Despite the manner in which it began, this was actually a good weekend. I spent some quality time on my bike (the Harley)--I miss upstate New York, but there is good riding to be found here in Oxford. I've been riding every day at sunset (if it isn't storming), following whims on side roads up as it's getting dark. And somewhere along the line, I started feeling very comfortable on the bike, none of the white-knuckled grip-o-terror whenever the wind kicks up. I'm really enjoying it, and I long ago quit caring to look like one of the cool kids--I wear a full-face helmet (less wind=better visibility and comfy contacts) and have no desire to add all the expensive Harley accessories. It will ride the same regardless, so who cares if the pipes are stock?

Trouble is, my tailbone won't have it. It takes about ten minutes to get from dull ache to sharp pain, and yesterday I had a tough time even getting off of the bike, it hurt so much. I do need a new saddle, one wide enough to actually accomodate a substantial woman's injured ass.

Part of what spurred the riding, especially yesterday, is that my good friend, the retired Marine interrogator, was given the boot as he got off the plane. He was on the same business trip I was on--but don't even think of it, he's well outside my age range. We're friends, and I'm not interested in anything else. BUT, his longtime girlfriend told him she didn't love him anymore and got dressed up in her nicest shoes to go "stay with a girlfriend." I suspect there's another man and Gus is heartbroken. So heartbroken in fact, that he intends to leave town as soon as he can pack the truck and figure something out for himself and his two sons elsewhere, either Tampa or Iraq. He wants out of this town most posthaste, and I can't say I blame him in the least. I cannot even imagine how that must feel.

Fourth of July, The Sequel

Spent my Fourth preparing for the business trip to Texas--eleven days of teaching and fighting the urge to eat bad things. I've been so good. I even went to Ross today and bought new work and workout clothes--I only have a few outfits of each, and I'm tired of washing stuff and hanging it on the shower rod.

Some random yard shots--it all looked much better without the construction debris and chaos, but the backyard is still pretty interesting.

Thank God all these ceilings are going away. HATE the popcorn. In the den and dining room, that dizzy broad tried to scrape it off without wetting it--so there are gouges and toolmarks, like a monkey went at it with a sharp stick. Then she smeared some sand-laden mud up there, and all over the walls in the foyer. I'm eventually going to have to manually sand it down--I'll make it a long workout and only do that one thing on whatever day I get to do it. I say, get to do it because that would mean I'm living in my house...and it looks like it will be quite some time before that happens. *Sigh*

Look at the wee little watermelon! It's smaller than a pingpong ball--I feel like a proud mama. It's a sugar baby variety--maybe it'll be ready to eat when I get back...along with the maters and corn. I bought special self-watering boxes and planted all this stuff--the strawberries never got off the ground, but the artichokes, basil, sunflowers, and carrots are coming right along. It ain't easy, gardening in the desert.


See the little yellow bird perched atop one of my bedraggled sunflowers? They are bedraggled because this innocent-looking little bastard has been directly chowing down on the leaves of the big, gorgeous flowers. So I won't be winning any awards for gardening. It's okay--my cats have eaten enough birds, I'm glad to pay them back a bit. What, you don't think some sunflowers leaves are a fair trade for early death by slow torture?

Now I'm back in the hotel and there is a huge approaching thunderstorm framed in my third-floor window. So now I'm going to watch it.

Happy Fourth. We are impossibly blessed to be Americans.

Update

I got the determination back from the insurance company—they will cover it, and the estimate stands at about $30,000. I shudder to think about the position I would have been in had they not covered it—max out all the credit cards, get some home equity loans, go back into the kind of debt I had after leaving college. After all I went through to get rid of that debt, to fall right back into that hole would have ruined my whole day. Not to mention my now-sterling credit.

The “contractor” seems to have disappeared. No surprises there. Given the charges and the various agencies that are after him, he’ll only delay the inevitable by running. We’ll get him soon enough…and everyone has his passport number. Score one for the hometeam for nicking it from his portfolio…I had to wonder why he had his passport on him in the first place. It’s all just desserts, his uppance will come.

I’m proud of my handling of this thing—I haven’t missed any days at the gym, I’m eating well, haven’t drowned my sorrows in tequila, and I’m letting my friends and family rally around me. I have a tendency to reject offers of help in the interest of not “putting anyone out,” but in this case, everyone seems to feel better when I accept some assistance. I’ve grown so accustomed to doing everything myself, I’ve had to accept that it’s not a sign of weakness to get help when things go horribly wrong.

I need to figure out what I'm doing here in Arizona, if maybe it's time to move back to Oxford permanently, and do this part time. I don't like it here and never meant to stay. This was the last straw.

Addendum

The other thing I have going on right now, is that I'm in the process of finally shedding the extra pounds I've accumulated in the last couple of years. I'm down eleven pounds so far, and counting. After trying over and over to do it myself, I joined Jenny Craig and started going to the gym at least five times a week, no exceptions. I even stuck to it through this nightmare week and lost four pounds since last Sunday. My clothes are looser, I'll soon have to buy new pants, and it feels extremely do-able.

What was the final straw? My old friend, Luci, snapped a picture of me at Jazzfest, with a huge bowl of boiled crawfish in one hand, and a crawfish puff pastry in the other. My arms look like an open can of refrigerated biscuit dough. I used to have enviable arms--muscle comes naturally to me. When the layer of fluff comes off, I have a washboard belly and great definition.

So off with the fluff. I'll post before and after pictures when the difference is dramatic enough to brag about. The last thing on my mind right now is food, so this is the time to make it happen.

Loose Ends

It occurred to me, reading through the last few posts, that I've left some loose ends dangling.

LSAT--I checked into a hotel in Tucson the weekend before I was to take the LSAT, and took three practice tests. I ran out of time on the logic section all three times, leaving 4-6 questions unanswered. I scored 161, 163, and 161, which is good enough to get into any of the schools I like, but not good enough for fat scholarships and grants. So I changed the test date to September 30 and bought two more workbooks for the logic games with the intent of gaining speed on the problems. My accuracy is good, speed is bad. It can be done. I'm also looking around for any workshops in the area that specifically address the logic problems--all the other sections of the test, I scored quite high. If I can pull my score up to 165, I can expect to get recruited--I can get at least that high if I work at it. They average the scores if you take it more than once, so there was absolutely no benefit to taking it now as opposed to September.

Patience, I've learned, can pay big dividends. If I'd been more patient with the roof contract, I wouldn't be typing this entry from a hotel room. I'd be in my pretty house with my animals and no daylight shining into the master bedroom from above.

This whole ordeal has demonstrated to me once again that living in a small town has its tangible advantages--I saw it when my mother was diagnosed with terminal osteogenic sarcoma, a fancy-schmancy name for cancer-that-will-spread-unabated-like-desert-wildfire. Oxford, Mississippi, quickly galvanized and rallied around her--and us, the helpless family. It was amazing.

The same thing has come to pass over the last four days with my house--neighbors I'd never met arrived with offers of help, the phone tree was activated, and I suddenly had District Attorneys, Judges, insurance adjustors, contractors, city building inspectors, you name it--they all showed up with pledges to string the contractor up by his toes and help me fix what's broke. Everyone was enraged. The contractor who owns the water extraction team has been in this business here for over 50 years and I suspect he has a granddaughter my age, as he seems to have taken this thing very personally. He was on the phone the whole time he was in the house saving my earthly possessions and minimizing the destruction. And comes by to check on the house (and me) several times a day.

