first dimension. Square the line, and you have a box, the second dimension. Square the box into a cube, and there is our third dimension. Square the cube so that all of its surfaces go on infinitely in all directions, and we are enveloped in the fourth dimension. This is Time.

But, why would we stop there? We are beyond where we could draw these images on paper; but mathematically, if we square the squared cube, we would have a multi-faceted diamond of intersecting points and planes, a crystallic and ethereal structure that is both self-contained and infinite.

What possibilities would this notion of time enable? Ghosts might simply be glimpses of proximous points in time, visible to us like faces in the cars we pass on the road, brief snapshots of someone else going a different way on the same path. Premonition and intuition could be likened to electrical arcs leaping among positive, negative, and neutral forces or compared to circuits that have been inadvertently completed. Deja vu is simply a momentary loop. And, even time travel might not be beyond our grasp if we mastered the matrices. Fantasy becomes conceivable as both a theory of invention and a memory of discovery in this diamond of time.

But by the time I had thought all this through, I had spent too long in the shower and was late for work again.

Happy Birthday to My Brother

2009-12-04T16:52:00.001-06:00

The Witchin' Hour

2009-10-31T16:25:00.008-05:00

I love autumn, I really, really do, so I found my head filled with all kinds of fancy notions today. Halloween on a Saturday with hours to spend on autumn adventures!

My son went on a road trip with his dad, a tour of presidential libraries and barbecue joints throughout the midwest. They called from Wichita, KS at midnight, and Gage announced, "This is the nicest cheap hotel I have ever been to!" Today, they have Eisenhower and Truman on the agenda. So, he is off having his own adventures, which leaves me and my little witchy-boo...

She began the day by eating all the candy I had set aside for trick-or-treaters. That meant our first order of business would be to buy more candy. Ever frugal, I suggested that we instead use groceries we already have to make caramel apples and popcorn balls to take to loved ones within driving distance.

Niki: So, instead of going to people's houses and asking for candy, we would be bringing them some. :-)
Julie: Why would we ever want to do that?
Niki: That's the trick! Get it, trick or treat?

She didn't think it was funny, nor did she go for it. To her, the only option was clearly going to buy more candy and a costume for her and going trick or treating.

Niki: Where will we go? To see family? Your dad's neighborhood?
Julie: We'll go around right here in the apartment complex.
Niki: I don't know, Jules, we don't know hardly anybody here. What if we run into some bad people?
Julie: Then, we will eat them up. (runs off snarling and growling, sort of hissing, too.)

So, there we were in the costume aisle at Target, which is also where all the mean, crazy mamas go on Halloween morning, as it turns out. They like to ram their carts into people, run over children, and snatch things out of people's hands while they are talking complete crap on their cell phones about how the whole thing just got so messed up...it was just going to be a simple party with her son's girlfriend and a few of their friends and then all these other people who weren't invited started thinking they could come and then her mother said that she wouldn't let her go if XYZ was going to be there and blahblahblahblahblah in an irritating, whiny, nasal voice. How do I know the whole story? Because the damn thing followed me on every aisle from costumes to housewares. I couldn't get away from her, and she wouldn't shut up! I began to feel that I was actually the bad people and that I would indeed eat her quite up. So, when we were on the bath aisle, I threw a stack of Shabby Chic pink toile towels at her and ran off snarling, growling, and sort of hissing.

Anyway, Julie picked out an awesome little witch costume that I was wishing came in uber-witch size, but she ended up asking me if she could get the Liv Sophie doll instead.

Niki: WHAT?
Julie: I've been wanting her for soooo long, and I would only wear the costume one night. It probably won't fit next year.
Niki: I am stunned by your logic. But you won't have anything to wear trick-or-treating.
Julie: Eh, I really don't want to go.
Niki: Can I still make caramel apples and popcorn balls?
Julie: Whatevs. I'm not going to eat them, though. They're sticky, and my crown is loose.
Niki: Again with the logic! This is crazy. How old are you? Hey, wait a minute - you'll eat up bad people but popcorn balls will stick to your crowns?
Julie: Mo-o-om.

My suggestion of roasting spaghetti squash and eating it out of the shell with marinara sauce "like guts!" got a similar response. Butternut squash and lentil stew were boring. Baked apples with cinnamon and nutmeg got nothing but rolled-eyes. We drifted apart while I was looking for the lavender soap, but I found her loading up on free samples at an endcap.

Julie: Mom, we have GOT to get some of this gingerbread apple dip and these sea salt & caramel things.
Niki: Yay, finally some apples!
Julie: You are so weird.

Maybe so, but I was smiling as I loaded up a bag of honeycrisp apples.

