We have a elderly neighbor who likes to wander into everyone else's yard. It's kind of like "Where's Waldo", because no one knows who's yard she will be in next. Today she might be investigating our garbage, but tomorrow she might be peeping into your front window. Until recently, she was on the architectural review committee of our neighborhood association, but her term either finally expired (after 48 consecutive years) or her Sanford and Son landscaping and yard art didn't appeal to the committee. As frightening as it seems, she still drives and she is a firm believer in the "I'll take my half in the middle" school of automobile lane changing (as evidenced by witnessing her turn left from the right hand lane the other day). Most days she can be found cruising the streets in her white Ford Focus far, far from her own home. She has managed to vex just about everyone on the street with her intense scrutiny of all of our lives. Though she might be wearing yesterday's breakfast on her pajamas today, she isn't the least bit hesistant to knock on your door and tell you that your garbage cans are exceeding their capacity or your recycling is out too early.
Lee and I have created a story line with her as the lead character. Because she is so odd, it's only fair that she should have a fictional villian fashioned after her. By day, our protagonist, who we will call Mrs Bean, ambles up and down the street in her inside out pajama top with her long stringy grey hair in a pony tail off to the side. As she walks, stuporously, she runs her fingers through her pony tail over and over and over again. By night she lurks high in the trees in her leather cat suit, stroking her whiskers and listening to the details of other peoples' lives. As she jumps from tree to tree gathering information she purrs with satisfaction. She is a spy, really, and with this evidence, she will damn people. 2710 leaves the water on while they brush their teeth. 2738 has not converted to LED lighting. 2800 drinks organic milk, but they throw their aluminum cans in the garbage.
I've decided that I need to institute a "Mrs Bean Alert" for my neighbors. Whenever she is in one of their yards sifting through the shrubbery at 8:46 am or driving dangerously close to someone's grass (who remembers the term, "trenching your yard"), an APB must be sent out to all who are within earshot. Instead of an "Amber Alert" it is an "Old Woman Alert". My next step is to install lights in the trees so when she is perched up on a branch in her leather cat suit, the floodlights will shine on her directly.
So, if you see someone in your trees late at nite, remember Mrs Bean's Ford Focus can wander far from home!
Monday, November 3, 2008
Friday, October 24, 2008
First Your Right Hand...Now Your Left
I had to get fingerprinted yesterday so I can volunteer to teach Spanish at my daughter's preschool. Do not be lulled into a false sense of security thinking that your children are safe from predators because all potential employees or volunteers have to go through a fingerprinting process. The system is only as good as least common denominator. I'm here to tell you that there are many weak or missing links in the operation. I don't even know where to begin...These fingerprinting agencies are set up in spare rooms of low budget businesses. If you have an extra bedroom, you can set up shop. I felt like I was on the set of some bad BBC comedy. I was fingerprinted in a real estate school which was inside a standard office building. The actual real estate school didn't look very credible. Having been inside a 'real estate school' I am much more likely to check any future real estate agents' credentials. This place was essentially The Sally Struthers School of Home Selling. The whole premise of selling a home is based on first impressions and curb appeal. The place could be in shambles structurally, but if looks pretty, then you are more likely to get a bite. It reminded me of the doctor's office where my cousin had her sinus surgery. One walk into the waiting room and I knew that she should have walked right back out and found another doctor. The ripped plastic covers on the seats, the bad flourescent lighting and the dingy sea foam blue painted walls in the waiting room told you everything you needed to know about how much time was spent giving attention to detail. You want your surgeon to pay attention to detail. I felt like I was walking into the waiting room of a sketchy plastic surgeon on the other side of the border in Mexico. The kind that you see as expose's on the 6 o'clock news. This particular real estate school/fingerprinting office gave off this vibe.
The first person to greet me was a doughy faced boy with glassy eyes and unfortunate pock marks and an expressionless stare. "May I help you?" "No, but maybe I can help you", I thought to myself. He was able to hand me an application and I sat down on the cleanest looking piece of furniture I could find, a dining room chair with a plastic cover. All of the furniture appeared as though it had been purchased at the Holiday Inn on the axis road. You know the one, the one that has the commericals on TV saying "everything must go; all artwork, all desks, all lamps. Final Liquidation". Nothing was a matched set and it all had dings on it. There were fingerprints and smudge marks all over the glass top of the dining room table (the set had an Asian motif). I'm sure that if you ran a blue light (the kind used in crime scene investigations to find blood or semen) over the sofa the whole thing would have lit up flourescent blue. One doesn't normally come across window treatments inside an office building. Maybe mini-blinds, but certainly not antebellum era curtains and valences, the kind you might expect to see on a plantation down south, like Tara (these probably wouldn't have passed the blue light test either). So, I sat there, with my daughter (home from school due to illness) trying not to touch anything till my name was called.
As I waited, the proprieter of the school came out into the lobby. She was tall and really skinny and the kind of person who flirted with everyone, man or woman; the kind who talks to loud, winks at you inappropriately, glances at you for approval when she's not even talking to you, half laughs after every statement that she makes-as though everyone is interested in what she is saying or doing. All I could think was, "Why don't you stop talking, put down the Starbucks cup that you are clutching with both hands and get a vacuum cleaner and some Windex." Everything was inappropriate in this place, the furniture, her decorum and her dress. Though she was late 40's to early 50's, she wore skin tight jeans (the kind that are worn by metal band groupies) with a patch of an angel on her left cheek tucked into high heel boots, a sleeveless cowl neck sweater with a cleavage revealing tank top underneath and a big silver ring on her left index finger. You could tell she had a membership to a tanning salon and she had not seen her natural hair color in decades. The current overly treated blond that she wore was so brittle that it probably snapped off every time she brushed her hair. It was probably her idea to run the fingerprinting operation out of the extra room. This would allow her to be subsidized for all the time she spent doing nothing. Maybe she had an ex boyfriend who had been a cop who told her about the scam. "Listen, you don't have to do anything and you get paid $XXX for it a month. They just send you checks. You hang a sign in your window, have a spare room with some low budget computer system and you are listed on the registry of state sponsored fingerprinters." She probably broke up with him after he came home drunk too many times, but at least he got her set up with her little cash cow.
I was escorted back to an room about 5' x 8' to get fingerprinted. There was a sign on the door that said "Secure Room. Enter only with authorized personnel. Everything beyond this door is recorded." It was supposed to make it look official, but the scotch tape holding it up and the poor grade computer paper that was crumpled on one edge made it loose effect. If you have ever seen the show "To Catch a Predator" you could imagine what this 'secure' room looked like. It was the room behind the 2 way mirror that the guy with the headphones, tape recorder, video camera and computer with voice matching capabilities was hiding out in while the bad guy sat on the other side not knowing he was about to get caught. ("I really thought she was 19. That's what she told me in the chatroom. I know I'm not a 15 year old choir boy, but I was gonna tell her that when I met her in person"). No one had bothered to wire this room appropriately. I guess if they needed to quickly close up shop (like when the real estate school accreditors came around) they could pull all the wires down and make it look like just another classroom. The wires poked out of a white tile in the ceiling and hung along the wall. There were 2 computers with a digital camera set up on a tripod attached to them. Along with getting fingerprinted, you had to have your picture taken-a mug shot. The fingerprinting machine was wired directly to the computer and it was like a mini photo copier. I stood in front of the fingerprint copy machine and the junior helper wiped each of my prints with a damp washcloth that had probably been used on the previous 12 fingerprintees and had probably been brought from home by the tall, blond lady. He did each finger on both hands and then all 4 fingers together. I showed my daughter the fingerprints on the computer and told her that no 2 people had the same fingerprints. "And no 2 fingers are the same either" added helper jr. "They are like a snowflake" I explained. To which she responded, "Like Snowflake's (the mouse)." "No" I said, "Animals don't have fingerprints". "What about Star (our dog)". "No, not even dogs" (even though I wasn't not completely sure about that one-maybe they do have dog-prints?).
I paid my $44.20 (which will be deducted from next month's tuition), got my receipt and we left. I guess the fingerprints will be uploaded into some national database to make sure I am not some criminal or creep. All, so I can go into my 4 year old daughter's preschool class and count from uno to diez once a week for 20 minutes. I didn't mind doing it. It's not like I had anything else to do. But, I did learn something. Nothing is probably as secure as you think it is. I have more confidence in my ability to judge a character than the official fingerprinting process. Know your kids' teachers and who they hang out with because this is a far better indicator of what is going on in their lives than some guarentee afforded to you by a beaurocratic institution...
The first person to greet me was a doughy faced boy with glassy eyes and unfortunate pock marks and an expressionless stare. "May I help you?" "No, but maybe I can help you", I thought to myself. He was able to hand me an application and I sat down on the cleanest looking piece of furniture I could find, a dining room chair with a plastic cover. All of the furniture appeared as though it had been purchased at the Holiday Inn on the axis road. You know the one, the one that has the commericals on TV saying "everything must go; all artwork, all desks, all lamps. Final Liquidation". Nothing was a matched set and it all had dings on it. There were fingerprints and smudge marks all over the glass top of the dining room table (the set had an Asian motif). I'm sure that if you ran a blue light (the kind used in crime scene investigations to find blood or semen) over the sofa the whole thing would have lit up flourescent blue. One doesn't normally come across window treatments inside an office building. Maybe mini-blinds, but certainly not antebellum era curtains and valences, the kind you might expect to see on a plantation down south, like Tara (these probably wouldn't have passed the blue light test either). So, I sat there, with my daughter (home from school due to illness) trying not to touch anything till my name was called.