That brings me to my new roofer. He came highly recommended and showed up while all this drama came down (with the ceiling) with his wife, who owns a cleaning business. They took me out to dinner and we talked about how to fix it. He immediately got up on the roof and spread thick black plastic, nailed it down for real this time, and sealed the roof. He's going to finish the roof at the minimum possible cost to me--these are good people. He'll work right through next weekend, one section at a time, and knock this thing out. And yes, of course, he is licensed--and has had no complaints filed against him, ever. They helped me move the furniture back inside and they call me every day to see if I need anything.

Like I said, good people.

I can't secure the house right now--all windows have to be wide open, fans in each, to keep mold at bay. The police pull into the driveway and walk around several times during each night, the neighbors are on alert, and I leave my car in the driveway to make it look like someone's home. I ride the motorcycle to the hotel. I halfway expect that jackass roofer (the first one) to come back and try to steal all my stuff to compensate for my keeping his tools. The police know about that as well, and they know to check him first if anything gets stolen.

And from my perspective, this just doesn't feel like such a horrible thing. Perhaps it's because everyone has been so kind, but I think it's because I spent thirteen months mired in the kind of misery that makes getting out of bed in the morning feel like a Herculean effort--Iraq has forever changed my perspective. Short of getting paralyzed from the neck down and/or someone close to me dying, nothing I ever encounter will ever feel like the end of the world after The Iraq Experience. Even in those few moments when it looked like insurance wouldn't cover this disaster, as the ceilings caved in and the ceiling fan crashed to the floor, it didn't feel like anything I couldn't handle.

In this respect, I'm fortunate--true despair may never visit me again, as long as no one's getting killed. And after all, the house and everything in it, it's all just stuff. As long as my standard of living isn't compromised in the long haul (which, make no mistake, it is not), losing stuff just isn't that bad.

That's what savings are for--a rainy day. Pun intended.

Disaster Chronicled

Remember this room from a previous post? Well, here's the cavalry trying to save my house. This was after the ceiling fan crashed to the floor--the water ran right through it until the ceiling gave way. I was in tears at this point. The roofer just sat in the kitchen with his head in his hands--he knew he was screwed. I'm done crying, I'm done beating myself up. Now I'm just angry.

Yes, Xine, it's illegal in Arizona to contract without a valid license. The minimum fine is $8000, and there are criminal charges as well. I reported him to the Registrar of Contractors this morning. And the IRS. And he's on disability, so I'm researching how to report that as well--I'm pretty sure that if you're collecting state disability for a back injury, you cannot contract to repair a roof. I'm just sayin'.





The master bedroom. I wish I had a picture of what it looked like with all the art and my gorgeous sleigh bed.








This is their version of "the roof is secured." Did they start making waterproof plywood? Look toward the bottom right corner--I'm pretty sure that water bottle is full of urine.







Yes, that's a cooler full of beer and a bottle of Jagermeister. Which goes a long way to explain the piss bottle--wouldn't want to negotiate a ladder while heavily intoxicated. I wonder how many times they just pissed from the roof into my yard? This photo will figure heavily in the lawsuit, I'm sure...I bet getting the plastic up there and secured would be quite a challenge on three-quarters of a bottle of Jager. I can't manage three shots of that stuff...see how the bottle floats? That's because it's nearly empty. So if some assclown gets drunk while repairing your roof and falls off, you, the homeowner, gets sued.

See why I want to become a lawyer? I will not be the ambulance-chasing, burn-your-tongue-on-coffee-and-sue-type lawyer, even if it means I turn away many potentially lucrative cases. I will only represent people like me, who were genuinely screwed, against dirtbags like this "contractor."

Revenge is a dish best served cold. One day, I'll watch his face across a courtroom as the verdicts are read--and I would imagine that a jury here in southern Arizona, where homeowners have issues with contractors regularly, would give me maximum damages. Sure, he doesn't have anything to go after (and the insurance company will get whatever he does have), but I'll sue him anyway. He'll never get a mortgage, never get another contracting license, never get a tax return, lose his disability, and the IRS will do their thing.

So this little fiasco cost me $8000. I hate to lose it and I will likely never see it again, but at least I had it to lose. It came from my savings, the money I made in both Iraq and selling my house in NY.


This is the top view of the dumpster in my driveway. To add insult to injury, I still have to pay the trash company to haul it away, to the tune of over $700. Nothing like paying for things twice--the roof, the haul-off, the whole deal.



And now for the grand finale:




This is the trunk of my car. These are his tools. 'Nuff said.

Absolute, Utter Disaster

I made a mistake which I will forever review as The Stupidest Thing I Have EVER Done. I hope I at least get some wisdom out of this. I cannot BELIEVE, that after all I've done and been through, that I can be this stupid.

I hired a roofer from Tucson (not the one I mentioned before, he gave me the creeps) to come down here and get this roof torn off and recovered. So they showed up, ripped off the roof, and suddenly there were all kinds of excuses--one guy quit, one guy hurt his back, blah blah blah. It was taking too damn long to finish, and I was starting to get ugly, starting to be alarmed--shit just did not seem right. There were usually only two dudes here, I'd see them sitting around shooting the shit, and despite all my raising hell, they were dragging their feet, and they had over $8000 of my hard-earned money.

Keep in mind, during all this, that my roof is flat--it's a Santa Fe style house, over 2000 square feet, one story...so essentially, all roof. And as a flat roof, the ceiling is only about a foot below the outer surface, with nothing but insulation and wiring in between.

So imagine my panic when I walked outside today--here, in Arizona, where I can count on the fingers of one hand how many times it has rained since I moved here, and it has never soaked the ground--and it was storming like it was the end of the world. I rushed home to find these two clowns struggling with a tarp on the roof...and inside? I've taken pictures, I can't post them right now because I'm in a hotel and the camera cord is someone in the disaster that used to be my home. It is indescribable.

Water water everywhere does cause the boards to shrink...and the ceilings to cave in. It cannot be overstated, the catastrophic level of destruction. I got all the furniture and precious things into the one room that wasn't ruined (it caved in later, after The Cavalry arrived and wrapped it all in plastic). But everything else? Carpet, walls, ceilings, wiring, all destroyed.

So I called the insurance company, halfway expecting them to laugh and say, "Oh, hell no, we don't cover man-made disasters," but they put me through to the national office, who determined that wind WAS a factor--it blew the tarp off. The tarp was nailed down, that I can prove. So *thank God,* Divine Providence is, for the moment, smiling on me.

So here's where it gets even more distressing...the insurance company told me to call a water extraction team, and they decended upon the home like a flock of condors. The owner/foreman walked through the house, got on the phone, and said, "Tammy, I need you to call everyone in, I need everybody, the whole crew." You know you're in trouble when the WATER EXTRACTION TEAM FOREMAN shows signs of alarm. But THEN (oh, it gets even better), the foreman confronted the roofer, who was sitting at the kitchen table with no color in his face (after my rather large former-Marine buddy threatened to kill him), and asked to see his contractor's license. AND HE DOESN'T HAVE ONE. Well, according to him, he didn't have it with him...so then I checked the Arizona State Board of Contractors website (little damn late for that, huh?), and didn't find his name.

