Death called while you were out, so I gave him your cell number.

Now if you want to get to heaven

Let me tell you what to do

You better grease your foot up buddy

With that ol' mutton stew

And when the devil comes at you

With them greasy hands

You just slide on over to the promised land

Since The Last Time, (Somebody Died) ~ Lyle Lovett

So, they buried Betty Sue this week.

Sitting at the graveside, slapping away an in-laws roving hands, I started thinking: Well, this sucks.

I do not want a quiet and tasteful funeral. I want a loud, bawdy funeral. Alcohol is a must. Loud music. Police called. That's how I want to go out.

And here is the playlist:

Spirit In The Sky - Martin Greenbaum

Magic Carpet Ride - Steppenwolf

Don't Fear The Reaper - Blue Oyster Cult

Church - Lyle Lovett

Since The Last Time, (Somebody Died)- Lyle Lovett

Baby Got Back - Sir Mix-Alot

And, as they lower me in to the ground......

Queen's Another One Bites The Dust.

Then I want everyone to pile into various taxicabs (drinking and driving? Not at my funeral buddy) and hit the town.

I think, for this occasion, we should rent out the Hunt Club. I mean really, how much could it be? Hire a zydeco band, BBQ and steaks and something nice and veggie for Pet.

And an open bar.

And smoking.

Lots and lots of smoking.

Except around Vidi. She is seriously allergic, whole face swells up. Cut her some slack and give her a seat by a window.

Tell the real stories. The laugh so hard you wet yourself stuff. Like the time I got drunk and tried to cop a feel off a cop, ( I STILL think his ass looked fine in those stretchly little beige britches) or even the time when my date was on America's Most Wanted. Seriously, we are at dinner, my mom is home watching him. Not good.

And of course, Sweetboy will have to tell the story about Mother's Day and the sunglasses.

Maybe someone will start a conga line. I'd like that.

Dress code is optional. Come naked if you want. Wear a red dress or flip flops. Hell, won't bug me. I'll be dead.

Speaking of which, I don't care what you bury me in but my feet better be in Vans. I know they don't put shoes on dead people but by god if they can put Clarence Thomas on the Supreme Court, they can put shoes on me.

(FYI - I still believe Anita Hill - just sayin'.)

I remember a t-shirt once that said, "Live your life in such a way that the preacher doesn't have to lie at your funeral."

As for me, I want him to have to lie his ass off.

Fighting Ire with Ire

IMPORTANT: This email is intended for the use of the individual addressee(s) named above and may contain information that is confidential privileged or unsuitable for overly sensitive persons with low self-esteem, no sense of humor or irrational political beliefs. If you are not the intended recipient, any dissemination, distribution or copying of this email is not authorized (either explicitly or implicitly) and constitutes an irritating social fauxpas. No animals were harmed in the transmission of this email, although the mutt next door is living on borrowed time, let me tell you. (my email signature)


Okay, so I have been in a bad mood all week. Today seems like a good day to vent. Get it all out of my system before the new work week begins. So below is my punch list for things that just chapped my ass recently - in no particular order:


The Mussolini Kitten Poster:

There is a poster on the wall in the lobby of my office. This is nothing new as the building owners allow students and local artists to display their work every month. I am all for freedom of expression. Maplethorpe leaves me nauseated but I respect any artist's right to display their work just I treasure my right not to pay to see it.


That being said; this poster is driving me nuts. It is 3' x 4' high with a sunny yellow background and a precious little kitten, (wearing a cowboy hat), sleeping. Underneath this serene image is a quote, "Inaction equals death, Benito Mussolini. "


My first question is, Does this kid have any idea who Mussolini was? What he did? The hundreds of thousands of people he murdered, maimed, tortured and suppressed? I doubt it.


I also don't consider it appropriate for an office building where workers (Il Duce's favorite target by the way) do not have the option of ignoring it.


If you consider it art then put it in a gallery, a museum, anywhere but where I have to look at it every time I step off the elevator.


The Great Pee Debate:

I am walking our brand new dog, Buddy, and Charlie, (the troglodyte disguised as my maintenance man), tells me not to let my dog pee in other people's yards.


Esqueeze me?


Pee? Okay, poop I can understand. Messy, stinky, shoe-ruining. Check. But pee? Come on!

So I protested. He responded with something too stupid for my brain to retain and I walked away.

In a fit of passive-aggressiveness I then proceeded to encourage my dog to pee on each and every yard on our walk and then turned around and let him pee on them again; all in full view of Mr. Charlie.


Troglodyte then started in on my kid, who happened to be driving by at the time, and the last of my patience evaporated. I insulted his manhood, his intelligence and his wardrobe.

He told me I needed to get some.


The Great Pee Debate - Part Deux:

One week later.

My husband, who is gone three out of every four weeks, is now home. My son is outside loading his things into his pickup truck, (A completely different blog - trust me), and who should walk up but the aforementioned troglodyte, live and in a drunk stupor. I mention to my husband that Charlie is outside. "Charlie's outside?" he asks. "I need to have a talk with him."

Score! I think. My man is going to defend my honor. Mind you, I grew up during Second Wave Feminism and do not need a man to defend me. That doesn't mean my heart doesn't do a little jig when he does.

Except, he didn't.

When he came back in from his "little talk", I found out he did not in fact give the man a swift kick, or even a verbal tongue-lashing. Nope.

He gave him..... a job.

Hired him to fix the broken glass in my son's room.

Nice. Way to be loyal there, babe. Wanna guess who's not getting some tonight? Yep, that would be you.

Religion and Politics:

They say you should never discuss religion and politics in polite company. Whoever "they" are, "they" are not related to me by blood nor marriage.

I don't mind a healthy political debate. In fact, I quite enjoy one. Nor do my opinions have to be the dominant ones in the discussion.

My best friend is a Conservative, Baptist, Republican Southerner.

She is also intelligent, well-read, open-minded and reasonable. While we differ on most major points, we do so courteously and with respect for each others input.

Ditto my sister, Vida. Completely different beliefs and we share them with each other all of the time. I learn something, she learns something, life is good.

So why do so many of my conservative friends and family insist on sending me highly inflammatory and insulting emails?

Yes, Dad, I am talking to you.

