Popeye: Figs are gone. You will have to settle for preserves. I have plain, strawberry and raspberry. I also have blue berry, red plum and muscadine jelly.
When you coming in to pick them up?
Me: When you bringing them to me?
Popeye: Sept. 5
(Side note: Sept. 5 is when the family is meeting in Pigeon Forge, TN to see Popeye's baby grandson, the exhalted first grandchild.)
Me: Asshole.
Popeye: Who you calling asshole, asshole?
Me: I reckon I got to have a baby for you to come see me.
Popeye: I don't go see the one I already have. Have them babies and bring them to see Popeye. Or move closer to home. There are many options.
You want me to ship you some goodies?
Me: I guess ship them. :(
Popeye: Po po arie, sob sob sob.
Me: You’s a mean bitch.
Popeye: Spoken like a true chip off the ole block. Quit talking to your dad like that. Honor thy father. Its in the book.
I am a Facebook stalker. Yes, I'm one of those people who see photos of their friends and family on other people's pages and before you can say "right click" I've saved them over to my desktop.
Imagine my delight when my brother-in-law's aunt posted pictures of him and my sister at a family event EXACTLY 10 years ago today. Childhood memories! Arguably the best kind of internet stalking! How exciting!
The funny thing is, that I actually remember this specific day. I remember exactly how my sister looked and exactly how my then-future brother-in-law seemed so shy and reserved -- a perfect gentleman. She was tall, sweet and beautiful and his handsome high cheeks blushed a little each time he stole a look at her.
He loved my sister from the first instant he laid eyes on her. I think he knew she was his person, the one that would go through life beside him. He might not have had the details worked out, but he knew the end result was going to be having my sister as his partner in love and mischief. He knew that together they were going to go big places and do big things. Even if that place was just their own backyard.
And my sister? Well, she's nobody's fool. She recognized it for what it was and dug in. Because that's what you do when love is right and real. You hang on. You fight for it. You respect it. And you don't let it go.
Ten years have passed since the hot Mississippi summer night they sat on that couch and they still have a strong, loving relationship.
Oh, and this little man showed up about six months ago:
If that's not the definition of a wonderful life, then I don't know what is.
One time, about five years ago, the Alpaca Producers of Georgia presented me with an extremely high-end alpaca scarf. Why? Because I fucking rocked the alpaca scene, baby. Actually, they gave it to me because I wrote a bunch of articles about alpaca farmers.
(Holy shit. I just googled my name and the word 'alpaca' to see if the stories were still online. And what do ya know! If you go here and scroll down to the third story, you can see what I did in a former life. I was 22 at the time, unmarried and living in a place I loathed. Also, I was a terrible fucking writer. Dr. Davies, my journalism professor, must have been so goddamned embarrassed to read this shit. And to think! At the time I was so proud that I actually would send it to him!)
But I digress. So I was given this gift, which I had no idea was worth as much as it was or I wouldn't have taken it. Ethics forbade it...Who am I kidding! Of course, I would have taken it. I made $22,000 a year – they owed me the fucking scarf.
Okay, so I got the scarf that I shouldn't have taken but totally fucking deserved and wrapped it around my pudgy little neck and drove back the overpriced ghetto apartment that I couldn’t afford. The scarf was crème colored and by far the softest garment I owned. I can recall pouring myself a glass of wine, plopping down on the couch and closing my eyes for a few moments. I'd been at a fucking agricultural expo for 18 hours and I needed a moment to collect myself before I removed my farm clothes and that beautiful scarf.
Just as I was draining my wine, I heard this god awful hissing sound. Like the fucking devil and burst through my living room floor and was about to materialize in ball of enraged flames. Before I could open my eyes and gaze upon the Lord of Darkness, I was attacked.