I must be the biggest fucking dumbass on the planet. Pardon my French, but this kind of catastrophe threatens my entire financial future, and I'm not exaggerating. The guy showed me a portfolio, but I never asked to see his license...it didn't even cross my mind. What the HELL am I going to do if the insurance company ultimately denies my claim because this shitbag has no license???

I'm encouraged that they sent me to a hotel and called in the team. But will this all change once they find out he has no license??

As it stands right now, things are okay--I may even come out ahead: as we speak, they are ripping out the carpet, linoleum, and popcorn ceilings that I hated. Didn't hate the walls--in fact, spent a great deal of time and money painting them--but at any rate. Assuming the insurance covers it, I get many of my home improvement projects knocked out most ricky-tick.

But the roof?? There is no way in HELL I trust these idiots to finish--so I'll have to hire a new roofer, and the startup fee I paid (8000 dollars!!) is gone until all the lawsuits run their course. And all the insulation up there has to be replaced, and it's the start of monsoon season, and how the hell am I going to fix this thing???

I am currently accepting any and all donations, seeing as how I'm homeless and just threw away my $210,000 investment, otherwise known as my home. All right, everyone pray with me...insurance, please get me out of this mess.

*Sigh* Hindsight is 20/20. Hard lesson to learn--but never never never hire anyone to so much as pound a nail in your home without asking to see their license. Just ask me, the homeless, distraught woman you'll soon see wandering the aisles of Home Depot buying stacks of tarps to keep stretching across my roof for the entire monsoon season.

My two best friends came over to see what they could do, and I had my freakout with them--I haven't cried like that since Iraq. I've worked so hard and gone through so much to buy this home, to live to this standard, to have it all ruined over something I SHOULD HAVE BEEN SMART ENOUGH TO AVOID.

But I'm done freaking out, and now it's just time to pick up the pieces, empty my savings account of all the money I had socked away for law school (not much, after shelling out for the roof), and figure it out. I'm getting back to Oxford for sure now...this town sucks and I want out ASAP. I think I'll leave all the rest of my crap there (thank God most of this furniture was rented and insured), and I just made up my mind to unload this house and get off the fence, go South, and make AZ a part-time gig. I'll sell this house as quickly as I can, stay at J's house when I'm out here, and hang out with my uncle in Oxford for the rest of the time.

Day at the Races

Dave, the hero who saves all the Greyhounds in AZ, NM, and TX, called Friday afternoon.

"I have an emergency," he said.

"What's up?"

"I just got a call from the track vet." The track is a Greyhound park, where many of the hounds come from. "They're about to put one down--his racing weight was 72 pounds, and right now he weighs 48. I'm in Texas--can you go get him? The deadline's six o'clock."

It was four, and the track was at least an hour away. "I'm on my way," I said. I was at home, just got back from the gym (I've been such a good girl), and the prospect of striding into the Greyhound Park and rescuing an emaciated pooch sounded like just the right way to spend my Friday evening.

I arrived at 5:30. The track had gotten into some bad meat, and over thirty dogs were sick. I cannot describe the smell--it rivals only some of the crap I saw in Iraq for shock value.

And this one, named Braveheart, is what I found:

If you've ever considered whiling away an afternoon at the local Greyhound park, just stare at this picture a minute or two.

He's been sick, the guy says, then he got that bad meat, and he's just not getting any better.

Moonpie, my big Greyhound, weighs 70 pounds. Look at the difference:

Sorry for the crap camera-phone pics, but the real camera is out of batteries.

This other dog's racing weight (generally the lightest you can safely get the dog) was 72, and Moonpie's couch potato weight is 70...so this is a big Greyhound. And he weighs 48 pounds. So needless to say, every time I think about it, I'm feeding him hotdogs, cooked hamburger meat, rice, eggs, nutrition shakes, medication, canned dog food...he probably doesn't know what the hell is going on. He's scared of the doggie door, so I have to take him outside every hour or so, he still trembles, and he's extremely timid.

But I'm already seeing that look, the same one my other foster dog had, the one who also just came off the track. He's loving it. I lifted him onto the couch last night (no amount of coaxing could get him to jump up there), and he sat there, still as a graveyard, staring at me, clearly confused. Then he fell asleep, and woke up, looked around the room, shifted his bony frame on the cushions, and let out a big sigh. This is the life.

The only reason I haven't already decided to keep him, is that I'm going to law school next year...if I have two big dogs and two cats, I might as well accept the fact that I will have to buy a house. Finding a rental with a fenced backyard that will allow my menagerie might be challenging, not to mention expensive. I might have to buy something very cheap, not as nice as I'm used to, so that I can avoid roommates and keep all the accumulated strays and gypsies in their accustomed level of comfort.

I may end up keeping him anyway. He's a very sweet dog, and Moonpie loves him. If I do keep him, he will be RC Cola, so that the two of them together pay homage to the classic Southern Scooby Snack. It's weird, but their coloring works for their respective namesake--Moonpie looks like a vanilla moonpie, RC Cola has all the colors of a tall cool glass.

I'll probably keep him. It's almost like it was meant to be.

Holy Ass-Melting Car Seat, Batman!!

Oh, yes. The skin from my hamstrings shall peel off on my black leather seats. And go crunchy directly. At least I'm not wearing forty pounds of gear.

So this guy is coming down here from Tucson to do my roof. He's doing it for about three grand less than my lowest bid to date, he's licensed, and he's going to run wiring into the ceilings so I can have ceiling fans in the bedrooms. See, right now, there are no fixtures on the ceiling--each room has a wall sconce. The one in my room is actually kind of nice, but in the other two bedrooms? Oh, my. They look like cheap '70's bathroom lights. Which is most likely what they are, just incidentally.

Hold My Beer, I'm Fixin' to Try Somethin!!

James is this good-looking Border Patrol Agent. We chat from time to time, even though he lives about forty minutes from here in a little Copland town. He asked me what the fee for the LSAT is these days, clearly insinuating that he possesses some knowledge of that test, and here's my response--it's rare that I'm proud of an email, but I like this one:

"I registered several months ago...I think it was $110, but don't quote me on that.

The appliances turned into a total fiasco--to make a long story short, the two dudes who came to deliver and install my new range and refrigerator got soaked from head to toe and at the end of it all, there was water gushing out of my ceiling. Yep. Just another day out on the prarie. And now I have to drill a hole in the house to get water to the icemaker. Go figure. I think the Sears guys were completely mystified by it all. The previous owners of this house must've had an Uncle Cletis who came over with a six-pack and did all their wiring and plumbing..."Hold my beer, I'm fixin' to try somethin..." It's pretty bad...*sigh*...bit by bit, I'll get 'er up to code. It's a great house, though, worth the trouble.

Did you take the LSAT at one point? Lemme guess, you scored absurdly high and now you're going to try and punk me out...bring it on, I can take it...165? Higher??"

It's not undue flattery, he's a pretty sharp guy. And the bit about the appliances--well, this a blog, not an email, so I'll elaborate. I bought gorgeous new stainless steel appliances for the kitchen, and had the fridge and range delivered first, since they don't take much installation and my moving cabinets around won't matter. So they show up, these two bubbas, and one strongly reminds me of Woody Allen at his absolute bitchiest, bossing the slow one around, ostentatiously impatient and annoyed with his subordinate. The other one was guileless as a stuffed animal. But you could tell his heart was in the right place.