I will confess I practically worship our new president and I seriously disdained the previous one. I laughed when they made fun of him on late night TV, chuckled at the bumperstickers and t-shirts, and yes, I bought the Out Of Office Countown calendar and put it on my desk.

I did not, however, send the picture of Laura Bush with "I'm with Stupid" emblazened across it to my Republican collegues. Nor did I email them even one of the countless Sarah Palin jokes that, lets face it, were well deserved and often damned funny.

But no more. I am fighting ire with ire. South Carolina republicans alone have given me enough material to piss off my dad for the next year.

So, conservatives be warned, "Don't start nuttin, won't be nuttin." Just sayin'.

Random Extras:

• Rude clerks
• Automated phone trees
• The crazy lady next door who keeps teasing my dog
• Glenn Beck
• Rush Limbaugh
• People who think either of the above actually speak for me
• When Facebook crashes just after I hit my all-time highest Farkle score
• Bill collectors calling my house for people I have never heard of then calling me a liar when I say they have a wrong number
• Tight pantyhose
• Shoes that feel great in the store then hurt your feet when you wear them anywhere else. What have the got, special never-hurt-your-feet carpeting?

Well, I guess that about does it. I feel much better. Thank you.

Epiphany at the Carnicería

(Facebook reply to KimE) Only if it matters to you. Myself, I couldn't care less but then again I am not a southerner and just recently found out I'm a white girl so probably not your best source, lol.
September 1 at 9:45pm ·

So here's the thing; I'm a white-girl. Just found out. Quite the shocker.

Growing up my friends, family, neighbors and schoolmates where predominately Mexican. Not that I knew that, of course. They were just Tony, Adrienne, Mary, Linda, Junior, cousin, aunt, friend.

As I grew older they became best friends and first crushes and then sisters and in-laws and nieces and nephews.

I never felt out of place or different. I didn't realize I was different. Until recently.

My sister Vida lives in a major metropolitan city with a large Latino population. Her husband is Mexican-American.

I went to visit her recently while her husband was out of the country on business. He was due home the next night and was going to make his famous homemade fajitas. The only meat that is acceptable for Mimo's fajitas comes from a small carnicería (Mexican meat shop) on the other side of the city.

Mimo is very protective and insisted Vida and I not go to the carnicería without his son, Cedro, along for our safety. Vida laughed, Cedro rolled his eyes and I was confused, as is often the case. None the less, to humor Mimo, Cedro, Vida, and I piled into the Four-Runner and headed to the market.

You should know that Cedro is over six foot tall; a muscular, exceptionally fit young man, just discharged from the United States Marine Corp where he served a Secret Service detail in Rome, providing protection to, among others, former First Lady Laura Bush and Condoleeza Rice. A mighty impressive personal body guard.

During the thirty minute drive I kept a staunch watch for gang signs, shoes over telephone wires, drive-bys in progress. Anything to tip me off when we were approaching the danger zone.

Nothing. Just nice little suburban neighborhoods.

Finally, we arrive at the carnicería.

No homeless people on the sidewalk, no drunks sleeping in the doorway. Just everyday people getting the shopping done.

Cedro requested the marinated flank steak in his born-and-raised-in-Texas Spanish while I wandered about the store, smiling at the items I hadn't seen since I was a kid living in southern Cali. The giant pink cookies I used to pick up on the way to school, pinatas hanging from the ceiling, (what was once the domain of small farm animals and cookie cutter shapes has apparently been taken over by the likes of Hannah Montana and Dora The Explorer), Orange Crush in the bottle. Starfruit. Lowrider magazine.

I felt completely at home.

We loaded up our cart, paid for our items and, as we crossed the tarmac to our vehicle, I commented to Cedro, "I don't get it. Nothing seemed dangerous about it to me." "It wasn't," he replied, "Dad just worries too much." I nodded and reached for the handle of the car door. "Of course," he added casually, "you two were the only white-girls in there."

I was stunned. I stood there, mouth open, eyes staring, my hand frozen on the door handle. Complete and total braincramp. After about a minute I lifted the door handle and slid into the back sheet.

White-girl.

Do not misunderstand. I am not one of those deluded white folk who think they are Mexican, (or Black or Asian or Samoan for that matter). I know I'm white. Hell, I'm a hockey fan for crying out loud. A hockey fan who owns not one but two Barry Manilow's Greatest Hits albums. How can I NOT be white?

That was not the shocking part. The shocking part, the part that left me speechless for the entire ride home and sent my mind reeling, wasn't that I was white. It was that I was different.

White-girl.

I cannot think of even one moment in my life when I thought of my friends and family who were Hispanic as being different. And, until now, it never occurred to me that they might see me that way.

I'm still not fully recovered.

Snippets for Breakfast

Text from Zoe: I love you like a fat kid loves cake.

So, it's Saturday at 9 something in the morning. I have had five hours sleep, six cups of coffee and cannot decide whether to give in to the sleepiness or the caffeine. Kind of fun to let them battle it out.

I've got Barry McGuire's Eve of Destruction blasting on the old iPod and decided to sit my chunky butt down and blog. So, here we go. Oooh wait, Pat Benetar - Hit Me With Your Best Shot just came on. Okay, how irritating is that? It's like riding in a car with a friend who keeps interrupting the conversation to crank up the radio. "I haven't heard this in YEARS!" she'll exclaim and promptly ignore you for 3 minutes and 27 seconds.

It appears randomness is going to have to be the theme today as I am completely unable to focus, (song is now Me and Mrs./Mrs/Mrs JOOOOOOOOOOnnnnnnnesssss - sorry, last time. I promise) so we'll just have snippets for breakfast shall we? Yum.

Snippet #1: I have fallen in love with a woman. Not in that whole Birkenstocks and bad hair cuts kind of way, (please, I don't even eat tuna fish!) but in a deep, soulful, how-INCREDIBLE-is-this-woman kind of way. We became friends due to a collision of her kindheartedness, my distaste for crazy balding make-up artists and an M & M loving Photojournalism professor with a twisted sense of justice. In other words she rescued me by joining my project team when I was stranded with the only other student stupid enough to skip class on the day the teams were assigned. We clicked right off the bat and have been best buds ever since. That was nearly two years ago. She has since graduated and I am still plugging on but our friendship has only gotten better. She calls me Super Chick and I call her The Goddess - she is six foot tall, cascading black hair, cheek bones to die for and some mighty healthy breastessess - like I said, Goddess- and I cannot imagine my life without her.

