Going Out as You Came In

It was a horrible time.  My grandfather, possibly the most revered man in my life, had been gone just over a year.  My grandmother had chosen to follow him 14 months later, on Christmas Eve.  My crazy aunt was back in town for the services and nothing was going according to plan.

My grandmother had not been a happy woman.  She'd married wrong perhaps.  Or had always pictured  herself with more.  Maybe she'd just woken up perpetually on the wrong side of the bed.  For 76 years.  Who knew really?  All I did know is that at my ripe old age of twenty-nine, I was saying goodbye to a woman who had not liked me from the get-go and over time, I'd learned to return her sentiment.  It was a mutual thing.  Oh, we loved each other - we were Southern women after all - but like?  Not a damned bit.

I sat in the third pew back, gripping my best friend's hand so tightly she was probably praying for forgiveness for some unknown sin.  Not because I was wrought with guilt or even all that upset.  No, I was cutting off Li's flesh because my big-haired, red-headed aunt was pacing cautiously near the open casket while my mother spoke in hushed tones to the preacher about the plan.  I was nervous watching the woman bob and weave, near the pale features of her mother.

I knew from past experiences that there was nothing to prepare for one of my Aunt G's infamous flip-outs, but I tensed and braced anyway like someone waiting for the impact from a rear-end collision. My mother gesticulated quietly.  She glanced at her sister.  A sly finger shot out, pointed once to her younger sibling then gently rocked back and forth in warning.  I knew that move.  I'd seen it many times in my life.

That subtle gesture meant, "No ma'am."  Simple, yet effective.  Do not do that.  Don't get near that.  Do not act like that.  Do Not Make a Scene.  Period.

My eyes moved back to my aunt.  She nodded almost imperceptibly.  She'd gotten the message.  I relaxed a bit. I took in the noticeably empty wake room.  There were a few attendees but not like that of her husband's just the year before.  I felt a pang.  No one deserved a less-than send off.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Aunt G turn towards her mother and place her hands on the edge of the open casket.  Oh no.  No no no no no.  I looked back towards my mother; she wasn't watching.  No no no no no no.  Not good.

Aunt G laid her forehead on the wood in between her palms and weeped.  Loudly.  My mother looked over and frowned.  Aunt G raised up and ran a hand over her mother's now frozen features.  No no no no.  Definitely NOT good.

My aunt's hands straightened my grandmother's hair, fidgeted with her blouse, her hands...  I looked to my mother, willing her to wrap things up with the Man of God.

"Elaine!"  I heard my aunt hiss, loudly.  "E-laine!"

My eyes were firmly fixed on my mother's profile, mortified yet terrified to turn and look.

"G--," my mother responded with measured calmness and in the same hushed, yet not, tone.  "Not now."

"Ee-laine!"  My aunt's hiss became even more pronounced.

"I'm talking."  My mother sounded as though she were talking to a young child and not a forty-something year old woman.

"Eeeee-Laine!"  My aunt sounded as though she were about to burst.

My mother's head whipped around, eyes brimming with fire.  I couldn't help but turn my gaze in the same direction.

There stood my aunt, holding up the edge of my grandmother's white skirt for all the world to see, pointing underneath the hem.  "They didn't put no drawers on mama!"

The last thing I heard as I slid out of the bench and practically hit the ground at a run for the exit was my mother saying, "G!  Put mama's dress down!"

Bubba's Delivers

It was late.  I was late.

My best friend and I were headed down 290 towards Austin.  It was a two and a half hour drive to the bar where I was to interview a local band and I should've left hours before.  I had been so cocky about my promptness, I'd even made arrangements to meet my parents for dinner before the interview.  My father was just this side of irritated when I called him to cancel.

In a serious rush, and fearing I'd actually be late to the interview that I had scheduled, I pushed the pedal to the floor and my bladder to its limits, not wanting to stop for any reason.  I chain-smoked and laughed with Li to keep my mind off my growing need to eliminate.

Around the Elgin area, I could take it no more.  I scanned the dark landscape for any sign of a convenient store.  Glaring lights erupted on the skyline, coming closer as I pushed the white truck as hard as it would go.  As the utopia loomed closer, I realized it was a neat, new, albeit mammoth facility, boasting numerous regular gas tanks, a handful of trucker tanks, and a parking lot that could easily accommodate a rock concert.

 I whipped in, erking to a stop and hopping out, practically unfastening my jeans as I went.  I glanced up, almost as an afterthought.  There in huge, bright red letters for all the country world to see read "Bubba's Gas, Food and Bait".  I paused, my brain trying desperately to catch up.  But only for a moment before my body reminded me of the need to accommodate it as well.  I waved Li on, hurrying through the glass doors.

To say Bubba's was vast would have been a stark understatement.  It was massive.  And brand-spanking new.  Rows of convenience foods and items stretched to our left, and an actual bar flanked our right.  A real bar.  And saddled up to it, were a handful of men straight out of the field.