So the range goes in, no problem, and they pull out the white refrigerator, disconnect the water line to the ice maker water-door thingy, which worked when I first viewed the house, but not after I moved in. And they get the fridge out as I'm sweeping up the dust kittens, and we all witness that there are two (2) water valve stems, one connected to the white fridge, the other not. So they figure out that it leads to the sink on the other side of the room, and switch them out. So Woody goes under the sink to turn it on, frickin' cranks it, and jumps right up before he's had time to realize that water is shooting from the wall and all over the simple one. And by that time, it was soaking his ass most democratically.

He went on and on about how he couldn't understand how it could happen--it was pretty weird--and we swiched to the other hose, the one that had not been connected to the old fridge, the one that has just firehosed these two dudes from Sears. Then Woody goes back under, doesn't friggin' crank it this time, barely opens it...and we hear water pour into the ice maker. See? It comes out of the door just fine, let's push the new, stainless steel fridge back against the wall.

I keep thinking the two guys are standing too close, because I keep feeling dripped on. A little surreal. Even moreso when I looked up and water gushed from the ceiling, the part I'm told is called the soffett, where the a/c ducts are. Flat roof, you know, nothing between the ceiling and the actual roof.

Turns out, when they replaced the east side of my patio due to termites (all gone now), they'd snipped the water hose that came from inside the kitchen, out the patio wall, along the patio ceiling, to a spot on the wall that I now have to drill so that we can reach the extra valve at the water heater. I drilled holes in the ceiling so that the water would drain out most ricky-tick, then cranked the a/c to dry it out. Patched the holes in the ceiling, painted over it, seems to be okay.

A pox on that previous owner, though. I don't even want to disrespect anyone's Uncle Cletis, I'll just hypothesize that they were hopeless drunks with an endless supply of duct tape.

A Collection is Born

It's a modest start, these nine crosses I bought--all handmade, in Mexico. And now I'm hooked. I'm looking at the calendar and deciding when I can go back down there for more. And then there are these carvings and paintings on old wooden doors, all these wonderful, darkly Catholic images. I will have something permanent and beautiful to show for my time here in this dingy little town.

And on that note, nothing demonstrates the virtues and vices of a town like having a guest to show around. My lovely sister, Kelly (who has lost 30 pounds and looks fabulous, the Divorce Diet) was here last weekend. With the exception of the little border town in Mexico--always interesting--I saw through new eyes how little this town has to offer for entertainment. Sure, Tucson is close and there's always Rocky Point (Mexico) and San Diego within driving distance, the immediate area is pretty low-rent. I loved to have visitors in upstate New York--Sackets Harbor was always a good time and the sheer physical beauty of the area always brought a smile to my face. Likewise New Orleans and Athens, GA. But I've lived in many a boring town while working in and for the military...and therein lies a big motivation for law school. I want to choose--and love--where I live.

I'll get there. In the meantime, Mexican folk art and frequent trips to the more interesting points on the map near here.

Tarpoleon Blownaparte

New Orleans has responded to Katrina exactly the way I envisioned, with a biting, often self-deprecating humor. I couldn't resist: I bought one that says, "FEMA Evacuation Plan: RUN, BITCH, RUN!!" Admired but not purchased: "I stayed for Katrina, and all I got was this lousy t-shirt. And a flat-screen TV. And a new Cadillac."

Two other Jazzfest spottings: "My Other T-Shirt Has Your Mom In It," and the Grand Poobah, the best t-shirt of all time, direct line to the Motha'ship, had a big picture of Bush flashing a peace sign, with the caption, "BET YOU'LL VOTE THIS TIME, HIPPIE." A guy walked around Jazzfest with a piece of blue tarp as a cape, a big sideways hat, with the sign, "Tarpolean Blownaparte."I don't care who you are, that's funny.

All my favorite haunts are back in full swing. The centuries-old live oaks still stretch all the way across St. Charles Avenue, the streets are even more pitted and buckled than before, the Quarter is still full of people whose lives somehow skidded to a halt in this place, the shows at night in the clubs still dwarf the overcrowded, unwashed masses that comprise a day at Fest. I ate every time I could put more in--oysters, crawfish, lamb couscous and fried eggplant topped with oyster dressing and wild mushroom sauce.

I didn't linger in the Quarter--I worked on Canal Street at Chartres for a year, and between shifts I walked the Quarter for hours. It was virtually unchanged, except that a bar where I drank with friends next to those great double doors that stretch across the front of the buildings down there, floor to ceiling, inches away from a crashing thunderstorm, the galloping fury of Faulkner's vernal equinoxes flooding the streets in a sheet. I can't remember the name of the bar, but it was Lundi Gras (night before Fat Tuesday) 1998, it was on Royal Street, just before I joined the Army, and we'd just gotten off of work. We still wore the black slacks, the proper shirt and tie of our upscale, Creole restaurant, loosened and untucked. We'd all worked double shifts in the madness--we were rode hard and put up wet. But there was no sense trying to drive out of there right then, with the rain and the scurrying, squealing frat boys. The four of us silently watched it all come down through those fifteen-foot-tall door/windows, all thinking about how lucky we were to live in that deranged, charmed city.

And the streetcars aren't running--the city lacks the funds to pay the drivers. Who make jack shit anyhow.

It's been years since I could remember New Orleans this way, what it felt like to live there. It took leaving the Army and watching my possibilities bloom out with the lightning-bolt epiphany that life is long, it's fun to be single and make crazy decisions like going to law school, and I somehow ended up owning a gorgeous house in the desert with all these years left to go, which I can fill any way I choose.

Her Learning Person

Against my better judgment, I went out with Shannon and a crew of folks determined to get drunk. I was still running at about 50% after the days-long stomach debacle, but hadn't eaten in two days and figured Outback would perk up my appetite.

There we ran into Sean, our friend everyone swears is gay but has been romping around with an 18-year-old girl. He's considerably younger than I am--25--and is given to never-ending rants about everything that is wrong with the world, all President Bush's fault. Not that I entirely disagree, but I've grown to dislike talking about politics--there is so much bullshit and misinformation out there, even if I agree with someone, I don't trust much of anything anyone says. Plus, it's droll.

His first rant was against Paris Hilton, something about a restaurant in a D.C. Hilton that closed down rather than fix the elevator that would allow the Wounded-In-Action soldiers across the street at Walter Reed to eat there. If it's true, then yes, shame on them. Do I want to hear about it for fifteen minutes, at a half-holler? Not so much. He'd had some beers by then and became increasingly shrill with every sip. Everyone else exchanged that glance...you know the one, eyes widened slightly, eyebrows raised, pursed lips, the one that says Oh here we go, let's all try to be patient.

At one point, he was screaming falsetto imitations of someone caught with their pants down, and the peanut gallery all shifted in their seats and That Expression became open expressions of alarm. The whole restaurant craned their necks to peer at this odd little redheaded man with the rectangle Hilfiger glasses shrieking with apparent abandon. Not that we really care about being shunned in the Sierra Vista Outback, but it was one of those pitches that grates your last nerve.

