So I turned 38, like almost exactly 2 weeks ago. That means I am not in my mid thirties anymore. I think it is official. But I got carded twice today. Once for ciggarettes and once for beer. I think they were fucking with me. Didn't happen at the liquor store. Probably cuz they know me. See me all the time. What does that tell you?
So on my birthday Osama Bin Laden died. Heavy, I know. Justice, I am pretty sure. Like a birthday present from the President to me. I remember 9/11 vividly. My sober, but drug attled at the time mind, remembers. Porn was found in his room when the invasion/assasination happened. What does that tell you?
So the world is a very strange and fucked up place. Who does not realize that? Gas prices out the roof! Unemployment crazy high! Middle East melting down. Hunger, addiction, sickness, and sadness rampent! What does that tell you?
Husband and young friend are playing guitars. I don't know any of the words. Husband remembers very little of what he used to play all the time. I request all kinds of shit and rememeber NO words. What does that tell you?
So my sister is having a baby. She is 35, almost 36, hypertensive, and due to deliver in August. Her daughter, 19 and single, is due to deliver any time. I am very close to being a great aunt and an aunt again. I can't have any more babies. I am at once very happy about that and kind of sad. No future as a mommy blogger for me. Maybe a grand-mommy blogger, but not a mommy blogger. My youngest child is very quickly approaching her 17th birthday. Middle child is 19. Oldest is very quickly approaching his 21st birthday. What does that tell you?
Life is fleeting. Most especially if you are a terrorist or a parent!
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Hug Your Babies
So a kid I know hung himself today. Or last night. But is the exact time really relevant? And I guess he really wasn't a kid. He was at least 18, maybe 19. He graduated from high school last spring. Same time as my middle child, just a different little school down the road. He had dated both my daughters, one a few years ago, the younger as recently as last August. He was beautiful. Really, I mean beautiful. Could have been a model. Had no problem getting the girls. His father adored him. His stepmother adored him A really neat kid turning into a really neat man. Very well mannered. Going to school to be a fireman and an EMT. But somehow life became too much for him to endure. Very, very sad situation. Praying for his family. Realizing how lucky I am. My kids are still here. Still able to hear me yell at them. Maybe I should take life a little easier and ease up on my kids. Rest in peace Ryan McBride and peace be with those that loved you.
Wednesday, November 03, 2010
Method to Her Madness - Nanowrimo
So this is where I am at so far:
So the bar was dark and quiet. It was Monday and raining. And it was the Monday after Halloween and really everyone must be partied out and staying home. Because there was only a hand full of folks in the bar. A few regulars, the Norms and Cliff Clavins. And her. And him. She wasn't really sure what brought her to the bar that night. Restlessness. Boredom. Loneliness. Dollar Coronas and Monday night football.
She was already there when he came in. He sat at the bar too. Just a few seats away. He was wet from the rain and crazy eyed from something else. He had probably been a good looking guy back when he still slept and ate. Before he had turned. And no, he was not a vampire. Another class of walking dead though. The meth head. The lifer. The tweaker. Probably a cook, for a faint chemical whiff came off him when he shrugged off his jacket. Looked like he was missing a few teeth too. And missing part of his soul. You could still see the traces of a once handsome man in him.
But he was hungry and thirsty so maybe he was out.
She recognized the look too easily. She shuddered with memories of the madness. She too had been withered and wild eyed. She knew exactly what it was like to be in the monster's clutches and willing to sell your soul for the vapor and the pipe. She had not been clean so long she did not remember. Forever was not long enough to forget.
She wondered what he had sold for the vapor, for the high, for the madness. How many people had he hurt or killed? She knew as certain as the cook's smell that clung to him that there was blood somewhere too. He either screwed someone over, got them addicted, sold them some bad shit or just freaked out. But there was death behind him too. Somehow she knew.
She had blood on her hands. It would never be washed away. No amount of years clean or mentoring newly sobers or repentance or any of that bullshit could wash it away. It ate away at her and what remained of her soul. She hated herself and she hated him.