Snippet #2: Barack? Still rocks.

Snippet #3: So, the doc says I have diabetes. Or could have. On the verge. Gave me the news, told me to change my evil eating ways and get off my butt and MOVE everyday. Take two soy burgers and call me in the morning. I took his message to heart and have completely changed my diet. I am now one of those obnoxious people who stand in the store isle reading all the labels then bragging about the funky recipes and health food finds I have made - flax seed YES! meatless bacon - not so much -I have lost eight pounds thus far and feel SO much better. Used to be a typical Saturday involved getting up, watching the news and falling back asleep on the couch. I was constantly exhausted. I don't mean just tired, I mean five-days-no-sleep-then-ran-a-marathon bone tired. Of course, those who know me know I never stop. Work full time, school full time, family full time. Who wouldn't be run down? My point is this: even if you have good reason; if you feel like crap, have an endo check you out.

Snippet #3: I REALLY miss Cups.

Snippet #4: I have committed the financial equivalent of checking myself into rehab and going cold turkey. Closed the checking account, cut up all the credit cards - even Swiss Colony - and handed my paycheck over to my poor beleaguered hubby. If we are going to get ahead financially I am going to have to buckle down and get tough with these bills.

Snippet #5: Crap, I am out of cigarettes and my coffee cup is empty. OH MY GAWD!! This must be how hikers feel on Everest when they realize their oxygen just ran out. I can't breath. Can't think straight. Must. Find. Caffiene.

Snippet #6: Now that I have refueled I realize the above snippet may have been a teensy-weensy bit much.

Snippet #7: I am completely addicted (as opposed to partially addicted? No, doc - I only crave crack on the High Holidays and Flag Day. Where the hell do these colloquialisms come from anyway?) to How Stuff Works.com's podcast. It started with Stuff You Missed in History Class; then spread to Stuff You Should Know - Hey Chuck and Josh!- and has swelled to Stuff Your Mother Never Told You. TONS of arcane information weighing down the vine, just waiting to be plucked and stomped into a fine mental Pinot Noir. Want to know why cross-dressing was the only thing Joan of Arc was actually convicted of? Candace will clue you in. Wondering if stupid people are happier, ask Josh. (yeah, I know. Totally intentional.) Check it out http://www.howstuffworks.com/ or download the free podcasts from iTunes.

Snippet 7a: While we're on the subject of podcasts these are my favorites, in no particular order:

• Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me: Paula Poundstone; Mo Rocca; Tom Bodet; Roy Blount, Jr.; a rotating crew of smart people cracking themselves (and the rest of us) up every Saturday with their weekly news quiz. And if you are very good you might just get Carl Castle's voice on your home answering machine. SCORE!


• This American Life: Ira Glass chooses a theme then introduces three or four completely diverse pieces on the subject. A recent example? Going Big. Three stories of people who went all out. Story 1: a man in Harlem who made it all the way out, to Harvard no less, and came back to help lift others out. He started a program that starts at birth and goes to college graduation. Baby college, preschool, parent classes, social skills. You name it. His first group just hit the third grade and scored well above the national average on standardized tests. Story 2: a man hires a popular indie artist to serenade his estranged girlfriend in their apartment. It was wierd, awkward and it worked. For about a month. Story 3: A young woman who's mother was sent to prison, (brought a gun to an argument and, well, things went down hill from there) gets herself sent to prison so that she could be with her mom. She has been in and out of prison ever since. Heartbreaking story.


• A Prairie Home Companion: Garrison Keillor's laconic tales of life in Lake Woebegone, Minnesota -"Where all the women are strong, all the men are good looking, and all the children are above average."


• And of course the Stuff: How Stuff Works; Stuff You Missed in History Class and Stuff Your Mother Never Told You.


• Untested: I just downloaded Dan Carlin's Hardcore History but haven't listened to it yet. I'll let you know.

Snippet# 8: Best new catchphrase learned since last blog: Don't forget to take the suck out it. Shout out to Prince William the Tim.

Snippet #9: The lawn guy always says, "Sorry I woke you up." when I answer the door. 8:00 a.m. on a Saturday or 6:00 p.m. on a Tuesday, doesn't matter, "Sorry I woke you up." He has never once woken me and it's getting pretty irritating.

Snippet # 10: War's classic cruising song "Low Rider" causes spinal degeneration. Seriously. I cannot listen to that song and sit up straight. Like fighting a sneeze. Pointless.

Last but not least....

Snippet # 11: I love the way my husband says AtLANna. Don't ask me why. I have no clue but I smile every time he says it.

Well folks, the caffeine is waning and the To-Do list is growing so I'm outta here. Have a great day, and don't forget to take the suck out of it!

P.S. The caffeine won.

Deep Thinking and Krispy Kreme

From: SirWill@mc.edu: Aim for the Moon, Graves, and if you don't get there, grab a star on the way by. ~ Avalon

That is a note I got from my Brit Lit professor. If I could, I'd stitch it on a pillow. What he is referring to is an email exchange we had wherein I told him he had inspired me to expand my reading horizon. I have always been a reader, my earliest memories are being curled up on my grandfather's sofa, reading.

So, after listening to his lectures on Jung vs Blake I truly was inspired. And curious. So I lit out for the school library that very night and picked up Jung's Seminar on Nietzsche's Zarathustra, Eudora Welty's A Ponder Heart, Proust's Reclaiming the Past and Mongrels, bastards, orphans, and vagabonds : Mexican immigration and the future of race in America by Gregory Rodriguez. Just a little light reading.

As far as Welty goes, I am seriously underwhelmed. I just don't get it. Jung on the other hand.. now that is a mind meld. The concepts, the insight, the inner-conflict between mind and soul, self love and self hate. I was enthralled.

Then, the oddest things began to grab my attention. A woman next to me in traffic eating Krispy Kreme donuts holding the box right under her chin as if they were dripping with sauce. Standing on line at the post office bookended by two women in "Southern Belle" T-shirts while I was resplendent head to Sketchers in Cali wear; Long Beach t-shirt; Hollywood shoes.