While driving home, I tried to think of some ways to mark this magnificent harvest holiday with something more seasonal than plastic dolls from Target and fabulous fatty, creamy spiced dip. (But really, those are great in every season, right?)

Niki: Hey! I bet the Botanical and Japanese gardens have some beautiful fall colors right now!
Julie: Mo-o-om, I don't wanna go to the bucanical gardens...
Niki: (laughs) What?
Julie: I just want to go home and show Bridget to Kamba, Aswad, and Daphil.
Niki: Sambo, Asswad, and who? I don't know any of those people, and you should not talk like that. Where do you get this rascist filth?
Julie: NO, Mo-o-om, our neighbors from Chad,** my friends that I walk home with every day! ggrrr!
Niki: Okay, so who is Bridget?
Julie: My Liv Sophie doll - she looks like Bridget from Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. I already have Tibby, so now I just need Carmen and Lena.
Niki: Well, I'm going to take a nice hot bath with Tom's of Maine and Trader Joe.
Julie: WHAT?
Niki: (haha, got her with her own name game) My lavender soap and salt scrub.
Julie: Then can we watch Twilight?
Niki: Sounds like a plan, witchy-boo.
Julie: (sighs) You are so weird.

Since none of these experiences resulted in the Fall Festival of photos for which I had hoped, I will throw in a few pictures I stole from my co-worker Scott Parker. He shot these while in Massachusetts last week...

And by the way, my little tomcat Grimriddell refused to wear his costume...

**These people are actually very, very nice, and I am going straight to hell for joking about their names.

September

2009-09-14T20:00:00.004-05:00

The sun falls,
and my favorite old chambray shirt wraps around me
with the smell of rain and deep dark earth
made rich with old bones
and memories of summers, alive and abundant,
warm and golden.
The harvest season sets in, and we slip into the indigo
to the song of the cicada and the casanova cricket.
The seeds that have lain dormant in my soul
sprout and bring forth new life
and joy,
crying and dancing in victory
and stretching their limbs
to grasp the world and cling for dear life,
drinking the rain with thirsty throats
and siphoning a private reservoir to draw upon
when the sun grows hot again.

Stunts My Mama & I Have Pulled

2009-08-26T15:49:00.002-05:00

Today, my daughter greeted me with tears and a tale of wrong-doing on the part of certain employees in our complex's office. After walking home from school in the August heat of Texas, she had gone in for a little paper cone cup of water from the 5 gallon bottle the office keeps on hand, though apparently Reserved for Employees and Future Residents Only. The childless cow who guards the sacred bottle declined, in fact refused to dole out the 1/3 cup portion of water to my daughter on the grounds that if she supplied it to one kid, she would have to for all of them. The two then sat in silence and looked at each other, perhaps waiting for this flood of children to bear down on the water-keeper, for the 10 minutes it took me to fetch my girl.
I pondered this event in calm consternation as I altered my route home to include a trip to the grocery store. There, we purchased a case of water bottles and all the makings of a gift basket. My daughter watched from the air-conditioned front seat of the car as I cheerfully fashioned an elaborate display of thirst-quenching generosity, and she smiled politely when we delivered it to the aforementioned cow, whose nervous embarrassment was obviously at odds with her exclamation of thanks.
"Lady," I said, "I wouldn't piss on you if your hair was on fire, but if your daughter was thirsty I would give her a damn drink of water."

That was the second time in less than a week that I had seen my daughter gaze at me with pride and trust. While attending a school function the other day, we returned to our vehicle to find that another car had parked behind mine, effectively trapping us. My daughter was utterly perplexed, but I waited a few moments in patient meditation, giving the thoughtless driver a chance to return. When another car down the row a ways vacated a space, I told my girl to get in the car and buckle up. She paused long enough to watch me place the gum I had been chewing under the door handle of the car that had blocked me. Her shock and confusion escalated as I silently drove over the schoolyard to slip smoothly through the vacated space. Even I was impressed with our ability to exit with such grace from a difficult situation.

Tunes of "Harper Valley PTA" went through my mind as we drove on, smiling while the wind blew our hair and the setting sun glinted in the rearview mirror.

