A relatively short, unembellished story about my mother--
(an excerpt from my East Texas Chronicles - 2008)

So I put on the coffee this morning and call my Mom up. It is 8:57 a.m. She answers the phone in a very uncharacteristically groggy voice. Has she overslept? My mother?

“I just sat down, Honey, on the couch to watch “Matt Lowery” and I fell back asleep.”

Really? I’m thinking.

We start our conversation with a rundown of the annual Wildflower Trails Festival event held this past weekend in our town, starting with who won the coveted window prize for best-decorated Main Street business . She did! 1st place!

Mom filled me in on who found the Chamber of Commerce-sponsored Hidden Treasure Egg. I was also brought up to speed with all of the ex-residents that came back to town for a visit, and the locals that came “in to town” for a visit. Also got an update on The Big Wildflower Street Dance, held that past Saturday night.

It is peculiar that Mom knows so much about the coming’s and going’s of the festival this year. I later learned that my mom had spent the entire Saturday working in her beauty shop -- cutting and curling hair, manicuring nails, retailing her treasures -- which is sad. Mom dearly loves the festival.

“Mom, why didn’t you put up the “closed” sign and walk to the park, get a corn dog and listen to the entertainment? (This is when all of the church choir bands within a 50-mile radius really get to show off.) This is also an opportunity to observe how all of the vaguely familiar little generations from our core families here in Hughes Springs have grown up and reproduced their own. It’s like watching a really sophisticated version of an ant farm: Our town during The Wildflower.

“Well, I was thinking about it, but then Ms. Inie popped by the beauty shop for a visit. You would never she was 98, except she’s in that wheelchair now. They had to take her leg off. She just can’t drive herself anymore. Granddaughter dropped her off. We ended up visiting a few hours. I just decided to give her a permanent wave and wax her eyebrows!”

Mom makes this pronouncement with the tone of a woman who has just decided to stay a bit longer at a grand party.

Does a 90-yr-old even have eyebrows? I’m wondering.

“It’s been at least six years since her last perm; she really needed it. It made her feel special.”

Shortly thereafter Ms. Inie’s ride shows back up. A young woman with a herd of clattering young’uns, all under the age of six, walks in.

“Darlene!”

“Oh, hey darlin’!”

“Missy’s getting married t‘morrow. I’m one of her bridesmaids.”

“How wonderful!”

“Got time to do me a set of nails?”

“Happy to do your nails! You’ll be the most beautiful bridesmaid there.”

This leaves me wondering what the clattering herd of young’uns was doing during a very hands-on, uninterruptible service.

An hour or so later Mom is hurrying to get the “closed” sign up. She is hoping that she will be able to catch that fabulous Mt. Zion bunch before they pack away their tambourines. Suddenly, a whole new group appears at the front door of You-Niquely Yours Beauty Shop.

“You Darlene!?”

“Why yeh-us! How can I help you ladies?!!”

“The vendors down at the park aren’t selling anything but junk. We ran into some ladies under the gazebo that said we needed to go down to see Darlene. So happy you’re open!”

The ladies proceed to browse, the bands downtown are packing up. A grand total of $180 was spent, not a bad sale for a rural salon boutique, but that didn’t include the free candles Mom put all of their sacks -- a “thanks for stopping by!” gift.

“Mom, you’re tired?” My heart was broken that she had missed her beloved Wildflower Trails.

“Well, not really. I need to run down to the credit union, but first I’ve got to run to see these little boys -- I mean, these young men. They are on hard times.”

“What young men?”

“Well, they lost their jobs down at the Long Branch Saloon and need a little help.”

Digressing just a bit, the Long Branch Saloon was a risky restaurant/alcohol serving venture that an enterprising young man decided to open in the middle of town about two years ago. Personally, I think it was the “Saloon” part in the title that was the probable kiss of death for them.

Our town is a dry town, where if people drink they feel kinda’ bad about it. They may slip a $20 to someone who is a “known drinker” in order to acquire a bottle of wine or six-pack for the weekend or some special event. The liquor store is located “down by the lake.” It is about eight miles out of town and in a “dangerous” part of the county. Or at least that’s what I was told growing up.

Sadly, and not surprisingly, the Long Branch Saloon closed this year, right after Wildflower Trails Festival. Too bad. I really loved that name.

“Mom, who are you talking about?”

It all comes rushing out in a disjointed kind of way: “Well, there are these two young brothers. They’re half. Or step. I think. I don’t remember.”

“It’s okay, Mom.”

“One’s been here a while and the other brother has been up in Alaska, living with his stepfather. The one that wound up in Alaska got a job at a really nice restaurant in Colorado but he couldn’t make it because of the cost of living there. You know, you’ve been skiing there.

“Yes, mom.” This I definitely understood.

“So this young man takes on this certain job -- just because it’s steady and pays dependable.” Then Mom pauses, because I can see that she is trying to show this young man some dignity, but then continues… “Well, it was with the carnival for several years. You know, just because he could depend on it and they were good to him. Like family.”

Mom is wily. I was starting to have feelings for this young man.

“He was road-weary and just sick of the carnival life. He was just ready to put that all behind him, when his carnival came through town a few years ago.”

“Let me guess – during the Wildflower Trails Festival?”

“You can‘t blame him for it. Nice little town.”

Okay, mom had won me over, but enough of that.

Mom continues: “I gave him your brother’s bed and box springs.”

“What!?” Mom has now turned to practical matters.

“You know, it was just sitting up there in storage, bound to rot. It’s not going to be any good to your brother when he gets out of jail, so I thought that I may as well give it to someone who can make good use of it. I’ll just buy your brother another bed set when he gets out.”

I sigh. “When does he get out, Mom?”

“May of 2009.” She starts crying. This is her reaction to “feeling judged.”

She continues in a strong voice, “So anyway, I’m fixing to run up to the grocery store --”

(Mother “runs up and down” everywhere.)

“-- to pick these boys up some groceries. You know, just to get them through the week.”

WAIT A MINUTE! My focus has now turned to Mom’s very hard-earned cash. Mom is very intuitive. She knows that I’m about to start asking probing questions. Instead of submitting herself to probing questions, Mom puts on her defensive hat and out comes her gritty, cold-hard-facts voice…

“He’s only got $300 in his pocket, Kim…his rent is due right now…. and it is $300!”

How my mom knows this information is beyond me. Mom just knows critical things about needy people. .

She senses that I’m still very worried, so she says the only thing left to say --

“Your dad just loves these boys too.”

OH Bull!! is what I almost blurt out, but I have put those days behind me now. I’m a big-city professional lady.

“Mom, I just covered a news story a few months ago… about this woman, about your age, who meets up with this nice young man at her church -- whom everybody loved. This nice young man was down on his luck, so this woman opens up her home and her heart to him. Everyone seems to think that the nice young man is getting on the right track -- until the woman turns up murdered. Her car and a few inexpensive items go missing from her home. Mom, please.”

Mom’s new reaction to act all wounded and hurt -- even more wounded and hurt than if I had just gone ahead and called it all “bull.”

Mom opens the wound further by telling me more bizarre facts pertaining to these young men. I set my mouth to autopilot mode “sure “, “okay”, “I understand” and let my mind take me back through the years…

When I was in elementary school, we lived on a very dangerous stretch of I-59, just outside of Texarkana. The karma angels made sure that at least three really good fatality wrecks occurred right there on that piece of highway in front my mother’s home.

I remember, on many occasions, hearing these huge crashes in the middle of the night. Shortly thereafter, I hear my mother’s bare feet slapping the linoleum in the hallway towards the front windows and hearing her exclaim “Oh, my heavenly father!!

Within 30 seconds, Mom would be in a robe, shiny Avon elf slippers, flashlight in hand. Brother and I knew this routine. We instantly were up and out of bed, jumping around like spider monkeys, eager to chase her into the deadly highway, just so that we could stare at the wreckage and aftermath.

“You two had better not step foot outside this house unless you’re going out to get Momma a peach limb!” She meant it, we believed it. And there goes our Mom, running out into the highway to do whatever she could to help.

We always knew when the victims had perished. Mom would mourn, look sickly and not eat well for weeks afterward, as if it had been her own brother or sister out there on the highway.

Perhaps the most memorable event back in those days was the arrival of the young hippie couple at our front door. To me, they looked exactly like Sony and Cher -- making them Instantly Important to me. Except that they were strangers. Hippie strangers, no less. And there had been a recent alleged-hippie murder of a couple in their homes in Dixie Inn, Louisiana recently… just up the road from us.

Charles Manson-ites be damned, I would have followed these two anywhere. I was born in 1969. I’m about seven years old at this time. These two show up at our front door, and I start thanking Jesus.

They are wearing matching tan shirts with a chocolate-colored Jesus on the front. They look a bit analogous, as they both have long, young, hairless faces -- a perfect complement to their long, honey-colored hippy hair.

“Ma’am, we’re really sorry to bother you, but we’re traveling to (?) and were wondering if you could spare us maybe a baloney sandwich and some Kool-aid, or water -- you know, just whatever you’ve got spare.

That question was the prelude to two of the coolest weeks in my young life. The two young hippies moved into our home for a couple of weeks. They were truly very sweet young people. (seven-year-old comprehension )

They helped out with yard work, helped in the garden. They played really awesome guitar and even went to church with us one Sunday! My mother considered these two young people her Sweet Christian Victory -- which embarrassed me really, really bad. I didn’t exactly want my cool new friends to know that we attended church.

Back in those days of horrifying Southern Baptist ritual, the pastor would always make the poor visitors “stand up and be recognized!!” in front of the whole congregation. You know, just so we could all get a good look at them and judge harshly. So after the pastor does this, I cringe and start slinking down into the pew, hoping my new best friends would just play it cool.

Oh, no! They pop up together, holding hands, in their tan-and-chocolate Jesus t-shirts, and start talking about what a blessing our family had been to them, how much they loved us and were starving to death physically and spiritually before my mother took them in -- all of this, of course, caused my mother to start crying openly in church.

And I just wanted to slap them all. (I was the older sibling, therefore gifted in the dark art of slapping) So mortified was I that I started to cry. This is odd… I’ve never been a crying sort of gal, even as a child. We were all crying. Praise God! Then some more people in the congregation started in with the crying.

What was wrong with my stupid mother! My gosh-dangit-crap mother! (7-yr-old Southern Baptist expletive) She was the most embarrassing mother in the world!

(flashing back to the story at hand)

… “Don’t worry about me, sweetheart! I’m not even going to get out of the car, just hand the boys their groceries though the car window. Please don’t worry about Momma. They need our prayer and support.”

To sum things up… I always acquiesce to whatever it is my mother is doing.

And then I had a peculiar new enlightenment: I am the product of my mother’s compassion! Years ago my mother took in another of those strange, needy people. My father. My wonderful, strange father.

“Oh, don’t tell your dad yet, but after I run back from the credit union, I’m going to run up to Jolene’s farm and pick up four new baby peacocks. They’ve just run out of room and the poor little things need a good home!”

I got a call from someone yesterday that started off our interchange by clearing his throat (in a foreshadowing manner). It was the principal at Chandler’s HIGH SCHOOL. The conversation went something like this:

- Mrs. Short, I regret to inform you that your son, Chandler, is sitting in my office.
- Oh really? Why?
- Chandler has been involved in an altercation this morning in the gym with another male.
- (???) What happened?
- Chandler bounced a dodgeball off the back of this young man’s head.
- Really? That doesn’t sound like something Chandler would do.
- Well, actually, the ball ricocheted off of the wall and onto the boy’s head. The boy is not hurt, other than his feelings…

At which point I started laughing. I mean, I didn’t mean to laugh but I did. The Principal clears his throat again loudly. “Which leads me to the crux of why your son is in my office, Ms. Short.”