I couldn't help feeling these slices of life meant something but I could never quite place what. Was it my refusal to "blend" no matter where I am? Was it my constant struggle with self control and complete lack of tolerance for delayed gratification? ALL OF THIS MUST MEAN SOMETHING!?!?!

I shrugged my shoulders and moved on. Whatever it means is lost to me. Maybe I'll try my hand at a sonnet.

"I am quite illiterate, but I read a lot." J.D. Salinger

From mamabear@home: Hey girl! Just finished A Thousand Splendid Suns. Do you want it back or should I just pass it on? Also, Pet wants to know if you still have The Shack? ~Zoe

When I was a little girl my mom read Where The Red Fern Grows to me and my brother. Every Saturday we would sit on the porch and she would open the book and read us a chapter. I was six, my brother ten.

Our lives we not easy then but those Saturday's were magical to me. I would wait all week, dying to know what had happened to Dan and Ann and their young master in Tallaquah, Oklahoma.

If you have never read Where The Red Fern Grows, a) shame on you! and b) bring a box of Kleenex, it is a major tearjerker.

It is said that you never forget the first book that reaches down into your heart and grabs hold and, for me at least, that is only half of the fact. True, I have never forgotten my first love. But that love wasn't limited to one story, it spawned a love of reading that runs deep in my soul.

It is rare to find me without a book, often reading two or three at a time.

When I discover a new author I devour their entire works, gorging myself on the taste and texture of their imagination but never quite sated.

Mind you I am a fickle stalker. Disappoint me once and I am likely to abandon you on the spot, never to return.

My tastes are eclectic and often unexplainable. I read everything, Kafka and Stephen King, Jane Austen and Alice Hoffman, historical non-nonfiction and chicklit. The only requirement is that you engage me. Make me feel what you are feeling, share you story with me and I will give my heart to you.

Currently I am on a Toni Morrison binge. Sula and Son of Solomon this week alone. My god that woman can write! Her people are real and true only unto themselves. I can see Milkman in my mind as though he were my next door neighbor, a face I see everyday but never really knew until we sat down together and shared ourselves. Sula's walk, Pilate's freedom, Eva's cruelty are as much a part of me as my sister's smiles. They are family now, people I care about and lessons I have learned.

I can forgive bad grammar, poor editing and convoluted plot lines. But do not betray your character. Do not sacrifice the truth of the person on the altar of storyline. For while the writer may have conceived the character, the birth takes place not on the page but in the heart of the reader. And as mothers we will fiercely defend our progeny.

I have been on summer break the last two weeks. My house is a mess, my spring cleaning an entire season past due. There are are letters unwritten and bills unpaid. But I have read. Lord God have I read! I lost an entire weekend in the company of Alice Hoffman's Third Angel, gorged myself on Laura Esquivel's Like Water for Chocolate (Como Aqua Para Chocolate). Fell asleep with Sula opened on my chest and The lived The Life of Pi.

I made friends with Sorrow and cried with First Corinthians, basked in the coolness of The Shadow of the Wind.

Classes will start back next week and my free-love affair with books will mature into a solid relationship, a slow lovemaking with staid suitor. I am taking Brit Lit, the textbook alone a solid five inches thick. But at night, when no one is looking, I will set aside the classic and indulge in a fling with it's cheeky cousin. Can't wait.

No Laughing Matter

From: islanddude@bop.com: so did Vida tell you about Robin?

This is how it started. A simple email asking me about a girl my brother dated years and years ago. She had a son she said was his. Turned out he wasn't. Not long after she drifted out of my family's life and to be honest I hadn't thought much about her in a long time.

Robin stayed with me one summer not long after the baby was born. God he was a cute kid. Curly hair, huge dimples, always smiling. Aviante Renee Kennedy Hale. Heck of a big name for a little kid. He had a big sister, Jovanna who watched over him. Not yet five years old she had the little mommy thing down pat.

Robin and I didn't get along all that well. My brother had gotten in some trouble and was in jail, which is why Robin was staying with me. I was nineteen, more than a little spoiled, trying to make it on next to nothing. My big brother, whom I idolized, would call collect from jail and she would yell at him, curse him out, tell him she was running around with other guys (she wasn't) and finally I said, I am not paying for you to torture my brother! No more calls if you can't be nice.

Not long after she moved out, taking the kids with her and heading to Vida's house until Josh got out. A little while later they broke up and she went back home to California. I never saw her again.

I thought about little Aviante from time to time; she would occasionally update Vida and Vida would pass the news on to me. Then she asked for child support, a reasonable request. Josh asked for a paternity test, also a reasonable request. That's when she told him; he's not yours - and disappeared from all of our lives.

Flash forward to February of this year. I get an email from Josh, now in prison. Drugs. Always his downfall. He's married now. To a great lady who has stood beside him. He has children. Grandchildren. They miss him.

The email read "Hey, did you hear about Robin? There's a book out. Page 209." And that's how I found out what happened to her.

Robin was found dead in her apartment. She had been there three days. Her boyfriend had stabbed her to death and disappeared. I don't know where the kids were. I don't know if the killer was ever caught. It happened ten years ago and it is hard to find details now.

What I do know is that the kids, especially Aviante, clung to the only family they had left; Robin's brother John. John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Yes that is his real name. By all accounts he truly loved the kids. But he had problems of his own.

A major gang player in Long Beach, California, he was playing both ends against the middle, heading up the city's gang prevention unit as a "reformed gang-banger" while still having a little too much to do with the gang life. Whether he was simply maintaining ties to keep his street cred and lead more young men out of the gang life (as he claims) or if he was actually using his city position to get inside information to further his gangster life (as the police claim) we'll never know.

What is known is that Aviante fell in with the gangs and was shot to death at at twenty-one years old in a drive-by shooting.

John Kennedy was there in minutes, his nephew's body still on the ground, fighting to get through the police line. They Tasered him. When he came to he was arrested for obstruction.

Three months later he joined several other people in a plot to murder Thomas and Jackie Hawks and steal their yacht. The middle age couple were tied to an anchor and thrown alive in the ocean to drown. John Kennedy was convicted of first degree murder and sentenced to death. Robin's daughter Jovanna testified at the sentencing. She said that John Kennedy was all she had left. She said he was the only person alive who loved her.