For an instant, I saw the blur of a tiny black and white ninja. As I threw my arms up defensively, the last sip of wine splashed into my eyes, blinding me. Incapacitated, the ninja wrapped its lethal hands around my neck, pulled the scarf tight and squeezing breath out of me. I gasped wildly and clawed back in an attempt to fight off the attacker, but the ninja had the better of me. Whenever I would gain the advantage, the ninja would flip around and kung fu me from a different direction. My struggling seemed to just anger it more and it started biting me.
Retreat was the only option. I finally made it to my feet and ran for the front door. As I fled, the scarf fell from my neck to the floor. Determining there was no time to save my prized possession, I left it in a heap on the floor.
And that's when the strangest thing happened…
My eyes came back into focus and I was able to determine there wasn't a ninja attacking, but rather my cat. And Gert wasn't trying to rip my face off -- she was trying to kill the fucking alpaca that had came into her house. I was merely an innocent bystander caught up in the warfare.
No scarf is worth this shit, I thought, defeated for hours in the sun and exhausted from all that crappy writing. So I just let her have the scarf. I thought she'd wear herself out on it, sufficiently "kill" it, then I'll be able to move it out of the living room floor.
Oh, but how I was wrong. No, killing it wasn't good enough for Gertrude. Instead she held the scarf prisoner and tortured it slowly for hours. And if I walked by the scarf, she's go completely nuts and start biting and clawing my ankles. If I tried to pick it up, she's wrap around my arm and fight the scarf.
This little song and pony show went on for two days. Finally – and only after it looked like I'd rolled around naked in a briar patch – I had enough. For the next half hour I donned over mitts, used a metal garbage can lid as a shield and the broom to sweep the scarf away from Gert.
Finally I was able to remove it from my home. For the next six years it lived in my car because I dared not take it back into her lair.
--
Six years pass. I am no married and live in place I love and do work I adore. Even better is that my abest friend and her family live nearby.
It was at Madge's home this weekend that I made a new friend, Juan Carlos The Bunny Rabbit.
Now Juan Carlos is some very special breed. But I can't remember what it is. All I know is this really smart fucking rabbit sat in my lap for an hour and ate a carrot. Then it gave me kisses and rooted in my hair.
I loved Juan Carlos and Juan Carlos loved me.
A few hours later I am at home and preparing for bed. I have forgotten about holding Juan Carlos.
Gertrude, however, hasn't missed this fact.
Care to guess what I spent the next eight hours doing?
Here's a clue: There was one tiny, devil ninja involved.
And that is the story of how I got cat scratches on the inside of my eye lids.
A few weeks back, the husband and I took a trip up to Cooperstown, N.Y., home of the Baseball Hall of Fame. You can read a tiny bit about that here and here.
Well, while we were at the airport in Albany, N.Y., I was left unattended for a few moments while the husband obtained a rental car for our use. It was very early and the airport was virtually empty except for one very tall man who appeared to be traveling alone. This particular dude was dressed in casual attire – a polo shirt, shorts and flipflops. I guessed him to be in late 30s or early 40s, and I watched him walk across the baggage claim area, suit bag and carry-on in hand, it occurred to me that he was both very handsome and athletic.
My reflexes weren't what they should be that morning. Our flight had arrived been delayed several hours the night before and we were working off of just a few hours of sleep. I was preoccupied planning a nap during the car ride to Cooperstown, so it took me a second to register that this person walking by me wasn't just a fellow travel. It was my husband's idol and my dog's namesake – Cal Ripken Jr.
Meeting famous people makes some people nervous or shy. Apparently, it renders me retarded because all I could think to say to this man who'd I watched a kid on television and my husband so admired was this:
"Oh my god, I named my dog after you!"
To which he offered an awkward half-smile and ran like hell away from me.
He was gone before I could think to say anything else, like THANK YOU FOR BEING SUCH A TERRIFIC ROLEMODEL or I JUST READ YOUR LAST BOOK AND IT WAS MOVING.
No, all I got out was a shrill: "Oh my god, I named my dog after you!"