A bit later, Sean and I were holding a table at J.R.'s, a pathetic dance/hip-hop bar where there is always some tramp who looks too young to even be in there dancing in front of the mirror, watching herself as if she were rehearsing for the next Fifty Cent video, dressed like getting some ass were the sole purpose of her existence. Amusing and annoying at the same time. We were waiting for the rest of the crew to drop off cars, so more people could get drunk. This was CLEARLY not my scene. I told Sean I'd stay until the rest arrived so he wouldn't be left there by himself like a jerk.

The Tramp de Jour was a skinny black girl in a dress that showed her asscrack, barely covered her nipples, and looked like it came from the Wal-Mart kid's section. Just the right color pink, cheap-looking fabric. She stared into the mirror and swivelled her backside around, so she could spread her feet apart and watch it change shape.

"So I told you I broke up with Kimberly, right?" Sean asked. Last time I'd seen Sean, she called him because he had acted like "something was wrong. Are you mad at me?" He assured her over and over again that he was not. That's the mixed bag of dating someone still waving bye-bye to the turnip truck that just kicked her off--I'm sure most men would love to date an 18-year-old in theory, but the price is the Very. High. Maintenance.

"Seems like I heard ya'll split up," I sipped my water, listened to my stomach gurgle uncomfortably, and wondered where the hell Shannon was.

"So yesterday she shows up at my house to see if she left a shirt there." Oldest trick in the book--if you're done with a guy, you won't go to his house to pick up your wallet containing ten thousand dollars and all your ID...well, maybe ten thousand, but anything under a couple hundred, he can keep it. I nodded, watching the skinny private dancer.

"So then we start that whole conversation again, and I've been very clear that I don't want a relationship. I told her I was in a place in my life where I didn't want a big thing, it's not her it's me, and I just made it very clear I don't want to date her."

"Mmmhmm." I can't quit watching this girl, it's like rubbernecking at a gory car wreck. She's twisting around like a showgirl, really giving everyone a peepshow, all the while never taking her eyes off herself. It's like she's in front of her bedroom mirror at her parents' house with the music turned up and the door locked. Truly bizarre.

"So then, I layed down on the bed because I was tired of talking about it," Also the oldest trick in the book, I might add...if a person in whom you have no interest but has interest in you is at your house, the last place you'd steer that exchange would be the bedroom, and sprawling out on the bed is inviting trouble. "And then she just attacked me! How am I supposed to respond to that? I mean, I'm a guy...I held her off as long as I could, but I mean, she just attacked me!"

I raised my eyebrows and looked at him. "You slept with her?"

"Well, yeah, what was I supposed to do? I was very clear I had no interest!"

"No you weren't."

"I told her over and over again..."

"But then you fucked her. Has she called you today?"

"Um, once or twice."

"She thinks you're back together."

"No, I've accepted that I'm just going to be her learning person, the one she learns from, and that's it."

I was amused. "Not really, you're just jerking her around. She figures if you really wanted to break up, you wouldn't fuck her."

He looked miserable. "Great."

Shannon finally showed up, and after I'd spun her up on the Dancing Queen out on the floor and Sean's teenage girlfriend, I begged off, citing my sour stomach. Which wasn't totally a lie, but the bar scene in this town is like drinking Diet Coke...add all the fancy-pants Splenda you want, squeeze a lime and scrape a vanilla bean into it, it will never taste like the real thing.

It Takes a Village Idiot

I had to get sick to get up off my arse, ironically enough, to take "Watertown, NY" off of my profile and reflect my new (albeit temporary) occupation. I'm prepping like mad for the LSAT, even today, as I alternate working the logic games with trips to the toilet and meds to try and break my fever. I spent the first half of the day snuggled up in my wonderful bed--the fever gave me chills, but I have a fat down comforter with pretty little dogwood blossoms on it, not to mention the cats and the foster greyhound poking her nose in my face about once an hour.

Sienna goes to her new home this Sunday--I served as The Acclimator, taking her straight from the racetrack in Tucson and coaching her through the vet appointments and adjustment to the new digs, the concept of a human's attention and soft places to sleep. Which greyhounds do not get until they are rescued in this way--they live like POW's during Vietnam. Small crate, too many other dogs around to eat in peace or get any attention, nothing soft for their painfully bony frames. So when they are rescued, they are worshipful pets--I wish I'd had a video camera the first time I played music in the house. She crouched down and spun her head wildly, wondering what the hell it was and where it came from. It's been rewarding, but she tends to chase the cats around and they need a break. Anyone who's thinking about getting a dog, GO GREYHOUND. They are calm, well-behaved, housebroken, and loving. And it's a good thing to do, saving one of these lovely beasts.

Yesterday, I received my determination from the VA...and I got 50% disability!! It's for my back, my hips, and my right knee...but I had no idea I'd get that much. It translates to about $700 a month, free healthcare, and preferential treatment with government jobs. For the rest of my life. Which means I'll essentially never have a car payment (with insurance) ever again. I'm hoping it will help me out with Law School admissions, but I don't know if: a) they work that way, or b) I'd use it to my advantage. It's not like I'm in a wheelchair or anything.

OK, back to the toilet...lovely, just lovely.

Well, instead of using that money to invest in real estate, I decided to spend it on the house I live in, so that when I sell it, I can invest the profit in a law degree. I take the LSAT in June, and it will determine my whole future.

No pressure or anything.

If I don't do well enough to compete for scholarships, I'll have to rethink the whole idea. I did some research and found a study that conducted a cost/benefit analysis on going back to school for law, and after you pay back your loans, the lifetime difference in your income--not your total income, just the difference from what you made before adding that nice little "Esq." behind your name--is over $750K. So worst case scenario, I do well enough to get into a Tier 1 or Tier 2 school and borrow it all, I still come out WAY ahead. As for what kind of law? I'm keeping an open mind--I like real estate, maybe intelligence law, but I can see getting into international trade law or intellectual property. I'm not looking to "declare a major" in my first year.

After spending a year in Iraq, I don't think law school will kill me. I'm aiming for University of Arizona--you know, where Sandra Day O'Connor went--but I have to admit I really like the idea of going back to UGA, then settling back in the South. The possibilities are limitless. I do NOT relish the idea of living in poverty again--I'll likely have to sell the car and the Harley, get some cheap pickup truck like I drove as an undergrad. Move into a small house with a garage, where I'd store all the furniture I wouldn't have room for. It didn't kill me the first time, and back then I didn't have the reasonable expectation of a high-paying job at the end of the road.

It might be kind of liberating in the way that enlisting in the Army was--shave everything down to bare essentials, focus on developing a knowledge base, get down to the meat of it for three years. I don't want to teach at the intel school forever--looking twenty years out, I want to be a wealthy older lady looking forward to a comfortable retirement, someplace away from the desert.

Atoning for my Wickedness

Damn, I promise to be better about posting, and look what happens. Sorry, Xine!! I’ll do twenty pushups to atone for my wickedness.

Last Saturday, I drove the new ride up to Tucson to meet R, someone I met online. Yes, I said online. Here’s my thinking: the pickins in Sierra Vista are slim to begin with, and the few available men around here are, for the most part, transients. Here for training, gone within six months, if that. So Tucson is a better option, and where would I meet men there? You just don’t tend to meet quality people in bars. So I went online. And possibly, struck gold.