So she was even surprised when she sat closer to him when she came back from the restroom. She asked to bum a cigarette and light. She had not smoked cigarettes in years either. What was she doing?
He obliged and even lit the Camel light for her. There was a remnant of a gentleman left in him it appeared. Soon she was making small talk and he once again obliged. They talked about the weather, Halloween, and Monday night football. He bought her another Corona and asked about her. She explained she was new in town. New student at the university. Grad school and graduate assistant teacher. She was from a town a couple of hours down the highway. What about him? He said he was a mechanic. Had been in sales for years and got tired of the bullshit. Said he was divorced. Grown kids and a couple of grandkids back in Colorado. He had moved back to his home town after the divorce and moved into his parents old place after they retired to nursing homes then the sweet respite of death.
Although she was certain she had pegged him correctly as a meth cook and devil's servant there was something soft and intriguing about him. Perhaps she was seeing some of the man that came before his descent into madness. There was more to the story she knew but he was not ready to share as she was holding back the bulk of her story too.
They chatted on about everything and nothing, watched Monday night football, and drank and smoked some more. She was getting a pretty good Corona/Camel buzz when the game ended. She knew she should get going. She had an afternoon class to prepare for the next day and a paper she was working on. But for some reason she could not make the break. But he could. It was after all very much past time for another fix for him. So he asked for the check and insisted on paying hers too. How gallant to pay a strange lady's bar tab with blood money. So when he asked for her number she knew it was insane but felt she had to give it to him. He said how very nice it was to meet her and how very nice it would be to see her again. Would it be alright if he called her and asked her out? Again, she knew it was crazy but could not say no. They walked out together and he shook her hand and bid her be careful saying he would call her soon. She didn't think he would.
She could not get him out of her head on the drive home. Was it him or the smell and promise of drugs that clung to him. No, it was not the drugs. She had been clean for five years and the thought of that poison made her want to puke. But what was it?
She drove home after perhaps a few too many but made it safely. There was however no way she was going to get any work done so she soaked in a bubble bath and thought the evening over. What had come over her?
She crawled in bed and turned on the television with the volume down low on the tail end of Letterman. Naked and clean against the fresh cool sheets she felt aroused like she had not been in years. Sex and those stirrings were something she left behind with the pipe. But damn it to hell if her body wasn't talking to her now. Soon her hand slid to her crotch and she masturbated to images of what he might have been before: handsome, caring, charming, successful, and sober. She had her first orgasm in five years and it felt good. She passed out as Craig Ferguson said his monologue.
The alarm sounded all too soon and she felt the tale tale thuds of a hangover as she slapped the alarm. She staggered to the shower and stood for a very long time with the hot water pouring over her. What in the world had gotten in to her? Talking to a strange man, giving him her number, masturbating herself asleep. She immediately felt dirty and guilty. And very alive and very sexy. This was dangerous and this was scary. Shame swept over her as she stepped out of the shower and she vowed not to answer his calls. And not to go back to the bar.
So the bar was dark and quiet. It was Monday and raining. And it was the Monday after Halloween and really everyone must be partied out and staying home. Because there was only a hand full of folks in the bar. A few regulars, the Norms and Cliff Clavins. And her. And him. She wasn't really sure what brought her to the bar that night. Restlessness. Boredom. Loneliness. Dollar Coronas and Monday night football.
She was already there when he came in. He sat at the bar too. Just a few seats away. He was wet from the rain and crazy eyed from something else. He had probably been a good looking guy back when he still slept and ate. Before he had turned. And no, he was not a vampire. Another class of walking dead though. The meth head. The lifer. The tweaker. Probably a cook, for a faint chemical whiff came off him when he shrugged off his jacket. Looked like he was missing a few teeth too. And missing part of his soul. You could still see the traces of a once handsome man in him.
But he was hungry and thirsty so maybe he was out.
She recognized the look too easily. She shuddered with memories of the madness. She too had been withered and wild eyed. She knew exactly what it was like to be in the monster's clutches and willing to sell your soul for the vapor and the pipe. She had not been clean so long she did not remember. Forever was not long enough to forget.
