We are all doing very well. Thank you for asking. Regarding the motorcycle and my son, he is all healed and chomping at the bits to get to the track again. Since Ricky Carmichael has come out of retirement (what a joke - he‘s 28) and is leaving Stewart eating his dust again, it’s been too much for him to contain -- he’s got to get out there and reinact all of that supercross glory drama on the F.M. 290 track. I have learned that if I want to have a decent conversation with him, I need to be prepared to discuss Ricky Carmichael, Travis Pastrana, Jeremy Mcgrath or Chad Reed.
My husband and I did go on a ride a couple of weekends ago to Austin (ROT - Republic of Texas Rally) On the last day of our tour around the hill country, his bike began having shifting problems.
And now I’m going to cut that long, painful, boring story short here by jumping ahead in the adventure: We considered a rental car, we considered chancing it on the bike (hell no was my vote) and then we considered the fact that Austin is pretty much a straight shot from the highway we live near.
So… my children drove to Austin to come rescue us! I kid you not. I was so proud. I was also a very nervous Mommy.
I watched as they pulled in off the highway, onto the service road and cruised up and under the covered porte-cochere of the hotel. Easy as pie. They looked like a young couple out for a Sunday drive. Wow. Their first road trip. And boy, were they prepared for the trip. You should have seen the oversized bags of chips, Skittles, beef jerky, 2-liter bottles of sodas and Gatorades that tumbled out of that little jeep when they opened their doors.
We took them for a spin around Lake Travis, and they loved it. Wow, that place is just sick. Did you hear that The Oasis burnt down a couple of years ago? The owner is in the midst of rebuilding it, and it is partially open -- and is amazing, of course. We took the kids, as a reward for being so grown up. That whole canyon where The Oasis is located is being built up Tuscan-style. Those homes have grape vineyards squiggling down their mountainous back yards. The whole thing is certainly a ruse, but wow, such eye candy to all of the peasants across the way, sipping on Lite beer and eating designer quesadillas (tapas) Good times.
Regarding the CEO…I found myself wondering what my stock would be worth this week if my little domain were a public company -- and came away thinking… not very good. As you know, my shaky little universe relies solely upon solid phone line connections, antiquated 56K external modems, moody notebook computers, precarious init strings to fool and manipulate my moody notebook computers to play nice with shaky USB port settings and 20- year-old station encoders. That also means complete “protection” offered by My Godfather -- AT$T.
God, I hate that bastard company. A couple of years ago, I got a letter from The Godfather saying it had detected “a lot of fax activity” on my accounts, about 9 hours a day worth. They accused me of being in violation with their fine-print, indiscernible, holy grail agreements clause. “So, what’s in New Jersey, Mrs. Potts?” “Didn’t you get a copy of our holy grail clause and read it word-for-word before signing your life away, Mrs. P??”
Uhhh….no. I tried in vain to describe that I worked in the service of poor deaf people; that the analog activity they had somehow detected was actually not a fax machine but my new computer setup connecting to an ancient encoder setup in the bowels of CNBC’s master control room. Yeah, so they’re in Joy-sey. What of it, bi-ach?
Well, they weren’t having any of that. To hell with all those deaf people benefiting from The Godfather’s reasonably priced “All Distance Plan.” And never mind, Mrs. P., that all of your services are bundled with us (alarm, cable, cellular phones, 3 phone lines) and you pay us a fortune each month as it is, Mrs. P. -- now we have an offer for you that you can‘t refuse...
So I gladly accepted the Small Business Package the Godfather offered. My phone bills are now roughly the equivalent to having a new Mercedes S-Class parked out in my driveway.
Whoah…I need to breathe into a paper sack for a minute. Hold.
Back to the CEO bit…I‘ve been down for two weeks. I had to give away all of my programming, while waiting for AT$T get their a$$s out here, test everything, tell me that everything was working juuussst fine on my end. Thank goodness I am now a CEO, because now I do not just close my front door softly and sob into my couch pillows. No. Now my new butch hairdo bristles up, my nostrils flair and this cool Clint Eastwood voice comes outta my mouth… “Well, looks like you better find out where the problem is originating from then…punk.”