It is Jovanna who haunts me. The image of that beautiful little girl standing in my kitchen watching her mom cook her favorite dinner, pork chops and onions, and playing with her little brother. Who could have imagined twenty years later that same little girl, all grown up, would have lost her mother and that precious little baby to violence and would be sitting on a witness stand begging strangers not to put to death the only person she had left.

And it all turned on the actions of one man. An abuser who was likely abused himself. Who took it out on the woman in his life and took her away from those who needed her. Would Aviante have still fallen into gangs if she had not died? Would his uncle have killed those people if his little sister were they to see? Would Jovanna have had to beg for the life of the one man she knew loved her and spend her life wondering if she had said something different if he might still be with her?

We'll will never know. Robin is dead. And countless lives have been downed in the aftermath.

There have been other women in my life, too many, who have also suffered from abuse. Well educated, strong, successful women. Sadly, Robin's story is one among millions. It's too late for her but there are others out there who need our help. The abused. And the abuser. Because even if we get her out, get her help, he will find someone else. Someone who won't get help. Someone else who will die. By helping him stop the cycle we help us all.

Which is why when the opportunity recently presented itself to be a part of the JFP Chickball I jumped at the chance. An annual fundraiser to help break the cycle of violence; it is the worthiest of causes.

I work full time. I go to school full time. I have a family. My husband's job keeps him gone three weeks at a time. I have a life. But this matters. So I make the time. And you can too. Please.

Normally I keep the blog light and funny, I change the names of those I write about and take a bit of comedic license. But not this time. Robin, Aviante, Jovanna and John Kennedy are all real. Those are their real names, this is their real story.

If you need help please please please try one of these links or call 911. But get out, get help. You are not alone.

http://www.mscvp.org/

Abuse Shelters in Central Mississippi ...................................................................................................................
Jackson
Catholic Charities, Inc.Serving Hinds, Issaquena, Madison, Rankin, Sharkey, Simpson, Warren and Yazoo Counties
800-273-9012601-366-0222
P.O. Box 2248Jackson, MS39225-2248

Mendenhall
Angel Wings Outreach CenterServing Hinds, Issaquena, Madison, Rankin, Simpson, Warren, and Yazoo Counties
866-847-5802
P.O. Box 787Mendenhall, MS39114

Meridian
Care LodgeServing Clarke, Kemper, Lauderdale, Leake, Neshoba, Newton, Noxubee, Scott and Winston Counties.
601-693-HOPE (4673)
P.O. Box 5331Meridian, MS39302

Pearl
The Center for Violence PreventionServing Hinds, Issaquena, Madison, Rankin, Sharkey, Simpson, Warren, and Yazoo Counties
800-266-4198601-932-4198
P. O. Box 6279Pearl, MS39288

Vicksburg
Haven House Family ShelterServing Hinds, Issaquena, Madison, Rankin, Sharkey, Simpson, Warren and Yazoo Counties
800-898-0860601-638-0555
P.O. Box 57Vicksburg, MS39181

http://www.mcadv.org/

For more information on how you can help with the Chickball check out these resources:

To get involved, write chickball@jacksonfreepress.com or check us out at any of the spots below;

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Sitting Crooked in the Saddle

To: Vida@tothebone.net; Hey, sis. Sorry it's been so long. Been a crazy month. I know, I suck at communication, which is completely ironic since I am, duh, a COMMUNICATION major!


Okay, so it's been a while since I blogged. I know, I suck. But in my defense it has been a rotten couple of weeks. Started out, I got strep throat. From a skank at school who didn't bother to tell anyone she was sick until AFTER she had been on antibiotics for two days. Meaning the threat to her had passed. As had her classmates opportunity to avoid her.

Fast forward a week. I am finally back at work but still not fully functional. I am not, however, contagious. During that period, I - ahem - hint hint - STAYED HOME. So there we are, me and my compromised immune system, when what should straggle into the office? Bronchitis in the form of the wench in the next cubicle.

Yep, caught that too. Now you are talking to a girl who can only seem to catch a Frisbee with her face (and I have the crooked nose to prove it) but let a bug come within five hundred miles and suddenly I am Jose Conseco, catching everything that even thinks of coming my way.

So another week off work, now out of sick time. On the upshot I did burn through several books, some great (The Sex Lives of Cannibals; Adrift on the Equatorial Pacific) and some not (Catching Stars something something. Even the title is forgettable ) and finally caught up on my DVD watching. Vicki Cristina Barcelona? Quite possibly the sexiest movie ever. Also, one to not let my husband see until after I return from my school trip to Spain next year.

Oh, and I somehow managed to gain five pounds (WTF - I couldn't swallow much less eat - not fair), completely avoid any form of housework, fall woefully behind on my Spanish and obviously, my blogging.

So, some random thoughts to get the old typing juices flowing.....

News item: 500 prostitutes have been murder at truck stops in the last 30 years. Yes, you read that right. 500. How in the hell is this just now making the news? The authorities have arrested ten truck drivers in association with the murders. I understand that murders on the fringe of society do not make news. Mr and Mrs Joe Q Social don't care some hooker met her doom on dark road. Even if that hooker may have been the daughter that ran away five years ago. But good god, five hundred? Despite some rotten times, (good times rarely lead a women down the perilous path of self-destruction known as "the world's oldest profession") these women were some one's sister, daughter, friend, mother. And they are gone. Blinking out of existence like an an aged firefly. Take notice they are gone. Give them at least that.

On the local front, a homeless man kept all of his world possessions in a duffel bag; which he left outside a women's clinic for what he thought would be safe keeping, while he went to a local hospital for treatment. Someone saw the bag, thought "BOMB!" and the next thing you know his life has been detonated on a city street in south Jackson. To the best of my knowledge no fund has been established to help him replace what he lost.

My sisters both hit the road for Easter weekend; Vida to Cali to spend time with her kids and grandkids, an Easter tradition. Shel to Mexico with mom and aunt Kale for a much deserved vacation. Me? Stayed home and raided the kid's Easter basket.

While brushing my teeth I had an epiphany: Hookers and Debutantes? Much in common. Big hair. Seriously overdressed. Life revolves around balls. Hmmmmm.