As we stood stock still, a large bellied man trussed in coveralls reminiscent of a railroad conductor turned and gave us the once-over.

"Um...purty girls..."  He hissed.  As all the men around him turned in our direction, I could practically hear the dueling banjos tuning up.

Gone was the immediate urge to pee, gone was the surprise at the vastness of my surroundings, as I spun in one fluid motion, shoving at my frozen friend's back.  "Go! Go! Go!"  I demanded, shoving her out the door.

Li stumbled towards the truck, stammering with confusion.  "But what about the restroom?"

"Yeah..."  I began as screeched the tires pulling out.  "I'll catch a bush on the side of the road before I become a victim of the new Deliverance."

That's Just the Rum Talking

We were going out drinking.  Period.  It had been one helluva week.  Loud music, stiff drinks and grain-fed cowboys were the only things that would take the stress away.

We headed out to a relatively new bar in Cut-n-Shoot, Texas (more on that, later).  My friend, Heath, and I were sure to turn some heads and have some fun - young, blonde, loud, happy.  Perfect recipe for a Friday night.

The place was large, the music loud and the boys were...everywhere.

Now, typically as single parents, Heath and I didn't venture out often.  And neither one of us was really what you would call a 'drinker'.  Not even weekend warriors, most of the time.  Me - I was more of the two drink sipper, the ride-that-buzz-all-the-way-through-the-night drinker.  Heath?  The Binder.  Straight binge drinking, but only about once every 4-6 months at best.  Naturally, I was to be our driver.  That meant drinks came first then I slowly sobered up over the next three and half hours.

We were having a blast.  There's nothing like an easy atmosphere to allow someone to act out even without the actual booze.  Finally, the night came to a close.  Last call sounded, the bartenders reeled in the not-so-empty bottles and glasses.

We laughed all the way to the car, Heath slightly swaying.

"How many did you have?"  Heath only drank rum and cokes.  With a twist of lime.

"Like seven...I think."

"Wow."  That's all I could manage.  Seven drinks of anything other than water or soda would've put me in a coma.

The night was clear; the drive was long.  It would take over an hour down back country roads to get home.  I was good with it.  All I needed was the radio up.

About a quarter mile down the road, I notice Heath seemed to be having a bit of trouble.  She was fidgeting and making uncomfortable noises.

"You, okay?"  I ventured.

"Um...yeah."  She didn't sound too convincing.

I turned the radio to my CD.  I found a song I liked.  I tapped the steering wheel and muttered the words.

A couple more miles down the road and Heath looked fairly miserable.  "Hey, T.  I think you're gonna have to pull over."

Enough said.  Two-lane blacktop, clear bright sky, grassy shoulder.  Zip.  Done.  My car was over and in park faster than she could blink.  One thing I was not ever going to let happen if I could prevent it: vomit in my car.  Not even a drop.

Heath stumbled from the car after a scary battle with the seatbelt.  She stood, her back to me, slightly swaying in the moonlight.  I didn't want to watch. And I didn't want to hear.  I turned up the song on the CD and sang along as Celine Dion belted about love.

At the end of the song, I glanced over to make sure my friend was okay.  She was down on one knee, leaning heavily on the hand that braced against the ground.  Okay.  She was still doing okay.

Next song, volume up, I sang along serenading my friend as she lost the contents of her stomach.  Another glance revealed that now she was upright on both knees, looking all the world as though she were paying homage to the tree line.

Another song, another glance.  This time, Heath was bent on all fours.  Ooo...this could get bad, I thought.  But I didn't want to go rushing out there half-cocked.  If she was anything like me, this was the absolute LAST thing you wanted anyone to actually witness you doing.

I waited another beat or two, staring out at the clear night ahead of us.  No cars passed.  The road was ours.  I turned to call out to my friend.  She was gone.

Nowhere.  No where in sight.  My heartbeat rose, my panic followed.  I forced my way out of the car and ran to the ditch.  There she lay, spread eagle in the grass, staring at the sky.  She blinked.  Good.  I helped her up and put her back in her seat.

I began to drive, not saying a word.  We still had an hour to go and if she needed to just lay there, I certainly wasn't going to disturb her.  I put the music on and lowered the volume to a soft croon.  We drove in silence for the next several minutes.

"I'm so sorry, T.  I'm about to pass out.  Are you okay to get us home?"

"Oh yeah.  I got this."

"Okay, 'cause I'm going.  Right now."  Heath laid her head back and her breathing slowed, her eyes closed.

Five seconds later, her head popped up and she began chatting away about all the men we'd met in the club. How cute this one was, how hot and into her that one had been...then she branched out in to all kinds of topics.  Heath began to yabber away, barely taking enough breath to fuel the blather coming out of her mouth.  I didn't even get a word in edgewise the whole way home.

Back at our apartments, I saw her to her place and made sure she got in bed before heading to my own small apartment across the complex.

The next afternoon, Heath called.

"Hey, how are you feeling?"  I asked.

