I’ve been waiting for my camera to boomerang back to me, having left it in my friend’s Saab in San Francisco, before I wrote about the trip. It bears adding photos, no doubt about that.
It was lovely. It felt like November, cool and damp and dark. But with the Bay Area’s ten thousand little microclimates, we spent equal time in glorious sun-drenched spaces, like the little restaurant in Tiburon on the water with the skyline and Golden Gate Bridge spread out before us while we ate Crabcakes Benedict and sipped Mimosas.
We met Luci’s old friend Marlow, a gay Asian nurse who rides a spankin’ BMW 5200. I’d known Marlow in New Orleans, and I think she’s lovely—she has this childlike enthusiasm and capacity for delight that all these years and thyroid cancer (she’s still in treatment) haven’t diminished. Other adventures: Napa Valley and Mondavi Vineyards, Chinatown, where I spent more than I had a right to with a house under construction, Stinton Beach, hour-long massages in San Rafael, the Ghiradelli factory…food, food, and more food. Hell, it’s vacation, that’s what it’s for. And we walked for miles, compensating for some of it. I’m back in the gym this week and the couple of pounds I managed to bring home have already gone away again.
And here’s an odd thing: while we wandered around Chinatown spending like tourists, the gauntlet was thrown down in a little bar and we started in on tequila shots. They normally waste me in no time flat, which is why they are for special occasions only. My 36th birthday, in this case, in Chinatown, with friends who promised not only to care for me, but suspend judgment if I wanted to get silly. I took three huge shots—the last one was served in a highball glass in a bar where I was surrounded by lecherous older men. It took me three passes to drink it all—it was more like two shots. And I felt NOTHING. A little giggly, maybe, but a long way from buzzy. And we’re talking Patron, not cheap shit. Maybe the cheap shit has more alcohol. But I gave up after that last one—why bother with shots if they aren’t working, for chrissakes??
I love the way northern California looks—the fog, mountains, the ocean, ethereal architecture. Too much of a commute to get from place to place and NOT a good area to ride a motorcycle, but a very cool corner of the Earth regardless.
Oh, the Reserves thing—I knew there had to be a catch. They would permanently take away the disability I get from the Veterans’ Administration. Screw that. OH, and I’d deploy for six months out of every eighteen. Double screw that. It’s one thing to sit here all comfy in Arizona thinking a deployment might not be so bad, but I know all too well that even in the best of circumstances—a good boss, a great mission, cool co-workers—I’d hate being deployed again. I understand that my center of gravity is my home—the pets, cooking, nesting. And that was what I missed the most while deployed—my home, the house itself, the total sanctuary of it. The nesting instinct became much more pronounced when I became a homeowner and it’s not likely to diminish as I get older.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
I Must Be Nuts
“Would you be interested in a Reserve MI slot as the S2 in a CA BAT?/ I can get you a 10 thousand dollar bonus.
-CPT A”
This message landed in my inbox this morning. CA=Civil Affairs, a component of Special Forces. And the crazy thing? I’m seriously considering it. A Civil Affairs Battalion would not have responsibility for the security of their Area of Responsibility, which makes a HUGE difference in what a deployment would look like. And Special Forces? Completely different animal from a light infantry brigade.
So I have some questions out to the guy who sent this to me—what does the unit’s deployment schedule look like, what educational benefits could I qualify for, what happens to my disability rating, etc. I understand it would mean deploying again—but as I said, completely different animal from conventional Army stuff. And the clincher—as a Captain with over 8 years in, I would make almost double what I make now if I deployed. Plus the $10K bonus. What about law school, you may rightly ask. I could still do law school…and if I deployed during school, I would pick up where I left off on returning. With at least $50K in savings to apply toward tuition and living expenses.
The next clincher—I could not be deployed more than one year in any five-year period. So if I did deploy, I wouldn’t have that threat of another deployment, and could join this animal called IMA—Individual Mobilization Augmentation. Which means for two weeks each year (or more, if I wanted), I could call my branch manager and choose whatever cool assignment I wanted—counter-drug in South America, diplomatic observation in the Balkans, that type thing. On my terms. Oh, and then there’s retirement pay if I stayed in twelve years.