As I waited, the proprieter of the school came out into the lobby. She was tall and really skinny and the kind of person who flirted with everyone, man or woman; the kind who talks to loud, winks at you inappropriately, glances at you for approval when she's not even talking to you, half laughs after every statement that she makes-as though everyone is interested in what she is saying or doing. All I could think was, "Why don't you stop talking, put down the Starbucks cup that you are clutching with both hands and get a vacuum cleaner and some Windex." Everything was inappropriate in this place, the furniture, her decorum and her dress. Though she was late 40's to early 50's, she wore skin tight jeans (the kind that are worn by metal band groupies) with a patch of an angel on her left cheek tucked into high heel boots, a sleeveless cowl neck sweater with a cleavage revealing tank top underneath and a big silver ring on her left index finger. You could tell she had a membership to a tanning salon and she had not seen her natural hair color in decades. The current overly treated blond that she wore was so brittle that it probably snapped off every time she brushed her hair. It was probably her idea to run the fingerprinting operation out of the extra room. This would allow her to be subsidized for all the time she spent doing nothing. Maybe she had an ex boyfriend who had been a cop who told her about the scam. "Listen, you don't have to do anything and you get paid $XXX for it a month. They just send you checks. You hang a sign in your window, have a spare room with some low budget computer system and you are listed on the registry of state sponsored fingerprinters." She probably broke up with him after he came home drunk too many times, but at least he got her set up with her little cash cow.
I was escorted back to an room about 5' x 8' to get fingerprinted. There was a sign on the door that said "Secure Room. Enter only with authorized personnel. Everything beyond this door is recorded." It was supposed to make it look official, but the scotch tape holding it up and the poor grade computer paper that was crumpled on one edge made it loose effect. If you have ever seen the show "To Catch a Predator" you could imagine what this 'secure' room looked like. It was the room behind the 2 way mirror that the guy with the headphones, tape recorder, video camera and computer with voice matching capabilities was hiding out in while the bad guy sat on the other side not knowing he was about to get caught. ("I really thought she was 19. That's what she told me in the chatroom. I know I'm not a 15 year old choir boy, but I was gonna tell her that when I met her in person"). No one had bothered to wire this room appropriately. I guess if they needed to quickly close up shop (like when the real estate school accreditors came around) they could pull all the wires down and make it look like just another classroom. The wires poked out of a white tile in the ceiling and hung along the wall. There were 2 computers with a digital camera set up on a tripod attached to them. Along with getting fingerprinted, you had to have your picture taken-a mug shot. The fingerprinting machine was wired directly to the computer and it was like a mini photo copier. I stood in front of the fingerprint copy machine and the junior helper wiped each of my prints with a damp washcloth that had probably been used on the previous 12 fingerprintees and had probably been brought from home by the tall, blond lady. He did each finger on both hands and then all 4 fingers together. I showed my daughter the fingerprints on the computer and told her that no 2 people had the same fingerprints. "And no 2 fingers are the same either" added helper jr. "They are like a snowflake" I explained. To which she responded, "Like Snowflake's (the mouse)." "No" I said, "Animals don't have fingerprints". "What about Star (our dog)". "No, not even dogs" (even though I wasn't not completely sure about that one-maybe they do have dog-prints?).
I paid my $44.20 (which will be deducted from next month's tuition), got my receipt and we left. I guess the fingerprints will be uploaded into some national database to make sure I am not some criminal or creep. All, so I can go into my 4 year old daughter's preschool class and count from uno to diez once a week for 20 minutes. I didn't mind doing it. It's not like I had anything else to do. But, I did learn something. Nothing is probably as secure as you think it is. I have more confidence in my ability to judge a character than the official fingerprinting process. Know your kids' teachers and who they hang out with because this is a far better indicator of what is going on in their lives than some guarentee afforded to you by a beaurocratic institution...
Monday, October 20, 2008
Animal Obituaries
I just finished reading one of the best books I've ever read, Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri. She received the Pulitzer Prize for this book of short stories, so I guess I'm stating the obvious by saying that it was good; she doesn't really need my endorsement. With my newly reduced work schedule I can do things like read. I've read more books in the past couple of months than in the past 10 years. Anyway, because her prose was so haunting and poetic and touched me so deeply, it's making me want to exercise my literary muscles. Rather than struggle to come up with new material, I'm pulling from my stock pile of old stuff...
September 11, 2005
"I loved him. He was my best friend!" The first time we heard this sentiment it was at the untimely demise of a tick that had been extracted from our eldest son's scalp. His younger brother was mourning the loss of the first family pet. His brother had fed that tick and nurtured it with his own blood. As the tick circled the dark watery tunnel of the commode, we bade him farewell. And then he was gone. Our middle son knew he'd never find another friend quite like this tick, a blood brother in the truest sense of the word. We prayed for the tick, thanked Jesus for the tick's presence in our lives, we told stories of how the tick would be happily reunited with it's mother and father and all of its tick siblings. Nothing could console our middle son. Something special happened that day between that tick and our middle son. A bond was formed and our 2 year old son was forever changed (or, even though he wasn't the one with the blood sucking tick-he was manifesting early symptoms of Lyme's disease).
Recently our middle son found a grub worm in the back yard. This was his new best friend. No matter that he had caused a near fatal crush injury to its dorsal half. His soul mate had been resurrected in the form of the common grub worm. As he rushed to show me his new discovery, I could see the joy in his eyes and his plans for their future together; They would take up residence together. Our middle son in his bed and the grub worm in a plastic cup sitting on his shelf above him. The worm would accompany our son to bath time, ride shotgun next to his carseat in the minivan. They'd be together forever, or at least until his dessicated carcass found its way to the dustpan and out to Monday morning trash pick-up. Our son eagerly waited to show his father his new invertebrate friend. His father was not keen to give free room and board to the grub worm and obviously was oblivious to the complexity of their, middle son and worm's, relationship. Lee had no compassion towards displaced grubworms, but acquiesed and allowed the worm to reside in a non-disposable drinking cup. He even put some water in the cup, at our son's request. As middle son ran across the yard to show his new worm habitat to his brother and sister, the worm was catapulted out of his new home. Just like that, in the flash of a moment, life was forever changed and the grub worm was gone. This time, middle son was able to reach deep within himself and pull through, launching the cup full of water, the former worm abode, into the air and baptizing his brother and sister.
This past Friday the kids and I drove north of town to an orchard. Lee was at home with a bad case of the shits that he had acquired subsequent to helping Hurricane Katrina evacuees. Along with Toby, a yellow lab, and a flock of guineas, we were the only people at the orchard. Before we could pick persimons and jujube's, my oldest son insisted on discussing a dog's life span and the neutrality of Toby's gender based on his lack of testicles. Finally his mind was able to wrap around the concept of involuntary emasculinization and we set out to harvest bounty. After about 15 minutes of intense gathering, it was time to break for lunch. While eating, a hummingbird landed near where we sat for our picnic. The bird was not quick enough to escape Toby and I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to instruct the kids on the theory of 'Survival of the Fittest'. In the best Marlon Perkins voice I could muster I began my narration, "Watch children as the dog grips the bird in his teeth. See the bird's fragile bones shatter in the dog's teeth." Just before, "Look at how the bird glides down the dog's throat", in a miraculous twist of fate, the bird hopped out of Toby's mouth and onto a plastic chair. While the oldest son, youngest daughter and I went to go shake more jujubes out of the trees, middle son decided he needed to stand vigil at the bird's side. Daughter was scared to death of the dog. She knew that after all those years on a chain with those guineas just beyond his reach, Toby had finally tasted blood and if you put a few feathers on her, she might well be a guinea in the dog's mind. As middle son stood shiva, he decided to construct an altar for the bird; 2 towels were wrapped around it. But this configuration was not quite sacred enough, a 3rd towel needed to be draped on top of the bird and pressure, ever so slight, needed to be applied to the bird. As the bird entered into its afterlife (with middle son's assistance), daughter, believing the supernatural to be possible, lifted the bird by its bloody wings in the hope that it would take flight. And we all appreciated the moment for bringing new meaning and clarity to the circle of life."
This reminds me of the most recent loss in our household...Dottie...she was a victim of the aftermath of Hurricane Ike. Dottie had been left in the care of my husband while the kids and I headed out of town after the storm. My mother in law offered to house the mouse in our evacuation (and we did have an emergency mouse evacuation plan-she was to be loaded up into a tupperwear container with holes), but since the urgency of the moment had passed and truthfully, because 3 kids, a dog and a mouse for 5 hours in the car was more than I could handle, I opted to leave the mouse in the capable hands of my husband. The day that we are to return home he calls and says, "You're never gonna believe this (when ever anyone starts a statement like this, you know they are lying about something), but when I went to check on Dottie this morning, she was stiff as a board. She was fine just yesterday. I don't know what happened. I fed her and gave her water." Long story short, a replacement mouse was purchased before we returned home. The replacement mouse was a male and smelled like urine and had red eyes (original Dottie had black eyes), but the kids didn't seem to notice. Dottie #2 lasted a day and a half before my daughter assasinated her. If it is possible to be stunned to death, this is how Dottie #2 came to his demise. Either that or it was a crush injury (inside the vise grip of a 4 year old girl's hand). Upon learning that Dottie #2 (which the kids still thought was Dottie #1) was dead and gone, there was a lot of wailing and gnashing of teeth. Misery. That pretty sums up the collective emotion. Or maybe it was heartache. Much time was spent eulogizing Dottie. Sometimes something will happen and all of the sudden Dottie will be remembered, "I remember when Dottie used to eat her food" or "I remember when Dottie used to sleep in her plastic cup" or everyone's favorite memory, "I remember when Dottie used to run on her wheel". Such bittersweet memories...all the more precious now that we have 2 new mice, Piggy and Snowflake.