"Ugh.  Could be better, but not too bad.  Just a little sluggish today."

"Yeah, we had quite a night."  I was smiling into the phone.

"Hey, listen - I'm so sorry about that ride home."

"Oh, it happens, girl.  No worries."

"I just can't believe I passed out on you like that."

I sat in surprised silence for a moment or two.  "Passed out?  You never shut the hell up."

Citrus, All Grown Up

Standing in line to checkout at the local Super Target, we noticed that the lady in front of us had several bags of produce.  This particularly caught my attention, because I don't like all the little plastic bags, so I'm always fascinated with the people that use them.  No judgement, just curiosity.

As the cashier hurriedly grabbed bag after bag and looked it up on her cheat sheet, the customer began to get a little 'helpful'.  And by helpful, I mean she was obviously getting irritated but there was no way in hell she was going to exhibit such behavior in public, so she brandished a smile and began to get...'helpful'.

As the checkout lady held up a bag, the customer said, "That's cilantro."  (And when DID it become "cilantro" instead of "coriander" and why did we have to change it? - just another curiosity...)

"Oh, I know.  But I have to get the code."  The cashier responded much to the lady's chagrin and my internal humor.  Again, she rummaged through her cheat sheet and again, she held up the next bag.  Finally, she grabbed the last clear plastic bag and held it up.  It contained three small green balls.

"Oh!"  The cashier exclaimed with more delight than was warranted in my opinion.  "Would you look at that?  You've got baby lemons!"

My eyes shot to D's, then to the lady in front of us that was looking completely stumped.  "Um..."  She began politely as the cashier searched her card for lemon infants.  "Those are limes."

I had to turn my head to keep from laughing out loud and noticed that everyone else in line behind us did the same.

That's Not My Car

I had just returned home to Texas after a several year stint in California; I was eager to start my professional career and hungry to pay my own way.  Seriously, hungry...starving.  As a young adult, I killed any minor food cravings with cigarettes and soda so I whipped into the local 7-Eleven on my way to meet a friend for lunch.  I was also a young woman dead-set on being vain, so obviously I wouldn't actually be eating lunch; therefore, I was going to need that caffeine/nicotine cocktail.

As I hadn't found the funding to pay for a car of my own yet, I had borrowed my mother's hand-me-down '77 Buick.  Ah, just the thing to make any girl feel less-than: it was white with strategically placed rust spots and the once green material top had long ago faded and peeled so that it flapped in the wind like a drunk waving at a parade any time you managed to get the old girl up to 35 mph.  But still, it was a ride and I was heading to meet a long-time friend I hadn't seen in a while.

Mason Road was the main thoroughfare and quite busy during the lunch time hour, but I nonetheless found a parking spot.  I gingerly spun the steering wheel, eased in to the spot, pressed the brake and then all hell broke loose.  My foot, clad in a new pair of un-scuffed heels (girls, explain this to the men please), winged right off the brake and slammed on the gas.  Hard.

Before I knew it, Ol' Bess had reared up like she'd been kicked in the flank and surged through the extremely large plate glass window of the BBQ shop I had attempted to park in front of, taking out the small brick wall that housed it as well.

I jammed the car in to Park and immediately jumped out, taking note of all the people that had literally stopped in their tracks at the demolition job I'd just completed.  I spied the pay phone on the wall just to the right of the wreckage and made a dash for it, doing the only thing I knew to do.

I took a huge breath as she picked up, steadying my nerves.  "Mom, I forgot to ask this morning, do you have insurance on the car?"

"Well, yes, I do honey, it's in the...Tracie Michelle, what have you done?"  I could hear the panic rise in her voice, though her tone was hushed in her office.

"Seriously, mom, I just wanted to make sure the car was covered before I headed out."  'Of the window' I did not add.

My mother was fairly screaming by now.  "What did you do?  What did you do?"

Just then a large shadow crept into the space I'd taken to staring at on the sidewalk.  As I brought my eyes upwards, I found myself looking at the tallest cowboy wearing the most stern expression I'd ever seen.  I stared wide-eyed and panicked, my mother's voice a mere noise in the background as he slowed his stroll to a halt in front of me, his fingers gingerly sliding into the tops of his jeans pockets.

He cocked one hip out and shifted his stance.  "Ma'am, is this your car?"  He drawled, a slight nod of his head in the direction of the Buick firmly encased in the restaurant.

"What?!  Who is that?  Why is he asking about the car?" My mother's voice had risen another octave in my ear.

"Sir,"  I began hesitantly, "is that your restaurant?"

"Yes ma'am, it is."  He answered.

"Then, no sir, it's not."  I replied.  I hadn't actually lied - it was, after all, my mother's car.

"I gotta go, mom."  I all but whispered into the phone.  "I accidentally drove the car into Nonmacher's BBQ joint."  Before I hung up, I heard her re-assure me she was on her way.  I just prayed she didn't stop for cigarettes on the way.