It’s too early to tell, but we met for lunch at about 1pm, and didn’t leave until after 4pm. I bet the wait staff was pissed—they were setting up for dinner when we finally unassed the table. I worked in that business long enough to know what they were saying in the back...get a room already! They’ve been there for three hours!! I knew it was impolite, but he’s really easy to talk to, and time kind of flew. I was careful not to look at my watch, so when I got into the car and the CD player said 4:00, I couldn’t believe it. I was supposed to be home in Sierra Vista by four to pick up a foster Greyhound named Ranetta, straight off of the track in Tucson.

Funny thing is, I asked him if I’d see him again, and he stated that he wasn’t sure about a huge romantic relationship, picket fence, minivan, 2.5 kids, the whole deal. I had to kind of laugh—I was just asking if he was interested, not if he’d marry me! Does everyone think that women are that needy? I do have a life, for chrissakes. But he is interested, and so may come down here this weekend, if he can get a day off—he’s a realtor, they never get days off. He also said that he wasn’t engaged in a full-court press to get into my britches, and all I could think was, WHY the hell NOT?? He was most likely trying to be a gentleman and doesn’t yet understand that I’m no lady.

So this dog, the recently retired racer, Ranetta—had never been in a house, never had something soft to sleep on, never got to eat a meal without a fight with other dogs, never had a human pay her much attention. And as a result, is the sweetest dog imaginable. It was pretty gratifying to watch her cruise around the house and yard, unsure what she was supposed to do with herself, slipping on the tile floor, eating so fast she choked on it. She follows me around the house even more than Moonpie does. I come home in the afternoon, and she’s there with these worshipful eyes…I’ve never had my own human before!! Breaks my heart. After we get her adopted out (she already has a home lined up), I’ll foster another one—I’m not sure I want to commit to another big dog, but having one as a houseguest is great company for Moonpie.

I’m about to get into real estate investing, using the money from the house in NY. You can’t lose out here—the Army base keeps expanding, it was called the #1 place in America to retire, and property values steadily increase here. More on that as it develops…

Slapped!!

America, I’ve been slapped.

That’s right, slapped. As in, a physical affront to the face involving some manner of unpleasant contact.

See, what had happened was, I was almost asleep in my fluffy, suede-duvet-covered bed, when I felt Claire, the long-haired cat, hop onto the bed right in front of my face. She purred and I ignored her, as I really was almost asleep, so she did what she normally does, which is to jump over my head so she could settle in against my back.

And that’s when it happened. Her tail hit my face and I felt (and smelled) something unspeakable. I yelped and turned on the light (good thing flyboy wasn’t there) to reveal innocent little Claire, peering up at me, with a fresh, three-inch turd tangled in the hair at the end of her tail.

Slapped with a turd. How much more undignified does it get than that?

The Month in Pictures

Yes, I fully admit, I've been a bad, bad girl. I mustn't neglect The Sandbox this way. So here's what has kept me so busy...

The House.

Den Before #1

Den Before #2
Can you see why that dizzy broad who owned this place before me had a tough time selling it? And why I got it for about $50K less than the original asking price? Nice couch, doncha think?

Den After #1
And here, friends and neighbors, is what I saw in it, the reason I stuck it out and bought it even though it needs a new roof. I painted it a dark gold.

Den After #2
What? Who's this?

This, gentle readers, is Moonpie. He's a 6-year-old retired racing Greyhound. He was picked up out in Bisbee, near blind from Pannus (a rather nasty condition I have to treat with eyedrops the rest of his life), love-starved, even skinnier than a Greyhound should be, and his eyes were so painful you couldn't touch his face. He even bit the Border Patrol vet who first looked at him. Now he's a wonderful pet, the best dog ever. I relented and gave him the couch after watching through the dining room window one day as he said goodbye to me at the door, made sure I was gone, and then climbed right up. He is just lovely.

I also decided to sell my house in New York, as it has become apparent that hanging on to it will forever act as a burden. I've spent over $15K on renovations and I'm not willing to rent it out for just enough to break even after paying the landlords their monthly snow-blowing and lawn-mowing fee. I had it appraised, expecting about $85-90K, and was ecstatic when the appraisal came in at $115K. After paying the realtor and the mortgage, I'll recoup all I've spent on it, plus about $25K pure capital gains. Not bad for two years of fixing up the old grey mare. There's my new roof, and I'll put the rest into big improvements to this house--not a bad investment either, seeing as how the house down the street just sold for $350K, fully twice what I paid for this one. I figure, if I fix this one up the way I did the last one, not only will I have a fabulous house to live in, I'll also make it all back (and then some) in the long run.

And what did I do after getting that good news, besides to tell the realtor to list it NOW, was to find The Perfect Car. I mean, it's like Providence smiled at me on the Net, which is where I found my gorgeous (almost) new 2005 Nissan Altima SE-R, the Special Edition package, with ALL the fixins: Bose stereo system, all black and grey leather on the inside, smoke grey exterior, power sunroof, just a pimp-mobile all the way. You'd think it was a forty thousand dollar car, to see it. I'll post some pics of it in the next few days, if I can stop driving it long enough to take some photos.

See, What Had Happened Was...

I think I’ll rename this blog Memoirs of the Whore of Babylon.

William’s long gone, although he did call to tell me one of his best friends, another Border Patrol Agent in New Mexico, had died. My immediate response was pure skepticism, but he seemed to get a bit emotional while he told me about it, how they found her body in her home and no one knew the cause of death, that she was only 34 and her weapon was within arm’s reach, etc. He’s either missing out on a very successful acting career, or I feel like a monumental jackass for sending him a text message reading, Did you move already? What’s with the hit and run??

So he went to visit his family in South America and clearly thinks that if he isn’t in town, there’s no reason to call. Not that I’d want him to call me from South America, but Tucson?? Me personally, I think nothing of flipping the cell phone open and calling people on it from wherever, that’s why I pay for it.

So then he wound up that conversation with, “I’ll call you in about two weeks.” I told him not to bother, not unkindly, just meaning I release you from any and all real or perceived obligations without malice. Fly and be free, friend.

So that very night I climbed into 3” black leather pointy-toed stilettos and enjoyed a rather raucous girls’ night out with Shannon and Bobbie, complete with tequila shots and lengthy evaluations of the ass quotient in the bar, a dim little dive next to a racquet club. I had resigned myself to having loud fun with my girls, telling stories about Iraq and about common acquaintances, when I glanced up to see two unbelievably attractive men walk in, alone. I say unbelievably attractive because they had that sexy quiet confidence of older men, at least mid-thirties, well-dressed—in short, adults. We have so few here. The table perked up right quicklike.

Bobbie and I planned our friendly course of action, and after I turned back after a quick word with Shannon, dressed to kill and wearing dark sunglasses, in the bar at night, like an incognito starlet (and quite frankly, looking the part), and Bobbie had crossed the room to the mens’ table and sat down. I went and sat next to her after introductions all around and a nice firm handshake from each specimen.

I sat next to Greg, Bobbie next to Matt. Matt, I discerned, reminded me a great deal of a pilot I’d known in Texas, fully cognizant of their appeal and never forgetting it, not for one second. Way too cocky for my taste. Greg, however, was (is) a different story.

He’s a CW3 (getting ready to pin 4), a pilot, here for training, divorced, and 36. And I, like every other red-blooded American woman, have *A Thing* for men in flight suits. There is nothing a man can wear that is sexier than a flight suit…unless you’re Dubyah, and then nothing you do in a flightsuit or anything else is even remotely sexy.