“Why is that?”
“Because he laughed about the situation.”

Shane, seriously, I avoid showing up for Chandler’s parent-teacher-principal conferences for fear of someone trying to pop me in the mouth with a cake of Irish Spring, you know. It’s a third-baby thing… You just seem to not obsess over the little things anymore. Most people seem to be with this program, except for these Career Public School types.

Today I will be cooking at home. You know, bracing for the long-term effects of “doing more with less.” I am making Chicken-Fried steak, smashed potatoes, brown gravy and green beans – all cooked in bacon fat and butter -- exactly as God intended it. I am sorry that you are not here to enjoy. There is no better food on the planet than the aforementioned combination prepared in such haphazard manner -- and you can write that down, brother. Amen.

Kevin is doing exceptional, except early this morning, while he was preparing for a business meeting, I had hopefully the last conversation of its type with Kevin… ever… “Listen to me. Listen to me, Kevin. Stop wearing vests.”

Kevin rocks. Kevin balances my universe. Amen.

As for me?? …at the end of the day, all I want is an official Red Ryder, carbine-action, two-hundred shot range model air rifle with a compass in the stock and a thing which tells time! This will never happen, Shane, yet perhaps you see my point?

Hurry up.

I’m sure that the Big Bend trip will unfold in such profuse layers of hilarity and awesomeness that I simply need to just send pictures and let you interpret for yourself.

And now I’m ready for a warm vacation. I’ve been poking about online, on the lookout for some ridiculously cheap tickets to Mexico…you know ( to go visit the tequila…) except someone has recently removed most of the awesomeness from Mexico and put it somewhere else for a while (think drug lords -- hapless tourists caught in the middle-- gang wars) There are international warnings to travelers considering Mexico now. Especially with Spring Break coming on. Which sucks about as much as anything could suck, I suppose. I must remember to warn Kris to stay the hell out of Mexico.

Life is good back home, though. I’m sipping on my favorite morning beverage: A piping-hot coffee, dark-black roast. This is all that I require at the moment. I’m smiling. I feel like Oprah today, minus the millions of course. (Golf claps all around.)

I am at the peaceful point in my life that my kids have outgrown the need to have me go places and watch them do sh*t – and I absolutely love it. I am now (seriously) pondering things such as 26-yr-old men, mammograms and bone density tests. Nain’t funny either.

Dakota, my precious little one, is staring at me through double-paned glass. She has been left outside this morning, which means she’s not been in her rightful place MY LAP during my morning ritual of dark-black roast and bone density ponderings. Her frantic barks at my back door translate into… OMGWTF?OMGWTF?OMGWTF?OMGWTF?OMGWTF?OMGWTF???!

Dakota is obviously stressed/spoiled. Her little eyes are crusted over. She’s had a sleepless night. EVERY SINGLE night she wedges her little body up under MY ASS in my king-sized bed. If I need to move, stretch or shake out body parts that have fallen asleep, she growls at me fiercely and lunges blindly at me with her little teeth for waking her up.

Don’t hate-on Dakota. Obviously she has it way better than all you poor doods in jail. There are now psychologists, hotels, spas, play and focus groups, bakeries, bookstores and couture boutiques dedicated to DOGS! They’re everywhere, I tell you. The world has moved on, Shane. I swear, if the Apocalypse happens tomorrow, and renders this planet into a barren, windswept Thunderdome, the dogs will be eating us. You can write that down.

Mere’ is getting crazier by the nanosecond. She is indecisive and moody. I want desperately to kick her out of my home. She has already started accumulating baggage. Jesus, if only there were a delete button for problematic, real-life packages, huh? She doesn’t have the common sense yet to attempt to act normal for at least the 90-day trial period it takes to acquire and indoctrinate a new boyfriend. Which is a mixed blessing, ya know?

She is moving to Denton. She has been promised a job by a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend’s cousin’s nephew. My only prayer for her is that speed and hygiene be optional requirements of this new job.

Yesterday I asked her to not be so selfish and to consider other people’s feelings... And tonight I will be swinging a dead cat by the light of the waning moon, an act entirely more gratifying than having any expectations of Mere’.

Yesterday I caved in to shoe-lust and bought a pair of expensive, pink superheroish boots at Dillard’s, which go with absolutely nothing that I own – as simply reward for being Mere’’s mother.

I have problematic teeth, which is why it should not surprise me in the least that Chandler has problematic teeth as well.

“Ms. Short (ahem) Chandler has very thick saliva. Thick saliva is indicative of lack of oxygen, leading to proliferation of bacteria. We understand that he really shouldn’t be chewing gum, given the very expensive orthodontic appliance and all, but please allow him to chew sugar-free gum… 24-hours a day… as it aerates the mouth and flushes out the crevasses.”

I made a great show of berating my son publicly in the lobby of the dentist office (think Piggly-Wiggly mom minus the slapping) – EVEN THOUGH every time I walk into the dentist’s office, they look at me like I’ve been sleeping with hard candy in my mouth.

I can sum up our dental hygienist in one phrase: She is the scary den mother of our life. We are afraid of her. Bad teeth is a curse that we just can’t seem to get away from in this family. Our mother doesn’t have any, and our father’s poor mouth is spangled with decorative, colorful nubs. Very bad juju indeed, handed down from both sides. I assume that you suffer from the same curse? I just found out that the dentist is recommending that Chandler’s braces be REMOVED in order to address the cavity situation and the REINSTALLED. Is that legal? I’m sure Blue Cross will take issue with the exercise. I was also apprised of the approximate cost of this endeavor, which is why I hope to drink heavily this weekend.

Hello, Brother. Forgive me for my lack of correspondence. I’ve been traveling through a Russian winter… naked… carrying a basket of kittens. And that’s all you need to know.

I hope all is okay-ish there at The Big House. It finally started raining here in parched H-town (Houston,) which means we gon’ find some roof and wait for the FEMA copters to come save us…

As you probably know, the world is bracing for the long-term effects of “doing more with less.” I am seeing the fallout all around us and am just battening down the hatches. Kevin is one of those doods who simply has a spreadsheet mind and is way too intelligent and in-control-of-himself to be let go. Now please excuse me while I go find a piece of wood to knock on. The threat of a hefty fine from the FCC meted out public broadcasters is a nice insurance policy that keeps me working. But who knows. I am so thrilled that Kristopher is in the Navy. He appreciates this phase of his life, as well. I am encouraging him to please, please, please get his college behind him while Rich Uncle Sam is paying the tuition. Please pray. He just spent a few days with me and is now in San Diego.

Seriously, this week I get a bounty of text messages on my phone from all of my ex-husbands, plus Jerry and Randy -- wishing me a Happy Valentines! Nina (our mother) one-upped me this year by getting a new puppy, a new website and a new president!

I've been filling in all of my free time lately with cleaning my own grout. That's right. Grout. The reason I am doing this myself? Because I know that even the professionals will not crouch atop the slate, wielding a toothbrush and a mixture of vinegar and baking soda. (Wait a minute... that must mean that I will be doing the crouching and toothbrush-wielding, ahem) Also, I will be saving myself a considerable amount money in the exercise.

I may become a cripple over the project, but damn my grout will look nice. I plan on sealing it myself as well. Not sure about the technical level required to handle floor sealant either.

I'm a do-it-myselfer. Every damn time I tackle a project, about a third of the way into the project, the delayed wisdom of rethinking a professional occurs to me. Alas, too late. I still cannot stop myself from, say, walking outside, gazing up at my 4,500 square-foot home and saying, I really need to paint my house. I just need to go to Sherwin-Williams, pick out some pretty paint and rent a sprayer...

Not sure that my way of thinking makes much sense, but perhaps you see my point?

Well... the mosquitos and love bugs are starting to make an appearance. My hibiscus and bouganvilla are starting to bud -- and I am atremble at the glory of it all.

I am tricked every... single... damn.... year into prematurely planting bulbs, pulling out the pool furniture, trading my heavy-bodied red malbecs and cabernets for lighter, fruitier (poolside) ingulgences and apertifs. I've even started wearing yellows and vague pale pastel ensembles. (sigh)

You can't blame me. Bluebonnets and Indian Paintbrushes are starting to poke up out of the weeds alongside the roadside. My gardeners have started showing up every Friday, and I am in a state of freshly-mown heaven. Really.

Every year I get tricked into spring cleaning, organizing my pantry and clothes closet. I throw away all of the cans of pumking puree' and evaporated milk that I did not use up over the holiday cooking blitz. I start planting rosemary, basil and fiddle-head ferns in the "garden". I feel deep in my heart that this will be the year that I will be able to keep the fuschia New Guinea impatiens alive through summer. (sigh)

I stash away all of my heavy Houston winter gear (long-sleeved t-shirts, blue jeans, footwear not in the flipflop category) and start contemplating renewing my subscription to Martha Stewart's Living magazine.
Martha's great empire has made it such that creative types like me never need again to conjure up an original idea... and I see the value in that. I'm a Very Busy Woman.

We will have a final, wicked freeze within a week or two, nipping away all of the buds and glory, screwing up my seasonal urges. I gawdamguarantee it. Such is life in Houston, Texas.


One of the major differences between my daughter and myself: I am a woman who solves my own problems; my daughter is a woman whose problems always seem to resolve themselves. As I am her mother, I am learning to accept this and just be grateful.

After her latest crisis, she is back to her footloose and fancy-free days of absentmindedness, slovenly living and feline debauchery. At this very moment the smooth stylings of Tom Wait are vibrating the rafters over her bedroom.

I have much (secret) admiration for my daughter. Lately, though, much of the admiration has been cancelled out by all of her shenanigans. However, I figure I am paying my Karmic rent, ya know? It is my prayer that she wake up and adjust to what is required in order to get by in this life, and I'd do just as well swinging a dead cat by the light of the waning moon as wasting my breath on any of that. There I go again, being an old-fashioned parent.

I am no longer in the captain's seat when it comes to my daughter, and that feels strange. I am rearranging my prayers for Mere', assuming that whatever is required for her to get by in this life will simply come to her.

Maybe I should take my feelings to a therapist, or a chat room full of well-meaning non-experts. (sigh)

(photo with this entry is of Hurricane Ike's entry blowing in over Houston, TX. Eight hours in advance we see the rings. These cloud rings were swirling deceptively above us, like a hypnotic cotton-candy carousel. Ring after ring after ring...)

Government mumbo-jumbo…

Let’s plug the new standard “government bail-out” into the Devil’s Dictionary, shall we?

So… we have a new president. For a change, we’re about to Give Peace a Chance… whether we like it or not, dammit. And now I can stop pretending to be Canadian -- and start openly claiming that Pappaw Souter was a quarter black man. Awwwsoomme.

The economy is toxic. The world’s monetary system is toxic. This whole world of ours is toxic… and just begging and pleading for a good, old-fashioned colon-cleanse anyways, so let’s just git-r-done.

To quote the words of the great Lilly Tomlin: Things are going to get a whole lot worse before they get worse.

Now to that dictionary entry…
It looks like the government is about to compensate the shuck-and-jive-mofo idiots on Wall Street more than fairly for their loss. With our tax money! Can you believe it? Believe it, because it’s absurd. And, as these things will happen, it now takes an emergency meeting of the Joint Chiefs of Staff for a normal person to take advantage of some of these sweet new bail-outs served up to our financiers -- on a naked, beautiful, extremely expensive Chinese woman’s body, no less.

Ooohh, we know how you like it, America. Love you long time… (whip cracking)


…but the fun doesn’t stop there!