She wondered what he had sold for the vapor, for the high, for the madness. How many people had he hurt or killed? She knew as certain as the cook's smell that clung to him that there was blood somewhere too. He either screwed someone over, got them addicted, sold them some bad shit or just freaked out. But there was death behind him too. Somehow she knew.
She had blood on her hands. It would never be washed away. No amount of years clean or mentoring newly sobers or repentance or any of that bullshit could wash it away. It ate away at her and what remained of her soul. She hated herself and she hated him.
So she was even surprised when she sat closer to him when she came back from the restroom. She asked to bum a cigarette and light. She had not smoked cigarettes in years either. What was she doing?
He obliged and even lit the Camel light for her. There was a remnant of a gentleman left in him it appeared. Soon she was making small talk and he once again obliged. They talked about the weather, Halloween, and Monday night football. He bought her another Corona and asked about her. She explained she was new in town. New student at the university. Grad school and graduate assistant teacher. She was from a town a couple of hours down the highway. What about him? He said he was a mechanic. Had been in sales for years and got tired of the bullshit. Said he was divorced. Grown kids and a couple of grandkids back in Colorado. He had moved back to his home town after the divorce and moved into his parents old place after they retired to nursing homes then the sweet respite of death.
Although she was certain she had pegged him correctly as a meth cook and devil's servant there was something soft and intriguing about him. Perhaps she was seeing some of the man that came before his descent into madness. There was more to the story she knew but he was not ready to share as she was holding back the bulk of her story too.
They chatted on about everything and nothing, watched Monday night football, and drank and smoked some more. She was getting a pretty good Corona/Camel buzz when the game ended. She knew she should get going. She had an afternoon class to prepare for the next day and a paper she was working on. But for some reason she could not make the break. But he could. It was after all very much past time for another fix for him. So he asked for the check and insisted on paying hers too. How gallant to pay a strange lady's bar tab with blood money. So when he asked for her number she knew it was insane but felt she had to give it to him. He said how very nice it was to meet her and how very nice it would be to see her again. Would it be alright if he called her and asked her out? Again, she knew it was crazy but could not say no. They walked out together and he shook her hand and bid her be careful saying he would call her soon. She didn't think he would.
She could not get him out of her head on the drive home. Was it him or the smell and promise of drugs that clung to him. No, it was not the drugs. She had been clean for five years and the thought of that poison made her want to puke. But what was it?
She drove home after perhaps a few too many but made it safely. There was however no way she was going to get any work done so she soaked in a bubble bath and thought the evening over. What had come over her?
She crawled in bed and turned on the television with the volume down low on the tail end of Letterman. Naked and clean against the fresh cool sheets she felt aroused like she had not been in years. Sex and those stirrings were something she left behind with the pipe. But damn it to hell if her body wasn't talking to her now. Soon her hand slid to her crotch and she masturbated to images of what he might have been before: handsome, caring, charming, successful, and sober. She had her first orgasm in five years and it felt good. She passed out as Craig Ferguson said his monologue.
The alarm sounded all too soon and she felt the tale tale thuds of a hangover as she slapped the alarm. She staggered to the shower and stood for a very long time with the hot water pouring over her. What in the world had gotten in to her? Talking to a strange man, giving him her number, masturbating herself asleep. She immediately felt dirty and guilty. And very alive and very sexy. This was dangerous and this was scary. Shame swept over her as she stepped out of the shower and she vowed not to answer his calls. And not to go back to the bar.
Nanowrimo
So I was really, I mean really, gonna try to complete a nanowrimo month this year. I have not told anyone because I did not want to jinx it. But alas, I did anyways. I got all excited thinking I was on target for 3 days in. Planning 2000 words a day. And I realized today I was counting characters not words so I am like 4900 words behind. I feel like a complete dumbass. I suppose the Coronas has something to do with my fucked up count. But, I shall try to catch up over the next few days. I am not defeated yet!
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Reminder to the Mighty - December Great Experiment
I wrote this in September 2005 as I watched continuous CNN coverage of the fall out after hurricane Katrina. Please enjoy my December contribution to The Great Experiment and head to
http://thegirlwho.squarespace.com/ to enjoy Monica's wonderful blog and the rest of this month's entries.