So now it’s three days later and he’s on his way over, having called and asked me if I wanted some company. He can’t stay late, since tomorrow he has to get up early so that he can fly an Army plane to Las Vegas for lunch, and then he’s coming back. I am in the wrong business. And he leaves in about three weeks, back to Georgia. Of course! Rat bastard, I’ll make him fly an Army plane all the way back out here, the punkass.

William who?

Slim Pickins--The Dating Scene at 35

Several nights ago, I sautéed some chicken, garlic, black beans, and mushrooms. Together with the piles of cilantro and fresh, local-made tortillas, I had all the makings of a killer burrito. I also had two discs of Nip/Tuck’s first season, so I settled in for good food and twisted drama.

My cell rang—it was William, the Border Patrol agent I’ve been seeing off and on. Mostly off—he’s confounding, this one. Works ridiculous hours in places where his cellphone doesn’t work. I keep hearing through the grapevine that he’s strongly interested, then I won’t hear from him for ten days. AND he’s moving to Atlanta in April, lucky bastard. What is it with these people?!? There’s always a dealbreaker hidden in there somewhere.

He called because this was the first night off he’s had lately down here in Sierra Vista—evidently, he works in Tucson so much that he spends most of his time there. He has a bottle of wine and wants to know if I’d like to come over and hang out. Sure, why not?

Shannon called as I was on my way out the door. I told her where I was going, and her immediate response was, “Did you shave your legs??”

“Um, no. You think I should?”

“Kristen. He’s inviting you over and he has wine. Yeah, he wants some ass. You better just check your situation and go shave your legs.”

I knew she was right. I scurried back to the tub and gave the gams a quick scraping.

William’s house was, for the most part, typical for a single guy—not fully decorated, cluttered (but not dirty), plain. Except, he has spent his disposable income on art. I couldn’t believe it. And it was mostly art I liked. I was impressed.

We went to the video store for a movie—American Splendor, which is great. At the rental counter, the clerk loudly stated that he had a late-fee for some movie whose title escapes me. I stood about six feet away checking out a movie poster, and imitated the clerk’s voice, loudly announcing, “You have a late fee for all that Mexican donkey porn you rented?”

The three other people in the store cracked up and William stopped writing the check to stare at me in disbelief. He didn’t stop laughing until we were back in the car.

Long story short,  I did end up staying the night—hey, the girl’s got needs, too—and I could tell it had been awhile for him. Very aggressive…not that it’s a bad thing. No, not atall.

I left early in the morning and haven’t heard a word since. I’m having a party tonight and I’m not even sure he’s in town. But you know, I’ve reached some conclusions when it comes to Me and Men: despite the often-disappointing dealings with those people, I still take chances and remain as picky as ever. No settling. I may never marry, and I’m okay with that…there’s not much I can do about it, being picky as I am. I’ll just keep taking chances. I even called William myself the first time, figuring I’ve been hit by an IED and gone head-to-head with Infantry Colonels, what’s the worst that could happen?

What I Did for New Year's, A Lugubrious Flashback

Will went to Las Cruces, NM, a trip out to see friends and family that he'd been planning for months. Shannon couldn't find a babysitter. So I joined Gus (biker dude) and Danielle (his wonderful girlfriend) at the Sorry Gulch Saloon. Yes, the one from which I was so unceremoniously ejected last time I went, the biker bar. And so I now have a new Rule: Never Go to the Sorry Gulch Whenever There is a "Band."

They were called Head First, and I knew just from watching them set up that they would suck. I was ready for them to bust into "Sister Christian" from first sight--long, stringy blond hair, rock and roll t-shirts, and a singer who kept switching hats, like this was an awards ceremony and he wanted coverage in People. They kept getting the words wrong. There was intense feedback whenever the Night Ranger-looking guy approached the mike. They played songs the singer didn't know, and so he would lapse into "Ahhlaahlaah, singin'somethinaaahllaaalaaaahhh."

He sounded afflicted. Like someone out of a Diane Arbus photo. And I was hit with the strongest sense of deja' vu I've felt in years. And then I understood--they were exactly the same band as No Comment, the hair band I would sneak out to see with the other high school girls. Well, different guys, but same exact sound and dynamic that so intimidated me in 1986 at a sleazy dive called Ben's and Todd's.

It was out on the Lafayette County line (Mississippi), and there was a cage around the band to catch the beer bottles. It being the 80's, they all sported undersized Spandex tights in neon colors. Bandanas around their heads. Torn up shirts. And I would sit there, all of fifteen years old, terrified someone would talk to me and figure out just HOW underaged I was. Same big-haired, heavy on the makeup crowd as what stood before me in the first moments of 2006, a full twenty years later. Except now, Danielle and I are making fun of this band and some of the white-trashy people up there shakin' it. Or trying to. Good Lord, deliver me from the mullet once and for all.

The other development in my life (besides this Will guy, who works so much I don't think he has time for a girlfriend), is that I nearly had a full-blown breakdown four days ago when I unpacked my scale and climbed on. I swear I almost fainted. So I literally stepped off the scale, changed into workout clothes, and joined a damn good gym. And I'm going religiously, working out like a woman on fire. And rejoining Weight Watchers--that's how bad it was, stepping on that scale. I'm taking steps, though, I will have at least a sizable portion of it off before shorts weather...oh wait, it's 75 degrees here every day, it's already shorts weather. Well, when shorts are unavoidable.

What I Did for Christmas Vacation

I awoke early on Friday, the first day of a 4-day weekend, and continued slogging through the mountain of boxes in my soon-to-be studio and home gym. I'm about half done now and can't unpack all those books until I paint the office in one of the lovely shades of terra-cotta I've picked out...imagine dragging them all back down off the shelves to paint. No thankie.

So, my buddy Shannon called at about 9:30. Through the bull-dyke who sold Shannon a male chocolate lab whose balls never dropped, and was therefore sterile and cheaper than his studly littermates, she met a Border Patrol Agent, name of Dave. She was on her way to meet him at Popeye's (huh?) and then go check out their hangar/place of business. They fly those wee helicopters, the little fast ones that can herd sheep and chase down people on foot. Good stuff.

"Listen for the helicopter. Then stand out in your yard and wave."

"Um, what was that?" It just sounded like crazytalk. But half an hour later, I heard it, the mosquito-like buzz of an inbound chopper. I had to walk down to the end of my driveway to clear the big mesquite out front and scanned the sky. It appeared low over the trees, green and white, and circled my house as I waved. I distinctly saw Shannon's lime-green jacket in the tiny window, they flew so low.

"That's unacceptable," I later found out the pilot said. "She should've flashed us."

Then Shannon came over the next morning, Christmas Eve, and as I dished up two blueberry-raspberry pancakes I'd made from scratch, no mix, she invited me out to the airfield. The pilots said I could take a ride in the little bird.

So no shit, there I am, Christmas Eve, running crazy through the Arizona landscape in a little helicopter. It's 80 degrees and just a fine day, and the pilot was a really cool guy named Mike. I was KICKING myself for not bringing my camera.

He showed me the little grove of scrubby trees where would-be immigrants from Mexico crouch to wait for their ride by the highway that leads to Tucson and points beyond. You could see everything in their little hollow--blankets, clothing, garbage, empty water jugs, loose plastic. Mostly garbage. I thought about how foolish it must look from up there when someone actually tries to hide from this thing--he landed it on top of a shipping container on some guy's farm to show me how maneuverable it is.