These things reminded me of an episode years ago during one of my little brother's softball games when Mama and I were watching from the car along the fencerow. A particularly hateful neighbor decided to try to pass through the narrow space with her epic-sized nachos and pickles rather than going around my mom's tiny blue Toyota. Her generous proportions made navigating the pass difficult for her, and she squawked loudly, "Some People just don't know how to paaarrk!" I don't think it was so much the remark as it was the sneering expression on the woman's face, all wrinkled nose and snarly lips, that motivated my mother to release the parking brake. The car rolled forward just enough to pin the hippopotamus-shaped woman against the chainlink fence, resulting in much waving of gelatinous arms, spilled refreshments, and ridiculous expressions that bent the snarly lips like a wire coat hanger. In case her shrill activities did not attract enough attention, Mama's boob pressed the horn for an extended amount of time as she craned forward to watch my brother catch a pop fly. It was hard to see around the spectacle.

As if sensing my nostalgia, my mom called me this evening. After our customary greetings and mutual assurance that we were doing okay and had talked to my brother recently, the conversation went something like this...
Mama: Well, I have to explain something before you find out anyway.
Me: ...okay...
Mama: Some neighborhood kids stopped by today, and I thought they were offering to mow my lawn for me so I told them I did not have enough gas in the lawn mower. They said they were just warning me that I would get a citation for my grass being too high. Since I don't want Another Citation, especially since the felony charges for assaulting an animal control officer have not been tried before a jury of my peers yet, I decided to try to mow it myself.
(Note - my mother is 61 years old and is bipolar, so get ready for the rest of the story.)
Mama: I mowed most of it even though it was getting dark, but then I realized that the keys I had pinned to my underwear had come loose and gotten lost somewhere in the yard.
Me: You have a key to the bathroom window? (Mama enters and exits the house only through her bathroom window with the assistance of an elaborate structure consisting of rusted bathtubs and cast iron stoves in the carport.)
Mama: No, no, these are keys to other things. Do you remember that cabinet I used to have?
Me: Uhh...
Mama: Anyway, I had been feeling all over and couldn't find the keys in my pants, so I took them off. Then, I got down on my hands and knees to look through the grass with my cigarette lighter.
Me: Oh, no.
Mama: Turns out, I had more gasoline than I thought I did, and that is why the fire department is here, and my turtle is dead. I love you, and I love you ... there is someone in an official-looking uniform who wants to talk to you ...

Road to Hell

2009-08-11T19:34:00.002-05:00

The road to hell is paved with good intentions, and I witnessed such a path this weekend. As I was making my way back from the mailbox, I watched a sweet little blue-haired lady slow her Cadillac, roll down the passenger window, and helpfully advise the close-cropped (black) woman and child wrapped in colorful towels that, "In this country, we wear our tops back from the pool so that our bosoms won't show." In response, the noble lady kindly overlooked the cultural condescension and said, "This is my son, those are not bosoms, and I was born & raised in Haltom City." The elderly lady, surely trying to save face, said, "He needs to lose some weight, then." That is when the Haltom City lady threw her 44 ounce Slushie at the elderly dignitary's windshield.
I hid my laughter and shock in my own voluptuous bosom as I stooped to collect my dachshund's stool in a ziploc baggie so as not to foul the grounds. My private mind speculated upon similar collections elsewhere in the world.

Happy Independence Day!

2009-07-04T13:41:00.004-05:00

Athleta Chi Â» Adventure Travel Â» Jungle Journal

2009-06-13T10:29:00.001-05:00

Athleta Chi Â» Adventure Travel Â» Jungle Journal

Shared via AddThis

Day 3

2009-05-10T19:42:00.006-05:00

Happy Mothers Day!

The kids and I went to lunch (after an interesting drive through Northside, the Stockyards, Downtown, the Cultural District, an unidentified area, and University Park while looking for the restaurant at which I had a gift card) and then we spent a few hours browsing in the bookstore because that is something we all like to do.
First, though, I tortured them by making them behave in Williams Sonoma and Pottery Barn. They got back at me back acting like dingbats at the Botanic Garden. I am quite sure I am the only mother there today who threatened to beat the hot pee out of her children (almost silently through gritted teeth, of course.)
I did say it out loud, however, when we were in the car and they were making chicken/Wookie noises all the way home. They pointed out that their racket could not be distracting my driving all that much since they had been absolutely silent while I parallel parked the car with the rear wheel 31 inches from the curb and the front tire slightly on top of it.
It was a very fun day, though, and since they are my kids, I really cannot expect them to behave any other way. Here is a bit of what our day looked like...

Day Two

2009-05-09T08:32:00.006-05:00

Still WOOHOO!!!

Even though I am feeling much relief and optimism again, I have been very tickled by a couple of sour cherries here lately. One was an overheard quote, and the other was a photo. They just made me laugh...

Quote = "They seldom bite," said the three-fingered man.