Well, it’s almost Thanksgiving. Let me remind you of what it is all about in this family during this happy, hallowed holiday: James will be removing the sack of grossness from the turkey’s ass, popping open a beer and finding a football game inHD. Meanwhile, I will be whipping up an amazing feast, along with our assortment of weird, upper-white trash culinary vittles that our mom insists upon every…single…year. A couple of years back, I did not buy the aluminum can jam-packed with mysterious cranberry Jell-o, et al. and our Mom actually teared up. She took it all personal and stuff. Nevermind that I had actually made a fresh relish concoction out of FRESH cranberries, blood orange segments, fresh ginger root, toasted pecans, brown sugar. Oh, hell no! I’ll never pull that trick on our mom again.

And, of course, we will be thinking about you… and, of course, trying not to think about what you will be eating. Please try to call. We’ll all be at my house for the festivities. So pass the beer nuts! No, wait. In observance of the opening of the holiday season: “Pass the candied beer nuts!”

And now let me tell you why we missed out on the chance to visit the Pea Patch for The ?? Annual Squirrel Hunt and Debauchery in the Ozarks Event at our family compound last week…

I have attached a couple of pictures with Chandler and Missy (the young woman who has made Chandler miserable since the 4th grade.) Aren't they a cute couple? Chandler is now taller than his mother! These two are now "going out" (???) with each other. Which means, I presume, going out of their minds. Chandler does not date yet... but we are getting uncomfortably close to that reality.

I have attached a couple pics. As you will notice, they match. While out shopping for new everything that Chandler required for the dance, I picked out an apple-green Ralph Lauren shirt and matching tie. Chandler balked. He did not realize that he needed to coordinate his outfit with his gal's.

While making a few minor alterations and pressing his suit, my eyes fell upon a spool of bright, apple-green ric rac. You know, the decorative, wavy embellishment darling of the '70s? Looks sort of like this.... wwwwwwwwwww

I had time to kill. I was also feeling the need to get even, since he'd robbed me of my trip to the Pea Patch, so.... I tacked the apple-green ric rac all over his suit. The cuffs, sleeves, pocket, collar. Had the whole thing nicely pressed and on a hanger for him.

When he saw his suit, he screamed like a little girl. Really. The thing looked like a mariachi costume. It was gorgeous, in a very demented way. Heh-heh. I've attached a picture, but the picture doesn't do the outfit justice. He honestly did not know that I was playing a joke on him. Priceless!

Teet yoo peervis!! Teet yooo peervis!!!

Each yoga session, Master Yang is getting louder and closer to my face. Six weeks into my instruction, the marble drops into the right hole, and I finally figure out that Master Yang is instructing me to “tilt my pelvis.” Finally! Things start to fall in line and I see that Master Yang does smile, after all. I feel that I came dangerously close to a waterboarding session.

This is Dahn Yoga. A very pure, practical theory. James calls it “Damn Yoga.” This is because I have signed him up for a three-month session and purchased for him his own billowing, fatboy set of yoga pajamas in which to learn this new craft. He’s pretty indignant about the whole thing. Doesn’t want his damn chakras opened. I only have one thing to say about this: ah shinadahhh…

But, as you know, I am a total hedonist and am generally impatient with self-help theory and physical fitness regimens, so please stand by.

And they think that they can make a ripple in the ocean of time??

Mom and Dad really enjoyed their visit with you recently. Apparently, they made a mini-vacation out of the trip. They were so moved by the experience that they rented one of the little cabins on Lake Hugo for the following weekend and brought along maw-maw and paw-paw, who are very, very frail and close to the end of their lives. Maw-maw grew up in that area, as you know. They drove them out to Ft. Towsen and surrounding areas, just so Maw-maw and paw-paw could look around. Our mom and dad are the most selfless, caring, generous people that I know. So what happened to us? Heh-heh.

(props to my brilliant daughter, the artist of this '20s era gem)


Since I am a go-getter (obsessive/compulsiveness rocks) I have made a drastic turnaround. If you read the first sentence of the following paragraph, skip over everything in the middle, then pick back up with the last sentence, you will get only a fraction of the new routine. Okay. Here we go…

I am on week six of my new life. I am cooking at home. I have always cooked "very healthy" but have made modifications such as... no more white flour/white flour products. I'm eating strictly rye bread, wild salmon twice a week, steamed fresh ORGANIC vegetables... two glasses of red wine a day, period! One cup of coffee a day, period! Nothing processed. Nothing that has been feed unbelieveable amounts of antibiotics or growth hormones. Only using olive oil and light canola, when necessary. No margarins. Very limited dairy. I did test with dairy, and my stomach doesn't care for certain types of dairy products -- with the exception of butter and Activa yogurt. The list goes on. It is almost a diabetic diet that I am on, which is a very healthy diet, by the way. The only down side, my grocery bill has gone up significantly on the meats and produce. I consider it a worthwhile investment.

Every single day I have at least three cups of African Rooibos tea infused with significant dose of Red Clover and Chinese ginseng extracts. Sounds terrible but it is actually very good. The reason I'm using the extracts is the candida albicans link to MS and about every other autoimmune disease. The Red Clover tea is a natural blood, kidney and liver cleanser. Also I have one cup of hot water with half a lemon and about a teaspoon of freshly grated ginger root around 2:00 p.m. Lemon keeps the body's ph in line. Ph level in the blood and body is serious. Lemon is good for keeping paracites and bacteria at bay. Ginger root for pain, inflamation and also bacteria and paracites.

In addition to taking the multivitamin supplement, I'm taking MSM, glucosamine/chondroitin, ester C, fish oil, coenzyme Q10, B complex. I take a fresh source of flaxseed and evening primrose, mixed in my yogurt in the morning. It was pointed out to me by a source that I highly respect that ester C is THE only vitamin C we should be taking with supplements, because ester C is a supperior "vehicle" to efficiently deliver the supplements.

I joined Dahn Yoga a month ago also. Sister, am I ever a believer in yoga now! I was struggling with constant daily pain. Aching and burning pain. I have not taken an Advil or Tylenol since my first week of yoga class. (I try to go three times a week) I would recommend yoga to anyone. It is not simply working on the body. It includes vibration therapy, brain wave therapy (almost a self-hypnosis), meditation, Tai Chi and much more. Let me put a sharp point to one excercise, in particular: deep breathing excercise. I have learned that in this way, 75% of toxins are eliminated through the lungs, compared to 25% in the usual ways... perspiration, urination and defacation. This is amazing new information to me.

In conjunction with everything else, I also started seeing a wonderful psychologist -- who politely demanded I consider an antidepressant and start laying down boundaries for myself. I convinced her that I would go the yoga/lifestyle change route first. I had my doubts at that time. So did she. A month later, she is genuinely impressed and has asked numerous questions about the lifestyle changes and also for the phone number for my yoga studio. She remarked that perhaps she should transition over from Pilates to yoga.

I am typically pretty impatient when it comes to self-help theory, but I am reading a book by the wonderful Ann Boroch that has caused this turnaround, "Healing Multiple Sclerosis." I consider this my new bible, when it comes to my health. Bridget, honestly, take the word "multiple scclerosis" out of the title of this book and fill in the blank with anything autoimmune. This book is unbelievable.

I believe in all of it. That is very key. I have undergone such a transformation -- uplifted spirit, energy and attitude -- that my whole family is on board with this. James and Mere’ have signed up for yoga. Chandler is eating what I am eating and asking questions about ingredients in certain foods. Super-cool?

Yeah. See,I told you so. Wotta’ gigantic pain in the ass my new life is, right??

Not really. I have been told that depression is anger turned inwards. Just what in the hell do I got to be angry about anyway? Worried, yes. But angry?? I say, just because I feel occasionally like plunging a screwdriver into some nice leather upholstery, that doesn’t mean I’m angry. Call me low-class, but that’s a God-damn fact.

I want to feel like I am living an unwritten life. I don’t want hands (figurative) around my neck, forcing me to make fight-or-flight decisions. I want to believe in myself again; like I can create something good and that I’m not just waving in the winds of whatever. Do you think, brother, that this has anything to do with being ALMOST 40?

Ah…my theories being what they are… but truthfully, I am on top of the world now. Feel like I have a new lease on life now. A renewed, healthy body, mind and spirit.

But, as you know, I am a total hedonist and am generally impatient with self-help theory and physical fitness regimens, so please stand by.

Hello, brother.

Well…

…Hell.


I am feeling that I need to offer you an explanation (excuse) for why you have not heard from me in… um... whenever.

10 months, actually.

And then immediately the guilt seized me. Then I told myself, “Fuck- it in a bucket.”

Thank you, Master Yang… (You will understand in a moment.)

I am an absolute strumpet for attention. Synchronicity and Karma are really theories to buy stock in (as long as your chokras are in alignment.) I was sitting on my back porch with the hounds, sipping a cup of hot tea, meditating over the waterfall of my swimming pool and the newfound marvel of an empty mind, and not 10 whole minutes later I get an email. It is from someone who has commented on one of my many websites, “Letters to my Brother in Jail.” The comment says, "You are a very good writer," or something along those lines.

Ahem...

I tried, in vain, to post a thank-you to this mystery commenter, an explanation for my ideas, the inspiration behind the posts, my favorite nonfiction author and breakfast cereal preference. Apparently, the kind commentor had thrown me an anonymous bone. WTH?? Instead of feeling the proper emotion, and then appropriately letting it go (thank you, Master Yang), I was spurred into action (sorry, Master Yang) so I sashayed over to the computer to pick back up with our neglected, one-sided dialog, Brother, hoping in earnest that my anonymous visitor would appear again and pay me another compliment. (My psychologist insists that I need boundaries, and perhaps a closer scrutiny of certain motivations)

Sorry, Brother, for that unfortunate bit of inspiration, but I think this will help explain the dark place in which I have been stuck lately. About eight weeks ago, I suddenly realized that, for many years, I have been stuck in the First Act of “All of These Certain Type Situations Play” AND unless I take drastic action, I will undoubtedly be stuck in the "starring role" of this play for…the…rest… of…my…everlovin’… life. Amen.

My life has been an opera. Thus it is appropriate that I would be listening to a lot of opera music lately, what with this great epiphany. The problem with opera is that an opera is typically one great big party that ends in death. So apropos. That is where I have been headed.

1-25-08 11:23 p.m.

Hey, Brother -

I’m sorry it takes me so long to get back to you… with my many glamorous social commitments and a busy media schedule, you know…

I have suddenly, and for no good reason, picked up on an old hobby: Painting pictures. I have chosen really “simple projects” such as Indian flamethrowers, snake-charmers and eerie close-ups of famous Indian chiefs. Ha-ha. My ambition just eludes me. Old habits are hard to break. Ass-whippins’, they are.. Probably speaks something of my mental state of mind at this point in my life.

I just finished painting (what was supposed to be) a stunning depiction of an Ogallala Chief. His impressive, sun-dried, beef-jerky face tells of many battles and proud massacres. I haven’t been able to get his hue just right. (he looks mummified) And in my overzealous attempt at the wrinkles, I have given him a cleft pallet. I was aiming for a native-bronzed, sun burnt kind of hue; he simply looks like he is eaten up with melanoma.

We call him “Skin Disease Chief.” I will attach a photo of my rendering of him for you. May it bring you luck, prosperity -- and a keen hankering for sun block when you go out for extended periods of time.

Another stunner -- and which hangs larger than life in our living room -- is a Navajo warrior. (picture attached) Do you notice something peculiarly familiar about him?? Mere' pointed it out right away -- in all of her infinite, artistic, smart-assed wisdom -- ”Mom, your fierce Navajo Indian warrior looks like George Bush.”
Whuu!!? I was so proud of that warrior -- but now everyone is laughing at the George Bush warrior, hanging in our living room. I have threatened to take the damn thing down, but the family just won’t allow it. It has become our newest conversation piece.