Mike showed me how after they get picked up, they are taken to another spot on the other side of the highway, where they are usually beaten and robbed of all their possessions. They usually just sit in this clearing, also clotted with garbage and clothing, and don't protest when the Border Patrol takes them back to Mexico. He showed me where they found a Winnebago out in a field with over 3700 pounds of pot in it, and how the dozen or so occupants of said Winnebago scattered like roaches in the kitchen light when the helicopter damn near landed on the roof. He told me about their night operations, catching dozens of people at a time, walking silently with water jugs through the desert.

Then another pilot contacted Mike, some guy named Dennis, on his way to their hangar. Mike told me over the push-to-talk that this guy was an ass-hole. So we stayed out there in the desert for an extra 15 minutes so Mike could avoid Dennis. All told, about 45 minutes up there seeing how they operate, listening to the stories. It reminds me a LOT of the Army.

Christmas--rode my bike (the Harley) to Shannon's in the morning, and greatly humiliated myself in the parking lot of the big, new Gas City. I rode to the pump, confidently sporting my new riding jacket (gorgeous black leather, plain, not like other leather with all the zippers and Michael Jackson-looking shit), put down the kickstand, went to get off the bike, and directly laid it down on the pavement. All 550 pounds. The kickstand wasn't locked out when I tried to dismount.

"Hey, can you help me for a second?" I asked the young guy pumping gas next to me. "I don't think it's damaged, it's just too heavy to pick up by myself." Unfortunately, it was. I tried like hell to pick it up, minimize this embarrassment. He helped me hoist it back up, and fortunately, not a scratch. No way to recover all those coolpoints once they've so irrevocably been snatched away in this manner.

Later that night, Shannon, her kids, my friend Ben, Dave (the Border Patrol Agent), and Dave's friend Will. Also a Border Patrol Agent. His family's Colombian, he's from Atlanta, he's about my age, and never married. And very intelligent, with adorable blue eyes.

I'm such a sucker for baby-blues. More to follow, with any luck...

Beer and Paint Don't Mix

I've painted two large rooms so far, and the kitchen is next. I went for a gorgeous terra cotta and I'm sticking with variations on that palette all through the house. It looks amazing.

However, the master bedroom got done with a Mike's Cranberry Lemonade in my hand--several of them throughout the day. So not really beer, but same alcohol content, better tasting. As I was finishing up by the second closet, disaster struck. I dropped the handheld paint dish right onto the floor--stain about the size of a dinner plate, and terra cotta on light beige carpet presents a cleanup challenge worthy of a master.

Cursing and patting all the extra paint out, I set the dish on the ladder next to me. Then promptly bumped into it and sent the remaining paint back to the floor, different spot. CRAP! I spent the next hour soaking, soaping, and mopping the carpet with paper towels--I bet I used two rolls. I set my Mike's Cranberry Lemonade next to the ladder for the last push. I moved the ladder for the next bit of trim to paint around, thereby knocking the bright red concoction right onto the floor near the original paint stain. Oh, for the love of God, I give up.

The good news is, I managed to eradicate all the stains over the course of several days. And the one I didn't bother with, the big one near the far wall that resulted from the power paint roller's hose disconnecting and pumping paint all over the floor, will be covered by my bed when it finally arrives Tuesday.

I don't like this damn carpet anyway.

Nyce!!

I stopped somewhere between El Paso and the Arizona state line for gas, an event that repeated itself about every two hours, twenty more gallons sacrificed for sake of a fully loaded, rather large trailer in 60 MPH headwinds in the mountains. Slow, painful going, and I didn’t mind pulling over so frequently.

After filling up, I made a beeline for the restroom, having emptied both a venti latte and large bottled water during the early afternoon. I closed the stall door, and sat to read the perfunctory graffiti: For a good time call Brandy M. she’ll screw anything. That type pearl of wisdom. I had contracted a touch of Montezuma’s Revenge somewhere between the three Thanksgiving dinners I ate and four days of road food. I tried to keep it to myself, polite and quiet, and suppressed a giggle when the occupant three stalls down let loose with a blast of explosive rectal discharge. Nothing to be shy about here.

Then I watched a pair of ostentatiously trendy brown leather shoes skirted by boot cut jeans step into the stall beside me. I flush every few moments when confronted with an inevitable Class 2 Download in a public restroom, hoping to spare fellow restroomers the stench. I flushed and watched the shoes turn around to lock the stall door. And here’s where it got odd—the shoes then turned back around. As in, pointed toward the toilet. As in, never sat down.

I stared, mystified, at the shoes as a distinct stream of urine hit the bowl. Now I was in a hurry and struggled to finish up business before this person went unidentified. No such luck. The Shoes zipped up and quickly exited, not stopping to wash hands.

I walked out into the convenience store (after washing my hands, I'll have you know), looking at everyone’s shoes. I found them, attached to a very tall but decidedly feminine-appearing foreign tourist, late teens, long blond hair and slight build. I watched the group of them, wondering if any of the others knew that Shoes likely wasn’t sporting the equipment that went with her/his appearance.

Was he pre-op transsexual? A sharply skilled drag queen? Or, weirder yet, a girl who pees standing up??

I exited with the questions still buzzing in my head and found two other adolescent, foreign tourists, standing by my truck, tapping the camper-top window and cooing at my kitties. These two were overtly male. Or were they??

“Nice cats,” one said. The accent sounded Polish. “So you’re from nye?”

“Nye?” I asked.

He waved the cigarette he should not be smoking so close to the pumps, gesturing at my license plate. “Sure, New York.”

“Oh. Um, yes, I drove here from New York. I’ve just never heard it called ‘Nye.’” N.Y., pronounced together. Hm.

“Well, that’s what all the people in the know call it. The ones who are hip.”

“Hm. Well, I lived there and never heard it. Guess I’m not hip!” I laughed, trying to be friendly despite this ludicrous assertion. “So lemme ask you, do you then call New York City, Nyce??” NYC=nyce.

“Of course!” His tone suggested the patient schooling of a toddler. “What else would you call it??”

Home Sweet Bare Home

I have a whole slew of entries to input—forgive me for the lag, but I did move across the country with a large U-Haul trailer and two cats, plus managed to stop in Mississippi and Tennessee for Thanksgiving.

*Whew* I’m here. The gas just got turned on in my new house today, and with it, the hot water and heat…why do you need that? You may ask, since I moved to southern Arizona, after all. Well, we’re having a rare cold snap, below freezing every night. Plus, I attempted a cold shower. It was brief, it was more pain than my now-soft civilian ass cares to endure, and afterward, I huddled by the fire wrapped in a towel for a full thirty minutes.

But I’m here. I started work yesterday. I love the job already. I’m in the house waiting for my furniture. I already painted the master bedroom a gorgeous terra-cotta from the odd lavender with army-green trim slopped on by the previous owner. I have the “before” pictures, and I’ll post them alongside the “after” pictures once the furniture is set up. I’ll post each room as I complete it. And the backyard—it needs quite a bit of love and attention. The septic people were kind enough to dig up the spot I’d already picked out for a spring garden, and I’m planting bulbs now. I’m trying to knock out as much painting as I can before the furniture crowds the effort.

More to follow, a fair number of posts composed in my head while on the road and here dealing with all the little new-house calamities…