Photo = Looks like this is about to get a lot worse:

Then there is the photo I found on Ivar Ivrig's blog (He always has beautiful photos! Check him out at http://ivarivrig.blogspot.com/ and see the amazing view he has from Trondheim, Norway.) The expression on this herring gull's face just cracked me up:

And since today is May 9th, Happy Birthday to Eric Golden wherever he is.

Day One

2009-05-08T18:39:00.002-05:00

WOOHOO!!!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=APQMLTuxrkE

2009-04-18T17:33:00.003-05:00

A serious writer is not to be confounded with a solemn writer. A serious writer may be a hawk or a buzzard or even a popinjay, but a solemn writer is always a bloody owl.

~ Ernest Hemingway

Good Friday

2009-04-10T18:53:00.010-05:00

Friday's Photos

2009-04-04T17:27:00.005-05:00

Sunday Snapshot

2009-03-29T15:42:00.002-05:00

A night alone with myself in the dark, and I slept like a stone. The sunbeams peeping through the blinds politely woke me, along with my cat jumping into my solar plexus rather impolitely. Simple luxuries gilded the morning: brewing coffee with cinnamon sifted into the ground beans, sipping slowly in the crisp, post-freeze air, watching the steam rise and the feeding birds take flight. Finally feeling awake for the first time in a couple of weeks, I ripped the house apart in a cleaning frenzy. I scrubbed, laundered, dusted, swept, vaccuumed, and tidied myself into order along with my surroundings.
With all accounted for, I stepped out into the world and wandered. I did some grocery shopping and some price comparing, and I browsed through my favorite stores. My sister-in-law who lived in the Dijon region once told me the French word for window-shopping translates to "window-licking," and I think that is so much more accurate. I window-licked until my tongue felt nimble and my eyes were bright.
My daughter called for me to come get her. Her visits with her dad are usually shorter than the allotted time, and I will just enjoy it while I can. Someday, she will covet every moment out of my embrace, at least for a time, but for now I will hold her and love her all she wants.
We cooked Chinese food and lamented allergy season while watching cartoons and folding the laundry. When I brought out the camera to take a few shots of the hibiscus that sprouted in fond appreciation of being brought inside during the cold snap, she mugged and posed for me...hugging the cat, sniffing the flowers, looking goofy, and smiling her freckled face. Never have I seen such a tough and beautiful love than what lives in her. It is like going back in time and watching a world conquerer as a vulnerable youngling. The rest of the world will probably never see the tender, loving heart that I watch with joy and awe each day.
"I'll keep the door unlocked," she calls as I carry the trash out.
"No, go ahead and lock it," I shout back unexpectedly. I see the look of confusion on her face, but I will explain when I get back that I don't want everyone within hearing range to know she is alone with the door unlocked even for the 2.5 minutes it will take me to carry the trash to the bin. Every second counts in her young life.
As I round the wall of the bin, I surprise two boys. They are probably 12 years old and have tucked themselves away in this nasty crevice for the sake of privacy. I excuse myself demurely and look away while I toss the bags, pretending not to hear the tall one ask his cell phone, "Stephanie, which one of us do you love?" as his friend squats hopefully beside him.
The rest of the day will be harder, but good in a fought-for way. KW has finally agreed to divorce on good terms, and he will go over paperwork with me when he brings my son home. Earlier, I watched my son's tears fall when he asked, "So, you are going ahead with the divorce?" Either out of cowardice or kindness, I answered, "This is just paperwork, honey. Nothing is really different than it has been. Your dad has your house, and I have your apartment, and you are free to be either place any time you want. Your dad and I will keep trying to get along, and we will always take care of you kids and love you. Just paperwork, sweetheart." I did not explain how much hope and strength this paperwork would give me. My fortification is my business.

Oracle Schmoracle

2009-03-18T19:08:00.003-05:00

My mother used to make us pull a random book of the shelf so that she could flip through and blindly point. She would call upon us to read her pre-ordained passage out loud so that she could ponder it and find some hidden meaning. She stopped doing this once I began repeatedly choosing "Little Birds" by Anais Nin. Every passage in that book was good!
While I make it a point to not take on her eccentricities, I have to admit that I take unnerving delight in the Random Article feature of Wikipedia. Now, I am already a Wikipedia nut, so this indulgence is really over the top. I think I enjoy the nonsequitur trivia more than any attempt to fish symbolic portence from the waters of my psyche...but maybe not.