Just as the gentleman disappeared into a bathroom a safe distance down the concourse from The Crazy Lady Shouting About Her Dog, my husband reappeared at my side and pronounced that we had a car.
"Cal Ripken just went into that bathroom," I said, pointing. "I tried to talk to him but he ran away from me."
Immediately the husband started walking toward the bathrooms. Just as he reached the entrance, he passed Cal and nodded his head as if to say "good morning."A moment later Cal disappeared, headed on toward his destination. A second later my husband returned to my side.
"Why didn't you get a picture with Cal!" I screamed.
"Babe, that wasn't Cal. That man looked a whole lot like him, but was about 10 years younger than Cal."
"But it was just like looking at him from when he played and I watched on television," I argued.
"Yes," my husband said. "He did look like Cal… about a decade ago…. What'd you say to him anyway?"
"Actually I yelled at him," I said then recounted the exact way I told this complete stranger that I named my dog after him.
Imagine being that poor guy. Later that night he's returned home, kissed his wife and kids, having missed them while on a business trip. Then they probably had a nice dinner together and sent the kids off to be a little early. And that's when he remembered to tell his wife, "The strangest thing happened at the airport today…"
--
One week later, in Houston, the husband and I run into a familiar, but slightly older face.
And this time, I fucking forgot to tell him about my goddamned dog being named after him.
The hubs and I just watched the History Channel's special on the 40th anniversary of man landing on the moon. It started out with a half-hour of historical footage from the lunar landing. Shamefully, I had never seen this before in its entirety. As we watched the replay of the "live" CBS coverage from that day 40 years ago, two things came to mind: HOLY SHIT WALTER CRONKITE WAS FUCKING OLD EVEN IN 1969 and NEIL ARMSTRONG, BUZZ ALDRIN AND MICHAEL COLLINS ARE BADASS MOFOs. With equal passion behind each thought.
Seriously, those three men sat on a bajillion gallons of rocket fuel that had pretty much a 50/50 shot of blowing them up on the launch pad. Wile E. Coyote had the same odds against the Roadrunner. Look it up, that shit's been proven. Okay, to recap, so the plan was thus: Assuming they successfully made it into the earth's orbit, they would use the remaining tons of jet fuel to force them in a path toward the moon, some 250,000 miles away. Then, assuming they successfully made it into the moon's orbit, Armstrong and Aldrin would hop into the lunar pod thingy, detach from Collins and the main spacecraft and land on the moon. Sounds easy, don't it.
All this was reenacted in "Moonshot," the History Channel's second part of the anniversary coverage. It was brief - only an hour and a half long and separated by commercials -- but it was a good retelling of the events. (Things that I didn't know about Apollo 11 and her crew: Aldrin has a PhD in astrophysics and really is "a rocket scientist," as the three astronauts were orbiting the moon, they saw an UFO, and a felt tip pen saved Aldrin and Armstrong from certain death on the moon.)
But as much as I enjoyed all the education crap, my most favorite part of all this 40th anniversary coverage remains the video of Buzz Aldrin punching a moon-landing-denier in the face. Five years ago. When Buzz was 72-years-old. At the time, the conspiracy theory nut was in his 30s. That right bitch, you got knocked the fuck out by a septuagenarian. Bahahahahahahahahahahahah.
So, I live down in the quaint little suburb of Pearland. It's only about 15 minutes from my front door to where I work in the Texas Medical Center. Houston's the fourth biggest city in America, but somehow Pearland manages to maintain a sort of quaint, rural feel.
Now I live in a very structured, very WATER YOUR GRASS OR THE HOMEOWNERS ASSOCIATION WILL TAKE YOUR HOUSE sort of neighborhood. But you see, you never know what kind of zone you might live in or near. Because Texans like to do things their way you might have a strip club next to a church. (Next on the main stage DeeVine and Jesus.)