President Obama? Still rocks.

Anderson Cooper? Still hot.

Why hasn't Mayor Melton been impeached?

Why can't I grasp Spanish? I love the language, the culture, the music, the art.

What will I be if I ever grow up?

Why am I still getting calls for some guy named Earl when we've had this number for ten years?

Could it be I have had to much caffeine?

Maybehuhmaybeyathink?

Is my Photoshop shot cool or what?

How is it possible the fifty year old clerk at Borders actually thought Julius and Ethel Rosenberg were from Pelahatchie?

And that's all I got.

Okay, so not my best blog ever but sometimes you have to jump up on that horse even if you land crooked just to get your ass readjusted to the saddle.......

Pinch Tail and Suck Head

To Vida@tothebone.net: Okay, so my friend Suki got engaged last month and decided instead of an engagement party they are having a crawfish boil. Seriously. They are going to boil a bunch of disgusting looking giant bugs alive and then... eat them. Eeeeeeeeewwwww. But I am the matron of honor so I guess I have to go. And not gag. Also I am bringing dessert. So what goes with beer and bugs?

Turns out: brownies. Also turns out to be the most fun I have had in years. We drank; we danced (HEY- macarena!) and we ate. Bugs. Big freaky looking beady-eyed crustaceans known around these parts as Mud Bugs.

Okay, so I only ate one. But hey, I was a sport and that's what counts, right?

So, for the uninitiated. let me give you a run down of how this works:

1. Beer. Lots of beer.


2. Crab Boil - a VERY spicy mix added to the boiling water to give flavor to the crawfish.


3. More beer.


4. A large pot and big oar-like stick.


5. More beer.


6. A second Crab Boil-filled pot with potatoes; corn; mushrooms; onions and beef sausage.


7. Beer.


8. Drop the mesh bag filled with live crawfish into the boiling water and press down with the stick. Secure the stick to a bar attached above the pot. This keeps the bag underwater. When the bag no longer tries to float the crawfish have absorbed all of the spices they are going to absorb and are now ready to eat.


9. Beer.


10. The mesh bag is lifted out of the pot with the stick and immediately placed in a large plastic garbage bag to retain the juices. Since Suki never does anything half way she went all out and provided a crawfish table; which looks like a stripped pool table but instead of side pockets there are two large round holes side by side in the middle with removable lids. Beneath the lids (and holding up the table) are two large barrels. After dumping both the crawfish and the veggie/sausage pots onto the table, the lids are then cleared off and removed, thus giving you a place to dispose of the shells and a place to put your beer. GENIUS!


11. Beer.


12. Everyone gathers around the table and starts grabbing up mudbugs. They remove the heads and legs (some suck the heads, me - not so much) and pinch the tail to expose the meat which actually looks a lot like a shrimp. They then pop it in their mouth, chew, swallow and wait. Generally within five seconds or less the spices kick in and your mouth either a) burns or b) goes numb. Mine? Both. At which point you immediately reach for your beer and pray for the best. Repeat until either all the mudbugs are gone or you die.


13. Did I mention beer? Lots and lots and lots of ice cold beer.

Add a group of really cool people, great music and understanding neighbors (Real fun? Rarely quiet.) Mix well and feel the burn. Oh, and the snotty little attitude?(ahem...yes Me, I am talking to you). Check it at the door.

Shower Dancing Syndrome

voicemail for Shel: Hey sis, sorry I missed your call. I was shower dancing......

Okay, for the uninitiated shower dancing probably sounds like pleasurable experience. A little music, a little scented soap, shaking it under the flow. Um, no.

Think more along the lines of St. Vitus Dance with a side of Tourettes. Shower Dancing is a rarely spoken of disorder that is limited to those unfortunate souls who are the sole source of estrogen in a testosterone heavy household. For reasons best left to the scientific community, when the female of the clan enters the shower, the sound of the rushing water awakes in the male of the species a sudden and, apparently, irresistible urge to proceed immediately to the closest bathroom and flush the toilet. Upon which action the water in the shower will inexplicably (at least to the male) switch from a comfortably warm temperature to a searing hot attack on the nude body of the hitherto oblivious female.

At which point the female will jump, twist, and thrash about; wildly searching for the source of the pain while being blinded by the soap inevitably running in her eyes ; introducing a combination of sudden pain and immense frustration which will cause her to issue forth a stream of invectives not matched since the Osbourne's family reunion.

Eventually, she will find the hot water spigot and slam it to it's furthermost right position. This generally occurs approximately five seconds before the water temperature would have returned to a bearable level. Instead, with the hot water now off, the soaking wet female, gasping for air and fiercely rubbing at her burning eyes; will now find herself being assaulted by a frigid stream of icy needles, made all the more intense on her still singed skin. And the dance begins again.

To date science has yet to find a cure for this heartbreaking disease. Shower Dancing Syndrome (SDS) is known only to strike in single-female households. In homes with even one additional female present, the syndrome rarely occurs. It has been hypothesised that the additional estrogen brings the natural response to the male's bee-line for the commode of "Don't even think it about Buster!" thus preventing the initial attack from occurring.

There have been several attempts to stop this awful disease in it's tracks, unfortunately shy of women being given their own separate home, the future of those suffering this disorder is not promising.

I Am The Grammarian About Whom Your Mother Warned.

mytextlife@twitter re: pet hates @johncleese.com: People who use the word "irregardless" then get angry if you ask them if the GED was hard.

Alright, so I'll admit it; I'm a bit of a snob. At least when it comes to language. I am not speaking of persons denied access to higher education who are simply handicapped by a limited vocabulary. I am speaking of highly educated professionals who have no excuse. Well, them and my ex-husband.

Don't misunderstand, I was not born with a silver thesaurus in my crib. Quite the contrary. My siblings and I grew up hardscrabble. My grandfather was a farmer, my grandmother a housewife. My mother raised four children completely on her own, often times working two and three jobs at once.

However, Mom is a reader and she passed that gift to her children. When we were ten and six respectively, mom read my brother and me Where The Red Fern Grows; a charming coming of age tale written by a man who obviously has anger issues with man's best friend, as he killed every last dog in the book.