September 11, 2005
"I loved him. He was my best friend!" The first time we heard this sentiment it was at the untimely demise of a tick that had been extracted from our eldest son's scalp. His younger brother was mourning the loss of the first family pet. His brother had fed that tick and nurtured it with his own blood. As the tick circled the dark watery tunnel of the commode, we bade him farewell. And then he was gone. Our middle son knew he'd never find another friend quite like this tick, a blood brother in the truest sense of the word. We prayed for the tick, thanked Jesus for the tick's presence in our lives, we told stories of how the tick would be happily reunited with it's mother and father and all of its tick siblings. Nothing could console our middle son. Something special happened that day between that tick and our middle son. A bond was formed and our 2 year old son was forever changed (or, even though he wasn't the one with the blood sucking tick-he was manifesting early symptoms of Lyme's disease).
Recently our middle son found a grub worm in the back yard. This was his new best friend. No matter that he had caused a near fatal crush injury to its dorsal half. His soul mate had been resurrected in the form of the common grub worm. As he rushed to show me his new discovery, I could see the joy in his eyes and his plans for their future together; They would take up residence together. Our middle son in his bed and the grub worm in a plastic cup sitting on his shelf above him. The worm would accompany our son to bath time, ride shotgun next to his carseat in the minivan. They'd be together forever, or at least until his dessicated carcass found its way to the dustpan and out to Monday morning trash pick-up. Our son eagerly waited to show his father his new invertebrate friend. His father was not keen to give free room and board to the grub worm and obviously was oblivious to the complexity of their, middle son and worm's, relationship. Lee had no compassion towards displaced grubworms, but acquiesed and allowed the worm to reside in a non-disposable drinking cup. He even put some water in the cup, at our son's request. As middle son ran across the yard to show his new worm habitat to his brother and sister, the worm was catapulted out of his new home. Just like that, in the flash of a moment, life was forever changed and the grub worm was gone. This time, middle son was able to reach deep within himself and pull through, launching the cup full of water, the former worm abode, into the air and baptizing his brother and sister.
This past Friday the kids and I drove north of town to an orchard. Lee was at home with a bad case of the shits that he had acquired subsequent to helping Hurricane Katrina evacuees. Along with Toby, a yellow lab, and a flock of guineas, we were the only people at the orchard. Before we could pick persimons and jujube's, my oldest son insisted on discussing a dog's life span and the neutrality of Toby's gender based on his lack of testicles. Finally his mind was able to wrap around the concept of involuntary emasculinization and we set out to harvest bounty. After about 15 minutes of intense gathering, it was time to break for lunch. While eating, a hummingbird landed near where we sat for our picnic. The bird was not quick enough to escape Toby and I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to instruct the kids on the theory of 'Survival of the Fittest'. In the best Marlon Perkins voice I could muster I began my narration, "Watch children as the dog grips the bird in his teeth. See the bird's fragile bones shatter in the dog's teeth." Just before, "Look at how the bird glides down the dog's throat", in a miraculous twist of fate, the bird hopped out of Toby's mouth and onto a plastic chair. While the oldest son, youngest daughter and I went to go shake more jujubes out of the trees, middle son decided he needed to stand vigil at the bird's side. Daughter was scared to death of the dog. She knew that after all those years on a chain with those guineas just beyond his reach, Toby had finally tasted blood and if you put a few feathers on her, she might well be a guinea in the dog's mind. As middle son stood shiva, he decided to construct an altar for the bird; 2 towels were wrapped around it. But this configuration was not quite sacred enough, a 3rd towel needed to be draped on top of the bird and pressure, ever so slight, needed to be applied to the bird. As the bird entered into its afterlife (with middle son's assistance), daughter, believing the supernatural to be possible, lifted the bird by its bloody wings in the hope that it would take flight. And we all appreciated the moment for bringing new meaning and clarity to the circle of life."
This reminds me of the most recent loss in our household...Dottie...she was a victim of the aftermath of Hurricane Ike. Dottie had been left in the care of my husband while the kids and I headed out of town after the storm. My mother in law offered to house the mouse in our evacuation (and we did have an emergency mouse evacuation plan-she was to be loaded up into a tupperwear container with holes), but since the urgency of the moment had passed and truthfully, because 3 kids, a dog and a mouse for 5 hours in the car was more than I could handle, I opted to leave the mouse in the capable hands of my husband. The day that we are to return home he calls and says, "You're never gonna believe this (when ever anyone starts a statement like this, you know they are lying about something), but when I went to check on Dottie this morning, she was stiff as a board. She was fine just yesterday. I don't know what happened. I fed her and gave her water." Long story short, a replacement mouse was purchased before we returned home. The replacement mouse was a male and smelled like urine and had red eyes (original Dottie had black eyes), but the kids didn't seem to notice. Dottie #2 lasted a day and a half before my daughter assasinated her. If it is possible to be stunned to death, this is how Dottie #2 came to his demise. Either that or it was a crush injury (inside the vise grip of a 4 year old girl's hand). Upon learning that Dottie #2 (which the kids still thought was Dottie #1) was dead and gone, there was a lot of wailing and gnashing of teeth. Misery. That pretty sums up the collective emotion. Or maybe it was heartache. Much time was spent eulogizing Dottie. Sometimes something will happen and all of the sudden Dottie will be remembered, "I remember when Dottie used to eat her food" or "I remember when Dottie used to sleep in her plastic cup" or everyone's favorite memory, "I remember when Dottie used to run on her wheel". Such bittersweet memories...all the more precious now that we have 2 new mice, Piggy and Snowflake.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Holiday's Over
I've been on holiday (that's the way the British say it-they leave out the article 'a'. Like, they 'go to hospital', not 'the hospital'). Though it really hasn't been much of a holiday. Unless you've had your head under a rock, then you know that Ike rolled through Galveston and Houston. The actual storm itself wasn't too bad-very noisy and at times a little scary. But, our house remained intact with only a blown-over fence and a couple of broken tree limbs. The aftermath of the storm was fun for about a day and a half while everyone was in their front yards helping each other clean up and grilling all the food from the fridge so it wouldn't spoil. Precisely 36 hours after the power went out, it officially got old. It was not intended for me to be a pioneer. The kids and I loaded up and went to my in-laws' lake house for about 7 days and then came home with the pipe dream that our power would come back on and the kids would get to go back to school, but that didn't happen for another 8 days (15 days after the storm). But, considering the amount of damage that occurred in other places, we came out if it unscathed.
Lee and I took our internal medicine recertification exam today. I flew through 180 questions in about 3 hours. The speed with which I completed the exam is not any indication of my results-my fate hangs in the balance and I won't find out whether I passed or failed for another 2-3 months. Because all of my pride (not to mention my board certification) is riding on this, I really hope that I passed. I hate public humiliation. My mother graciously watched our kids last week so we could study and I crammed as much knowledge as I possibly could into that one week. It was actually fun returning to student life when your biggest concern was how many hours of studying you could get done in one day. Since Lee and I didn't meet till I was in medical school and he was in residency we never had the opportunity to study together and it was a great experience hanging out in different coffee shops and university campuses (Lee quite enjoyed the scenery on campus, though he could have been the father of most of the girls there). I did learn a lot; I really like internal medicine andI really like my husband.
While you are preparing for an exam this big, especially when it is crunch time-the last 2-3 weeks before the test, you have this perception that every waking moment of the day needs to be spent reviewing material. "Sorry kids, I can't make you dinner, I have to study. You've seen me get the gas burners started. Make yourself some mac and cheese." "No, you don't have any clean underwear. Laundry isn't a topic in my review book." So, needless to say, my mom was a lifesaver. Who knows what our kids would have had to resort to (selling plasma for food, maybe) if she hadn't agreed to intervene. I explained to my son that this test was like all of the spelling tests in the whole world multiplied by a thousand. I still don't think he got it.
You don't have to take # 2 pencils and bubble in scan trons during standardized testing these days. The 'modern' process is completely computerized and you go to a testing center where the person next to you might be getting his certification as a radiology technician or taking defensive driving, for all you know. We had to arrive at 7:30 am and we arrived about 10 minutes early. Precisely at 7:30 am the test center proctor opened the door and immediately started barking out orders. She was the drill sargent equivalent of a shopping center rent a cop. You could tell she had aspirations, dreams of someday, somewhere being able to really tell people to do things that really mattered. But, for now she was content to make us stand in a single file line and take a number and sit down till our number was called. Every once in a while she would show us her soft side and be personable or make an attempt at humor, but if you tried to reciprocate, she was all business. During my break, I was standing by my locker eating a granola bar and drinking some bottled water and she says, "I'm sorry mam, but you can't eat or drink in here. I'll have to ask you to step into the hallway." "Okay, no big deal", I think to myself. When I walk back in, she is stuffing a candy bar down her gullet. After she got us all signed in and fingerprinted (literally, we were fingerprinted) she didn't have anything to do except surf the net and enforce protocol when one of us would wander out for a break. "No we don't have any water here. Remember, if you take longer than your ten minute break, you will not get extra time to take the test." I think she might have had a flask under her desk. Either that or she was a rapid cycler.