What do you think about The Flamethrower? I found an amazing photo in “Time” magazine about five or six years ago. I clipped it out of the magazine and have held onto it ever since. It was my intention to commission a seriously talented, but starving, young artist to paint it for me -- for pennies on the dollar… but just never quite warmed to the idea. So, of course, when the painting bug bit recently, I just thought that I would attempt it myself. I’m pretty pleased with the results. It took me three days. I‘ve made my peace with it.

Pass the beer nuts…

Upon completion of that “masterpiece,” I was feeling kind of punchy, so I thought how incredibly cool it would be to do a companion piece to The Flamethrower: A Snake Charmer! You know, one of those Hodji-fluting-at-the-cobra-dudes? By the way, they’re all over the sidewalks in India: Those huge, spitting cobras, the tip jars, and their very competent Hodji masters… Sh*t!

So I start Googling around for interesting cobra/Hodji combinations. So I type in “snake charmer.” Got some very interesting hits…(yeah, baby!!!) which resulted in the little gal and her boa (constrictor) heh-heh. I could not resist painting that one. It is hung up next to The Flamethrower, as sort of an inside joke.

And the conversation pieces just keep piling up around here…

Later the same evening…
James and I just got home from Babin’s bar. Remember… the NOLA bar of infamous musical misinformation?

Los Lobos is playing on the juke box. I half expect Josh (the bartender/math wiz) to come over just to tell us Los Lobos were actually the first dudes to release Oye Coma Va… and that Tito Puente was accompanying them on the harmonica…or something really profound like that. Instead, we all find ourselves mesmerized by the large plasma-screened TV, tuned to FOX. Without a doubt, one must look like total hell in order to be taken seriously by the executives at Fox. Have you seen their anchors? I’m not one to, well, judge, but… daaaammmmm. You just have to take a serious-as-hell pucker face, well, seriously, ya know?

In spite of all of the “visible exhale”, if we do not have children in tow, James and I are drawn to certain bars. Unfortunately of course we’re mostly surrounded by The Smokers. A convivial, interesting bunch, eager to share their cigarettes and promote (with impunity) their own brand of sage wisdom with anyone in schlepping distance.

Last night the conversation centered mostly around recently-deceased actor, 28-yr-old Heath Ledger. Very sad, I admit. I admired his work and grit.

Heathcliff Andrew Ledger (April 4, 1979 – January 22, 2008) was an Academy Award-nominated Australian actor. After appearing in television roles during the 1990s, Ledger developed a Hollywood career. He starred in both critical and financial successes, including Ten Things I Hate About You, The Patriot, Monster's Ball, A Knight's Tale and Brokeback Mountain, and completed the role of the Joker in the forthcoming movie The Dark Knight shortly before his death.


Amid their “Great Clouds of Accurate Information,“ came comments like…”He musta gone crazy after doing that gay-cowboy-thing”… (puff-puff) or “It was that Joker role on the new Batman that done it.” (puff-puff)

Josh The Bartender is shaking his head sadly, and then he turns to James and I. He tells us that his brother is gay. Not a fag either, but manly-gay…savvy? James and I began nodding thoughtfully. Just something Josh was needing to get off of his mind at that point, I guess -- and another thing for me to add to “The Big List of Things I Need to Care About.”

I learned how to use the “history” function on my computer this week… so I now consider myself a minor sleuth of sorts. Very empowering. You know, in case I need to covertly track internet activity of certain family members. So I decided to try out my new prowess. Not that I needed to, because it was only Chandler, my angel, who was simply checking his email. He is such a sweet boy. So directly after Chandler walks away from my computer, I bring up the internet history (and I‘m feeling a bit guilty about this until)…. “naked cheerleaders” and “lesebean sex”. This made my lower jaw retract…

As you know, Chandler is 13 now, and barely tolerates his association with me, but he was shockingly interested in what I had to say about my newfound computer skill.
I casually mention to Chandler that I occasionally will be checking the history of websites visited. It is my computer, after all, and I do not need to deal with any viruses. (virtual STD) He looks away. I know I’m a touch more neurotic than the average person but…daaaammm! I need to get a handle on a few things around here, most especially my naiveté.

The questionable spelling of “lesbian” immediately eliminated my husband from the list of likely surfing suspects, I‘m glad to say, but this did get me to thinking about certain things that men do just to get female attention (or some semblance of lucky) and it’s adding up to an absolute stockpile of events around here lately. (sigh) I suppose that’s natural.

The really tough part about being 13 is, If you’re not 100 percent certain you’re “hot stuff, “ how do you push past that and persevere? Chandler’s paradigm is a really tough place to be right now. Do you remember any of this? If so, do you have any advice to offer, brother? Not only does he have to compete in the vicious real world but also in this whole underbelly of MySpace, texting and email, which has convoluted what could be a practical tool with the ridiculous and downright alarming.

This morning I opened my email, hoping to get updates from friends, family. I was also expecting an update from Chandler‘s math teacher. Maybe a recipe from Dad. Instead the only new (unsolicited) emails were about topics such as “increase blood flow to the penis” which I suppose would be okay…if I had one. Now see, these emails manage to make us think about things/needs we would not otherwise ponder.

(A wordy explanation on how our kids are exposed to way much more than we were, without a doubt.)

I read this somewhere: Computers allow us make more mistakes faster than any other human invention, with the possible exception of handguns and tequila.
( …a direct quote from the Bible, I‘m sure.)

And while we’re on the subject of tequila… James and I both have noticed some questionable activity in the liquor cabinet…and it is quickly becoming “a situation.” Gentle parental questioning has lead to ….generally getting a death stare from one or both… and blatant denials…of course… leading to more rigorous and heated exchanges.

My gentle questions quickly turn into inane, incredulous statements, becoming stoopid-er and stoppid-er by the minute: “You two guys!! I’m not stoop-idd!! Because I figure after 25 years, dammit, your Mom remembers enough of it-- because it’s not like it was 20 years ago, when Mom was 18 -- like one of you is now!! -- when I was a frikkin’ gawd-dam genius, gawd-dammitt!!-- and now that I’ve been doing this for 25 years, and I’m 38, I know!!! I am not an idiot!!!…

Um… see what I mean? And now I’m having tormenting visions of the children drifting off at night into drunken seizures, drowning in pools of vomit -- just before whisper-hollering downstairs to me!!…(“Mom, you were right!! Help!!!”)
…meanwhile, I’m zombied-out downstairs, watching the Turner Classic Movie Channel with three hounds and a seriously snoring husband…

Dammmit, I need a few helper monkeys around here. Life can be hard sometimes.

Now, regarding the very cool new rock star association I have, (Toehold in reality time!!!) Your sister possesses the psychotic conviction that she is 100 percent hot sh*t, evidently….

Dilana Robichaux is a singer, songwriter, and performer who lives in Los Angeles, California. She is best known as the runner-up contestant on the CBS reality television show Rock Star: Supernova
Biography
Dilana Jansen VanVüren was born in Johannesburg, South Africa on August 10, 1972. Her surname changed to Smith when she was about two years old, when her mother married her stepfather, and he adopted her. Dilana used singing as an escape from an unpleasant home scene, participating in school choir competitions and festivals, as well as church choir.
When the opportunity presented itself, Dilana dropped everything and started performing full time, from a traveling duo, to a mixture of bands in South Africa and The Netherlands. Moving to the Netherlands, she formed her own band, focusing more on original works and becoming one of the country’s highest paid live performers.
Recording her first album Wonderfool in 2000 led to four music videos, five singles and well over 200 gigs. She also sang the title tracks for two major motion pictures and performed in a festival in Belgium supporting Joe Cocker, K's Choice and Heather Nova to a crowd of more than 100,000 people. Dilana also performed at the 2000 Sydney Olympics, with other Dutch performers.
Supernova
Dilana was one of the finalists on the CBS reality television show of season two of Rock Star, where she finished runner-up to Lukas Rossi. The show is a competition in which the band chooses a lead singer from a group of contestants. Although Dilana received the most consistent praise for her performances of all the contestants, she came under fire from fans, her competition, and from Supernova because of comments she made during a staged press conference, in which she was forthcoming with her opinion of her competitors. Although she apologized repeatedly for her remarks afterwards, it appears that her first "bottom three" appearance was a result of this controversy. The controversy seemed to die down by the end of the program; on the final night of voting, she was said to have received the highest number of votes at least at one point during the evening, and ended up with the second highest number overall. On November 17, 2006, Gilby Clarke revealed that Lukas Rossi defeated Dilana because "he made [their] music sound more like a band, whereas Dilana sounded like a singer, with Supernova backing her."
Gigs and Tours
Following her participation on Rock Star, Dilana performed various venues with fellow Rock Star: Supernova finalist Magni; with Magni, she won an FM957 People's Choice Award (Icelandic Grammy) for "Gig of the Year" in January of 2007. From November to December of 2006, Dilana headlined her first independent tour in the United States, sponsored by Urok clothing, which also distributes and sells her new clothing line. From January to February of 2007, she opened for the Rock Star Supernova tour, playing an acoustic set with Magni on guitar. While critics generally panned Rock Star Supernova, Dilana's performances were met with positive reception.[1][2] Following the Rock Star Supernova tour, Dilana will perform at various locations before embarking on another solo tour following the release of her album. This includes opening for the band Aerosmith on April 28, 2007 at the Manadalay Bay in Las Vegas.
In The Studio
Dilana has stated that her upcoming album is slated for a 2008 release date. It will be recorded with the help of Gilby Clarke, No Doubt drummer Adrian Young, Mötley Crüe guitarist Mick Mars, Satellite Party basist Carl Restivo, fellow Rock Star: Supernova finalist Magni, former Acceptance members and the Rock Star houseband and released through her newly created record label "Rusty Harp." She has also mentioned that this album will feature her original work, opposed to covers; however, she has released covers of Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire" and The Police classic "Roxanne". It is unclear whether they will be included on the final tracklisting. Through YouTube on her personal account "DilanaVids", she released the music video for Holiday, which she created using footage from her life after rising to fame in the United States. Dilana was also featured on a re-recording of "Black", a track on Gilby Clarke's best-of album released January 30, 2007.[3] In June of 2007, Dilana signed a long-term, international co-publishing agreement with major company Cherry Lane Publishing joining a roster including John Legend, Wolfmother, The Black Eyed Peas and Mick Mars. [4]

…One day a couple months ago I found a hand-written note scotch-taped to my front door: “Please Come to a Party at Your New Neighbor’s House. BYOB.“
Simply excellent. I refuse to acknowledge that sort of riff-raff invitation from a new neighbor. So instead, I decide to walk my dog. One the way home, I hear some extremely cool music coming from the back yard of the new neighbor. Our cul-de-sac is just jam-packed with about 15 brand-spanking-new corvettes.

So…I decide to slick back my extremely cool platinum hairdo, slip into an extremely cool anti-mother ensemble, and go investigate.
… and meet perhaps two of the greatest friends I will ever have: Dilana and Dickey. Extremely cool people. Dilana digs my poetry and made the comment, do you have any idea what you have written? We are from the same tribe, girl! You could be rich! I could use some of your lyrics…!!

Um…well, that fired me up, as much as I allow myself to become fired up about anything anymore…and so I have been writing songs (based upon my dark poetry) ever since.

Perhaps I’m the next undiscovered songwriting genius? Or maybe not. Honestly, I’m just a self-indulgent, extremely happy idiot savant. Nice. What more could an aging hipster mommy want?!?

Nothing, that’s what -- Not a damn-thing more.

Life has been interesting around here, to say the least. As a result of my latest brush with karma, I have made a study of famous songwriters, you know, to see what that scene is all about. Interestingly, I happened upon one of the most famous songwriters of this decade. She has her own star on the Hollywood Walk. Her name is Diane Warren. I faxed her over a letter, introducing myself, and our possible family connection; that I myself am an esteemed writer…(!!!) and have not heard back…heh-heh.