I walked with John over to the police car that had appeared along with countless bystanders and quite a few old classmates that I hadn't seen in in years.  Luckily, John knew the cop and offered him a sandwich while we waited for the tow truck.  Not that we needed one, but the officer explained it was better for the right people to 'extract' the car.

As the burly tow truck driver slowly backed the car out of the now-vacant window space, we noticed a large table overturned on it's side, the round tabletop facing outward, as though to shield some children playing cowboys and indians.

"Well, at least there's no real damage to the insides and no one got hurt."  John said on an exhale while I stood at his side, still shaking in my shiny black patent pumps.  "C'mon inside, young lady.  Would you like a drink or a sandwich?"  I shook my head as he ushered me and the policeman towards the still standing door.

Just then a man stood up abruptly from behind the overturned table.

"Well, Bill!"  John exclaimed to the patron.  "You still got a-hold of your sandwich."  He pointed out, nodding to the half-eaten sandwich firmly set in Bill's grip.

"I just figured if it was gonna be my last, John, I was gonna do my best to finish it."

That day I learned a lesson, announced my return, saw my mom smoke for the first time in years, got a job, left an enduring mark on my hometown and above all, made a friend.

****
Years later, I ran into Nonmacher's and excitedly told John I'd had a daughter.  He smiled broadly before his face dropped in to a somber expression and as he laid his hand on my shoulder, he requested: "Please let her daddy teach her how to drive."

God love you, John, for being such a forgiving and understanding man.  I love you, John, for keeping your calm.

Sketchy Service

Sitting on the floor at a local Moroccan restaurant, we waited patiently - yet again - for our eating experience to begin.  My man had never experienced a Moroccan meal and I was excited to be able to provide that for him.  I had purchased the 6-course dining experience as a Groupon special so that if he didn't like it, we wouldn't be out a ton of money.

We had waited 40 minutes past our reservation time before being seated and now watched as everyone around us waited for service in various stages of their meals.  Two young waitresses darted back and forth throughout the restaurant trying to accommodate the crowd.

During the periodic visits by the staff, one of the waitresses finally offered to refill our drinks and as she lowered herself down to the table, she uttered an apology.  "I'm so sorry for the wait, guys.  As you can see, we're a bit...under handed."

She darted off quickly and I looked up to see a smile spread across D's face.  "Under handed. Haha."

Well, that certainly explained things in a different light alright.

Cheap Accommodations

On the coldest night of the year, my man and I decided to brave the brisk evening for some bar-be-que. Choosing Famous Dave's, we quickly made our way in, hunched over, braced against the cold.

We followed the hostess past two large, mostly empty rooms in to a back area filled with people.  As soon as we crossed the threshold, we were hit with a chill not unlike a meat locker.  As we are seated, I begin to realize that all the patrons in this back area are still jacketed and covered with scarves and hats. We sat.

When the waitress arrived, before putting in an order, I couldn't help but draw attention to the chilly atmosphere.  "Why is it so cold back here?"

"Oh, the heater is broken back here.  But we're working on it and there are space heaters placed throughout. "  She smiled sweetly, got our drink order and disappeared.

D and I exchanged looks.  When she came back with our drinks, I couldn't help but ask - "Why would you be seating people in an area that wasn't heated when the remaining part of the restaurant seems to be open and okay?"

"Oh," she began with a dismissive swipe of her hand.  "That's because the shifts haven't started for those areas up front."

My face went blank. Um...are you telling me, there lil' missy, that because the "assigned waitstaff" hasn't arrived yet, you can't seat people in those areas?  Seriously?  The current staff isn't capable of taking care of those tables in the interim?  I looked around at the bundled up patrons again before glancing back at her.

"I know, doesn't make sense, but the hostesses weren't informed."  She smiled brightly.

"You know, I'm freezing."  I admitted.  "Can you just bring me some hot chocolate?"

I sat on my hands, my jacket pulled tightly against me until she came back with a small steaming cup.  Setting it down, she smiled again at me.  "I spoke with the manager, and because of the situation we'd like to offer you free hot chocolate and as many refills as you like."

As she left, I looked at my man.  "So, what is that actually?  Like thirty-five cents?"

The OTHER Abe Lincoln

Plopping down on the sofa, I turned to my man and inquired about a movie for the night.  As we perused the list of available options, the cover image of a lanky man with an axe snagged my attention.

"You know, that movie we watched about Abraham Lincoln the other day really was a good movie."  I took a sip of my drink and settled further in to the couch.

"Which one?"  His look was the blank page of no recollection.  Then the light dawned in his eyes.  "Oh, where he got killed?"

Um...no honey.  The other one.  'Cause that theater malarky is just a myth.

Interpretations of the Bible

I caught a radio show in progress one morning on the way to work that left me so confused and stumped that I literally could not change the radio station.

"...and there will be no pets in heaven.  They are soulless.  But do not worry!  There will be animals!"  (um...so pets aren't animals?  when did this happen?).  "We will live among the bear, the lion, the beast.  The bible tells us that we will rule these creatures.  They will live in harmony with us.   Amen."