Two days later a big, burly AT$T serviceman shows up at my door (Sunday 10 a.m.) and informs me that their “box out by the road” has a defective card, that it would take a couple of days more to get it replaced; that he would call me on my cell immediately when the work had been done. Then he just kind of leaves it at that, staring at me strangely.
Fortunately for me, there have been no horse heads left in my bed, and my phone service is now * seemingly back in order. But…
In the meantime, my steno machine stopped communicating with my computer. Totally separate issue than the phone line issue. My Karma is really giving me an ass-whippin’.
I got on the horn with my steno guru. He thinks the real-time circuitry is bad (machine is 10 years old) and will do diagnostics and probably replace the board.
During all of this downtime, this CEO took every troubleshooting initiative imaginable. I have replaced one and purchased an extra modem. I sent in my steno machine in for diagnostics and possible repair. I even signed up for a Vonage line as a backup. (?? This strange move still confounds me, but a CEO must trust her gut, right?)
I have now been down for two weeks. I am a bit panicked about my budget. If this is a blessing in disguise, it is certainly very well disguised. And now the only thing left to decide is… decide what to do.
Okay, I know what to do now. Chaos theory, I believe in you!!!
There. I feel the grip loosening...
Please forgive me for the lack of letters this past month. I’m sure you probably saw, better than I, what was coming around the corner, what with all of that activity and those milestone events -- and then the big “corporate crisis.” Thank you for listening. Hopefully my next letter to you will not be a fish wrapped in butcher paper. If so, will you stand up for me and say, “she fought the good fight”?
Now on to the mindless, half-ass frippery that just makes my life bearable….
I am alone this morning, and it is NICE. Mercedes and tiny Dakota are fighting viciously over their most coveted toy -- a turd. I am not kidding. It is a 2-inch-long brown, fuzzy “appendage” of some sort that one of them ripped off of another toy. They love it. I have thrown it away, then retrieved it from the trash at least 10 times. and every…single…time I walk into a room and spot it lying on the floor in front of me, I jump and scream like I’ve just almost stepped on a skunk.
My husband caught the summer cold I gave him and has been home for the last 5 or so business days. I enjoy having him home…except…he eats and snacks, eats and snacks -- and I am the waitress. Every hour and a half it’s, “Babe, are you hungry yet?” Code word for feeeeeeed meeee, I‘m staaaarrrving and my legs must be broken.
When I’m home alone, I work, fold, pay, scrub, shop, sort…. I used to laugh when Nanny and Grandmother used to say, “I’m just to busy to come visit for a weekend.” But now I understand. Keeping house, especially when kids are home for summer, must be like trying to herd cats.
I don’t do big lunches when I‘m alone. I don’t even snack. I grab a cheese stick and an apple, heat up leftovers, even forget to eat sometimes, whatever, and my lunch is done in about 6 minutes flat. Then I’m on to the next chore. So I am pretty thrilled that I don’t have to wait on anyone for at least another 5 hours or so.
My son is now attending an accelerated Algebra summer course (and I am now his least favorite person on earth) and Baylen is with her best friend, who is getting an Ultrasound!
Now this is an interesting story. The girl, Jamie, is uncomfortable with the young man who impregnated her (who also insists upon being at the ultrasound). Of course Jamie NEEDS Baylen to be there with them while they do a final check on this poor little baby boy, who will next month be brought into the vicious world of a single, amazingly immature mother, an equally immature, single and estranged daddy, a grandfather who is pissed as hell and a grandmother who finally stressed to the point of sickness and is just recovering from her first heart attack. (she had the heart attack the day after Jamie told her father that she was pregnant)…and the beat goes on.
Well… at least it’s not my grandchild, not my new ex-boyfriend-in-law, not my irate husband and most especially not my heart attack.
(sigh) I imagine I will play some role in mentoring Jamie and probably do a little babysitting, to boot. That’s okay. I love little babies, especially when I can send them back home.
The reason you saw Allen and Jerry’s signature on your birthday card was because they were here for my daughter's graduation. Did I sign that card?? God, I hope so. We were all sitting here at the breakfast table and it came around to me. I didn’t sign it right away, Mom looked panicked, and I said, wait, I need to think of something smart-ass to say. I just don’t remember how that all went down. So if I forgot to sign it, Happy Birthday, Brother. You’re getting old. When you get out, we can discuss our elder care issues together over coffee.