Not sure I will, as I am such a big-ass threat to her, you know. So… like…when you get sprung, make sure to bring over your friends and fancy-ass recording equipment. I’ll let you sing. (I’m the songwriter remember) Maybe you’ll become the next Meatloaf….(seriously)…

But for now… my new whacked-out stylings are just sitting there on my new, private, lyrics website, you know, glowing like radiation.

I must sound like a total fool to you, Shane. But it is all the truth. You know me… “Daughter-of-Roland” kind of business… but I will tell you something strange. About six weeks before I met Dilana, I had a dream that I had started writing songs for U2. Jeez…are your ears starting to bleed yet? I woke up with such strong conviction that I started researching it…and quickly wrote-off the notion. After all, autographing books and assorted body parts has never really been my goal in life. I just simply enjoy the “craft.”

Possibly by the time you are released, I will be quarantined to some little room with my psychotic little convictions, clutching reams and reams of “my work“; rocking and stroking it, calling it “the precious.”

…And if you have not seen “Lord of the Rings”…you have absolutely no tag to my bizarre reference…and are probably praying for me.

As you know, my only aspiration is to just get though another day with my teenagers without having my pants fall down around my ankles…that’s always a triumph, ya know?
I’m feeling a little punchy. I’ve had a pot of coffee already, it’s 10:30 a.m., and I just can’t believe that it’s not 3 p.m…. somebody please hold me.

And now I REALLY need to hook a toe into reality, sign off and “get some stuff done.” Chandler and I are headed to The Woodlands Mall. I have told him “Do not ask for one, single thing! And I absolutely mean it…this time…young man!” The house is now filled with the overpowering scent of young man cologne and I am about to gag on the fumes.

And you’d probably rather be reading an informative packet on people with Down’ Syndrome anyway… so I will sign off for now.

Hurry up.
K

December 20, 2007...

I think of you ever day. I promse our mother everyey week that I will be sencding off the nesh fresh installment and yet…

Have been in a dar place. I am better. In retrospect…now tha tI am better, I just ffl selfish. We are gearing up around her for Christmas. For a change, am not overtaxed, stressed out of my gourd. I put oup the tree, pu up a garlan over hta eamntle, iI wrpped the Itllian cypress trees in te fron yar with lights, pu u[p wereaths on the front windows. And callee it good Kevin has been tyring to win the business of Amaretta_hess (Arn & Hammner) and it llokds positive. Plese pray. If he winds this acound, he will be te firs. He I the most dedicated, hard-working man I have ever known’; and ans a result, Ia m the most hardest, dedicated, har-working woman I have ever known. We just get by.. Belive me. I find myself reading “Rule your retirement” articles in popular retiriement subscriptions; I am drunk.

January 7, 2008

Hoooly shat. That little pile of crap up there was a letter I started you one night after having too much to drink. I was missing you. I opened up that file yesterday and almost cried. My finger was poised over the “delete” key, but then I stopped and read it again, decided to keep it.

I have done a lot of searching my heart lately about myself, what I hope to accomplish, the habits that I need to get rid of, and decided that I will come back to this infamous letter to my brother on December 20th, 2007, just to see how f’d up being drunk is.
Forgive me for even attaching it in this letter to you, but that sorry-ass little paragraph just about sums up what I have been doing with myself every evening for the past -- I don’t know -- too long. I even have these astonishing, heart-rending excuses for “drinking too much” but so what?

Powerful words, words to make a person give up or wake up -- “so what?”

Moving on, congratulations on surviving another new year. I considered the typical “happy new year’s” wish, but figured you might laugh at that. But in retrospect, I know you will look at this time in your life and count your blessings.
I know that I do.

I’m very proud of your hard-fought fire fighting education, plus the electricity training you have. Electricity and fire scare the living crapola out of me, so I am duly, duly impressed, brother.

I’m so sorry for my lack of communication. Damn, just read my mind, okay, because you are on it too much of the time. You are such an abominable distraction, my dear.

I pray for you… and pray for you… and pray for you. Know that.
As you can probably discern, especially from the last letter, I have been really searching my soul about my religion. Not one moment have I doubted my Creator and his love for me, but something in my mind is trying to stretch me. I’m wanting to know more and more about “why”.

I know this is normal for humans at some point in their life. I have never had the need to do that, but now that I do, it has just been spiritual torture. I have been writing poetry for the last six months or so. Kevin seems astounded and wants to know where it comes from. I have met a real, live rock star, And we’ve become great friends. She wants to use my poetry in some songs. I will tell you more about that in the next letter, it is unbelievable.

I have to be honest, I don’t know how to answer to anybody, other than it comes from a part of me that I haven’t met yet. A part of me that I would like to get to know. I use the analogy of talking in tongues. I have never considered that phenomenon, though I believe it.

One of the many times Kevin asked me, “where does this come from?” the strangest, but most true answer just came out. “Kevin, I self-hypnotize, and then my mind speaks to me in tongues.”

My response and my poetry have puzzled me. I have done enough research on the Internet and have been taken to so many unbelievable, ironic sites that I know that God is leading me somewhere, and I am trying to be patient. If you read my poetry, then go to Rosicrucian sites, or those that speak heavily of Kaballah, some of my poetry is almost direct quote -- and this scares me, because I’m not sure that those places are where I need to be. Both claim to be non-religious, but a platform upon which to strengthen your religion and personal growth. Ideals, strategies thousands of years old, ancient secrets of growth and learning. A place where people that have been enlightened eventually are lead. (???)

And that is all I’m willing to say about that right now, because I do not want to influence you toward a path that I’m unsure of and am mostly doubtful about myself. I am just trying to come to terms with God and where I need to be. The last thing I’m looking for is some cult, sect or secret brotherhood, ya know?

It is raining outside today. I can’t imagine anything that thrills me more than a rainy day. I’m not sure if it is my gutters or some of the pipes on my roof, but it almost sounds like I have a metal roof when it rains. You remember the large deck with all of the slate, plus the pool. I think the rain drops hitting all of that just sound amazing. I can still remember what the rain sounded like when it hit the porch in our old house in Queen City -- really loud and cool -- big plops falling out of that big tree and rolling off the roof onto the little patio, because we didn’t have gutters, I don’t think.

I'm finally recovering from the ass-whippin' known as the common cold.
Several times this week I found myself complaining about the misery that accompanies the cold -- but then I reminded myself what my friend is going through -- lung cancer. Very rough stuff.

Regarding Mere' and the Navy... I just don't know. She backed down right before taking the oath. I certainly didn't pressure her. However... she has gotten herself into a deep rut. She dropped out of college. She is plenty intelligent enough, just doesn't have the maturity yet to set her ducks in a row. The notion of studying outside of the classroom, to her, is just unthinkable.
This just breaks my heart.

We've been patient. We've had pep rallies. We've given deadlines. She honestly, honestly, honestly believes that it is her choice and right to set her own schedule and run her own life. She can't calculate yet what it takes in self-sacrifice in order to keep up the sort of habits she is so fond of, such as... sleeping in until 2 p.m. every day, staying up all night, cavorting around in Fairyland, a/k/a MySpace.

Things have gone from the point of ridiculous to just plain unbelievable with her. As you know, we have made her leave our home on a couple of occasions (I know that sounds extreme). In my mind, this should have been a "wakeup strategy." She ends up in the homes of friends whose parents just don't give a damn about what the young people are doing. We have always taken her back after understandings and agreements, which eventually fall off within a couple months.
She is irritated because I will not pay for her education at the tattoo institute. Yes, there is such an institute, and it is over in the College Station area. She claims they offer financial aid. ( I'm scratching my head on this one) She insists I should respect "her choice", which I tell her that I do, I just simply choose not to pay for it, "my choice." Take advantage of the "financial aid."
Really, I need to draw the line somewhere. I think paying for an education at the tattoo institute will be about as satisfying to me as taking my hard-earned bills from our bank account and burning them, one-by-one, with a cheap, plastic cigarette lighter.

Knowing her, she'll be the most famous tattoo artist in the world, will have her own TV tattoo series. She can then go on live TV and announce, "See, Mom, I told you so!"
Go ahead, darling, knock yourself out. I will be your biggest fan.

Jeez, I never ordered a child like her, haha. I do have faith (somewhere deep, deep, deep inside of me) that she's going to make it just fine. When she does make it, I will be very proud, as long as it is something she was willing to fight for.

I was touched by an interview I saw on the news a couple months ago, and it just spoke to me -- Mere'! I'm not sure if you had opportunity to read about or see (you get TV time?) an interview of the forensic artist that made the rendering of "Baby Grace", Riley Anne Sawyers. Riley was the tiny 2-yr-old child that was found here several months ago in a container in a Galveston bay. Horrible, sad tragedy. The interview was highlighting the artist, Lois Gibson, who is world-renown for her gift.

Mere' is such an intricate, bizarre artist. If you could see her portfolio, you would probably have the same "ah-ha moment," that I had. I think Mere' would make a terrific forensic artist.
I am pasting on a bit of the story that profiles this forensic artist. It is a CNN article and has a link that shows one of the artist’s actual interviews. I have seen other interviews of her that are much better, but this video link is good...

CNN) -- A man in the medical examiner's office pushed back the cheeks on Baby Grace's corpse to put a smile on her tiny, decaying face. That's how forensic artist Lois Gibson captured the open-mouthed grin with spangled risotto-sized teeth. It was one of the girl's few features that had survived six weeks in a shed during a Texas summer and nearly two months in Galveston Bay.
But it was the way the blond toddler looked outside of the black body bag that made Gibson draw large, lid-filling eyes on the picture of the girl that led to identifying Riley Ann Sawyers.
"She was so very, very small. She looked like the size of a child that you would change the diaper on, just laying there on a metal gurney like a giant stainless steel cookie sheet," Gibson says just above a sad, disbelieving whisper before her voice shifts and she's strong and scientific. "If you are very, very small, then the iris, that colored part of your eye, takes up almost the entire eye opening."
The corpse's decay helped Gibson perfect the gentle downward slope of Riley's eyes. "The decomposition was such that I could see that bone on her face," she said. "And her eyebrows were going to follow her little ridge."
Gibson said she felt her blood pressure rising during her morgue visit. It passed quickly, she said, and "I turned into the artist. I was going to make the best picture possible and get every piece of anatomy right and find her name and get justice for her." In spite of what lay on the gurney, Gibson said, "I knew that she was beautiful, and the picture would reach out to people who knew her and loved her." Watch what the sketch artist has to say about the case »
And it did. Five days after the release of Gibson's precise post-mortem sketch, Riley's grandmother in Ohio recognized the sweet face and contacted police.
It's the kind of result police hope for when they summon one of the handful of forensic artists across the nation who can re-create the faces of maimed, burned and decaying bodies. Gibson spent what she described as just "three intense minutes" with Riley's body that day. It was all she needed. It was all she could take.

There’s more, okay, but enough on that subject. Oh, wait. A bit more on Mere'. She moved out of the house this week, for about the fifth time. We had a confrontation. I called her downstairs because I needed to speak with her about a few normal, misc. things. She was busy on the computer, probably MySpace, and chose to ignore me. About the sixth call up to her I was furious.

When she finally did come downstairs, she told me that the candle that I had burning smelled like "ass". She isn't necessarily trying to be rude, this is just her very, very strange sense of humor. I have learned to live with it.

I ask her how various things were coming along. She replied that she had been taking care of those things. I asked her to sit down in the sunroom with me, spend some time, and we would go over some of those things. She hit the roof.