So, while I was trying to reconcile that pets - who love us, are dedicated to us, provide solace and protection have no souls, gruesome cannibals such as the lion and bear will sit alongside us in heaven, meaning they have souls?  How does that work really? - the man continued on another avenue of crazy:

"Another question that is brought up is 'why do I have to work'?  This is a really good question!  Work is hard.  It's disappointing.  In many cases, it's fruitless.  But if we look at the bible, Genesis tells us the reason for this is because work is cursed.  Amen.  But don't lose hope!  Don't lose faith!  For God also tells us that we shall be rewarded in heaven for all this work.  Corinthians explains we shall rule the angels.  That's right - we will rule the angels.  I can live with that, can you?  (laughter in the audience) So, find happiness in your work.  For you will be working for God!  Amen.  You will be working for the King of Kings in heaven!"

So...wait...but won't that still be work?  I thought you just said work was cursed?  If God claims work to be cursed, how can he ask you to be excited about working for him?  Am I missing something?

Truly Bilingual

Still moving through the wilds of office construction, I happened upon a man on a small scaffolding applying paint to the top of the doorway leading to the open area that also housed the bathrooms.

I paused in my dilemma just long enough for the man to graciously step down and move the little contraption aside.

"Thank you," I replied to his gesture with a smile.

Exiting, he had already climbed back on the little two-step support walk and was once again, heavily focused on his overhead task.  I slowed as I approached the blocked doorway trying to assess if there was any way to keep the man from having to climb down again to accommodate my passage.

He caught sight of me and turned in my direction.

"Uno mas tiempo, por favor."  I called out to the Hispanic construction worker.

His eyebrows raised up as he stepped down on to the floor.  "Habla espanol?"

"Un poquito, pero no hablame mas rapido, por favor."  I responded, trying my best to roll my R's.

"How come you know espanich?"  He asked.

"I grew up in Texas."

"Ohhh..."  His grin broadened.  "So, you speaka de...um...Texican?"  He waved his hands at me as I began to laugh.  "Ees okay.  I speaka de Spanglish."

Damn...It's Me.

With my upcoming new book release, I realize that I have left some blogs in draft form.  I am excited to say that the new book, Private Property, published on January 12th and I am back focused on my other 'responsibilities'.  So, here is the first blog that should have gone out in December:

Deciding we'd spend a relaxing holiday season at home without any guests, I eagerly wrapped and packed up all the gifts we needed to send out.  Waiting dangerously close to the last minute, I looked up the nearest UPS Store and fought my way through the downtown traffic to locate it.  As with most downtown areas, all parking spots were angled and metered and making it ever more difficult for me to find a spot.  The wind had picked up in preparation of an upcoming winter storm and I had too many packages to juggle to attempt to park across the street or down the block.

I circled the block once, twice, and on my third lap, at the very last minute a patron exited the store.  I flicked on my blinker, slowed to a stop and glanced at the clock.  5:30pm.  Awesome.  I'd be home before the man.

I pulled in the prime spot just to the left of the storefront and fought the blustery wind to the trunk of my car.  The traffic had backed up as the light turned red and I noticed the bored drivers glancing my way.  I looked in at the seven boxes packed in my car.  Hmmm.  How best to get them out and in to the store?  Well, I'd have to do what I could.

I hefted one large box and two small ones in to my arms, tucking a wrapped cylinder and small container up under my chin.  My purse took that most inopportune moment to jerkily slide down my arm and get entangled between the crook of my elbow and a sharp corner of the big box.  I hitched and lurched, jerking my shoulder in odd movements to attempt to dislodge it.  I tried using my elbow to close the trunk lid but my damnable purse got in the way.

Finally freeing the stupid bag and allowing it to dangle somewhere on my trapped forearm, I leaned the packages up against the passenger door, securing them with my body, as I reached out to close the trunk.  The first swipe was a near miss, my fingertips grazing the metal.  The second swipe didn't have enough force behind it and left the trunk lid popping back open as if to laugh at me.  In growing impatience, I took a swing at the thing and smiled in satisfaction at the audible click confirming it closed.

But my win was short lived as the packages dislodged and began sliding down the door with an odd, irritating sound much like dragging a half-wet cloth across a dry window.  Rrrreeeerrrrrreeeeeee.  I squatted in quick reaction, trying my best to keep the boxes from spilling out across the pavement, my butt almost touching the ground.  Saved from having to pick them up, I realized I was in the precarious position of having to pull myself out of a deep squat with nothing but the balls of my feet.  Damn.

Back in an upright position, and sorely out of breath from the exertion, I moved between the cars towards the sidewalk.  Having forgotten about the bag still awkwardly dangling from my arm, I was not prepared for the severe jerk as my body was wrenched to the side and my elbow collided painfully with the side-view mirror.  My purse had once again executed its well-planned attack and now sat wrapped around the friggin' mirror taunting me.