Yesterday we had 2 insurance adjusters come out to look at our master bathroom which has a water leak (pre storm problem). We learned that these guys were not actual employees of the insurance company, but individual private contractors. They were storm chasers of sorts. They were from Florida and were experts in hurricane damage. These guys could have been a band of traveling minstrels dressed as insurance guys-they had the shirts with the company logo, but that was about it. I mean, they were very convincing in their knowledge of house structure and construction. However, the most impressive thing about these 2 guys was their schtick. They were like the McKenzie Brothers or the Smothers Brothers of the insurance adjuster world.
Guy 1, "Hey, did you say you had a water leak, aye?"
Guy 2 "Yeah, she said she had a water leak. Didn't you hear her, she said she had a water leak."
Guy 1 "We're gonna have to go in your attic to look at your pipes, aye."
Guy 2 "Like he said, we're gonna be looking at the pipes in your attic, aye. Your pipes need looking at."
Guy 1 "It could be coming thru the roof and going thru the eaves and it works like capillary action, the water aye, it wicks you know."
Guy 2 "It sucks the water right up, aye. The wicking and the capillary action. Sometimes it comes through the roof, right through the eaves. The water could be coming from there, aye."
Guy 1 "Now what we have to do here is take out all this sheetrock and then you get your mix of grain alcohol and you spray it on the sheetrock to get rid of the mold, aye. The grain alcohol, that's what you need to get. What's that stuff called, you want to get your 151 Everclear, your moonshine-that stuff is what the professionals use. You want to use it aye"
Guy 2 "Now your moonshine, the 151 Everclear-now you might want to drink it, but just take a sip, aye, you want to save it for your mold, aye. Spray her right on there."
Guy 1 "That pipe up in the attic, right where the joint is, aye. What you have there is copper oxide. You see it in that picture there. That's copper oxide. Now it might be a leak, or it might be your standard pinhole, aye."
Guy 2 "Your pinhole, aye, that's what I'm talking about. The pinhole could be causing all yer problems aye. Ya see that copper oxide. Could be that pinhole."
Guy 1 "Now you got yourself a real good insurance company here, but they aren't gonna pay for this, aye. This'll eat your deductable right up, but won't be anymore than that, aye. Yer standard job here, spraying that Everclear and putting up the sheetrock, aye. You won't get a penny from the insurance company, aye."
Guy 2 "Hell no they're not gonna pay fer this, aye. Ya got yer deductable aye. Damn good insurance company. The best there is, aye. That food yer cooking sher does smell good, aye"
Me, "Thanks, your welcome to have some, but my husband told me it tastes like horse shit, aye".
I couldn't have paid for better entertainment. Lee told me that he thought Guy 2 was sweet on me. I think it was the "my husband thinks my cooking is equivalent to horse crap" statement that charmed him the most. But, if flirting gets my bathroom fixed, then I'm all for it, aye.
Final note, I'm on an "eating clean" kick-barley, oats, kashi, etc...So, my recipe, polenta with salmon, bombed yesterday. I believe that right after Lee told me "this tastes like horseshit" he told me that he was going out to get a double at Wendy's. I paid him back by reading about all of the evils of processed foods, refined sugars and saturated fats while he ate his 2 chimichangas. I ruined it for him so bad that he couldn't even eat his refried beans. This morning he reminded me of why I was so smitten with him from the get-go. We were on our way to the test and he was complimenting me on my choice of apparel, black sweats, white t-shirt, black and white hankerchief tied up, 'Aunt-Jemima' like in my hair, glasses with the black and white frames. "You look kind of cute this morning in your headband and matching glasses. Kind of a dalmation look, like you might be riding on the side of a firetruck." He'd better watch out...someone out there might like me, aye!
Lee and I took our internal medicine recertification exam today. I flew through 180 questions in about 3 hours. The speed with which I completed the exam is not any indication of my results-my fate hangs in the balance and I won't find out whether I passed or failed for another 2-3 months. Because all of my pride (not to mention my board certification) is riding on this, I really hope that I passed. I hate public humiliation. My mother graciously watched our kids last week so we could study and I crammed as much knowledge as I possibly could into that one week. It was actually fun returning to student life when your biggest concern was how many hours of studying you could get done in one day. Since Lee and I didn't meet till I was in medical school and he was in residency we never had the opportunity to study together and it was a great experience hanging out in different coffee shops and university campuses (Lee quite enjoyed the scenery on campus, though he could have been the father of most of the girls there). I did learn a lot; I really like internal medicine andI really like my husband.
While you are preparing for an exam this big, especially when it is crunch time-the last 2-3 weeks before the test, you have this perception that every waking moment of the day needs to be spent reviewing material. "Sorry kids, I can't make you dinner, I have to study. You've seen me get the gas burners started. Make yourself some mac and cheese." "No, you don't have any clean underwear. Laundry isn't a topic in my review book." So, needless to say, my mom was a lifesaver. Who knows what our kids would have had to resort to (selling plasma for food, maybe) if she hadn't agreed to intervene. I explained to my son that this test was like all of the spelling tests in the whole world multiplied by a thousand. I still don't think he got it.
You don't have to take # 2 pencils and bubble in scan trons during standardized testing these days. The 'modern' process is completely computerized and you go to a testing center where the person next to you might be getting his certification as a radiology technician or taking defensive driving, for all you know. We had to arrive at 7:30 am and we arrived about 10 minutes early. Precisely at 7:30 am the test center proctor opened the door and immediately started barking out orders. She was the drill sargent equivalent of a shopping center rent a cop. You could tell she had aspirations, dreams of someday, somewhere being able to really tell people to do things that really mattered. But, for now she was content to make us stand in a single file line and take a number and sit down till our number was called. Every once in a while she would show us her soft side and be personable or make an attempt at humor, but if you tried to reciprocate, she was all business. During my break, I was standing by my locker eating a granola bar and drinking some bottled water and she says, "I'm sorry mam, but you can't eat or drink in here. I'll have to ask you to step into the hallway." "Okay, no big deal", I think to myself. When I walk back in, she is stuffing a candy bar down her gullet. After she got us all signed in and fingerprinted (literally, we were fingerprinted) she didn't have anything to do except surf the net and enforce protocol when one of us would wander out for a break. "No we don't have any water here. Remember, if you take longer than your ten minute break, you will not get extra time to take the test." I think she might have had a flask under her desk. Either that or she was a rapid cycler.
Yesterday we had 2 insurance adjusters come out to look at our master bathroom which has a water leak (pre storm problem). We learned that these guys were not actual employees of the insurance company, but individual private contractors. They were storm chasers of sorts. They were from Florida and were experts in hurricane damage. These guys could have been a band of traveling minstrels dressed as insurance guys-they had the shirts with the company logo, but that was about it. I mean, they were very convincing in their knowledge of house structure and construction. However, the most impressive thing about these 2 guys was their schtick. They were like the McKenzie Brothers or the Smothers Brothers of the insurance adjuster world.
Guy 1, "Hey, did you say you had a water leak, aye?"
Guy 2 "Yeah, she said she had a water leak. Didn't you hear her, she said she had a water leak."
Guy 1 "We're gonna have to go in your attic to look at your pipes, aye."
Guy 2 "Like he said, we're gonna be looking at the pipes in your attic, aye. Your pipes need looking at."
Guy 1 "It could be coming thru the roof and going thru the eaves and it works like capillary action, the water aye, it wicks you know."
Guy 2 "It sucks the water right up, aye. The wicking and the capillary action. Sometimes it comes through the roof, right through the eaves. The water could be coming from there, aye."
Guy 1 "Now what we have to do here is take out all this sheetrock and then you get your mix of grain alcohol and you spray it on the sheetrock to get rid of the mold, aye. The grain alcohol, that's what you need to get. What's that stuff called, you want to get your 151 Everclear, your moonshine-that stuff is what the professionals use. You want to use it aye"
Guy 2 "Now your moonshine, the 151 Everclear-now you might want to drink it, but just take a sip, aye, you want to save it for your mold, aye. Spray her right on there."
Guy 1 "That pipe up in the attic, right where the joint is, aye. What you have there is copper oxide. You see it in that picture there. That's copper oxide. Now it might be a leak, or it might be your standard pinhole, aye."
Guy 2 "Your pinhole, aye, that's what I'm talking about. The pinhole could be causing all yer problems aye. Ya see that copper oxide. Could be that pinhole."
Guy 1 "Now you got yourself a real good insurance company here, but they aren't gonna pay for this, aye. This'll eat your deductable right up, but won't be anymore than that, aye. Yer standard job here, spraying that Everclear and putting up the sheetrock, aye. You won't get a penny from the insurance company, aye."
Guy 2 "Hell no they're not gonna pay fer this, aye. Ya got yer deductable aye. Damn good insurance company. The best there is, aye. That food yer cooking sher does smell good, aye"
Me, "Thanks, your welcome to have some, but my husband told me it tastes like horse shit, aye".