Chandler, now 13, had come down for a snack. He butts in, starts defending her defensiveness. I stayed calm, because I have learned to do this -- believe me it is not easy --
Soon she will not be insurable on our health policy, and she needs that. Her time is running out to make some important decisions…. and that if she continued to disrespect me in my own home....

She responds, well, fine, if you're kicking me out, (I wasn’t) there's nothing I can do about it, and proceeds to go upstairs to pack. Chandler starts howling, accusing me of "giving up" on his sister.
Just an example of another normal conversation that got completely out of hand. A mother that asks too many nosey questions...

Okay, I'm just going to reel it all in here, because it will sound ridiculous to you if I keep going. It sounds ridiculous to me.

A person can slice it any way they want to …
that’s what you get for indulging your kids -- that’s what you get for not indulging your kids enough -- that’s what you get for letting them talk to you that way -- That’s what you get for not talking to them enough -- that’s what you get for allowing them to watch the wrong TV, look at the wrong books, the wrong art, allowing them to use MySpace, for not taking them to church enough, for taking them to church too much --

Brother, I know one thing -- when my friends have these issues with their kids -- and they do, and worse, believe me -- I am full of all kinds of smart advice and sage wisdom. But when the rubber hits the road over here on my street, it’s a totally different state of mind…believe me.

Damn this is hard. It is hurtful and astonishing how children that are raised in a nurturing, loving, generous, intelligent environment can bite down so hard upon the hand that feeds them.

I had an interesting conversation with a young couple we met in Jefferson last month. We were at a restaurant together and struck up a conversation about kids -- something that is easy to do when you have them. The young man said that his brother, Jud, had always struggled through school and college, which was rough on their parents. They couldn’t understand why Jud couldn’t or wouldn’t just buckle down. It wasn’t because he wasn’t intelligent, but it just wasn’t his thing; he couldn’t make himself do it. So Jud struck out to Hollywood to be an actor, eventually landed in New York, doing theater work -- and now everything Jud does seems to be touched by the hands of the Lord, because he is now acting, writing and producing Broadway productions. Jud is happily married and has children. I commented to this man, wow, I can listen to this objectively and say, more power to Jud! Jud is my Hero! -- But if that had been my child on that same path, I would have torn my hair out. Now that may sound hypocritical, but it is just not the same when it is your child, does it? The young man said, “Yeah, exactly.”

Shoes fit differently on other feet, don’t they? Well, yes, they do.

My Mere' is that special case, like Jud. The child that has to try everything once and make all of her own wrong mistakes. Either she's not smart enough or just too proud to listen and learn from the mistakes and successes of other people. Or maybe she’s like Jud.
It's time for her to go. I know that doesn't sound so great, coming from her mother. Obviously I’m not doing her any favors, but just allowing things to grow in the wrong direction -- hell, what I am saying, I’m not allowing, I’m doing everything I can -- but I know that God expects us to let go and let nature take its course. That is so hard, but the harder we try, the more boogered up things become, it seems.

We have tapped into every energy source that we have to help and encourage her. I believe that now she needs to enlist. It has worked wonders for Kris.

Do you know what the last admonishment I gave him I dropped him off at the airport? "Do not make friends with those people, do not trust them, because that is not your job." (sigh)
Well, here we go. I have a whole new set of worries regarding Kris, and I will fill you in on that soon.

I'm working on a blog site now, in collaboration with Kris, that will show what he's up to -- and it's pretty fascinating. I won't even give you a hint right now, because I just want the words the speak.

Chandler, his father and I had a conversation last night about grades. A very sore subject with Chan. His privileges have been severely curtailed because of his steadily declining report card grades, and he's not having any of it. He's decided he needs to be angry and rebel. Remember, he's 13. He's right about everything. Daily we have conversations that go something like this...

"You don't ever take my side."

"You think taking my stuff away from me is going to work -- well, it's not!"

(he’s actually right -- but what in the hell does work??)

"This is the last time I'm ever going to get to see Lindsey, because she's moving to Colorado, so you should at least let me go to the movies with her tonight." -- it goes without saying that Jake wants me to pay for all or part of the deal.

"That teacher is making stuff up about me."

"That teacher is stupid!"

* insert everything he requests " * -- should be my choice!"

"My stupid classes are too far apart, so those tardies aren't my fault."

(sigh) I could go on...really. And then the other 10% of the time he's sweet and smiling. He's smart enough, somehow, to know that he has to put in some good time, and that good time gets him lots of mileage.

Things that put Chan in a really great mood:

Instead of asking what he has for homework, mom has a discussion with him about the latest motocross heros, such as Travis PIstrano or Jimmy Stewart.

Mom is too tired to cook and decides to order pizza.

Mom picked up the right kind of chips and snacks. There is plenty of Dr. Pepper under the counter, you know.

We allow one of his friends come over to spend the night and believe him as he swears that they will not trash out the whole upstairs.

Mom tells him that she needs to go to the mall, but that he had better not ask for anything -- yeah, right.

This child also gets a lot of mileage from his sheer beauty, and I'm not kidding. He has an interesting look about him. Not a traditional quarterback look but a Johnny Depp beauty that just makes the ladies go gaga. Even his teachers will admit to this.

Most of his problems at school stem from the fact that school just eats into his social time. Since kindergarten, I have had this type comment from most all of his teachers, "Chandler is the center of attention, loves to visit with his neighbors. Chandler should be a teacher one day, because he has an uncanny ability to draw the attention of...well...just about every kid in the class.

Chan's been sent to the principal quite a few times for his socializing. Interestingly, our principals are mostly female here and are very charmed by this boy. How many times have I gotten calls from a very sweet, fluttering voice that I mistake for the secretary, but is, in fact, the principal. She and Chan have just had an understanding. Chan has convinced her that she has changed his life; that she is the one that has encouraged him to buckle down and make his lessons a priority. She believes this.

I sit on the other side of these conversations, just shaking my head, trying not to smile.
What am I going to do? Jeez.

When I get Kris's blog put together, I will send you the link. I won't comment about it until I get your opinion, which I value a great deal. Interestingly, when I read Kris’ s letters Kevin, he looked kind of thoughtful for a moment and then commented, “you know, it almost sounds like you’re talking to your brother there.”

Kris came home with some pretty harrowing videos of being pepper-sprayed and inserting IVs all willy-nilly. Imagine watching the loony tunes version of how to insert an IV, with all the spurting and half-assing around.

While Kris was here, he spent an entire paycheck on a gun at Gander Mountain, something called an m3, I think. Looks like a machine gun to me. He promptly took it to East Texas and went deer hunting with it.

Jack died in November. As hard as it was to watch him keep on, it was unbelievable when we got that phone call late one night. We immediately started beating ourselves up for not visiting enough, not doing enough, you know, and rehashing all of the sad, bittersweet feelings that came along with watching his body essentially wither away while he was still alive. Rough stuff for a family to go through.

I hope a cure for Parkinson’s is forthcoming, very soon. But sadly it was not soon enough for Jack. We had him cremated, for obvious reasons -- he just didn’t look human.

The cremation process was pretty bizarre. I was told by the man at the crematorium that I must keep Jack’s ashes in the refrigerator, because they were still biological. I freaked, yelling at Kevin -- you’d better ice your dad down in a cooler in the garage, because he’s not going in my refrigerator!

I was serious at the time, but now we can almost smile about that memory.

When weekend all of those bad ice storms hit, Kevin suddenly needed to have closure, (dangerous traveling conditions be damned) so here we go.

From the hotel to the church is probably an hour’s drive, but in the icy conditions, multiply the drive time by 2.5. We get halfway there, then Kevin smacks his forehead and says, oh, no! I left dad in the hotel!

Well, I almost started crying, then he starts laughing. (???) After the memorial service, after everyone stood up and shared funny-cute memories about Jack, and we were all getting ready to go to the graveside service, Kevin held out the urn and asked the girls which of the two wanted to take grandpa home for a visit first? They didn’t much care for that question.

Cremation humor, you know…

I got a sweet Christmas card from Roland. He mentioned a call from you and how much he enjoyed hearing from you. He really made over the fact that he is so proud of his sweet, smart, pretty children and grandchildren -- mentioning all of us by name.

He is really proud of a new puppy, seven weeks old. I don’t blame him, I know what it is like to have a puppy that young -- even dingos, hyenas, orangutans and scorpions are cute at that age. He is especially proud of the fact that it is part lab, part wolf (whu???)

Well, good for Dad and his little wolfkin. He also notes that Trixie loves the pup and has taken it as her son. Sounds like life in Dad’s world is good…and I’m ever grateful. And the beat goes on.

October 27, 2007 -
Hey, Sweet Brother.
I can’t tell you how much I loved getting your letter. What an unexpected and wonderful surprise. The following three pages is the last letter I wrote to you -- in a rush. I was packing, getting ready for my 20-yr reunion. I have started this letter with that, and then I will pick back up with more current letters that I started, finally wrapping up with the present.

(written sometime in early August…I think…hell, I’m not sure)
….Good morning, my dear. This will be short, as I'm packing to go out of town (Hughes Springs) -- and, if recollection serves me, everything is sitting in a laundry basket… dirty.
I'm back onto black coffee now (sigh) It was healthy green tea for a while, but I could only take so much of that. And I betcha I have a little too much blood in my caffeine system right now, so as we “speak”, I am having another cup of Joe.
The kids are doing fine. Kris and his friend Scott have been home for a
couple of weeks, visiting before they head back to the real world. They brought their motorcycles. We all took a long ride the second day they were here, around the hill country area, and we had a blast. They took the bikes to Austin yesterday, to see some friends.
Ironically Baylen had been planning a trip to Austin for two months, to see a concert. The Black Keys. She saved her money for a month to make that trip. Word has it, from her brother, that she was kicked out within the first five minutes: one, for being underaged, two, for drinking anyway. I haven’t heard from her, and that was last night. She is going to be home the rest of the weekend and I certainly don’t look forward to being around her. Fortunately we will probably leave before she gets here. What a bummer. She will be like living with Wolverina for a couple of days. Talk about bad luck.