Reminder to the Mighty
Hurrican Katrina unleashed hell on sovereign soil. Is this our retribution for Iraq? For the first time in years the attention of the media is thoroughly trained on something besides the war in Iraq. Unfortunately, that something is somewhat of another war zone. This war zone is not on the other side of the world, but is within our borders, along the Louisiana and Mississippi Gulf Coast. Thousands of Americans have lost their lives and many more are still dying each day.
They say God works in mysterious ways, ways we may not always understand. Is it possible we have become so callous and indifferent to the tragedies in Iraq, that we needed and up close and personal reminder of the hell of war, because the situation in New Orleans is as close to the hell of war as our country has experienced on our own soil in more than a century.
Almost every one of us has been guilty of armchair quarterbacking the Iraqi war, criticizing the actions of our government and troops as well as condemning the violent reactions of the Iraqi people. We have come to view the people of Iraq as uncivilized animals for not bowing at the feet of the soldiers that destroyed their defective civilization and are now trying to build them a better one. Nature destroyed the peace and civilization of the Gulf Coast, not soldiers and bombs. Those there to restore it are local and fellow countrymen, not foreign military. Yet Americans are responding with anarchy and violence against our own.
Should this serve as a huge reality check, perhaps? If the people of the most civilized and mightiest nation on Earth, who have lived a relatively easy and peaceful existence by comparison, are reacting the way Katrina's victims are reacting, how else could we expect the people of Iraq to react to their situation? Human nature, regardless of race, creed, color or country of origin, can be as ugly as it is beautiful.
We are seeing both ends of the spectrum now; beauty in the selfless actions of the police, military and volunteers trying to help hurricane victims, and ugliness in the selfish actions of some of those victims and the price-gouging profiteers. Difficult times such as these truly test human nature, and unfortunately desperation breeds evil as well as good. To that end, we should all be reminded to have compassion for one another, for the rescuers and the victims, and the soldiers and the Iraqis. And regardless of whom you pray to, be it God, as I do, or Allah, or Buddha, or whomever your higher power may be, remember to pray for compassion, patience and understanding as well as for the strength and resources to end the suffering and restore peace here and abroad. Ultimately, we are one people in one world, and sometimes even the mighty need to be rescued.
http://thegirlwho.squarespace.com/ to enjoy Monica's wonderful blog and the rest of this month's entries.
Reminder to the Mighty
Hurrican Katrina unleashed hell on sovereign soil. Is this our retribution for Iraq? For the first time in years the attention of the media is thoroughly trained on something besides the war in Iraq. Unfortunately, that something is somewhat of another war zone. This war zone is not on the other side of the world, but is within our borders, along the Louisiana and Mississippi Gulf Coast. Thousands of Americans have lost their lives and many more are still dying each day.
They say God works in mysterious ways, ways we may not always understand. Is it possible we have become so callous and indifferent to the tragedies in Iraq, that we needed and up close and personal reminder of the hell of war, because the situation in New Orleans is as close to the hell of war as our country has experienced on our own soil in more than a century.
Almost every one of us has been guilty of armchair quarterbacking the Iraqi war, criticizing the actions of our government and troops as well as condemning the violent reactions of the Iraqi people. We have come to view the people of Iraq as uncivilized animals for not bowing at the feet of the soldiers that destroyed their defective civilization and are now trying to build them a better one. Nature destroyed the peace and civilization of the Gulf Coast, not soldiers and bombs. Those there to restore it are local and fellow countrymen, not foreign military. Yet Americans are responding with anarchy and violence against our own.
Should this serve as a huge reality check, perhaps? If the people of the most civilized and mightiest nation on Earth, who have lived a relatively easy and peaceful existence by comparison, are reacting the way Katrina's victims are reacting, how else could we expect the people of Iraq to react to their situation? Human nature, regardless of race, creed, color or country of origin, can be as ugly as it is beautiful.