Mom would read a chapter; my brother and I sobbing openly as yet another furry friend got bumped off (a fact my brother denies to this day.) Mom would dry our tears, give us an ice cream cone and the next day we would be back begging for more (little masochists we were.)

This love for reading quickly grew into a love of language. And, as with any love, one becomes angry when it is disrespected. Example:

(local news anchor who shall remained unnamed as I am sure she has been humiliated enough already): And today in sheerie lank a...

Me: I'm sorry, did she just say "sheerie lank a"?

My poor husband: Uh oh.

Me: No, seriously is that what she just said?

Him, trying to ease out of the room: Um, yeah. Why?

Me: The word is SHRA-lon-ka

Him: Are you sure?

Me: Yes

(second anchor appears on screen: Thank you _________, for more on
Sheerie Lank a go to our website.....

Me: No he didn't.

Husband: Uh oh.

It's not that I expect everyone to know how to pronounce Sri Lanka, or even to know where it is. I do, however, think that if you are a professional newscaster someone, somewhere, would have told you how to pronounce the name of the city in the lead story.

I imagine I acquired my language snobbery from my mother whose greatest pet peeve, (even greater than white shoes with black pantyhose, although that is a close second) is the use of the term "hot water heater". Every time she would hear it, she would roll her eyes, sigh and and say, "If it were hot, it would not need to be heated, now would it?" We figured out pretty quickly not to use that phrase. And sher-bert? Sher-bert would get you grounded.

When other kids where playing Twister and LIFE, we were playing "Dictionary Tag". Seriously. We would all gather in the living room and open the dictionary. We would then search Webster's for a word no one else knew the meaning of (yes, that is a dangling participle -I am not a grammar snob, well okay, yes I am but hey, no one's perfect). Personal favorite? Zygote; (a fetus from conception to two weeks).

And yet, even with this innate language snobbery, I manage to marry quite possibly the biggest idiot ever born to two otherwise normal human beings. He had the irritating habit of only listening to about half of what I said. I imagine this is a normal percentage rate for married couples however Rick (who gives a whole new meaning to the term "Rick-rolled") also liked to pick up random words he had heard me use and drop them into conversation. Of course he never bothered to learn what the words actually meant. Thus it was pretty common that I would be standing beside him, stunned, as he told the store clerk she was being ostentatious or when he asked his best friend if he had ever masticated in public.

Now one idiot is bad enough. Get two of them together and what you get is complete verbal homicide.

For a short time Rick and I worked for the same company: a tire store run by a suave old drunk with a third grade education and a nasty temper. One day, after a particularly long visit with Jack Daniels my boss made me cry. Over what, I don't recall. What I do recall is Rick's angry response:

Mr. O, you need to leave her alone! You're just being facetious.

Fa- what the hell did you just call me?

Facetious - look it up, it's under "V"!

At which point Rick was fired and I was given the rest of the day off with pay, (presumably allowing Mr. O private time with the dictionary I kept on my desk, perusing the "V" section for facetious.)

Oh, Oh, Oh, Listen To The Music...

Email from sweetboy89@home: Hey Mom, I Googled that song you wanted. The reason you couldn't find it was because it is called "Tush" not "Looking for some touch". Also, Hootie and the Blowfish aren't really a new band, since they haven't had a hit since the nineties.

So, it probably started all the way back when I was five and singing "Joy To The World". Not the Christmas carol, the hippie anthem. Joy to the world/olive was a girl. Yep, that's what I sang. Cute for a five year old. Weird when you're twenty-five and your husband looks at you with that cocked puppy dog head look and says, Excuse me? Did you just sing "Olive was a girl?" Well yes, those are the words. Um, no. Um yes. Umm, really, no.

Turns out the actual wording is All The Boys and Girls. As soon as he said it, I could hear it plain as day but for twenty years I had been singing the words wrong. (Although in my defense, it IS a song about a wine-mooching frog, how right can any words be?).

This was not, unfortunately, an isolated incident. I have been misunderstanding the words to songs my whole life. There was Barry Manilow's Looks Like Tamata's, the Stones' Two Fuck Hero, and of course, that England Dan and John Ford Coley classic, I'm Not Talkin' 'bout the Linen.

And let's not forget the aforementioned "Tush". I truly thought the words were "Lord, take me downtown, I'm just lookin' for some touch." I loved that song. So raw and honest. The story of a man who just wants someone to reach out to him. Just to feel that touch. Yeah, no he's just lookin' for some TUSH. Little bit of difference.

But, the centerpiece of my idiocy artwork has to be Me and Bobby McGee. I used one line from that song as my motto for years. "One day of miscellaneous, I let him slip away." Wow, how perfectly does that describe the tragedy and triumph that is life. One miscellaneous day, a nothing day if you will, one simple choice makes it a day you will always remember. The day you let love slip away. Beautiful. Powerful. And wrong. Kris Kristofferson, that genius of a songwriter (and a right-proper hottie in his day) actually wrote the line "One day up near Salinas" Well, crap. Now I need to find another theme song. What's that new one by Hootie and the Blowfish?

You Ain't From Around Here, Are Ya?

MyTextLife posted on Twitter via text: NASCAR GPS: In fifty feet, turn left. Then left. Then left. Then....

When you look at it chronologically I have spent as much time living in the South as I have in the West but I have never identified myself as a southerner. Nor is it likely the south will ever claim me as a native. Truth be told, I just don't blend.

The funny thing is that when I lived in Utah, the men just LOVED my southern accent. I couldn't hear it, (unless I was drinking but THAT is another blog all together). Here in Mississippi the first thing most people ask is, "You ain't from around here, are ya?" Well, duh.

It could have to do with the fact that I am the antithesis of the sweet southern belle. I am acerbic, political, feministic, highly opinionated and (gasp) a registered Democrat.

For Christmas my beautiful son bought me a tire cover for my Jeep. It was plain black and he offered to have it embroidered with anything I wanted. I looked it at that lovely blank canvas and said, "No thanks. I'm going to use it for bumper stickers. Sort of a mobile Myspace." He went noticeably pale but as it was a gift and he was raised right, he simply smiled and said, "Okay, mom."

And thus began my collection. And my obsession.