So this is why our neighbors – who two streets overbut technically OUTSIDE of our neighborhood– have several head of cattle. They also appear to live in a compound surrounded by garbage trucks, scrap metal and BOTH Ron Paul and Barak Obama political posters. They're clearly a confused bunch. I suspect it’s a Branch Davidian sort of situation. Oh shit, I bet they sue me for saying that.
Anyway, it appears that while I was at work today, those cattle managed to escape. I imagine that this probably was not hard to do considering the people who are "tending" to them. In fact, these cows and their ornery old bull escape fairly regularly. I know this because I live near these unfortunately creatures. Any day now I expect Animal Cops Houston to raid them and in all the chaos of moving cattle and dogs and cats, we'll see an animal control officers emerge from one of the buildings carrying a monkey wearing a diaper. (Oh wait, that already happened to our other neighbors.)
But I digress. Got derailed. Monkeys and midgets do that to me. By the way, did you know that midgets want the word midget banned by the FCC on radio. I just really think the word fat is more offensive. Maybe I'd feel differently if I were two feet tall, but let me tell you being fat sucks. Shit, I just used the word fat. Eliminating it would never work for me. Guess we better keep midget too just to be fair.
Damnit. Got sidetracked again. Sorry. Where were we? Ah, yes, the cows.
While marauding through the 'hood this afternoon, the nine head of longhorn cattle allegedly chased three construction workers into their truck.I say "allegedly" because those fucking construction workers have been fucking shit up on that tiny little road for a motherfucking month. We drove on it yesterday and hit a pothole so big that I swear to you it dislodged my uterus. So I say the fuckers had it coming. But whatev. Maybe you feel differently about bull on human violence. That's your right. Just like its my right to say midget.
I don’t really care that the cattle broke lose. They're animals in a pasture and sometimes infrastructure fails. So put them back in or leave 'em out and make steak. Whatever punishment they deem appropriate is fine with me. If I get a vote I select delicious punishment, cooked rare and served with a baked potato.
But seriously, what's the big deal. Let the Branch Davidians put their cows back up or hop on and ride 'em for eight seconds or get out your steak knife. Any of those things are acceptable. Just don't do what these guys did and CALL THE HOUSTON CHRONICLE. And if you're the dude at the Houston Chronicle answering the phone, DON'T WRITE A FUCKING STORY ABOUT THE COWS BEING OUT. And if you're the editor, DON'T MAKE IT THE TOP STORY.
Yeah, no shit, Internet! Here's the front page. (Check out the top right hand corner.):
Sooo… okay you're going to have to trust me on this – I'm a bit of an expert on this particular situation. First of all I grew up in the country, and secondly, I used to write for newspapers. I worked three years in the cold, cruel newspaper business. So I know things. I also spent 20 years in God's country where satellite television and Internet are still for pussies.
When I was a kid we owned a bunch of Black Angus cattle. So believe you me when I say cows got out of their fenced in pastures ALL THE FUCKING TIME. And not once did we waste newspaper ink on that shit. No sirree. We saved the newspaper for spelling bees, obituaries and community updates. You know, real shit like Aunt Myrtle's first tomato coming on the vine OR Billy Joe Jr. shooting is first deer!
But cows getting out of the pasture? Ptf. Never.
What kind of paper is the Chronicle putting out, anyway? Oh, I know – the kind that won't exist in five years because of stupid shit like this.
After nearly a year of sleeping on mattresses on our bedroom floor, we now own a new bed. (Our old died a miserable, slow death. Don't ask.)
Yes, the husband and I finally found a set of bedroom furniture that was in our price range. On Saturday we purchased it from Gallery Furniture's Galleria location on a whim. Which sent us spiraling into emergency cleaning of our bedroom in anticipation of the furniture delivery. Quickly we discovered that this particular cleaning should have been done YEARS ago. When all the furniture is removed from your space you can truly tell how disgusting your carpeting really is. Then you notice shit like spiderwebs growing on the ceiling and dog and cat hair EVERYWHERE.