I couldn't have paid for better entertainment. Lee told me that he thought Guy 2 was sweet on me. I think it was the "my husband thinks my cooking is equivalent to horse crap" statement that charmed him the most. But, if flirting gets my bathroom fixed, then I'm all for it, aye.
Final note, I'm on an "eating clean" kick-barley, oats, kashi, etc...So, my recipe, polenta with salmon, bombed yesterday. I believe that right after Lee told me "this tastes like horseshit" he told me that he was going out to get a double at Wendy's. I paid him back by reading about all of the evils of processed foods, refined sugars and saturated fats while he ate his 2 chimichangas. I ruined it for him so bad that he couldn't even eat his refried beans. This morning he reminded me of why I was so smitten with him from the get-go. We were on our way to the test and he was complimenting me on my choice of apparel, black sweats, white t-shirt, black and white hankerchief tied up, 'Aunt-Jemima' like in my hair, glasses with the black and white frames. "You look kind of cute this morning in your headband and matching glasses. Kind of a dalmation look, like you might be riding on the side of a firetruck." He'd better watch out...someone out there might like me, aye!
Thursday, September 11, 2008
It's a Comin....Ike's a Comin!
This may be a repeat for some of you, but it is a recap of our experience with Hurricane Rita in Sept 2005:
“Evacuating Rita” 10-5-5
To all our concerned friends and family, thank you for your generous offers of help and support surrounding the events of Hurricane Rita. I’m happy to report that we escaped unscathed and that our house remains intact. In the profound words of Oprah Winfrey to the individuals affected by Hurricane Katrina “[We] are not refugees, [we] are not victims, [we] are survivors!” And as Tom Petty so poignantly sings “You don’t have to live like a refugee.” A sentiment that we took quite literally. With that in mind, so starts our journey…
It was a day like any other, children screaming, chaos predominating, clothes needing washing, then the chief meteorologist of a major network and who is endorsed by the National Weather Association, proclaims that Hurricane Rita is headed towards the Gulf Coast with the coast south of us as the bull’s eye. With no time wasted, city officials decide that certain areas need to be evacuated. No one wanted to suffer the same fate as those poor fools in New Orleans. No one in our town was going to be plucked off a roof top or be left sitting on the interstate going to the bathroom on the frontage road or waiting for a yellow school bus to pick us up and carry us off to some sports dome slated for demolition only to sleep on a cot next to 5000 other people. Instead we’d choose to sit on the interstate in our cars without gas or air conditioning with a heat index of 110 for 28 hours. So we packed the essential items as itemized by the news media; important documents, wedding photos, non-perishable items, then we boarded up the house, packed up the 3 kids plus 4 bonus neighbor kids and like 2 million other city dwellers, we quickly headed for dry land.
Before we could begin our trek we had one important stop to make. We weaved through the neighborhoods to my brother house and gathered him, his wife, my nephew, my mom, the 12 year old Rottweiler named Isaac and about a dozen undocumented Mexicans (I’m Mexican too, so I can say that) and headed west. We were like pioneers in their covered wagons (but in our minivans, pick-ups and SUV’s). We didn’t know where we were going, but we had enough peanut butter, canned ravioli and batteries to last us till Armageddon.
Thinking I could outsmart the masses, I decided to take the ‘backroads’. The first 20 minutes were smooth sailing. Then we hit traffic. Obviously, I wasn’t the only clever one in the metropolitan area. About every 45 minutes (equal to 3 miles) we’d accelerate to about 25 mph for 3 miles. Every gas station we passed was like a ghost town. It was very eerie, like a scene out of a Mad Max movie. Occasionally we’d see a line of cars waiting at a gas station for a pump to open once it received fuel. The only problem was that a gas tanker would have to have been air lifted into the gas station to by pass the traffic.
About 4 hours into the odyssey, we stopped on the side of the road to let the 8 + kids run around and to stretch our legs. More accurately, I had pulled into a gravel road and intentionally ignored a sign that read ‘Private Property.’ I figured it didn’t say ‘keep out’ so it was more like a proclamation than a warning. Besides, it was a dirt road for as far as the eye could see, so I thought any chances of human life were fairly far removed. As you will later learn, I figured wrong. In the meantime, a few people found some bushes that looked dry and discretely watered them. We hoisted Isaac out of the back of the car and let him sniff the fresh country air. While we were busy eating our PB & J’s and drinking our bottled water (the stock piling actually did come in handy!) a pick-up came driving up the dirt road. It stopped in front of us and out stepped two very disgruntled country gentlemen, Pops and Jr. Pops claims that Isaac (as you recall, the geriatric dog with an artificial hip and cataracts so thick you can see your reflection) spooked their horse. Needless to say, we packed up our happy picnic and got the hell out of Dodge!
About 4 hrs later, at midnight, (8 hours from the start of our journey and 120 miles later) we came crawling into small town USA. Our original destination, some 350 miles north of us had long been abandoned. We would have gotten there long after Rita had made landfall or the DPS would have found our desiccated carcasses on the side of the road. So at the last minute we made a call to some friends in the small town and made a desperate plea; would they be willing to house some 30 odd people (mostly complete strangers) and one beast? How could they resist such a request? Foolishly, they said yes!
Well, our kind hosts, who, to preserve their privacy and anonymity, I will call Howard Johnson and his wife La Quinta, live on about 35 acres with livestock, tractors, a fishing hole, a jungle gym better than most playground’s, a swimming pool and a 5’ flat screen TV. Suddenly this was no longer a flight for personal safety, this was vacation at a 5 star bed and breakfast! Even Isaac was in dog heaven, acres and acres of territory to mark and as a special bonus, all the cow dung a dog could eat (apparently cow excrement is a delicacy). The highlight of our stay was grilling grain fed cattle raised by our hosts and feasting on it in the form of burgers, sausages and steaks (sorry all you PETA people, but Daisy and her pals tasted good)! Basically, by the time Sunday rolled around, Howard and La Quinta had to pack our bags for us and push us out the door!
So, all in all, we faired quite nicely. Even the trip home was a breeze. It took the people at Sonic Burger longer to bring us our order than it did to drive home. When we finally pulled into our driveway, our house was still standing and no trees had fallen over. As a matter of fact, our house never even lost power. So, we took the boards off the windows, returned the neighbor kids to their mother and dug a shelter to store our provisions.
So, once again, thank you to all of our friends and family who were so concerned about us and who made offers to house us. We know who our true friends are! So, the next time you all have to evacuate and you need somewhere to stay, remember you have friends, Howard Johnson and his wife La Quinta who would love to have you come and stay at the official Hurricane Rita Evacuation Center!
Still dry,
The Family
So, this time, as Ike approaches, we are hunkering down and hoping for the best. I'll let you all know how we fare on the other side!
“Evacuating Rita” 10-5-5
To all our concerned friends and family, thank you for your generous offers of help and support surrounding the events of Hurricane Rita. I’m happy to report that we escaped unscathed and that our house remains intact. In the profound words of Oprah Winfrey to the individuals affected by Hurricane Katrina “[We] are not refugees, [we] are not victims, [we] are survivors!” And as Tom Petty so poignantly sings “You don’t have to live like a refugee.” A sentiment that we took quite literally. With that in mind, so starts our journey…
It was a day like any other, children screaming, chaos predominating, clothes needing washing, then the chief meteorologist of a major network and who is endorsed by the National Weather Association, proclaims that Hurricane Rita is headed towards the Gulf Coast with the coast south of us as the bull’s eye. With no time wasted, city officials decide that certain areas need to be evacuated. No one wanted to suffer the same fate as those poor fools in New Orleans. No one in our town was going to be plucked off a roof top or be left sitting on the interstate going to the bathroom on the frontage road or waiting for a yellow school bus to pick us up and carry us off to some sports dome slated for demolition only to sleep on a cot next to 5000 other people. Instead we’d choose to sit on the interstate in our cars without gas or air conditioning with a heat index of 110 for 28 hours. So we packed the essential items as itemized by the news media; important documents, wedding photos, non-perishable items, then we boarded up the house, packed up the 3 kids plus 4 bonus neighbor kids and like 2 million other city dwellers, we quickly headed for dry land.
Before we could begin our trek we had one important stop to make. We weaved through the neighborhoods to my brother house and gathered him, his wife, my nephew, my mom, the 12 year old Rottweiler named Isaac and about a dozen undocumented Mexicans (I’m Mexican too, so I can say that) and headed west. We were like pioneers in their covered wagons (but in our minivans, pick-ups and SUV’s). We didn’t know where we were going, but we had enough peanut butter, canned ravioli and batteries to last us till Armageddon.
Thinking I could outsmart the masses, I decided to take the ‘backroads’. The first 20 minutes were smooth sailing. Then we hit traffic. Obviously, I wasn’t the only clever one in the metropolitan area. About every 45 minutes (equal to 3 miles) we’d accelerate to about 25 mph for 3 miles. Every gas station we passed was like a ghost town. It was very eerie, like a scene out of a Mad Max movie. Occasionally we’d see a line of cars waiting at a gas station for a pump to open once it received fuel. The only problem was that a gas tanker would have to have been air lifted into the gas station to by pass the traffic.