About the book, Regarding Uncertain…ah, how you say...is in hiatus? On hiatus?
It has always been my painful, daffy style to take the most challenging, intriguing, dear-to-my heart material and just stamp all over it (with the best of intentions, of course.) I regret doing this with (Uncertain). As it sits, it is trite and embarrassing. A first, miserable attempt at something way over my head. I eventually hit rock bottom with my first attempt at a sex scene -- oh, pray. I will never forget it. I was sitting on my couch with my laptop, feeling like a total pervert. I yanked up all of the cushions around me, in case the kids or Kevin walked into the room. The scene ended up sounding something like a flying circus, or something like that.
According to “most writers,” first attempts are beastly; just magnificent works of junk. Those admissions bring me comfort. ( and now I need a big, dumb-ass hug to go with my coffee) One day I will hoist myself up by my bra straps and resume “Uncertain.” You know, when the time is right. Do you think I could find a ghost writer for my sex scenes? Haha.
Good news is, I have been working on a few fresh ideas and actually have started on two of them.
For the most part, the extent of my literary endeavors are currently letters addressed to Inmate #12798, Federal Correctional Institute, P.O. Box 1500, El Reno, Oklahoma 73036... Hmmm, Maybe we can figure something out with that??
Lately, for recreation, I have been writing dark poetry (who the hell knew?) I'm thinking…am I on the cusp of a midlife crisis? What else could it possibly be? I mean, read this stuff! I will send you a copy and you can analyze. Please tear it up when you’re done. I do not want someone else to make a fortune from my dysfunction. Sometimes I wonder where my stuff comes from. I am now starting to scare the shit out of myself -- can that be good? I just don’t know.
Hey, hey, tonight is my 20-year class reunion. I'm not sure how I feel about that. I'm nervous. My damn chin has broken out, like a 16-year-old's would do the day before the big dance.(sigh)
I’m not sure if I told you this or not but the last reunion, 10-year, was a very pretentious affair. Everyone feigning success, boasting about their bush league management jobs, new babies. We thought we were real preps. I was trying out my new, professional personality. I was a hit -- hilarious. Yeee-frikkin-haah.
As a result I acquired a stalker. Some guy that moved away in 5th grade -- but was invited to the 10-yr anyway (???) had began calling me, anonymously, whispering hilarious crap like, "What would you do with 9 inches…?" Dear Gawd. It horrified me at the time, but now it makes me laugh my head off. He got busted when his older sister called me and point-blank asked, “Who are you??” Her brother had been ringing up some serious long distance charges on her line. She saw my number, she calls. She then starts to rant.
Well, something jolted me back to my home town. Mostly it was her lisp. Oh, my God, the cheerleader -- Tammy -- with the lisp! Oh…my…God. It was her brother -- K****** D*******.! I know you know who I’m talking about.
He was always very quiet in elementary school -- he and I tossed the football together at recess after lunch. Now, isn’t that sweet?
K******… you dirty little ratbastard.
Hopefully the dirty little cowboy will ask me tonight me what I want to do with his nine inches; I’ll tell him that I will be happy to tie his nine inches around his scrawny little neck.
Hopefully my husband will take care of it if “it” becomes “a situation.”
Hopefully, I'm going to get a chance to humiliate the hell out of the rat if he even looks at me funny.
Hopefully, he will not actually be there tonight.
Well, this one is short. C'est la vie. Somehow I am going to pack, perform a minor surgery on these zits -- oh, and drag out a year book and try to remember everyone’s names. (sigh)
I love you, brother. Hurry up!
October 12, 2007.
All right. Here we go. Last weekend Aunt Donna and Uncle Ken came “down” for a visit. They are the most authentic, awesome people I know. They wanted me to send my love to you.
As you know, Aunt Donna is a very intellectual, well-read, well-versed, well-opinionated Cajun. That being said, well, I really embarrassed myself in front of them. It went down like this:
Aunt Don, Uncle Ken and I were sitting around the table, discussing "stuff." You may not know, but Kenner is working in Cleveland (near Conroe) He might as well be on the moon, because I don’t get to see him. He works 12-hour days, always has.
You may remember Grandmother talking about this… but one of her youngest brothers, our great uncle, was "sawed in half" in a mill accident -- AFTER he returned from the war! Uncle Ken claims that he is buried "somewhere in Montgomery County.” That is Conroe area. Kenner is interested in visiting the grave but doesn't know quite how to get started looking for him, so I confidently pull my laptop over between Aunt Don and myself and start Googling -- like a big shot -- confident that I will have the answer shortly.
"God-damn, girl! You misspelled cemetery!" Aunt Don was looking at me as if I had just farted during mass or something. "Girl, you know there are three god-damn E's in cemetery?!!"
Well...yes, I do (don't I??) but one just doesn't bother making any excuses to Don. In my eagerness to show off my computing skills and helpfulness, ya know, I wasn't really thinking too hard about things like grammar and spelling. I'm still stinging over that slip.
When I was in second grade, Ms. Russo, my teacher, put a big, red circle around the word "verry" in one of my little essays. I was so proud of that essay, because it was about "gohsts." That nasty bitch made me write "very" 200 times! Why she chose to ignore "gohsts" is just beyond me. To this very day, I still sometimes have to back up and erase that extra "r" in very. I guess the same holds true for "cemetary" and "gohsts". (sigh) I am definitely a creature of habit.
Today Aunt Don has an appointment with a very long-time friend. Perhaps you have heard of him. Dr. Red Duke. Red, U Ken, A Don are birds of a feather, hilarious people. Long-time family friends.
Yesterday, en route to Kohl's (in search of "a good bra") a framed photo comes hurtling off of the dash and into my lap. It is a beautiful wood frame with turquoise and silver embellishments, framing a lovely photo of...Rudy and Dudley, hip-deep in the snow. It is a breathtaking photo. Glossy red and white coats, startlingly blue eyes. Rudy and Dudley are the working dogs of the Pea Patch.
"Red wants a picture of those god-damn cow dogs! He'll get it tomorrow, after he's done looking at my boobs!"
No comment. Red has "cussed and discussed" her mammograms forever. She and I were supposed to have buddy mammograms this time, but I would just about die of embarrassment if Red and I were to start "cussing and discussing" my rack!
Okay. Enough. Kevin and I had quite a big time at HIS 30-yr reunion. Regarding the forms you sent (thank you!!) they wouldn’t have been useful that weekend, and I will explain. I have a funny story about OKC.
The reunion was actually in Wichita's Old Town, not OKC. I totally confused myself about that. We flew in to OKC, drove two hours to his mom's in Wichita, KS, spent the night there, then the next day we were about to head out to "Old Town." I gear up with Stephen King's "The Stand", a couple of water bottles and a sack of mixed nuts. Kevin looks at me kind of funny, then 15 minutes later he announces, "we're here." Wha??
I crack myself up. Really, I do.
The reunion was a hoot. Everyone that showed up was just awesome. I ended up at a table, talking to "reunion crashers." Hell, I didn't know. They were a blast. Had flown in from Melbourne, Australia on business. They had come down to have a drink at the bar and ended up mingling, ya know? They were sitting with two women (one was an actual classmate) I assumed they were all together as couples. Well, wrong.
I ended up getting chatty with one of the gals, who was a total, awesome doll. Since I tend to say very outlandish things when I drink Chardonnay, I announce to her, and to whoever else is within earshot, that she is the cutest little thing and that if I were a lesbian, I would make her my woman... (um hickup)
Lil' cutie cracks up and plants a mushy kiss on my lips. Well, whatever.
Well, the other gal about turns the table over because she can't push her chair back fast enough. And THEN I immediately understand "the situation." I'm mentally gearing up to get my skinny little ass kicked by a lesbian at my husband's 30-year-class reunion. Well, thank god she goes storming off somewhere. Her partner decides to go after her, so I'm alone with the business guys.
The business guys get all worked up and start having fun with the situation and start asking all kinds of, um, inappropriate questions. I look for my husband and spot him across the room. He has someone's wife in his lap. Wait a damn minute! She is straddling his leg, actually. He is smiling pretty big and smoking a cigar.
At this point, there is a big blank...
Then suddenly we are all (about 20 classmates) headed down the street to a novelty bar -- as if we had not had enough half-assing around back at the hotel. By this point, I am sloshed. I vaguely remember these professional, successful people passing a joint around on the walk between the hotel and bar. I have never smoked weed so I thought, what the hell, they're doing it… I'm so f'g ambitious after a few glasses of wine, you know.
(Another chunk in my memory goes missing here...)
And then here we are, sitting at a big, round table in the bar. I feel suddenly compelled to reveal a strange talent, something that that I am very good at. Across the table I see my husband cringe. He is giving me the "shut up" signal. I feel an encouraging hand on my back, urging me to continue. Whaddayaknow.... my little cutie pie lesbian buddy has suddenly shown up again.
I think the whole damn bar got quiet. I even think the rowdy B-52ish band probably stopped playing. I announce that...
I am a rutter! That I f'g love to rut! (I need to interject with something here. At that point, I thought the word “rut” simply meant to butt heads, clash antlers, you know.) I lean across the table and smash my forehead into one of the male classmates (a lawyer). You should have heard our heads crack. Well, he loved it, so we start mashing our heads together. He was losing to me big-time.
The cutie pie lesbian starts saying, oooh, me too, me tooo!!! By this time, Kevin has made it around the table with the intention of pulling me off of the poor lawyer dude, but he stalls, completely mesmerized by me and cutie pie, who are now rutting.
There's something about two women doing something together like that; no man has the will to break it up, ya know? (Let me make sure you understand, we are only butting heads!)
(a huge freakin' chunk of memory falls away)
...the bar, and we are walking back up the street, to someone's "hospitality suite". Her name was Barbara. Well, guess who shows up? The two business devils!! (My husband didn't know anything about them at that point) "Hey, beautiful! We've been looking everywhere for you!"
Well, I have to make my pickled brain work fast, I mean FAST. So I introduce them to the crowd as "domestic partners." Well gawdam, it was another pin-dropping moment. I observe as the businessmen exchange bewildered glances, one mutters, okay, sure, and then we are all good. Whew! One of Kevin's buddies eventually grumbles..."I hate fukkin queers." The he looks over at little cutie and squeezes her shoulder..."they guy kind, I mean."
...The business partners scatter very quickly.
Back to Barb's hospitality suite. … I vaguely remember going into the bathroom to tinkle while at least 5 people (mixed company) are in there filling pipes, (wtf?) drinking beer, laughing about the old Speedo pictures that everyone was passing around. I say cute little things to them like, "oh, don't look at me!!" Yeah, right.
A few minutes later I end up joined at the hip, literally, with the lawyer. We are sitting at the foot of the bed, laughing about the huge, purple welts on our foreheads. My brain is now lime-pickled and I'm talking kinda Cajun, because...well, because I can. I'm very good at it. He loves it, of course. He keeps looking back at Kevin, asking "oh, my god, where did you find her???"
I cannot for the life of me remember the very intense conversation I was having with this lawyer, in my Cajun brogue, but the next morning in the lobby, he kept staring at me like a total pervert.
Well, now I have just lost the energy to continue with this sad tale. There has to be a funny story in here somewhere, hehe.
Jake is the horror that is full-fledged adolescent now. I figure I have at least another good 5-7 years of dark circles under my eyes left to go with him. About every third day I get a call on my cell phone. It usually goes something like this…
“Mom, I need you to come pick me up. I missed the bus.”
“Why?”
“I had a hard time getting stuff out of my locker.”
“I see.”
“Mom, can you give my girlfriend a ride home too?”
(sigh)
(October 27...later sometime in the day…)
I’m back. I woke up so ugly this morning that I had to sneak up on my mirror. It has nothing to do with my lack of makeup or getting old. Let me explain. Buckle your seatbelt. It is related to your lack of letters from me …
(An example of the “hamster on the wheel” a/k/a my brain lately…)
Do I really believe in God? Indecision…outrage…exhaustion. Indecision…outrage…exhaustion. Indecision…outrage…exhaustion.
Jack, please die… Lynn, please live…
Jack, of course, is my very terminally ill father-in-law; Lynn is my mentor, one of my “mommas” and a very dear friend who has been diagnosed with cancer.
If you have ever placed yourself in the elevated position of, well, willing someone to die, and then willing someone else to live, you might be overstepping your boundaries just a bit. You don’t get any audible response from The Creator, so maybe he has forgotten about a few people? Or even worse, he is not really there? And then you realize the rubber has hit the road. You have to make a decision about what you believe in.
To actually will someone to die slowly turns you into a monster. That wish slowly leeches into your own life, causing you to doubt everything, compromise what you have built your foundation upon. It makes you angry, resentful, sloppy and lazy -- (if you allow that to happen.)
Internally you feel so mired down by guilt, and then the guilt manifests itself as “I must be bad”. You start gnawing away at things in your own life that “are bad.” Eventually you go from bad or worse OR you realize that there is a Something Spiritual to hand these burdens to, because you are just not equipped to handle such things. Now the tables have turned back again. You are at a new crux in your belief system. Things have gotten serious. You’re up against some true heart-wrenching dramas in life. It hurts, it sucks, it’s too much for the mind to take. Life doesn’t always turn out like a Nicholas Sparks novel.
I catch myself making outlandish, self-righteous statements like, “I would never put my family through this! I will get into my car, shut the garage doors, start the damn engine before I would put my family through this!! Well, we’ll see about that, little lady.
It is hard watching people that we love get old, sick and crazy. It makes you doubt a lot of things -- if you let it. Maybe that is why you had the dream of me, where I kept popping up. Please pray for me, for us.
I am beating myself up because I found Jack’s expired “flu shot election form” mixed in with my own huge stack of mail and bills. Not to mention Jack’s huge stack of mail and bills…and Kris’ huge stack of mail and bills. Earlier this year I also forgot to send in the “hurricane evacuation options for your loved one” form to the nursing home.
When you miss delicate deadlines like that, you have to jump through even more hoops in order to get that flu shot. You certainly don’t want him to die of that, of course. Can you think of a comfortable way for a severely afflicted Parkinson’s sufferer to die, by the way?
It must be more cruel to fear death than to actually die, I think. But here I go again, writing my own bible. And now I will wipe up this vomit (sorry) and try to work my way out of this subject.
I need to get strong again. I have been jogging four times a week and lifting weights. I look great but I still feel unhinged in my head. I really do believe in God; that he is trying to reach me. I also believe it is time for me to give up my little girl notions about him. I’m learning I can’t rely on just making my body strong or relying on executive-style management to get my life in order.
I miss the days when I felt settled, when I just relied on Him. I didn’t question Him. I didn’t try to be super-analytical about any of it. I just woke up, said my goofy little drunk prayers… oh, thank you! I love you! I love you! -- and of course that was before all of this real-life shit hit the fan, giving me a reason to unhinge.
I know this much: I know that I have changed. I know that HE hasn’t. I need to reacquaint with Him. Strangely, I feel a little stubborn resentment in saying this. But why??
(And now I need a break)