We are seeing both ends of the spectrum now; beauty in the selfless actions of the police, military and volunteers trying to help hurricane victims, and ugliness in the selfish actions of some of those victims and the price-gouging profiteers. Difficult times such as these truly test human nature, and unfortunately desperation breeds evil as well as good. To that end, we should all be reminded to have compassion for one another, for the rescuers and the victims, and the soldiers and the Iraqis. And regardless of whom you pray to, be it God, as I do, or Allah, or Buddha, or whomever your higher power may be, remember to pray for compassion, patience and understanding as well as for the strength and resources to end the suffering and restore peace here and abroad. Ultimately, we are one people in one world, and sometimes even the mighty need to be rescued.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Method to My Madness
It was fall. Warm days, cool nights. Life was good, bills were paid. Married a couple of years and yet still maddeningly in love, honeymoon style, for the most part. We had wonderful, well behaved, well adjusted kids. A nicely blended family of five, all survivors of previous marital failure. We had family, jobs, intelligence, love, sex, friends, security. Sweet happiness. We had what so many strive for yet so many piss away every day. What the fuck was I thinking? I still wonder.
It was not his first time. I knew this. I had seen him do it before and I did not like it. I was scared so I did not participate. Scared because my Nanny said the stuff could kill you. Scared because I could see another heart attack in my 27 year old husband's future. Yes, another. The first was cocaine. Before us. And I just knew meth would surely blow up that heart that poured so much sweet love my way.
I yelled, I cried. I begged and pleaded. "Surely, you'll die!" I screamed. "My Nanny said!"
But, I had seen him and our friends snort lines a few times right before my very eyes and they were all still very much alive. Every time they did they just laughed and had a good time, had the energy to party well after I had gone down. Maybe Nanny was wrong. After all, she did have me convinced motorcycles were murdercycles until I was 10. Nanny might be wrong.
Maybe a little, just this once would not hurt.
Nothing good ever comes from that phrase. Nothing! Listen to your Nannys, Mimmies, and Grannys people!
So it was a Friday night in the fall, some years ago. The kids were all at their other parents for the weekend, and we had a few friends over. We were sitting around the kitchen table, playing cards, and catching up. We smoked a little weed. I did love me some gateway! And drank a little beer. You know, a usual Friday night. (And no, Nanny did not approve of weed, but she had not scared the bajeezzas out of me about weed.)
Someone pulled out that little baggie and broke out a mirror and I joined the madness. I leaned over the table and took my turn at the short straw. Sucking that chunky, crystal-ly powder right up my nose like I knew what I was doing. Holy hell, the burn. It burned like crazy when it hit my sinus cavity. My eyes watered and I almost cried. What the hell had I done? This hurts. And then the drip. The bitter, aspirin, borax like slow drain down the back of my throat. Yuck. But awesome. I started to rev up. My temperature rose and I soared. I chain smoked like I was mad. We laughed and talked, sometimes all at once. All night long! I sounded like Janis Joplin, all sexy voiced from smoking and rahrah-ing for hours. Our friends departed at dawn and we settled in for hours of beautiful conversation and wild, uninhibited , crazy sex. It was like falling in love, my first time was. I was nervous and excited and anxious for the next time.
I did not know I was falling in love with an abusive prick. Crystallized evil. The devil come powder. Meth harrassed me and stalked me for years, just like an abusive lover. Rarely giving me the pure pleasure it had that first time. Truthfully, never did again. What the fuck was I thinking?
After too many miserable and embarrassing, awful lost years to admit, we finally shook the soul sucking hold it had on us and have been clean two and a half years. Amazingly, the family is still intact. Scarred and forever changed. Not so innocent. But still together and building back the everything we almost destroyed.
Just say no. Some things just should not be fucked with. Like the serpent in the garden.
Go to http://thegirlwho.squarespace.com/ and check out all the other Great Experiment entries as well as Monica's awesome blog!
It was not his first time. I knew this. I had seen him do it before and I did not like it. I was scared so I did not participate. Scared because my Nanny said the stuff could kill you. Scared because I could see another heart attack in my 27 year old husband's future. Yes, another. The first was cocaine. Before us. And I just knew meth would surely blow up that heart that poured so much sweet love my way.