We had a fantastic time together during her graduation. I am going to haul my ass up to Target and print some pictures for you. The blue bird in one of the pictures is Pedro, mom’s new parrot. I’m sure you’ve heard all about him and all of Mom’s amazing miracles that took place in order for her to get him. Like for instance, this miracle: Our mother won $250 on a scratch-off lottery ticket. Instead of spreading it out over 20 years, she took the cash option and put it down on her parrot. And she only owed $250 to get her parrot of off layaway!! Imagine.
You are not going to believe that this is our Jerry. He looks amazing. We had a splendid time. We had our first crawfish boil here. Actually, I should call it Kevin’s first crawfish production, because I wasn’t having any part of it. One of the things I love/(I think!) about my husband is his attention to every single detail. He’s like the detail man (Brad Pitt) on Ocean’s 11.
Except for the day of the girl's graduation. Possibly he was still glazed over from the years of trauma and battle wounds of getting her to the point of really graduating on schedule. After your birthday card went around the table, the topic of the crawfish boil and the 30-some expected guests came up. He had assumed his only role would be to drive to this crazy, cash-only Vietnamese place, pick up a big bag of squirming crawfish, return home, then plop back down in his easy chair and catch the rest of his golf tournament.
So he says to me, how are you going to do this anyway? I say to him, “ ‘YOU’ HELL? How are YOU going to do this, husband?” Mom gets real panicky-looking and says something like, “Do you have Tony Chacherey’s! Red potatoes! Corn! White onions! Crawfish Boil!?”
No -- but we can get them.
Mom continues… “You DO have that big pot/butane burner rig that you are supposed to cook them with, right!?”
Well, no -- but we can get that too.
So we all quickly finish our fancy designer coffee, stuff your birthday card in its envelope and kick things into gear. We were supposed to sit out by the pool that day and all hold hands, or something, but we managed to squander it away at Gander Mountain and Sam’s. We managed to pull it all together in the nick of time, go to graduation, and the crawfish were finally ready to eat about 11:00 p.m. that night. We were all too beer-ed and guacamole-ed up to eat very much of it but a really good time was had by all. I now have about 30 pounds of frozen crawfish taking up space in my deep-freeze. (?!?)
Jerry and I ended up lounging on that big chaise lounger until 6:45 a.m. the next morning, just talking about life, drinking wine and smoking. My husband walked out on the porch and gave us the evil eye and that party was over. It was great.
(I don’t smoke - felt like hell the next day and tasted cigarettes in my lungs for a week afterwards - blech.)
** Earlier that day, after the graduates had flung their hats, Allen came up to me and gave me a big hug and kiss and said, “We did it.” I cried. I think he cried too.
Yes, we did it, Allen. I had a strange thought at that moment: That wouldn’t life be infinitely happier if we could be born around the age of about 90, then gradually approach 18? Passage of time is the greatest mystery of all to me, Shane.
Speaking of books, I’m reading Stephen King's "Dark Tower" series. I went to Half-Price Books and found all but one of the series. He is a fascinating writer to me, brilliantly scattered. He is one of the fortunate ones who learned to channel his thoughts onto paper; otherwise, he might have been your cellmate. I bought Dean Koontz’ "Frequency" after you recommended it. I will start on that later. I too would appreciate a humorous writer. I will go on the hunt for both of us.
This Friday my son will fly to Chadd's for the weekend. Can you believe he's been doing this every third weekend for the last nine years? Flying Southwest is cheaper than gas to Dallas and back -- and much safer, so we just do what we have to do. He has always been perfect on the planes -- except for that one occasion. It was Good Friday (of course), when he was about 6 or 7 years old. Upon lift-off, he and another little boy each flung a whole fistful of jellybeans backwards and up over their heads onto the belted-in passengers. It was a great time, until the stewardess snatched them both up and drug them to the jump seats.
My son got off the plane sniveling, red-eyed, pointing a shaky little finger at the other little boy. The other little boy was doing likewise. The furious stewardess was glaring at ME!
Well, we all had a serious “meeting”, then got over it. It was fairly traumatic for the boy. To aid in the healing process, he crayoned a home-made "I'm very sorry for throwing jelly beans on the plane" card and presented it to the nasty bitch. I still laugh about that now. Every time I see jelly beans, that is what I think of. I would absolutely love to fling a whole handful of jellybeans into an unsuspecting crowd upon liftoff, wouldn’t you?