Today, my magic eight ball revealed this:
Anwar Wagdi
With Leila Mourad acting in Habib el Rouh (Darling of the Soul)
Anwar Wagdi (Arabic: أنور وجدي‎) was an Egyptian/Syrian actor, writer, director and producer (b.11 October 1914 - d.14 May 1955)[1].
He played the leading roles in many Egyptian films in the 1940s and 50s, and was married to Leila Mourad and they were divorced before his death
Anwar Wagdi died at 40 of polycystic kidney disease.[citation needed]
Selected filmography
The Monster (1954)
Ghazal Al Banat (1949)

I'm not sure, but I think things look bad for my ex-husband based on this divination. Thank God he thinks I'm wrong about everything!

from The Female Brain

2009-03-15T17:34:00.001-05:00

"A woman's neurological reality is not as constant as a man's. His is like a mountain that is worn away imperceptibly over the millennia by glaciers, weather, and the deep tectonic movements of the earth. Hers is more like the weather itself - constantly changing and hard to predict."
-- Dr. Louann Brizendine

All in a Day's Work

2009-02-17T10:22:00.018-06:00

"Who cleans up the sidewalk after someone has jumped off a building?" The question took my therapist by surprise.
"I hope you are not thinking of leaving us, Stacy," was his quiet reply.
"Oh, no, nothing like that," I said as his head bobbed in approval. "I just wonder what happens..."
I was interrupted by his intercom. Another patient was waiting in the lobby, and the doctor was now 17 minutes behind schedule. He stood to shake my hand. Smiling, he said, "I am afraid our time is up, Stacy. Let me know if you have any trouble before our next visit."
"But you didn't answer my question..."
"We will begin our next session with it. Take care, and see Fay about setting up that appointment."
I found myself standing in the lobby with crazy people staring at me, and seeing Fay was the last thing on my mind. They must have been crazy or they would not have been there. The next guy bounced nervously on his toes when the nurse called his name, and I realized I was blocking the doorway. He kept his eyes aimed at the floor as he brushed by me, twisting his shoulder back awkwardly at the last minute to avoid physical contact. One seated woman craned her neck to get a glimpse of what was on the other side of the door. Maybe these people were not crazy, but were like me, just alone and in need of someone to answer the questions, the incessant questions. Maybe their realities were just a little bit flexible, too, allowing figments of their imagination to manifest and interact on that other plane where normal people were. It was the normal people who scared me most of all. Perhaps this was actually the safest group of people to be amongst. As I let my guard down and felt the chunks of my facade fall away, the seated woman began to rock and moan. I scrambled to pick the chunks back up, but they must have been in the wrong places. Her face distorted as the moans escalated to wailing gibberish. Her screams became my own, and I fled from the office and into the bustling street. Who was staring at me now was anyone's guess.
I ran blindly until the woman's howls were only an echo in my mind. I looked around me for something familiar, a landmark, and thrashed my arms as though something invisible might catch me.
Finally, I sighted a diner I had been to a few times before, and I scurried erratically across the street like a shadow among the crowd that walked at a regular pace according to the traffic signals.
I had not realized what a hot day it was until I stepped into the cool, safe darkness of the diner. Just the shelter from the sun's searching rays helped my mind think clearer. I found an empty booth at the back and slid into it with relief. I ordered a tuna melt and an iced tea, then settled back to organize myself. I took out my drivers license. The face looked back at me with its name and address beside it. It told me I was Stacy Renee Watson from 1325 West Arcadia Lane. The date of birth indicated that I was 22 years old, and there was a state seal on it. This was proof of my existence. It gave me an identity, a place to be in reality. It was shelter from the sun.
The waitress laughed when she brought my sandwich and said I was probably of age. I did not know what she was talking about until I followed her gaze to my drivers license. I laughed, too, as if I had made a joke and put it away.
Organization was at hand. I peeled the paper ring from my utensil wrap and placed it at the top left of the place setting I envisioned. It provided an absorbent resting place for the unnecessary sugar spoon in my tea. Without thinking, I flipped the knife to face the serrated edge out and placed the fork to its right. The napkin went onto my lap, even though stains invariably fell on my chest. I needed more napkins. I pulled from the tabletop canister (oh good, I would not have to ask the "funny" waitress for extras) one for my right hand, one for my mouth, and two for afterwards. A milisecond later, I pulled another one, just in case. The salt and pepper shakers were put in their proper places, and I disregarded the ketchup. It was inconsequential.
My thoughts turned again to the people who jump from tall buildings, and I recalled my therapist repeatedly mentioning my distorted view of reality. Whatever may actually be, I have thought of several possibilities. What is most likely is that the City has hired a unique individual to head this department, to operate it solely, in fact. He wanders the streets in search of suicides, a specialist. He is a funny little man, a solemn mixture of Charlie Chaplin and Groucho Marx. Bushy eyebrows obscure his eyes, and a bristly moustache obliterates his mouth. (What he sees will not be repeated.) They constantly twitch in amused grief at the tragedy he sees every day. He scrapes sorrows into a pail and rinses them away by tapping the nearest hydrant and sweeping, sweeping, sweeping. Swift and efficient are his strokes, and all is cleansed when he is done and goes on his way.
I finished the sandwich, sopped up crumbs with a corrugated pickle slice, and drained my tea glass. I tucked a five dollar bill under the plate. I always tip too much, even though I can't afford it. It is so condescending to do math and count out change when someone has been nice enough to bring you something. They are paid for their time, but the kindness they show me is priceless. And, maybe someone will see what I left behind and think, "Wow, that was nice. She did not have to do that."
Braving the sun like a hair-sprayed beauty queen in the rain, I made my way back to the bare efficiency that I called home. Who needs more than one room of their own? I had squinted painfully in the sunlight, but it was quiet and dim in the apartment. My eyes relaxed, and I saw that everything was exactly as I had left it, so still and changeless, almost in repose. I loved that...no, I did not love it. I found comfort in the consistency. No matter how many times I left, it was always the same when I returned. No one was glad that I was home. No one even knew I had been gone. No one is the most loyal and dependable loved one a body could ever have. And, it was mutual, a give and take situation. It would have been cruel to subject a pet or a plant to my god-like sensitivities. I had a fish once, but the city water burned its scales, and I flushed it so that it could be free. As the bowl cleared, a horrible thought crept in regarding the sewer system and the indefinite purgatory to which I had assigned the (surely) penitent fish. God, please save us from do-gooders. So often, their understanding is not our own.
I moved to the open window and listened for sounds of living, happy things; but, I found none. Instead, I heard the rattle of the street cars and the arguments of my neighbors. Accents distinguished their voices, but the tones were all the same. There were the sounds of hateful, pain-filled words, of objects being thrown or slammed, of someone being abused, and always a baby or two crying in the background, just waiting their turns. It never varied.
Slowly, the screams came together, merged, and became whirling eddies of sadness. They were the screams of my neighbors' anger and frustration, the bewildered screams of the woman in the therapist's office, and the silent scream of all the lonely and forgotten people in the world. They called to me and pulled me down through their crazy world until I heard the final thud as my body met the pavement.