Precious seconds passed as I finagled the thing off my car and freed myself to pursue forward movement once again.  Up on the sidewalk, over to the door and...locked.  I tried again with the two fingers I had available to pull the handle.  Nope.  Locked.  I looked up.  The storefront grate was pulled down around the shipping counter.  The lights were dimmed.  Are you serious?!  I thought in complete exasperation.  It was only the busiest time of the year for shipping and I had practically done myself in just to get the damned first load of boxes safely out of my car!

Not to be defeated, I turned and trudged back, against the biting wind.  I stepped off the curb, hitched the heavy packages up, lost my balance and slammed my hip in to the car.  Ouch.  Double Damn.  I had already decided that I wouldn't brave the trunk again, and opened the passenger car door.  Only I opened it from the wrong side.  It bounced in to me and then slammed shut.  I shuffled past and tried again.  As I swung the door open, the packages began to fall and I pitched forward in an effort to have them land on the seat and not the ground.

Thankfully, I won the skirmish.  Standing up and smiling, I straightened my shirt and turned, to look in to the faces of all the people staring at me in their idling cars.  The smile faded from my lips.  Damn. Damn. Damn.  I thought to myself, if I had been watching that episode play out, I would have been torn between hysterical laughter and embarrassment for the poor bloke.  And then it hit me - Damn.  It's me.  And that's exactly what these people were doing.

A Strong Dose of Successful - More Powerful than Espresso

Sitting as patiently as possible during Voir Dire as the judge rattled off the names of potential witnesses, I tried earnestly to pay attention to the names.  As he wrapped up, he looked at us all sitting in various positions in the jury box and the additional seating.

"Did anyone recognize any of the names I read?"  The judge, a Gary Sinise look-alike, asked.

Four hands raised amidst the faces and heads I could see.  It was library-quiet and difficult to keep my growling stomach from loudly protesting the lack of nourishment.  As each of the hand-raisers had a turn at describing the potential association with a particular witness, I noticed that I was not the only person in the room waging an all-out battle against boredom and drowsiness.  No one seemed that particularly interested in the proceedings.

Finally, the judge came to a well-groomed, good looking younger gentlemen sitting in one of the bench rows to my left.

"Juror number twenty-seven.  Did you recognize one or more of the names I read out?"

"Yes."  The well-put man answered.

"Which one?"

The man then proceeded to list off every doctor's name the judge had called out.

"And how do you know these doctors?"

"I work with them. And two of them are very close friends of mine."  I noticed several of the courtroom's occupants look over at Juror 27.

"Do you feel like this could cloud your judgment should you be chosen to serve as a juror today?"

"With two of them, yes; I trust them implicitly."

The judge nodded.  "And may I ask what you do for a living?"

"Certainly.  I'm a plastic surgeon."

And just like that, the courtroom came alive as every woman in attendance collectively exclaimed, "Ooohhhh."

Bless Her Heart

Tired one night, I traipsed in to the local supermarket to purchase some things for a quick dinner.  Spying the Starbucks, I found myself inexplicably drawn to purchase a chai on my way out.

As I approached the counter, a lady in Starbucks attire and a bad 80's perm moved to the register.  I noticed two teens standing a bit behind her, also in uniform, as well as two additional young people standing off to my left, obviously market employees and even-more apparent, obviously acquaintances of the Starbucks employees to some extent.

"Well, hi," began the lady with more roots than an aspen grove in the thickest southern accent I have ever heard, "how ya'll doin' tonight?"

I stopped digging in my wallet long enough to glance around.  Nope.  Just me.  I began searching for my debit card again. "I'm fabulous, thank you."

Being from the south, I realize that certain words I say do sound very Texan, such as 'thank you' and 'my'.  And like fine wine and good cheese, the Southern Drawl tends to grow more prevalent as it ages.  So I'm sure at this point in our conversation, it became evident that I may just hale from south of the Mason-Dixon line.

"What can I get ya'll?"  She didn't back off the twang.

 I took another quick look about me.  "There's only one of me, hon, and if you keep saying "ya'll", I'm going to become self-conscious about my weight."  I smiled up at her to find a very irritated fake Southerner from the 80's glaring back at me while brandishing a plastic cup, pen poised at the ready.  "Um, I'll have a venti non-fat, extra hot chai, please."

The teens behind her moved off to join their friends at the end of the counter.  I distinctly heard the sound of snickering.

"Alright.  Will that be it for ya'll?"  She drawled intentionally.

This is one of my greatest pet peeves.  While I understand the enticement of the Southern drawl and mannerisms, I do not tolerate the fake accent.  This really pisses me off.  I directly met her gaze.

"Where are you from?"  I asked, not even trying to sound polite.  That point had passed a good three "ya'lls" ago.  I'm pretty sure she had no doubt now about another southern trait I'm in possession of: attitude.