About 4 hours into the odyssey, we stopped on the side of the road to let the 8 + kids run around and to stretch our legs. More accurately, I had pulled into a gravel road and intentionally ignored a sign that read ‘Private Property.’ I figured it didn’t say ‘keep out’ so it was more like a proclamation than a warning. Besides, it was a dirt road for as far as the eye could see, so I thought any chances of human life were fairly far removed. As you will later learn, I figured wrong. In the meantime, a few people found some bushes that looked dry and discretely watered them. We hoisted Isaac out of the back of the car and let him sniff the fresh country air. While we were busy eating our PB & J’s and drinking our bottled water (the stock piling actually did come in handy!) a pick-up came driving up the dirt road. It stopped in front of us and out stepped two very disgruntled country gentlemen, Pops and Jr. Pops claims that Isaac (as you recall, the geriatric dog with an artificial hip and cataracts so thick you can see your reflection) spooked their horse. Needless to say, we packed up our happy picnic and got the hell out of Dodge!
About 4 hrs later, at midnight, (8 hours from the start of our journey and 120 miles later) we came crawling into small town USA. Our original destination, some 350 miles north of us had long been abandoned. We would have gotten there long after Rita had made landfall or the DPS would have found our desiccated carcasses on the side of the road. So at the last minute we made a call to some friends in the small town and made a desperate plea; would they be willing to house some 30 odd people (mostly complete strangers) and one beast? How could they resist such a request? Foolishly, they said yes!
Well, our kind hosts, who, to preserve their privacy and anonymity, I will call Howard Johnson and his wife La Quinta, live on about 35 acres with livestock, tractors, a fishing hole, a jungle gym better than most playground’s, a swimming pool and a 5’ flat screen TV. Suddenly this was no longer a flight for personal safety, this was vacation at a 5 star bed and breakfast! Even Isaac was in dog heaven, acres and acres of territory to mark and as a special bonus, all the cow dung a dog could eat (apparently cow excrement is a delicacy). The highlight of our stay was grilling grain fed cattle raised by our hosts and feasting on it in the form of burgers, sausages and steaks (sorry all you PETA people, but Daisy and her pals tasted good)! Basically, by the time Sunday rolled around, Howard and La Quinta had to pack our bags for us and push us out the door!
So, all in all, we faired quite nicely. Even the trip home was a breeze. It took the people at Sonic Burger longer to bring us our order than it did to drive home. When we finally pulled into our driveway, our house was still standing and no trees had fallen over. As a matter of fact, our house never even lost power. So, we took the boards off the windows, returned the neighbor kids to their mother and dug a shelter to store our provisions.
So, once again, thank you to all of our friends and family who were so concerned about us and who made offers to house us. We know who our true friends are! So, the next time you all have to evacuate and you need somewhere to stay, remember you have friends, Howard Johnson and his wife La Quinta who would love to have you come and stay at the official Hurricane Rita Evacuation Center!
Still dry,
The Family
So, this time, as Ike approaches, we are hunkering down and hoping for the best. I'll let you all know how we fare on the other side!
Monday, August 25, 2008
Tribute to Uncle La
When my mom walked up to the door, I could tell something was not right. "What's wrong?" I asked her. "Uncle La died," she said. Though she said the words, they didn't register in my mind. It was like someone telling me that 1 + 1 = 3. I could hear it, but it just didn't make sense. Perhaps what didn't make sense the most was that I never got to say good bye. When I was in Atlanta this past June I didn't get to see him. Usually a visit with Uncle La is a priority whenever I go to Atlanta. I didn't stress about not getting to see him because I figured I would just visit him next year. It never crossed my mind that there wouldn't be a next year.
My kids don't understand the significance of my relationship with Uncle La. This is the man to whom, in addition to my own dad, I sent a father's day card almost every year. Flamboyantly and true to his previous life as a majorette, Uncle La came marching into our lives when I was about 15 years old (what else might you expect from a former male baton twirler?). My parents were divorced (or they might have just been separated) and my mom was a mess. A 'hot mess' as Chelsea Handler might describe her. She was uneducated and away from her family and she had 2 kids to raise without the help of her ex (or soon to be ex) husband. After bouncing around churches for a couple of years, we landed on the steps of First Baptist Church of Atlanta and my mom found her sanctuary. She joined a bible study with a motley crew for members, but this motley crew became our family and our rock for the next several years. Mainly, they were my mom's rock, but mine and my brother's by proxy. Had it not been for this unlikely assortment of God's children, I am quite certain that a) my mother would have been institutionalized and/or b) my brother and I would have been placed in foster care.
I don't remember all the people, but everyone in her bible study was like a character in a play. There was the older, conservative white couple who were the mom & pop of the outfit. Before moving to Africa to become missionaries, they led the group, opened their hearts and home and centered everyone. They kept the compass pointed in the right direction. There were some musicians and street performers, their son and his girlfriend (a bi-racial couple; still a pretty big statement in Atlanta, GA in the mid to late 80's), my mom (the single mom hanging on by a thread) and a medley of born-again, reformed gay men. Larry fell into this latter category. These men were no longer 'living in the life-style'. One was a hair-dresser who was HIV positive, the other lived with his grandmother and was on disability for 'chronic fatigue', the young guy who had just been starting to experiment with his new, gay identity, a married 'heterosexual' florist and then there was Uncle La.
Uncle La had grown up in a conservative Christian home in North Carolina. He had 2 sisters and one brother and I think his daddy might have been a baptist preacher (even if he wasn't ordained). I'm not sure when Uncle La came out of the closet (though I don't think they make closets big enough to have held Uncle La), but the whole world, especially the part of the world that includes bible belt North Carolina, had to have been mighty suspicious when in high school Larry started throwing the baton for the marching band. Sometime after college he moved to Atlanta and began his career as a female impersonator. Legend has it that Larry was the best female impersonator in Atlanta in the late 70's/early 80's with a pretty lucrative career. Gays and straights alike would come to see his show. When he had his first heart attack at age 35, Larry suddenly called up his old friend Jesus and left the bright lights of transgender entertainment. He hung up his dress and his tights, shelved his heels, feather boa and wig and grabbed a bible and never looked back. That's how he got to the bible study. His first near death experience caused him to reevaluate his entire life.
If my mom could have had a second husband, I would have wanted it to be Uncle La. But, b/c my mom was a 'hot mess' and more likely, b/c Larry didn't suddenly become attracted to women, they never wed. However, they were always as close as husband and wife or brother and sister. La called my mom, Tia. He knew her weaknesses and frailties like no other. He was the first person that I remember teasing my mother and her actually laughing. He made her laugh at herself. A thing that she had not been able to do. It was like a valve on a pressure steamer. He came along and started telling a few jokes and the situation was no longer as intense as it had once been. I don't know what my brother and I would have done without Uncle La. He taught us how to love her despite her blemishes and to actually love the spots that we had once found to be unsightly. He brought us laughter when there wasn't a whole lot about which to laugh. Every Sunday after church we'd go eat at Mick's. He introduced us to Oreo Cheesecake. There was a whole host of restaurants we'd go to and in each and every one, they all knew Larry. He was loved everywhere he went. It was like walking into a place with a celebritey. "Oh hey Larry! Glad to see you. Who do you have with you today?" And, I don't think I am looking at everything through rose-colored glasses, but it always seemed like he payed the tab.
Larry was a big man. Well over 6 feet tall and probably some 300+ lbs, physically, he took up a lot of space when he entered a room. But, even if he had been a wee little man, his personality could have filled a mansion. It was not possible to stop laughing when you were in his presence. I'm not talking about giggles, but gut-busting, pee your pants, laugh until you are crying and it hurts kind-of laugher. Though he had left his life on the stage, he was still always an entertainer. He was there through so many milestones in my life (and if a recovered homosexual can be a positive male role model, then that is precisely what he was for my brother); prom, high-school graduation, going off for my junior year of college in London (he bought me a box of Godiva chocolates which I exchanged for a red plaid robe that I still have today and I preferentially wear over all others in my closet), medical school graduation and my wedding (he did a reading). Though we never could get him to come visit after our wedding, we always visited him when we were in Atlanta. When I was interviewing for a residency spot at Emory, I went swimming and took a nap at his apartment. When I was pregnant with my oldest son he took us to his favorite Chinese restaurant. He drove out to my dad and step-mom's house when my boys were young to celebrate my oldest's 2nd birthday. I still remember the Bob-the-Builder outfit he bought my son. That same trip, we crashed in his apartment again, this time with the boys (one of my favorite pictures of the boys is on Uncle La's chair). He always met us out; Mick's, McDonald's, Cudzew Cafe, Mexican restaurants, Cumberland Mall (Larry's one bedroom apartment was full of crystal frames and figurines, but his refrigerator was empty except for some bottled water and Haagen-Dazs Ice Cream). Once he went with us to the Chattahoochee River and waded into the water with the kids. Then he took us to Target to buy Crocs for all 3 of my kids. The last time I saw him was last summer(2007) at his favorite Mexican restaurant. He took my kids to eat ice cream at Baskin Robbins afterward. When my 5 year old (at the time) decided to take a leak in the potted plant outside the shop, Larry told him that someone was going to cut off his weiner. This made my son cry b/c he didn't grow up with Uncle La. I remember feeling a little bit angry with him b/c he made my son cry.
