I was asked if I wanted to speak at Grandmother's funeral. I had to think on that for a moment: She died at an unusual time -- the day before Thanksgiving. She was the world to me. I'm hyper-emotional during holidays, especially the fact that this is my little grandmother. So I just decided I would not be able to do such a thing....unless I wrote it first, then read it back to the congregate.
It was a little awkward for me, but soon people were laughing and openly nodding their heads in remembrance and poking one another. I think grandmother would have approved. But who knows with Grandmother, haha.
I still do not understand that I can't drive to Spring Hill anymore, walk up their driveways and see them slowly walk out of their homes with big smiles and sweet, gnarled-up granny waves. I still want to call them up for assorted reasons. Nanny was my spiritual advisor -- and also gave me the okay to go ahead and plant my tomatoes. That lady was a walking Farmer's Almanac. I am considering planting a couple of fig trees in my back yard -- and not because I like them one bit either. Things like that just feel good. I suppose I'll just sit out back, sipping black coffee, enjoying the birds go to town with those trees.
Remember that little cotton-candy pink and sea green plaque with the little kitten on it that she had in the bedroom that faced our Uncle's place? I have that in my guest bedroom. Remember those creepy-awesome, dark, dark windmill pictures she had? Well, I now have them in my sun room. I wish I had latched onto those stained, old plastic coffee cups that were probably worth negative-34 cents apiece, haha.
Thank God Aunt Don started banging the proverbial war drums, resulting in a memorable family get-together for Grandmother's birthday party, a few months before Grandmother died. And it was all good. Aunt Don brought a beautiful Italian cream cake, professionally done up by some bakery just up the river from the Pea Patch.
A few old friends of Granddaddy and Grandmother dropped by, elderly folks that I did not know but could tell truly loved our grandmother. Many of her friends preceded her in death, which is a sad sort of blessing, ya know?
I have a few stories to tell you about Christmas this year. "Santa Baby"bought me an Ipod (which can hold up to 4,000 songs) and a peripheral device, also from Apple, that looks like an old-school boom box. I'm not sure what I was expecting that morning under the tree. Perhaps that new set of le Creuset cookware from Williams-Sonoma, or The Essential Musical Catalog of the Wang-Chung, or perhaps a gift basket loaded with rare, hand-crafted wines, Godiva chocolates, Tanquerey Gin, a gift certificate to a spa so I can get my gopher toes filed down, my body exfoliated, rolled around in some posh and trendy cow manure...
I just don't know. Perhaps even a new hipt-to-pottamus-us-sus, a pull-my-finger Santa doll. Whatever. So I opened the gift and... (wha?)
The whole tiny room suddenly became quiet, even the dogs. Mom and Dad exchanged uncomfortable, covert glances, then looked at my husband, then looked at me, their eyes imploring me to jump up and down, emote -- fake it, girl, fake it! I could barely hear my daughter' sighing, "Oh my dear God, Mother..."
I had absolutely no idea what in the wi-fied hell any of it was -- and neither did Mom or Dad, but that just didn't matter. They were depending on me. This, after all, had been the force majeure, the climactic ooh, look what Santa accidentally left on the front porch for Kimberly gift. (rushed in by the good fellows at the Fed-Ex)
And the reason I am telling this story...scratch forward a few months, just to let you know, my husband's generous and insightful gift turned out to be... So right-on. From the moment that b*tch at C.C. decided to restructure my ass right out of the company backdoor (age-discrimination, I swear it, and I'll tell you about it one day) I now find myself with more expendable time and energy. I now enjoy simple pleasures, such as downloading from the internet amazing music to this amazing Christmas device, using the treadmill for my own health instead of as prop for my boxed up Christmas decorations (now in the attic - thank you) ....and writing letters to my brother, in jail.
Music blasts out of this box thing in pure Bang and Olufsen style. Sounds unbelievable. Unfortunately...it's all just very ugly to look at. And I just can't have that, so I hide that shit behind houseplants and such -- which drives my husband nuts, completely nuts. Still, it is a product worth clinging to.
Now for the finale of this Christmas holiday. This year I decided to purchase, and gift wrap, real, beef broth-coated uber bones for the girls (Mercedes and Darcy) Since I had the bright idea to have the gift-opening shindig, and fully decorated tree, in the cozy, warm sun room, of course, we were all packed in there in front of the fireplace like smoked oysters in cottonseed oil.
Well, "We" made the mistake of opening Mercedes' gift box first. Daaammnn...but quite a dog fight ensued. Mom and Dad jumped up, hiked their legs up over the sofa arms, sloshing cups of hot coffee over their heads. Kids dove for cover under paper wrapping. All the while, fur, foamy drool and dog biscuit shrapnel slung about all willy-nilly. "Goodwill and peace on earth" had quickly soured into "a situation."
Heh. Good times. I realized at that moment that my precious little princesses were...in fact...alas...only dogs...after all. (sigh) and so it goes.
As "we speak", I'm listening to Marty Robbins on all of that fantastic gadgetry. Remember that guy? Devil Woman, Continental Suit, Big Irons on His Hip, White Sports Coat and a Pink Carnation?
The man is brilliant (was brilliant) Gunfighter ballads and trail music. Wild and dashing young cowboys blowing in on the West Texas winds, then dying in a gun battle over a mysterious senorita.... Simple as that.
"Marty Robbins (September 26, 1925 – December 8, 1982) was one of the most popular and successful American country and western singers of his era. For most of his nearly four decade career, Robbins was rarely far from the country music charts. Several of his songs also became pop hits. Robbins also made many starts in the NASCAR Winston Cup series."