"Georgia."  She laid it in on thick at this point.  I felt my eyebrow draw dangerously close to my hairline.  I think my nostrils flared.  My expression must have relayed my challenge, because she quickly added: "Well, I'm actually from here, but I've spent the last 15 years in Georgia."

Okay, this wasn't some young'un that had grown up in our dear sweet peach pit and had adopted the accent as speech developed; this was a grown-ass woman, some years older than me that was trying to impress all the Coloradans who love some good ol' Southern hospitality.

I couldn't seem to help myself any longer.  "You do know then, that a true Southerner would never call one person 'ya'll'.  One person in the south is 'hon'.  That's spelled H-O-N, by the way.  Only when you have two or more people does the term become 'ya'll'."

I did manage to regain my self control before adding that it was pronounced either "yaw" or "yawl".

She held out my cup and I smiled, brandishing all of my teeth, as I took it from her.  I briefly glanced at the kids that had witnessed this exchange then back at her before saying, "Ya'll have a good night, now, ya' hear?"

Casting the First Stone

As construction continued on in to its fourth month, we worked diligently to focus on getting things accomplished amidst the noise, the debris and the continual stream of workers coming in and out.

Sitting down at my cube one morning, I heard the entry door within the panel of plate glass windows on my right begin to shake and an irritating pounding set to rhythm.  I knew that across the large bullpen, the development group was meeting, so I decided to see who was attempting to gain access.

As I stood up and moved towards the door, I saw this scruffy, homeless-looking man in raggedy camo jacket and really bad haven't-been-combed-since-the-seventies hair looking in to one of the engineers in this meeting and waving at him as he continued to jerk on the locked door.

Still having not seen me standing to his left, this guy smiles a broad, toothless grin - seriously, all of the top front-facing row had been lost to the abyss oh so long ago - and looking directly at the engineer, the (obvious) construction worker says: "Yeah, come open the door, you dumb mother fucker."

I stopped short in my steps, appalled beyond function at the blatant irony of the situation.  So, outside we had an ill-mannered vagrant attempting to repeatedly try to open a locked door while proclaiming profanities that he didn't think could be heard at a successful, obviously intelligent man comfortably ensconced in a warm, protected environment where he earns what can only be assumed as a good living.

In all honesty, who should be calling who a 'dumb mother fucker'?

Seeing Things Differently

Groggily schlepping out to the car for the morning commute, I busied myself trying to find something other than radio commercials to entertain me.  I happened upon this soothing voice and proceeded to zone out as I made my way to the coffee shop.

As she droned on about her rags to riches story, I heard her say:

"...and in that terrified moment, as I looked down the barrel of the gun pointed directly at my forehead..."

Uh...wait.  What?  Where exactly are your eyes located ma'am?

Monday Morning Mashup

Finding myself patiently sitting in a crowded medical waiting room on Monday morning, I sat staring blankly at a spot just off from the blaring television.  D sat in much the same position on my left.  The lobby area was packed with folks waiting for outpatient procedures or for the patients themselves.

Having had a long night of no sleep and no food or drink, I was less than animated and had been sitting in a fugue state for over an hour when an upcoming broadcast announcement hacked through my fog.

"Fatal crash this morning in Parker.  Happened last night.  Details at ten."  The newscaster boomed.

I blinked as my brain tried to work the calculation to no avail.  I turned to D.

"Wow, that must have been some accident this morning if it happened last night."

Fruit and Alcohol Don't Mix

My man and I decided to drop in to the local Friday's restaurant for some nosh and drinks one Sunday.  The bartender - a lanky, young kid - came over to take our drink order, obviously distracted by his bro who was killing time in front of the game on t.v.

He slipped a couple napkins haphazardly on the table while calling a response over his shoulder then gingerly asked what we'd like.  D ordered his usual tall beer and I decided to try the new blackberry margarita being advertised.

After a bit, he came back over to drop off our drinks and get our order.  While D began selecting a couple appetizers, I noticed that my drink wasn't correct.

"Oh, hon, I don't like salt.  Can you remake that?"

"Oh?"  He seemed thoroughly confused for a moment.  "Okay, sure.  Sorry about that."

As he went to grab the glass, my brain was still calculating the discrepancies.  "Wait...that looks green.  Didn't I order the blackberry?"  I looked to D to make sure I'd actually said my order out loud.  I'm never all that sure that communication between my brain and my vocal mechanism is working properly.
He nodded in confirmation.

The bartender pushed the drink back towards me.  "No, you ordered a regular margarita."

"No I didn't.  I said 'your new blackberry margarita'."  I pushed the small glass back towards him.

He waved as if dismissing the concern.  "No bother," he proclaimed gleefully.  "It's a quick fix, all I have to do is pour some blackberry syrup in it.  I'll be right back."

That made me visibly cringe, but I decided to take the safer approach.  "And, take off the salt.  So you might need to remake it."  Hint hint, dude.  You're gonna have to use a new glass.