I’m back. This week I have been watching these silly morning programs. Those that teach me how to be a hot mom at around age 40, also how to make holiday pumpkin tarts and maple cookies, cute and clever wreaths to decorate my front door with. You know, things that fire people up for the oncoming cool weather season… and look extremely sexy while doing it...

These are things that I always get really excited about, and I’m just not feeling much.
Ken and I had a conversation about drinking too much, and I made the decision that that crap has to stop. I hope he does too. Maybe we will help each other with that. I pray that you do not come back to us with a sweet tooth for alcohol. It sucks.
It would be just as easy to have a big glass of ice tea as opposed to one beer that leads to six, or one glass of wine that leads to a bottle. Ideally, we would train ourselves to stop after one, but not many people can do that, unfortunately.
Before I really work my ass into a rumpus on this subject… and get into a debate with myself… something I’ve been doing a lot of lately… I’m just going for another subject change here. Pass the beer nuts…
But wait! Good Lord, I have just realized that Tiki Barber is an actual fixture of “Today”. I suppose I thought he was a favorite guest??? The realization dawned on me after I kept noticing him on there quite a bit lately. Wait, he’s on every day! I am thinking to myself. Damn, this man is fine!… and then the old prejudices of our grandparents grab hold and I catch myself looking over my shoulder to see who heard me say that. But then I see clearly “that generation” has evidently lightened up a bit. Or at least they do when they are vacationing in New York. Hordes of 70-year-old women are staring up at this man adoringly, you know. I hear one say, “Tiki, I love you!” I think the camera cut away right before Helen tossed her Playtex Cross-Your-Heart... Jeez.
Then we go to a commercial…Daryl Johnson, The Moose, is standing with a uniformed man. When-the-hell did Daryl’s hair go completely gray??? Daryl is giving us a spiel on professional air duct cleaning, and how that has changed his life.
Then another celebrity is trying to sell something. I vaguely recognize him as somebody from NASCAR. He’s wearing a retina-searing jumpsuit and cap ensemble, featuring about 20-or-so sponsors. Then I know for damn-shure he’s NASAR, once he starts schlepping a product for “far aint in-fes-tay-shun.”
It all ads up to mesmerizing television…air duct cleansing and fire ants… and I sit there trapped, becoming indoctrinated to it all, because I am sitting on my launch pad, awaiting the countdown from KPRC master control.
And the beat goes on…
And now I’m just about done expending my “imagination wattage” on the subject of mesmerizing morning television.
Funny story…well, it didn’t start funny but certainly ended funny. Kevin and I met a young man at Babin’s Seafood. He is the bartender there. Sometimes we elect to eat at their stylish bar. It is dark, shiny and mahogany, mirrored, old-brick-pillared, large gas lamps are suspended down from the ceiling. Very classy Bourbon Street motif.
The young man and woman tending bar are college students, intellectual types. He is a math fella, she is working on her anthropology major.
A very cool reggae song comes on. I tell Kevin that this is Bob Marley’s son, Ziggy. Kevin is impressed; he didn‘t know this. The young mathematician bartender overhears and comes over to make conversation. He starts out with…“Yeah, when Eric Clapton’s son died, he almost went crazy, so he went to the Caribbean and met Bob Marley. Bob Marley kept him from falling to pieces, and together they wrote, “I Shot The Sheriff.”
Um… Kevin and I looked at each other with a whuu? expression and just sorta grinned. The young man felt very sure about this. I considered correcting him, but too many young people around us heard his version on the birth of “I Shot the Sheriff” and were impressed.
The moral of this story: There is no use arguing with a young man who can multiply anything by the square root of minus one.
This segues into the next head-scratching conundrum. There is a sticker on Baylen’s jeep. It is displayed on her back window. It is a black-and-white of a ruggedly handsome Latino man. He is wearing a jaunty beret, has a disheveled beard. More than anything, his eyes just speak volumes…
“Isn’t he hot, Mom?”
“Well…”
“That’s how all the guys in Austin look now.”
“Well, Baylen, he certainly has a presence about him.”
In my mind I’m thinking… Think! Think! You know who this man is. But I can’t, for the life of me, come up with the answer. It is starting to bother me.
“No, Baylen, really, who is he?”
“Um, I think he has this really cool band in Austin.”
“Why do you have the sticker on your vehicle if you are not clear about who this man is?”
“Um, because he’s hot.”
Well… as it turns out, I was on the internet the next day or so, checking my mail, reading Yahoo! news headlines. I see an article: Rich Houstonian buys “lock of revolutionist hair. This man spent like $120k, or some shit like that, for this lock of hair. Well, headlines like that just draw me in like flypaper, so I click on the story. Turns out, this lock belongs to Che Guevara.






Texas Collector Buys Lock of Che Guevara's Hair

Weekend Edition Saturday, October 27, 2007 · Bill Butler, who owns a Texas bookstore and collects memorabilia from the 1960s, bought one of the ultimate mementos of that age: about a hundred strands of hair from Che Guevara.
Gustavo Villoldo, a Cuban-born CIA operative who helped Bolivian troops capture Che Guevara in 1967, snipped the strands before Che was executed.
Butler says he admires Che, and told reporters that he was "one of the great revolutionaries of the 20th century."
Rene Barrientos, who teaches math at Miami-Dade College and is the son of Gen. Rene Barrientos who was the head of Bolivia at the time, told The New York Times he is puzzled by the adulation and says, "There is no basis to admire him. He destroyed a lot of lives."
Earlier this year, three strands of former President Abraham Lincoln's hair sold for a little more than $11,000. A whole lock of Lincoln's hair sold for $21,000.
Butler paid $119,000, but that price includes a set of Che Guevara's fingerprints, pictures of him in death, and maps the Bolivian military used to find him.
Quote from Wikipedia…
Ernesto Guevara de la Serna (June 14,[1] 1928 – October 9, 1967), commonly known as Che Guevara, El Che or just Che was an Argentine-born Marxist revolutionary, political figure, and leader of Cuban and internationalist guerrillas.
As a young man studying medicine, Guevara travelled throughout South America, bringing him into direct contact with the impoverished conditions in which many people lived. His experiences and observations during these trips led him to the conclusion that the region's socio-economic inequalities could only be remedied by socialism through revolution, prompting him to intensify his study of Marxism and travel to Guatemala to learn about the reforms being implemented there by President Jacobo Arbenz Guzmán.
While in Mexico in 1956, Guevara joined Fidel Castro's revolutionary 26th of July Movement, which seized power from the regime of the dictator[2][citation needed] General Fulgencio Batista in Cuba in 1959. In the months after the success of the revolution, Guevara was assigned the role of "supreme prosecutor",[citation needed] overseeing the trials and executions of hundreds of suspected war criminals from the previous regime.[3] After serving in various important posts in the new government and writing a number of articles and books on the theory and practice of guerrilla warfare, Guevara left Cuba in 1965 with the intention of fomenting revolutions first in Congo-Kinshasa, and then in Bolivia, where he was captured in a military operation supported by the CIA and the U.S. Army Special Forces.[4] Guevara was summarily executed by the Bolivian Army in the town of La Higuera near Vallegrande on October 9, 1967.[5]
After his death, Guevara became an icon of socialist revolutionary movements and a cultural icon worldwide. An Alberto Korda photo of him (shown) has received wide distribution and modification, appearing on t-shirts, protest banners, and in many other formats. The Maryland Institute College of Art called this picture "the most famous photograph in the world and a symbol of the 20th century."[6]
Here we go…
Even more ironically, weeks earlier, before my discussion with Baylen, I got sucked into a radio piece in the car (I am an NPR geek) and they were discussing Che. Interestingly, his relations with Fidel Castro, and their eventual fallout.
As I dip into my huge vat of parakeet knowledge on the subject of Mr. Che Guevara… a ball finally falls into a slot -- Eureka! “Motorcycle Diaries!!” A movie that I happened to enjoy a great deal.
Where I am going with all of this…?
I’m sure that you have guessed by now… that sticker on the back of my daughter’s jeep is Che Gurevara.
She has no clue…
Isn’t it interesting how the young clans immortalize rebellious, malcontent figures, turn them into icons, but, in a lot of cases, have no idea what they represent? Che was fighting for human rights of a disenfranchised group of people. Baylen is fighting for her human rights of uninterrupted bitchiness, unlimited text messages, Menthol Camels, no curfew and her God-given right to sleep in until 3:00 p.m. every…damn…fukkin’…. day… and then get up and do it all over again.
Please slap me. It’s not like we haven’t taken her car keys, cell phone and internet… she just moves out of the house.
Sometimes I think the only way to raise functional, avid, responsible children is to let them grow up working the farm, with absolutely no access to anything… and then ice their little cakes with a horrifying Southern Baptist upbringing.
Man, your sis is really cooking on the front burner today, huh?
Jake has informed me that he NEEDS black hair dye, black eyeliner, some sort of arm bands with spikes and Halloween scar trickery. Something to do with a dead skateboarder. And the ONLY place to get this necessary crap is across town in some abandoned grocery store building/turned Halloween super center. It’s in the back of one of those ghetto-fabulous shopping centers that you can get into pretty easily but not out of. And he needs it TODAY.
(sigh) I really need to figure out a way to ratchet up some motivation for this project. If I have not acquired a keen hankering for Virginia Slims by the time you get out…it will be by the Grace of God.
We’re gearing up for Thanksgiving here. I don’t mean to sound un-thankful or anything, but I intend to have a stress-free holiday this year. The most taxing project I will be taking on is to remove that puzzling sack of grossness from the turkey’s ass, then handing that bird off to Kevin -- to deep fry on the pool deck. I will let mom take care of the vegetables, Jake and I will bake the pumpkin pie, Baylen will pace around in her cage (room-to-room) . She’ll be on her cell phone, giving us those trademark kiss-my-bitter-ass looks. She will undoubtedly be searching out other families to celebrate her Thanksgiving with, as her family is just the pinnacle of sucktitude. You know…
My house is filthy. Do you think Sears is making a vacuum cleaner yet that a woman can ride on? I think I’ll just wait around for that model.

Hurry up.
K