I yelled, I cried. I begged and pleaded. "Surely, you'll die!" I screamed. "My Nanny said!"
But, I had seen him and our friends snort lines a few times right before my very eyes and they were all still very much alive. Every time they did they just laughed and had a good time, had the energy to party well after I had gone down. Maybe Nanny was wrong. After all, she did have me convinced motorcycles were murdercycles until I was 10. Nanny might be wrong.
Maybe a little, just this once would not hurt.
Nothing good ever comes from that phrase. Nothing! Listen to your Nannys, Mimmies, and Grannys people!
So it was a Friday night in the fall, some years ago. The kids were all at their other parents for the weekend, and we had a few friends over. We were sitting around the kitchen table, playing cards, and catching up. We smoked a little weed. I did love me some gateway! And drank a little beer. You know, a usual Friday night. (And no, Nanny did not approve of weed, but she had not scared the bajeezzas out of me about weed.)
Someone pulled out that little baggie and broke out a mirror and I joined the madness. I leaned over the table and took my turn at the short straw. Sucking that chunky, crystal-ly powder right up my nose like I knew what I was doing. Holy hell, the burn. It burned like crazy when it hit my sinus cavity. My eyes watered and I almost cried. What the hell had I done? This hurts. And then the drip. The bitter, aspirin, borax like slow drain down the back of my throat. Yuck. But awesome. I started to rev up. My temperature rose and I soared. I chain smoked like I was mad. We laughed and talked, sometimes all at once. All night long! I sounded like Janis Joplin, all sexy voiced from smoking and rahrah-ing for hours. Our friends departed at dawn and we settled in for hours of beautiful conversation and wild, uninhibited , crazy sex. It was like falling in love, my first time was. I was nervous and excited and anxious for the next time.
I did not know I was falling in love with an abusive prick. Crystallized evil. The devil come powder. Meth harrassed me and stalked me for years, just like an abusive lover. Rarely giving me the pure pleasure it had that first time. Truthfully, never did again. What the fuck was I thinking?
After too many miserable and embarrassing, awful lost years to admit, we finally shook the soul sucking hold it had on us and have been clean two and a half years. Amazingly, the family is still intact. Scarred and forever changed. Not so innocent. But still together and building back the everything we almost destroyed.
Just say no. Some things just should not be fucked with. Like the serpent in the garden.
Go to http://thegirlwho.squarespace.com/ and check out all the other Great Experiment entries as well as Monica's awesome blog!
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Snake Charmer
It was about ten at night when my mother came through the front door to our dark little house. I was five, my sister three, and we were sleepily stumbling behind her as she carried my brother, nine months old. My Dad was at work, the graveyard shift. Anyways, we were used to it. Mom was not a scaredy cat about being alone at night with just us kids. She was a real trooper, except when it came to SNAKES. To this day the woman will flip smooth the fuck out at the sight of any snake, even a teeny tiny green garden snake or a big earth worm. Mom will start screaming while hyperventilating while clumsily retreating when she sees a snake. I mean screaming like a mad woman with a crazy, psycho, contorted expression on her face while drunkenly running for her life. I have always been worried she would have a heart attack or stroke and fall over dead during one of these snake fits. Its painful and scary to witness and if snakes don’t scare you, her fits sure will.
But we were kind of used to these fits too because the house we lived in was old and had lots of places snakes could come in through. This happened a lot. However, snakes really should have been the least of their worries as the house was clad in awesome asbestos siding! Anyways, a few months before my mom had found a snake skin under my brothers crib, left behind by a fairly large molting snake. I’m really surprised she did not insist we move then, but she soldiered on a little longer.