A short while after Stacy Watson's death, a little man wearing white overalls and pushing a biohazard trash bin on a dolly turned the corner of her street. His visits to this part of town were never fruitless. His moustache snickered with sorrow as he washed the sidewalk clean of Stacy and her distorted view of reality. He shook his head sadly, and then moved on. It was all in a day's work.

The 6th Photo Challenge

2009-02-07T11:26:00.004-06:00

The RULES: 1. Go to your pictures 2. Take the 6th folder 3. Choose the 6th picture
Here is mine:

Love this picture...

2009-01-24T20:21:00.002-06:00

Like Pearls of Time are Bones

2009-01-03T19:47:00.004-06:00

Earth and salt could not be more real
Than the old woman in her garden.
Her old bones and her old eyes -
Aged, cultured -
And so, I say, like pearls,
Though not quite as lovely.
Still, death lends refinement
(Immortal lustre, in fact)
And silence is golden.
Her memories are collected neatly
And stored away like treasure
In a solid pine box, sealed by the earth
And the flowers and the vines.
They will be safe here,
These secrets in the sun.
The old woman will never tell
Another living soul.

Mothers Day Present

2009-01-03T19:42:00.005-06:00

By chance and destruction
Came the birth of the moon
Torn mantle from the earth's crust
Struck by a foreign body
And flung into space

The young satellite is wicked
in the violence of her own existence,
as is the rib of Adam.

Spinning through the darkness
Skidding, swirling to a stop
Looking back in defiance
And watching from a distance

Anger matures to resolution,
and she becomes cool comfort.
Her beams reach through the night
to find us, to show us the way.

She draws the eyes of women,
and we all see
ourselves.

