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.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
All in a Day's Work
"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.
"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.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
The 6th Photo Challenge
The RULES: 1. Go to your pictures 2. Take the 6th folder 3. Choose the 6th picture
Here is mine:
Here is mine:
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Like Pearls of Time are Bones
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.
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
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.
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
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
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
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.
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.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Yule Blog
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.
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
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.
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
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]
[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]
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