We need to get up and see my father-in-law. His condition has deteriorated to the point that it has freaked us out, for lack of a better expression. For the last year the man hasn't been able to walk. He has tried so hard, and ends up falling and sometimes in the hospital, but during our visit last week, he was up walking! Or shuffling. My husband was amazed and thinks maybe someone has been working with him. I believe that Jack finally got angry enough to get up and start walking. He's been trying and falling, trying and falling. He tries to talk but my husband says he doesn't make a bit of sense, which is so frustrating. I wonder if he understands what he wants to say in his head but can't get it out correctly? I don't think so. I think he stays drugged from that powerfully bad medication that Parkinsons patients have to take.
My husband used to think that his dad was faking some of it, because after five crazy, nonsensical statements, he would say something like, “When you all have time, will you please come pick me up and take me out for ice cream, please?” Or, “How are the dogs and kids doing?”
This has been one of the most frustrating challenges we and I have faced as a couple. Papa Ro is not far off from that, I believe. Dana called me early this week and said that dad had gotten confused over his dosing schedule. He was incoherent and the home health nurse that visits him had him admitted him to the hospital. His blood tests showed toxic. They had to get the medicine right in his system. So far I think he's better, but I don't know. Now I’m going to stop talking about The Fathers. My head hurts.
We are gearing up for the Pea Patch. That has become an annual ritual for us. Aunt Donna’s mother passed away during Wild Flower Trails. Her mother only requested a few things: “Do not pray over me.” (the Standridge crowd is stubbornly agnostic) “I want Topher and all of his friends to hand-dig my grave -- payback for all of the grief they have put me through from the time that they were little boys.” (haha) “And during the 4th of July event, I want you all to make a huge vat of crawfish ettouffe’, and I want J* to put on a huge fireworks display in my honor.”
Aunt Donna called me a month ago to tell me that Mrs. Standridge had requested all of this, and I let my son know. He was SO proud. I will explain his role.
A couple of years ago, my little fella saved ALL of his money and spent it ALL on fireworks to “put on a show” for the 4th of July at the Peapatch. We didn’t think too much about it, but when we got there, he and Cassie (beautiful little Cajun girl his age) began to draw diagrams and make plans for the show.
Later that evening, they came up to the pavilion and told us that it was time. 30 minutes passed, no one took them seriously. He comes back, madder than a wet hen (think Chadd) and climbs up on one of the benches and angrily announces, “It’s time for the fireworks! Cassie and I have been waiting!” Then he stomps down and goes back to the field with Cassie. This got everyone’s attention pretty well, so we got in a big herd with our flashlights, lawn chairs and coolers and shuffled our lumbering, drunk asses out to the cow pasture for the show.
I am here to tell you that those two little turds put on one heck of a show. All of the adults ooh-ed, aah-ed and applauded at the appropriate moments, and those kids were instant rock stars. Aunt Donna’s mother, Mrs. Standrich, was so impressed with his grit. From that moment, those kids learned that they had an important role to play during the 4th (because the only initiative lazy, sunburned, drunk old people will take will be to get themselves a toilet or sorts, then to off to bed -- certainly not fireworks!)
So on Mrs. Standrich’s deathbed, she requested that my boy do something “really big and expensive, with lots of color.” Good times. I wish you could be there, but you know you can count on a slanted, half-ass dispatch of the event from me, maybe even a few pictures, to boot.
Well, I need to hoist my ass up and hide my Hershey’s chocolate wrapper from the dogs and the kids. Upon waking this morning, I decided that in celebration of my refreshing aloneness and lack of responsibility, that for my breakfast I would have a whole pot of full-octane coffee and a Hershey’s chocolate bar -- all to myself.
I have a new hiding place for my chocolate now, and that feels good. But it also feels like the kids and dogs are closing in on it. I can’t explain the feeling. I suppose it’s like when I’ve gotten away with something too good for too long, you know? I always get busted. As it should be, I suppose. I have just ONE more chocolate bar in that spot -- and depending upon my hormonal fluxations today, I just may or may not have that one last chocolate bar. I deserve it, after all of the technical malfunctions I’ve been through. And then I had better find a new hiding spot.
Who was it that said life is simple but just not easy?
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