"Oh, no.  It'll be fine."  He called as he walked off towards his bar cum chemistry set.

Lovely, I thought and raised my eyebrows at D.  He just shook his head and turned his attention back to the game.

Sooner than expected, a cloudy kinda pink, kinda sickly green drink appeared in front of me.  I turned it around in my hands wondering just what this dude was thinking.

"See?  No problem."  He beamed at me and patiently waited for me to try it.  Joy.

I squared my shoulders and braved a sip.  Immediately, I was overcome with a shudder that went from my mouth down to my knees.  An automatic, guttural sound of disgust poured from my lips.

D chuckled, garnering a quick WTF look from yours truly.

"What?  Is the syrup too much?"  The barkinder asked.

No, dude.  It is NOT too much.  That's not the friggin' problem.  "Um, no.  You can't make a regular margarita, cake the rim and the surface with flake salt, then pour thick, sugary syrup in it."  I tried to reign in my attitude, but in retrospect I realize that it most likely wasn't working.  "You're going to have to remake it."

"So, it is too much."

"What?  No.  It's not the syrup.  It's the everything."  I pushed the glass at him once more, completely grossed out by the fruit-flavored salty lime juice I'd been served.  "Can you just make a new blackberry margarita for me, please?"

"So, you don't like the blackberry?"

The wheels of my mind stopped abruptly, causing my mouth to hang slightly open.  I felt my intellect seep from me like an out-of-body experience, seeing it peer down at me with pity from somewhere high above.

Struck dumb and staring in some twisted Mexican standoff, I briefly wondered which one of us would regain our wits quicker, subconsciously aware that it would be me.  And although not 100% positive, I vaguely remember D re-ordering the drink for me to which our bartender finally seemed to understand.

Some Things Are What They Seem

For days now, we have been plagued with visitors attempting to solicit votes for various political figures in the upcoming election.

Last night, while cleaning up from dinner, the doorbell rang and immediately set off our second-line of defense: hyper-active and very vocal dogs.  Leaving the man on dish-duty, I moved about the excited dogs and cracked open the front door.

A young, tiny, beaming girl stood on the porch cradling a clip-board.  She cheerily greeted me and introduced herself along with her organization.  "I'm wondering if I could speak to Harold, please?"

"Harold?  No, I'm sorry; You have the wrong address.  I guess that man no longer lives here."

I closed the door and headed back in to the kitchen.

"Who was that?"  He was still diligently scrubbing.

"Some political solicitor.  You know, I think we need a "No Soliciting" sign.  They've been coming around a lot.  But they're asking for some dude named Harold, so it gives me an easy-out."  I smiled broadly at him.

The look that passed between us elongated into an almost awkward moment.  "Unless," I began, "they are asking for Jerald but think that since your first name is spelled with a J, you're hispanic and they're trying to respectfully pronounce it correctly."

Our abrupt laughter scared the dogs.

Never Know What You're Capable Of

Because of some serious, recurring neck issues, I had been referred for an EMG of my upper body.  Now, for those of you who are not familiar with the terminology, an EMG is essentially where a licensed Medical Doctor first conducts electricity through your body then literally injects it by way of what can only be described as a knitting needle.

Having previously heard horror stories about this procedure, I originally chickened out of it five months before; however, it had become necessary to provide a "nerve mapping" to the surgeon.  I decided I'd go alone reasoning that if I were to flop around on the table like a frog in a lab, I wasn't all that keen on witnesses.

The discomfort of the electric shock was prevalent but bearable.  The needle, drenched in throbbing electricity and moved about within my muscles, was not.  The further the doctor went up towards my achy neck, the worse the pain got.  At one point I believe I used a rather offensive expletive.  Rather loudly.  But I can't be sure.

Once done, I reached for my cell phone, desperately needing someone to vent to.  Having sufficiently whined to my step-mother, she then handed the phone over to my father.

He got on the phone in his usual cheery disposition.  "Started confessing to the murders and where the bodies were buried and they didn't even know there were bodies, huh?"

"Yeah."  I sniffled.  "Hell, Dad, until he stuck that needle in my neck, I didn't even know there were bodies."

It's Texting - Relatively Speaking...

Working diligently in front of the television one night, my phone chimed off notifying me of a text message.  It was my niece.

Niece: What r u doing?

Me: Working.  What's up honey?

Niece:  Nuthin.  Bored.

Me:  Are you at work?

Niece: Yah.  Inventory.  I'll b here all nite.

Me:  You got plans this weekend?

Niece:  Maybe.  Dunno.  Got school on Saturday tho.

We texted back and forth for quite a while, with longer and longer delays between her responses as she worked.  Towards the wee hours, I finally decided to quit working and call it a night.

In the morning, I got up to find that my niece had responded to me while I slept.  I figured I'd better acknowledge her response and subsequent question.

Me:  Sorry about that, honey.  I fell asleep.  Yes, we'll be home this weekend if you want to come by.

Niece (several hours later): Who is this?

Seriously?