Wooden Maturity

2009-01-03T19:33:00.004-06:00

Autumn, poignant season
Trees, once full and lush
Letting their vibrant colors slip away in a death rattle
Some are already stark silhouettes in the November sky
Naked in the rain that washes away
Deserted bird nests and empty insect casings

Calmly, the trees stand alone together
Facing the harshness that lies ahead
Only their rough bark protects them
A family of experienced cynics

Acorns are buried beneath the leaves
In the earth's somber, secret womb
At some mysterious hour, they will rise up
Pushing their heads through the folds of soft earth
Crowning, then craning their young necks
To feel the warmth of the sun on their new, unfolding leaves

For ages, they will stand in the shadows of their mothers
Receiving second-hand drops of rain
And only the light that shines through
But, the earth is softly tilled with roots that have gone before

A sapling has few hopes of ever viewing life unshaded
Meddling men might chop away the mother
And transplant the sapling and its root ball
Or, the young tree might finally surpass the matriarch
Growing taller and stronger, rising above her
And stretching out its limbs
To grasp the world for itself

Wings

2009-01-03T19:27:00.003-06:00

They rest there in the warmth
of the sun as it smiles.
They are at peace and are
content to be alone together.
Their movements are a somniferous hum,
comforting reassurance
of the presence of like souls.
They would stay there forever,
alone together,
blinking in the sun;
but, the wind rustles their feathers
and whispers its secret call.
They can do nothing but answer;
for, they belong as much to freedom
as it does to them.
They are lifted in flight
by the wind's voluminous arms,
and there, they fly.

Yule Blog

2009-01-02T10:02:00.001-06:00

Gloriosa Magnificata - A good-hearted coworker offered tickets to the Gloria at his church to everyone in our department. My background (limited at that) is in Catholicism, and my overall view is spiritual but anti-organized religion. I think I expected simply a Christmas-y evening of music and fellowship with nice people.
My preconceived notions began to slip away when I arrived at the campus of the 70,000 strong congregation and tried to find a parking place. There was much horn-honking and fist-shaking, and I began to suspect that some of these people might not be very nice. Tail tucked, I slunk off in search of unclaimed spaces not designated for clergy. I was almost out of gas by the time I found one. Fortunately, a convenient shuttle cruised by and gave me a lift from the M Lot where I left my independent little nondemonational car amidst a sea of religious & political bumper stickers on gas-guzzlers. With no Star of Bethlehem in sight, I made a mental note that I parked under Orion's Belt for when it came time to find my Saturn after the show.
After the exodus from the shuttle, I paused to let the crowd pass and gather my bearings. My brow knitted with fears that perhaps I was overdressed as I noticed many people wearing sweatpants and athletic shoes. As it turns out, I had simply entered the church through its fitness center. I made my way past the four basketball courts, through the banquet halls & conference auditoriums, past the Starbucks, and into the atrium. A kindly usher in a burgundy velvet jacket processed my ticket and helped me navigate to my seat through the cameras, microphones, and booms. Craning my neck behind me at the four levels of stadium-style seating, I was grateful for his assistance and impressed to have floor seats at stage right. I had arrived late, and John Tesh already stood before me almost as tall as he appeared on the two giant screens that simultaneously broadcast his image to those lesser Christians who did not shell out for the good seats. (Uh oh, I was feeling the effects already.)
The 1000 member choir was astounding and sang beautifully. Even without the Hollywood-grade sound system, their voices would have surrounded us. The tinnitus in my ears dulled my senses, and I really did not mean to shout, "Holy Crap!" when the ballerinas were dropped from the ceiling on wires. I was simply surprised, and the light show was confusing me. The ballerinas' aerial performance was amazing, as was that of the drummers in mirrored cages who were lowered during The Little Drummer Boy. The tribal beat and costumed dancers that ran up and down the aisles were a bit unnerving, though. Their painted faces made them look like Picasso portraits, and their outfits sounded like dozens of flapping wings. I was afraid one might touch me or throw bees at me or something. At that point, I thought nothing would surprise me.
Again, I was proved wrong when, three costume changes later, the dancers froze in a pose indicating the giant screens where a fourteen-minute public service announcement advertising Baptism was aired. My mouth gaped as my gaze wandered between it and the motionless dancers. One's cheek was twitching, and her raised arm wobbled a bit now and then. The others were still as stone, but their eyes slid towards her with flashes of anger and irritation. She would surely be fired from the dancing gig and banished to Hell for her poor performance and lack of spiritual fortitude.
The whole spectacle eventually worked itself into a frothy climax that left me stunned, speechless, and rather delighted by the sparkly confetti. You may think I made this all up, but I have proof. I was issued a dvd of the event as I was carried along with the crowd and the glitter and expelled from the church's maw onto the sidewalk outside. I quietly thanked God that they had not dropped me into the salvation tank as I hailed the M shuttle. "M is for Let's Get Out of Here" my disoriented mind thought to itself. Once I was finally tucked safely back into my car, I spent a half hour letting the traffic clear, shuddering and picking confetti out of my bra.