Until that fateful night Mom flipped on the dining/living room light and spotted the snake under the china cabinet. And the fit commenced. She shoved the three of us to the other side of the room and ran to the kitchen where she grabbed the fully loaded knife block. She came exploding back into the dining area and started hurling knives at the snake like some crazy ass carnival act. The snake was coiled up and probably scared shitless. Not once did she hit it with about fifteen knives. So then, screaming the whole time, she grabbed the .22 rifle out of the corner where it stood with other loaded guns. (Hey, I’m from East Texas, need I say more?) Mom proceeded to unload the gun, probably 9 bullets, at the snake under the china cabinet. Finally it was dead. She left it where it lay and shaking like a leaf she scooped us up and hustled us out the door and back to grandma’s where we stayed til we found a new place to live, sans snakes.
The china and the cabinet were not harmed. In fact, I have the cabinet in my bedroom now, with my loaded 410 shot gun leaned up against it. Just in case. I learned from my momma about knife chunkin’, gun shootin’, and snake killin’!
Check out the GREAT EXPERIMENT and Monica's fabulous blog at: http://thegirlwho.squarespace.com/
But we were kind of used to these fits too because the house we lived in was old and had lots of places snakes could come in through. This happened a lot. However, snakes really should have been the least of their worries as the house was clad in awesome asbestos siding! Anyways, a few months before my mom had found a snake skin under my brothers crib, left behind by a fairly large molting snake. I’m really surprised she did not insist we move then, but she soldiered on a little longer.
Until that fateful night Mom flipped on the dining/living room light and spotted the snake under the china cabinet. And the fit commenced. She shoved the three of us to the other side of the room and ran to the kitchen where she grabbed the fully loaded knife block. She came exploding back into the dining area and started hurling knives at the snake like some crazy ass carnival act. The snake was coiled up and probably scared shitless. Not once did she hit it with about fifteen knives. So then, screaming the whole time, she grabbed the .22 rifle out of the corner where it stood with other loaded guns. (Hey, I’m from East Texas, need I say more?) Mom proceeded to unload the gun, probably 9 bullets, at the snake under the china cabinet. Finally it was dead. She left it where it lay and shaking like a leaf she scooped us up and hustled us out the door and back to grandma’s where we stayed til we found a new place to live, sans snakes.
The china and the cabinet were not harmed. In fact, I have the cabinet in my bedroom now, with my loaded 410 shot gun leaned up against it. Just in case. I learned from my momma about knife chunkin’, gun shootin’, and snake killin’!
Check out the GREAT EXPERIMENT and Monica's fabulous blog at: http://thegirlwho.squarespace.com/
Friday, September 25, 2009
The Fashionista and the Banana
Embarrassing moments?? Where do I start? I know they started earlier, those character building moments, but this is my first most vivid recollection. Fifth grade, kings of the elementary, the coolest, oldest kids at the school. First week and I was styling high on my coolness, wearing a fitted black jumpsuit with awesome red piping around the cap sleeves, collar, and down the edge of the button down front. (It was the 80's) I felt all grown up. It fit perfectly but made me look even ganglier than I was. As usual my waist length red hair was flyaway but my little black mini wedge heels, almost flats, were super slick. So as I approached the cafeteria window to return my empty lunch tray I was feeling ever so cool, walking tall, walking proud. Until I wasn't. A freaking banana peel was in my path and combined with my slick shoes, I had no chance. One minute I was a fashionista queen of elementary prancing across the crowded cafeteria, and the next I was lying flat on my back in banana sludge and corn juice. Thank goodness I had eaten my tray clean. My head and ass slammed hard against the tile floor. It hurt good, but I did not cry. I held my tears and of course jumped up quick, checking to see if anyone else had seen me. And of course, they had. Even in a loud cafeteria the sound of my thick melamine tray and silver, not to mention my head, hitting the tiles made everyone turn and look. And then bust out laughing. Luckily, my skull, if not my dignity, was still intact.
I could never wear that jumpsuit again without reliving that day. But I did live and those moments just keep coming.
Check out the Great Experiment and these embarrassing moments as well as The Girl Who, an awesome blog:
http://thegirlwho.squarespace.com/
I could never wear that jumpsuit again without reliving that day. But I did live and those moments just keep coming.
Check out the Great Experiment and these embarrassing moments as well as The Girl Who, an awesome blog:
http://thegirlwho.squarespace.com/
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