I didn't get to see him on this most recent visit because I was crunched for time and I got lazy. I could have driven out to see him the nite that I arrived into town, but I hadn't seem my dad yet and my dad didn't want to drive into town to have dinner with Larry after a long day at work. God, what I would do to go back and change that decision. He left town to go see his mom in North Carolina the 2nd or 3rd day I was in Atlanta. For the first time, our paths didn't converge. I should have known something was going to happen. Larry was a big man and he enjoyed life. Sure he had heart disease and high cholesterol and high blood pressure and sure he took his medication, but there was no 'lifestyle modification'. If he wasn't having sex, he sure was going to eat. Eating was the one carnal desire that he could satisfy. Even after some cardiac surgery and additional hospitalizations, he still kept on eating exactly what he wanted to eat. I don't think it was a death wish so much as a lack of concern for things of this world. Even though Larry didn't necessarily take care of the his 'temple' (his body), he loved Jesus like no one's tomorrow. Jesus had walked him down some roads and Jesus was Larry's best friend. Larry walked the talk. He was almost always singing some Baptist hymn. That's about the only thing that makes this whole thing bearable; knowing that Larry is in heaven loving every minute of it and making the angles fall down and bust their wings with laughter and Jesus himself is probably wiping away tears from laughing so hard. I know that when it's my turn to go, he is going to run and greet me at those pearly gates and there is no one else (other than God himself) that I'd rather have greet me as I am enter into Glory. I'm going to miss the hell out of you Uncle La and Atlanta is never going to be the same, but save me some Oreo cheesecake and save me some good jokes. And if I forgot to tell you how much I love you the last time I saw you, maybe only now, when you are up in heaven, you can fully comprehend how much I loved you and how much your love meant to me. Take care of all the people down here who need it. Good bye Uncle La, good bye.
My kids don't understand the significance of my relationship with Uncle La. This is the man to whom, in addition to my own dad, I sent a father's day card almost every year. Flamboyantly and true to his previous life as a majorette, Uncle La came marching into our lives when I was about 15 years old (what else might you expect from a former male baton twirler?). My parents were divorced (or they might have just been separated) and my mom was a mess. A 'hot mess' as Chelsea Handler might describe her. She was uneducated and away from her family and she had 2 kids to raise without the help of her ex (or soon to be ex) husband. After bouncing around churches for a couple of years, we landed on the steps of First Baptist Church of Atlanta and my mom found her sanctuary. She joined a bible study with a motley crew for members, but this motley crew became our family and our rock for the next several years. Mainly, they were my mom's rock, but mine and my brother's by proxy. Had it not been for this unlikely assortment of God's children, I am quite certain that a) my mother would have been institutionalized and/or b) my brother and I would have been placed in foster care.
I don't remember all the people, but everyone in her bible study was like a character in a play. There was the older, conservative white couple who were the mom & pop of the outfit. Before moving to Africa to become missionaries, they led the group, opened their hearts and home and centered everyone. They kept the compass pointed in the right direction. There were some musicians and street performers, their son and his girlfriend (a bi-racial couple; still a pretty big statement in Atlanta, GA in the mid to late 80's), my mom (the single mom hanging on by a thread) and a medley of born-again, reformed gay men. Larry fell into this latter category. These men were no longer 'living in the life-style'. One was a hair-dresser who was HIV positive, the other lived with his grandmother and was on disability for 'chronic fatigue', the young guy who had just been starting to experiment with his new, gay identity, a married 'heterosexual' florist and then there was Uncle La.
Uncle La had grown up in a conservative Christian home in North Carolina. He had 2 sisters and one brother and I think his daddy might have been a baptist preacher (even if he wasn't ordained). I'm not sure when Uncle La came out of the closet (though I don't think they make closets big enough to have held Uncle La), but the whole world, especially the part of the world that includes bible belt North Carolina, had to have been mighty suspicious when in high school Larry started throwing the baton for the marching band. Sometime after college he moved to Atlanta and began his career as a female impersonator. Legend has it that Larry was the best female impersonator in Atlanta in the late 70's/early 80's with a pretty lucrative career. Gays and straights alike would come to see his show. When he had his first heart attack at age 35, Larry suddenly called up his old friend Jesus and left the bright lights of transgender entertainment. He hung up his dress and his tights, shelved his heels, feather boa and wig and grabbed a bible and never looked back. That's how he got to the bible study. His first near death experience caused him to reevaluate his entire life.
If my mom could have had a second husband, I would have wanted it to be Uncle La. But, b/c my mom was a 'hot mess' and more likely, b/c Larry didn't suddenly become attracted to women, they never wed. However, they were always as close as husband and wife or brother and sister. La called my mom, Tia. He knew her weaknesses and frailties like no other. He was the first person that I remember teasing my mother and her actually laughing. He made her laugh at herself. A thing that she had not been able to do. It was like a valve on a pressure steamer. He came along and started telling a few jokes and the situation was no longer as intense as it had once been. I don't know what my brother and I would have done without Uncle La. He taught us how to love her despite her blemishes and to actually love the spots that we had once found to be unsightly. He brought us laughter when there wasn't a whole lot about which to laugh. Every Sunday after church we'd go eat at Mick's. He introduced us to Oreo Cheesecake. There was a whole host of restaurants we'd go to and in each and every one, they all knew Larry. He was loved everywhere he went. It was like walking into a place with a celebritey. "Oh hey Larry! Glad to see you. Who do you have with you today?" And, I don't think I am looking at everything through rose-colored glasses, but it always seemed like he payed the tab.
Larry was a big man. Well over 6 feet tall and probably some 300+ lbs, physically, he took up a lot of space when he entered a room. But, even if he had been a wee little man, his personality could have filled a mansion. It was not possible to stop laughing when you were in his presence. I'm not talking about giggles, but gut-busting, pee your pants, laugh until you are crying and it hurts kind-of laugher. Though he had left his life on the stage, he was still always an entertainer. He was there through so many milestones in my life (and if a recovered homosexual can be a positive male role model, then that is precisely what he was for my brother); prom, high-school graduation, going off for my junior year of college in London (he bought me a box of Godiva chocolates which I exchanged for a red plaid robe that I still have today and I preferentially wear over all others in my closet), medical school graduation and my wedding (he did a reading). Though we never could get him to come visit after our wedding, we always visited him when we were in Atlanta. When I was interviewing for a residency spot at Emory, I went swimming and took a nap at his apartment. When I was pregnant with my oldest son he took us to his favorite Chinese restaurant. He drove out to my dad and step-mom's house when my boys were young to celebrate my oldest's 2nd birthday. I still remember the Bob-the-Builder outfit he bought my son. That same trip, we crashed in his apartment again, this time with the boys (one of my favorite pictures of the boys is on Uncle La's chair). He always met us out; Mick's, McDonald's, Cudzew Cafe, Mexican restaurants, Cumberland Mall (Larry's one bedroom apartment was full of crystal frames and figurines, but his refrigerator was empty except for some bottled water and Haagen-Dazs Ice Cream). Once he went with us to the Chattahoochee River and waded into the water with the kids. Then he took us to Target to buy Crocs for all 3 of my kids. The last time I saw him was last summer(2007) at his favorite Mexican restaurant. He took my kids to eat ice cream at Baskin Robbins afterward. When my 5 year old (at the time) decided to take a leak in the potted plant outside the shop, Larry told him that someone was going to cut off his weiner. This made my son cry b/c he didn't grow up with Uncle La. I remember feeling a little bit angry with him b/c he made my son cry.
I didn't get to see him on this most recent visit because I was crunched for time and I got lazy. I could have driven out to see him the nite that I arrived into town, but I hadn't seem my dad yet and my dad didn't want to drive into town to have dinner with Larry after a long day at work. God, what I would do to go back and change that decision. He left town to go see his mom in North Carolina the 2nd or 3rd day I was in Atlanta. For the first time, our paths didn't converge. I should have known something was going to happen. Larry was a big man and he enjoyed life. Sure he had heart disease and high cholesterol and high blood pressure and sure he took his medication, but there was no 'lifestyle modification'. If he wasn't having sex, he sure was going to eat. Eating was the one carnal desire that he could satisfy. Even after some cardiac surgery and additional hospitalizations, he still kept on eating exactly what he wanted to eat. I don't think it was a death wish so much as a lack of concern for things of this world. Even though Larry didn't necessarily take care of the his 'temple' (his body), he loved Jesus like no one's tomorrow. Jesus had walked him down some roads and Jesus was Larry's best friend. Larry walked the talk. He was almost always singing some Baptist hymn. That's about the only thing that makes this whole thing bearable; knowing that Larry is in heaven loving every minute of it and making the angles fall down and bust their wings with laughter and Jesus himself is probably wiping away tears from laughing so hard. I know that when it's my turn to go, he is going to run and greet me at those pearly gates and there is no one else (other than God himself) that I'd rather have greet me as I am enter into Glory. I'm going to miss the hell out of you Uncle La and Atlanta is never going to be the same, but save me some Oreo cheesecake and save me some good jokes. And if I forgot to tell you how much I love you the last time I saw you, maybe only now, when you are up in heaven, you can fully comprehend how much I loved you and how much your love meant to me. Take care of all the people down here who need it. Good bye Uncle La, good bye.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Clickin'
Wow, I've been lazy lately! I've been spending far too much time making those bead designs that require ironing. It's completely addictive and has consumed just about my every waking moment for the past 3 weeks. I sit there like an idiot or a trained chimp picking out tiny beads and putting them on a peg board. It's about as mentally stimulating as watching static on the tv, but I just can't take my hands off those tiny beads.