Bubba's Grill

2009-01-02T09:59:00.001-06:00

Perhaps not all stories should be told. Entire situations could silently exist indefinitely as long as no one asks certain questions.
During a stint as a front desk receptionist, I received a package for a coworker. I alerted him by email and within minutes he was in front of me, eager to claim the package. "Why so excited?" was my first mistake.
"These are the counter-weights for my grill!"
Confused, I proceeded quickly to mistake number two. "Why do you need counter-weights for a grill?"
I swear to you, his reply was, "Well, to hold up the flagpoles, of course."
My puzzled expression fell to stunned consternation, but he wasted no time explaining further. He obviously had other things to do that afternoon as he hurried out the door. Another coworker was passing through on his way to lunch and had overheard part of the exchange. He helpfully offered, "Bubba won't be back today. The man has a walk-in grill."
I plopped in my chair and answered a few calls as though the world had not just turned upside down, and I wondered how I fell into that rabbit hole. Eventually, though, curiosity got the best of me, and I found myself deliberately seeking out opportunities to ask progressively nuttier questions. I really should not have bothered because the explanation was almost as confusing as the remarks that warranted it.
As best I can tell by the way it was described to me, Bubba's walk-in grill is fashioned similar to a dog-run cabin. There are two smokehouses (one for beef and one for pork, naturally) on either side of a covered patio. The patio has four multi-tiered grills lining both sides of it, for a total of twelve grilling surfaces. Bubba stands in the center of the patio with his spatula, basters, brushes, and tongs holstered in an apron with a toolbelt sewn to it, and there, I hear, he truly shines.
Also, there is a free-standing fire box that contains a five foot rotating shoe rack Bubba has bastardized into a chicken spit. He is able to roast up to twenty birds at a time. Apparently, this is the location of the flagpoles which sport one American flag and one OU flag, Bubba's alma mater. These soaring banners could potentially cause the whole contraption to take flight, hence the need for counterweights.
I found that my final question could only be WHY?
"Because he is in the Knights of Columbus," was the answer, and I gave up. That's what I get for asking.

Why Terrorists Did Not Target the South - a skit in which my mother plays all 4 characters

2009-01-02T09:53:00.002-06:00

A short skit loosely based upon a recent conversation with my mother...she plays all four characters...

[Scene opens with hapless terrorists Akhmed and Abdullah holding an elderly couple at gunpoint. Their plan is to strap bombs to the elderly couple and send them and their Cadillac crashing into the Walmart headquarters in Bentonville, Arkansas (financial capital of the South) in a second attempt upon America. The couple, Billy Mac and Bessie Mae, are beginning to get the gist of the plan...]

Bessie Mae: Is he talking about that September 9th thing?

Billy Mac: Wasn't September 9th. It was September 11th.

Bessie Mae: No, it was September 9th cuz it was the same day we got that coupon in the mail for the new restaurant. I remember, you had the chili and was sick for days.

Billy Mac: No, it was September 11th cuz I was only sick for 2 days, and they bummed those radio towers when I finally passed it.

Akhmed: Are you joking me? I am not joking you. Shut up.

Bessie Mae: [ignoring Akhmed] They weren't radio towers. They bummed the World towers.

Billy Mac: You dingbat! Any idiot knows you take out communications first. The World towers was just the name of the radio towers. It was a code name.

Bessie Mae: Alls I know is our bathroom stunk for DAYS. I thought I was going to have to call the insurance adjuster.

Abdullah: Stop! Stop this blasphemy from coming out your mouths! Our soldiers martyred themselves. They stood proudly before Allah after killing thousands of infidels. We brought your nation to its knees, and you cannot even remember the date? Everyone knows the date!

Bessie Mae: Honey, I am 83 years old...

Billy Mac: 81

Bessie Mae: ...eighty-one years old, and I don't remember my own name for days at a time. Now, ask me when Truman died, and that I can tell you. It was March 28, 1969.

Billy Mac: It was not. That's when Eisenhower died. Remember? Your dad had a sheep named I Like Ike...

Bessie Mae: Now, that he did. He named it that just to make Mama mad.

Billy Mac: ...and he did not want to sell him but he had to, so he waited until the anniversary of Eisenhower's death out of respect.
[Akhmed drops his rifle and blinks in disbelief. Abdullah is speechless.]

Bessie Mae: Well, you are right about that. Be that as it may, smart aleck, what year did Truman die?

Billy Mac: I don't believe he has yet.

Akhmed: Shut up. Shut up, shut up, Shut Up! You people are too stupid to kill. You are not even worthy of being our sacrifices. I might as well go back to herding goats!
[Akhmed and Abdullah murmur in outrage as they walk away.]

Bessie Mae: Did he say that he hurts goats?

Billy Mac: Might have. You know how them Messkins like to eat cabrito...

[scene fades to black]