It was so bad that we ran out first thing Sunday morning and rented an industrial strength carpet cleaner. And woowee, let me tell you! That little rental was worth its weight in cold! It sucked up all the yuck and grime we're deposited since we got married. And trust me, that is a lot of waste product. The dirty water left from the cleaning was JET BLACK and a hairball the size of Rhode Island had formed from all the dusting and sweeping.
Now all this did have a price. The husband and I can barely walk today we are so exhausted and sore. And our poor dogs! They are traumatized. Anything that was thrown out of the closet they looked at as if to say OH MY GOD, THEY GOT RID OF THE POLYESTER PANTS FROM 1997, SURELY I AM NEXT! Any noise made by a cleaning product sent them scurrying into bathroom to hide in the tub. They were so freaked out by the cleaning that we acutally had to stop and have this conversation:
ME: What's sadder? The dogs freaking because we were cleaning or the fact that we are spending our Saturday night cleaning?
HUSBAND: (Pause.) Yes, well, honey they've never seen you clean before. I'm sure they find it unsettling.
Well played, sir. Well played in deed. I'd get pissy over that statement if it weren't true.
Anyway, here's the end result, as documented by the husband's camera phone:
Don't worry. That ghostly apparition meddling in my underwear drawer is just me. Judging by the quality of this photo, I'm pretty sure the phone had the same reaction to the cleaning as the dogs.
Here's a better, professional shot of our new solid Cherry set:
(Sorry, vaulted ceilings, hardwood floors and personal shopper not included.)
I'm sorry I haven't written much lately. Things around here have been a little a off. I spend the last week with my family in Mississippi and made a concerted effort to spend no more than five minutes a day on the computer. So imagine that? Me with no cell phone signal and only a few moments of Internet for an entire week. There's really something to be said about being so electronically removed. Kind of a relax, revive and re-access sort of thing, ya know.
All though, I'm not sure how much "relaxing" was accomplished. I ended up spending most of my time paying attention to our families old, sickly hound dog Suzie. I even slept on the floor with her so she wouldn't be alone while she was feeling ill. I've written on here extensively about Big Blue – you can read more on her here, here and here -- so I won't recap too much except to say that Suzie wasn't just a pet. She has been part of our family for 14 years.
To label her "a dog" would fail to truly describe Suzie. She was much more than that… she was our accomplice, defender and comforter. She was our sister and she died on July 3 – my birthday.
There's not much that I can say about Suzie without breaking down and sobbing like the weak bitch that I am, and that's that sort of person Suzie liked. She didn't really tolerate whiners or complainers. She was always much happier when we were happy so that is how I choose to remember and honor her – with a decade and a half of sweet, fun memories.
But I will say this, I think sometimes the stars align at the right moment and God grants you a special wish so that things can come together like they are supposed to. November 16, 1996 was that sort of day. My sisters were experiencing the death of our beloved grandfather and it was our first taste of grief and loss. We were heartbroken and in much need of something to comfort us. That evening our beagle had puppies, only one of which would survive. So it was with the death of my grandfather that Suzie entered our lives. Call that what you will, but I believe that a higher power gave her to us at that moment because it's when we needed her most.
It's only fitting that the similar sort of circumstances would befit her leaving our lives.
My sisters and I rarely get to visit our parents' home at the same time – maybe only once a year, if we're lucky. But this past weekend, last minute plans were made and by a stroke of luck we were able to gather with only one day's notice. Though no one had any clue that Suzie was nearing her final hours, something – call it God or fate or magic – brought us girls all back together for Suzie's last night.
Being there with Suzie was the best birthday gift I ever received. We were able to say goodbye and hold her while she slipped away. Then we sat around and told our favorite Suzie stories. We laughed and cried and reminded each other of forgotten antics. As the night grew later, our mama turned to me and softly said she was sorry that Suzie's death happened on my birthday. But I'm not sorry at all. To me, saying a proper goodbye to a sister and friend is a perfect celebration of life -- a life she was very much a part of.