The first sticker, dead center, was "Curiosity was framed, stupidity killed the cat". Followed in short order by, "I still believe Anita Hill", "Come to the dark side, we have cookies!" "What if the Hokey Pokey really IS what it's all about?" , "Well behaved women rarely make history." and the jewel in my Yankee crown: "HILLARY 2008". (Although, out of respect for our insurance premium, I relegated "Paddle faster, I hear banjos!" to my office bulletin board.)

Getting these stickers was not a simple task. Most of the ones I found locally were of the "These colors don't run" and "Take your kids to Sunday School, they need and deserve it!" variety. I had to order my Hillary 08 bumper sticker from Ohio for gods sake. OHIO.

When my husband realized I was seriously going to put Hillary on my Jeep he freaked out. "Babe, we really can't afford to have to repaint the Jeep, not to mention replacing the tires." I put it on anyway. (Nice bonus, both he and my kid quit borrowing my Jeep. Score!)

Not long after, as I was making my twice weekly trek down I-20 to school, an old rust bucket pick-up truck pulls along side of me and the driver gives me the bird. As I was driving at a reasonable rate of speed, had not changed lanes in several miles (thus eliminating the possibility I cut him off) nor had my left blinker going; I have to assume it was my sticker collection that raised his ire. I also have to assume he followed me for several miles to have time to sound out the words.. (Hill... hilla...hillar?..HILLARY! That bitch!)

I wish I had thought to take his picture, but it happened kind of fast. (Plus, I really like my camera and wouldn't want to risk damaging its delicate sensibilities with such a crude image- but I digress).

So the guy...classic redneck. Porn-star mustache, three days stubble, mullet (seriously? where do you go to get that haircut? Do they charge extra not to laugh while doing it - "Yes sir, business up front, party in the back - no problem."), dirty wife-beater t-shirt, tore-up pickup truck emblazoned with faded confederate flags and "piss on Chevy" stickers, flipping off random women on the interstate. And he thought I would be upset that we don't share the same political leanings. Go figure.

Me hablo Spanglish

To: vida@tothebone.net

Hola mi hermano, como esta?

Reply from vida@tothebone.net

You realize you sound like a rapper? Hello my brother, wuz up?

So I am taking night classes to try to finally get my degree. After twenty years out of school I knew it would be hard but I never thought the class that would sink me would be Spanish.

I have wanted to learn spanish since I was six years old and had a small part in Los Tres Osos. I got to be the voice of Goldielocks when she was discovered breaking and entering by the three bears. I still remember my line. "Aye yae yae yae yae". Said it perfectly.

As I was growing up we lived in a lot of heavily hispanic areas and my urge to learn the language everyone was making fun of me in only increased. There was a brief period where my yearning ebbed when my darling cousin Lisa that it would be oh so hilarious to tell me that "puta" meant Hi, how are you in Spanish. Didn't take but one ass-kicking to realize that Lisa? Not so friggin funny.

Anyway, so here I am in Spanish 201 and totally lost. It's not the speaking of it, although I do suck at that. It is all these conjugations. Esta, este, estamos. What the hell? Luckily I sit next to an incredibly bright young girl named Scout (her dad is a lit professor) who would be happy to help me if we'd just quit screwing around long enough to pay attention.

Scout has this unique way with accents. She can nail anyone, anytime. My favorite has got to be the Southern Baptist Belle. Dripping with sugar she will look me directly in the eye (after another of my oh so witty comments- ex. "Does the chick in this picture look high to you?"), then, with a completely straight face and a dead-on drawl, she will shake her head and say, "You make Jesus sa-yed". Kills me every time. La profesora? Not so much. I guess she thinks that at forty-one I should be past the gigglegirl stage. Mi mal.

Skin off a teenager..

(voicemail to Shel). Hey sis, so I am surfing the net and there is this ad for younger skin. It says, "She was born in the fifties" and has a pic of Madonna. Okay so far. Then I read the copy. She is over fifty and has the skin off [sic] a teenager. And I realize, Oh my God, she really might! Anyway, guessing you're still at yoga. Call me when you get home. Love you. Bye.

My sister Shel never answers her phone. Literally, never. Even if you are talking to her and accidently hit the end button when you call RIGHT BACK you will still have to go through the whole answering machine message and then just start babbling until she picks up.

Not to mention she has this huge house so even when she is home it might take her a while to get to the phone so you have to sit there and just keep talking until a) you hear her voice on the other end or b) her snotty-ass machine hangs up on you.

I am sure if she were so inclined she could keep me out of public office with some of the messages I have left on her machine.

Example:

Oh. My. God. You should see the guy I am looking at right now. Major hot. So hot. Umm, humm. Baby come to mama! Oh crap! He heard me! Shit, the window was down. Damn damn, uh, gotta go.

And of course she doesn't turn the machine down when she has guests. She says her friends find my messages really amusing. Great. So now the guy who put down her carpet knows that I made the fatal error of wearing a fluttery skirt on a windy day and flashed some poor chick at Cups. And to make matters worse I was wearing my old Victoria's Secret panties that say "LOVE" across the butt. Except my ass has gotten so big that it no longer says Love but instead reads more like" LUUUUUUUUVVVVV". Yeah.

Okay, so I cut up the VS card...

(text to Vida) Hey V ~Okay, so I cut up the Victoria's Secret card. Every time I max it out, they just raise the limit. Sick bastards

Okay, so I have a shopping problem. Well, it isn't a problem for me but my husband... maybe a little more. I say "Carpe Ann Taylor!" He says, "How did we get overdrawn, I haven't even mailed off the bills yet?"

Anyway, so I am talking to Vida and she says, "Why don't you just cut them up?" and I think, "What is WRONG with this woman?" Then I remember, Vida is the sensible one. It's funny, she used to be the artistic one. Now that's Shel. Odd how we rotated. Well, they rotated. Come to think of it I was always the smart one. Which is wierd since both of my sisters are considerably better educated and more successful. Hmm. Still, always wanted to be the pretty one. THAT's never going to happen.

Point is I looked at my checkbook, (ouch ), looked at my income vs outgo and realized that a) that configuration goes completely against all laws of physics and b) if I want to go to Spain next year I had better stop spending and start saving.

So I got out the VS card, sighed deeply and began to cut. Right after I got done ordering three really cute dresses, two pairs of shoes, a bra and panty set and a lingerie bag.

Hey, small steps right?