I can't help help but wax nostalgic and think of fine, old "old-school" men such as Chester Miller.
Who else can belt out strident, thumpy, upbeat lyrics (think Ernest Tubb) about 185 brave men with squirrel guns, now lying asleep in the arms of the Lord? All the while, cool-cat guitar riffs and raw doghouse strummin' (bass fiddle) that just makes you want to get up and flop around like a retard at a circus parade... Tika-tika-tika-tika-tika-tika from a high hat, while a guitarist that sounds like Eddie Van Halen whacks out a catchy little tune. But then you start honing in on that part about Santa Anna's canons roaring in siege of the Alamo, and you start feeling a little crappy. Good stuff.
Or the classic bad guy stuff is especially cool --
He's here to do some business with a big iron on his hip...big iron on his hiiipppppp.
Or my all time favorite, El Paso Cityyyyyy..... by the Rio Grandeeeee... (fantastic Spanish trumpeting)
Really haunted desert cowboy stuff that is reminiscent (but not even close) to Johny Cash's Ghost Riders in the Sky...
My mind is there as I fly above badlands of New Mexico...(wa-wa-waaaaa
Damn-good stuff. That guy is crooning. It's that simple. It takes a certain level of maturity (or getting your head knocked off its block) to appreciate this kind of music.
Speaking of crooning, he's also amazing with that "don't pity me darling" routine.
Don't pity me because I'm feelin' blue...don't be ashamed, it might have been you. O-o-o-oooo.... Love, kiss me one time, then go.... I'll understand, don't worry about me.
Then this gut-string bass kicks it here. A real nasty, badass Dirty Harry riff, then here we go again...sweet, sweet Loooove, I want you to be...as happy as I, when you loved meeee....
Bullshat, Marty. It all sounds kind of threatening to me, ya know? Please.
I have an affinity for croon-sters. Ones that have sophisticated, yet rip-your-heart-out voices and their own brilliant style...Chris Issak (the stalker-crooner) , k.d. lang (the lesbian crooner), Roy Orbison (the old-school crooner), Cat Power (the creepy little crooner - too cute though.)
Enough!
I talked to Papa Ro a couple of weeks ago. The conversation started out kinda normal, but then led into the bizarre, such as the "snakebite-like infection" that is eating on his leg. I then stick my neck out and invite him to Houston for a vacation, because he said that Patch had died and he was totally devastated. I was cringing while waiting for his answer, but alas he will not be leaving because he is simply unable to just walk away from his obligations there on the home front.
Speaking of "his obligations", I keep hoping that nasty feline pride will eventually thin itself out. Alas...he has a new litter, in addition to the litter from a month or so ago. His voice suddenly goes all Christopher Walken, and he starts cooing stuff like, pretty little kitties are so sweet...kitties deserve so much better...just cant bear to leave them behind.
Oh, and the coupe de crap of his bizarreness: "Kim, God meant for us to be fruitful, so who am I to stop my cats from having litters?" This proclamation was set in the same tone as a presidential address to the nation. Dear gawd....I was hypnotized and found myself agreeing with him...wholeheartedly. And so it goes.
I came to my senses, once I'd ended the call, and after emerging safely from some amazingly ghetto-fabulous South Houston neighborhood that I'd been detoured into. Only then did I begin crafting new scenarios in which I had actually answered him with..." Um, well, Dad. How about self-preservation? Or... what about that ever-present risk of catching e-coli from the catshit prints all over your bar, dining table, microwave and toilet seat? And most importantly, the social benefits of having a house that doesn't smell like the gorilla section at the zoo when the females come into heat? Damn it, Man!
He says there's this real nice veterinarian that will spay and neuter for him Anytime He Wants and also gives him as much government-subsidized cat and dog food as He Wants. In other words, supposedly, this vet's "got his back" on this "live-and-let-live" philosophy. I'll bet that vet wants to slit his wrists when he sees him walk through the door. But yet Roland is so brilliantly persuasive and damned likable. He is his own best enemy.
Every time I think about poor dad and his life management skills, I remember when Ken and Don came in during grandmother's birthday party. Kenner opened an ice chest full of sandwich meat, bacon, hot dogs, etc, for our dad. Doyle promptly opens a big bag of wieners and starts dolling them out to all of the animals! Mom had to walk out of the room. I'm not sure if she was going to laugh or cry. Kenner shook his head in disgust, as if Roland had just set fire to a $100 bill. Aunt Don was wishing for a nail gun. I could see it in her eyes.
But, of course, no one can talk to him about self-preservation, hygiene, insanity.
When I start to get depressed about him, I always play a little rerun in my head from "Dumb and Dumber." Remember when Dumb's wallet is stolen by a sweet old woman in a motorized chair? In the next frame, D&D pull their shaggy dog-mobile into a convenience store and D'r tells D, "Hey, man. We're really low on funds, so only get what's absolutely necessary." The next frame starts playing hokey, boinging, Indie Western Music, and Jim Carey waltzes out of the store, weighted down by a huge cardboard box. On his head is one of those huge, floppy, foamy cowboy hats. His box is overflowing with beef jerky, whirling plastic windmills, yoyos, new smut rags, pecan logs, cheap beer, corn nuts, etc., all manner of truck stop frivolity.
Of course this story lends itself to a theory...something about one man's junk being another man's...whatever. I've just lost the willpower to finish that sentence.
I now sport a nifty new short-short-short hairdo. On a good day, with perfect makeup and sassy earrings, I look like Sharon Stone; on a day without makeup or female tricks, I look like an angry lesbian. Just laying all my cards on the table right now.
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