When I was in Pennsylvania, my 10 year old niece and I went to Michael's to buy more of these beads and it was though we had landed in wonderland. It was almost too much to bear; aisles and aisles of crafts that needed to be purchased and completed. We filled our cart up to the rim and then I came to my senses as I approached the cash register, realizing that there was absolutely no justification in spending 3 digits on shit that I was just going to throw away or that would sit in my spare bedroom (like my scrapbooking stuff, knitting yarn/needles and pictures to be framed). I'm becoming frighteningly similar to my grandmother and her nursing home posse and I'm skirting dangerously close to applying jewels and rhinestones to my jeans and putting angels on sweatshirts and sending them to everyone I know as Christmas presents.
Today my 4 year old daughter told me that she just couldn't control herself and that she needed to be trained. This was in reference to our new puppy. Puppies are small and cute and she wants to rub their cold, wet noses. I think she might be right. The dog needs to be trained, but so does she. We hired a dog trainer to come over to the house and show us the correct way to get the dog house-trained but we might need to hire a girl-trainer that can show us how to manage our daughter.
My husband and his sister are watching the movie Hostel. I think the basic premise of the movie is college graduates get murdered for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. They love to watch slasher flicks. I don't have the stomach for it and I'm a huge chicken. I can hear them complaining because no one has gotten dismembered and they are already 10 minutes into the movie. "This movie sucks! Didn't people get killed right away in Saw?" They opted for this over the Olympics. Lee is in a bad mood and nothing makes him feel better than watching people suffer, especially if it is particularly violent and people are being tortured.
He (Lee) has been working in the ER this month. Working there can make you a sadistic person. When you are taking care of the dregs of society you start to view everyone with disdain; the grocery store clerk, the person who won't let you merge into traffic, your wife and children. Sleep deprivation intensifies your emotions so something that might seem mildly irritating on a normal day, on a sleep deprived day might push you to become justifiably homicidal. The other nite, while the rest of us slumbered, he took care of 29 acutely ill patients in a 12 hour period. We are talking about heart attacks, strokes, altered mental status. It was him, one 3rd year medical resident and a first year medical resident. You leave there, the hospital, at 7 am (or more realistically, at 7:30-8 am) and you are supposed to immediately mainstream yourself. You might have just finished intubating (putting a breathing tube into) someone with pneumonia so bad that he can't breath for himself, sent someone with a possible stroke to the CT scanner, or taken care of the same drunken bum for the 118th time, but you have to walk out of there and act like the world is a balanced place. Last Wednesday nite he had a patient that would only talk to him and agree to medical treatment after conferring with the Holy Spirit. "Holy Spirit, is it okay if I get an IV?" "The Holy Spirit said no, you can't draw my blood or put an IV in my arm." "Sir if you don't let me put an IV in your arm, we are going to have to call security and they will tie you down so we can put an IV in your arm, so you might want to check with the Holy Spirit again." "Alright, I checked again and this time the Holy Spirit said it was okay."
Last month, Lee was taking care of the patients on the in-patient service in the hospital. These are the patients who have been hospitalized for various and sundry reasons. He was making rounds by himself one day and he asked a guy with AIDS why he stopped taking his HIV medications. "Well, I was at work and these people kept messing with me and then I started clickin' and theys started clickin' and then they was clickin' and I was clickin' and we was all clickin'. Click, click, click, clickin'. You know what I mean? We was clickin'." I wonder if he wrote in the patient's chart. Diagnosis: clickin'. And I wonder what the treatment might be.
I've been having a hard time the past couple of days because I don't know how to handle disapproval. Judgment is damaging. We all do it, judge. "How can she let her kids watch that movie, play that video game, listen to that music, etc..." It is so much easier to condemn someone elses actions/intentions than to analyze our own lives. It gives us this weird sense of superiority. By devaluing someone else, we somehow feel validated. "If they are wrong, then I must be right." I think we are the harshest with our own families, our siblings & parents or our spouse's siblings and parents. Then we feel like we have to rally our cause and talk to other family members to get them onto "our side." "Can you believe what so and so is doing (or can you believe what they did)? What are they thinking?" When you become the one who is being judged then all of the sudden you realize that it is a bad idea. Suddenly you want them to walk in your shoes, to see the world from your perspective. I have to admit that when someone I love judges me, I don't know what to do. It has taken me a while to go to God about this one, to finally realize that the only thing that really matters is His judgment of me. And as sad as I might feel about someone's disapproval of me or my actions, I still need to choose to love them and realize that God will take care of the rest. And if I go to Him first, if I honor Him, then nothing else really matters. It all goes back to keeping my eyes on Him. If my eyes are on Him, then the waves won't overpower me and drown me. But the minute I take my eyes off of Him, then I start to drown. If I keep my eyes on Him then there is no reason for me to keep 'clickin' with everyone around me.
When I was in Pennsylvania, my 10 year old niece and I went to Michael's to buy more of these beads and it was though we had landed in wonderland. It was almost too much to bear; aisles and aisles of crafts that needed to be purchased and completed. We filled our cart up to the rim and then I came to my senses as I approached the cash register, realizing that there was absolutely no justification in spending 3 digits on shit that I was just going to throw away or that would sit in my spare bedroom (like my scrapbooking stuff, knitting yarn/needles and pictures to be framed). I'm becoming frighteningly similar to my grandmother and her nursing home posse and I'm skirting dangerously close to applying jewels and rhinestones to my jeans and putting angels on sweatshirts and sending them to everyone I know as Christmas presents.
Today my 4 year old daughter told me that she just couldn't control herself and that she needed to be trained. This was in reference to our new puppy. Puppies are small and cute and she wants to rub their cold, wet noses. I think she might be right. The dog needs to be trained, but so does she. We hired a dog trainer to come over to the house and show us the correct way to get the dog house-trained but we might need to hire a girl-trainer that can show us how to manage our daughter.
My husband and his sister are watching the movie Hostel. I think the basic premise of the movie is college graduates get murdered for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. They love to watch slasher flicks. I don't have the stomach for it and I'm a huge chicken. I can hear them complaining because no one has gotten dismembered and they are already 10 minutes into the movie. "This movie sucks! Didn't people get killed right away in Saw?" They opted for this over the Olympics. Lee is in a bad mood and nothing makes him feel better than watching people suffer, especially if it is particularly violent and people are being tortured.
He (Lee) has been working in the ER this month. Working there can make you a sadistic person. When you are taking care of the dregs of society you start to view everyone with disdain; the grocery store clerk, the person who won't let you merge into traffic, your wife and children. Sleep deprivation intensifies your emotions so something that might seem mildly irritating on a normal day, on a sleep deprived day might push you to become justifiably homicidal. The other nite, while the rest of us slumbered, he took care of 29 acutely ill patients in a 12 hour period. We are talking about heart attacks, strokes, altered mental status. It was him, one 3rd year medical resident and a first year medical resident. You leave there, the hospital, at 7 am (or more realistically, at 7:30-8 am) and you are supposed to immediately mainstream yourself. You might have just finished intubating (putting a breathing tube into) someone with pneumonia so bad that he can't breath for himself, sent someone with a possible stroke to the CT scanner, or taken care of the same drunken bum for the 118th time, but you have to walk out of there and act like the world is a balanced place. Last Wednesday nite he had a patient that would only talk to him and agree to medical treatment after conferring with the Holy Spirit. "Holy Spirit, is it okay if I get an IV?" "The Holy Spirit said no, you can't draw my blood or put an IV in my arm." "Sir if you don't let me put an IV in your arm, we are going to have to call security and they will tie you down so we can put an IV in your arm, so you might want to check with the Holy Spirit again." "Alright, I checked again and this time the Holy Spirit said it was okay."
Last month, Lee was taking care of the patients on the in-patient service in the hospital. These are the patients who have been hospitalized for various and sundry reasons. He was making rounds by himself one day and he asked a guy with AIDS why he stopped taking his HIV medications. "Well, I was at work and these people kept messing with me and then I started clickin' and theys started clickin' and then they was clickin' and I was clickin' and we was all clickin'. Click, click, click, clickin'. You know what I mean? We was clickin'." I wonder if he wrote in the patient's chart. Diagnosis: clickin'. And I wonder what the treatment might be.
I've been having a hard time the past couple of days because I don't know how to handle disapproval. Judgment is damaging. We all do it, judge. "How can she let her kids watch that movie, play that video game, listen to that music, etc..." It is so much easier to condemn someone elses actions/intentions than to analyze our own lives. It gives us this weird sense of superiority. By devaluing someone else, we somehow feel validated. "If they are wrong, then I must be right." I think we are the harshest with our own families, our siblings & parents or our spouse's siblings and parents. Then we feel like we have to rally our cause and talk to other family members to get them onto "our side." "Can you believe what so and so is doing (or can you believe what they did)? What are they thinking?" When you become the one who is being judged then all of the sudden you realize that it is a bad idea. Suddenly you want them to walk in your shoes, to see the world from your perspective. I have to admit that when someone I love judges me, I don't know what to do. It has taken me a while to go to God about this one, to finally realize that the only thing that really matters is His judgment of me. And as sad as I might feel about someone's disapproval of me or my actions, I still need to choose to love them and realize that God will take care of the rest. And if I go to Him first, if I honor Him, then nothing else really matters. It all goes back to keeping my eyes on Him. If my eyes are on Him, then the waves won't overpower me and drown me. But the minute I take my eyes off of Him, then I start to drown. If I keep my eyes on Him then there is no reason for me to keep 'clickin' with everyone around me.
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