But the experience is what is tempting me—Civil Affairs’ mission is out among the population, working with local authorities on stuff like getting clean water to them, infrastructure, etc. Basically, it’s working friendly with the locals, trying to improve relations and living conditions for them. Not shooting at them. Plus, most CA soldiers were active duty Special Forces types—which means that a great deal of the bullshit in the regular Army, the crap that runs counter to common sense, gets bypassed. And it may not be Iraq—CA does stuff all over the world.
So then the big question becomes, who would take care of Moonpie? That one, I’d have to study on, figure something out.
-CPT A”
This message landed in my inbox this morning. CA=Civil Affairs, a component of Special Forces. And the crazy thing? I’m seriously considering it. A Civil Affairs Battalion would not have responsibility for the security of their Area of Responsibility, which makes a HUGE difference in what a deployment would look like. And Special Forces? Completely different animal from a light infantry brigade.
So I have some questions out to the guy who sent this to me—what does the unit’s deployment schedule look like, what educational benefits could I qualify for, what happens to my disability rating, etc. I understand it would mean deploying again—but as I said, completely different animal from conventional Army stuff. And the clincher—as a Captain with over 8 years in, I would make almost double what I make now if I deployed. Plus the $10K bonus. What about law school, you may rightly ask. I could still do law school…and if I deployed during school, I would pick up where I left off on returning. With at least $50K in savings to apply toward tuition and living expenses.
The next clincher—I could not be deployed more than one year in any five-year period. So if I did deploy, I wouldn’t have that threat of another deployment, and could join this animal called IMA—Individual Mobilization Augmentation. Which means for two weeks each year (or more, if I wanted), I could call my branch manager and choose whatever cool assignment I wanted—counter-drug in South America, diplomatic observation in the Balkans, that type thing. On my terms. Oh, and then there’s retirement pay if I stayed in twelve years.
But the experience is what is tempting me—Civil Affairs’ mission is out among the population, working with local authorities on stuff like getting clean water to them, infrastructure, etc. Basically, it’s working friendly with the locals, trying to improve relations and living conditions for them. Not shooting at them. Plus, most CA soldiers were active duty Special Forces types—which means that a great deal of the bullshit in the regular Army, the crap that runs counter to common sense, gets bypassed. And it may not be Iraq—CA does stuff all over the world.
So then the big question becomes, who would take care of Moonpie? That one, I’d have to study on, figure something out.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
The Lipstick Trick
I quit going to my usual nail spa after the third time I sat there for half an hour waiting for an appointment for which I arrived five minutes early. They were constantly overbooked, always working a walk-in between appointments and therefore, never ever on time. So then the obvious question becomes, why bother to make an appointment if you’ll get pre-empted by a walk-in every damn time? So I stood up, told the owner that this was the third and final time I’d wait and that I wouldn’t be back, and drove to the mall.
The nail spa there got me right in. The owner herself, an older Vietnamese woman, did my nails. I told her I’d just left Tam’s and she went into a tirade.
“He talk too much. He say he the only one who do Solar nail, everybody do Solar nail. I been in this business twenty year. I buy Solar nail wholesale.” She reached under the counter and produced a rather large jug of the powder. “See? He can’t get it wholesale. He come to me three year ago and asked for job, I said no, now he talk too much.” This went on for a good twenty minutes—the length of time it took her to finish my nails, about half what it took at Tam’s. And they looked fabulous.
If someone had told me a year ago that I would be a regular at a nail salon to the point where I had insight into the rifts in the local Vietnamese population, I never would have believed it. But at the end of it, the woman stood up and asked me, “What your name, young lady?” We shook hands and I told her I would come back and I only wanted her to do my nails, knowing it would please her. She was already pleased she’d stolen a customer away from Tam’s…I bet I’ll get right in and out of there with fabulous nails every time now.
So later that night (Friday), I drove out to my now-customary poker game. There are usually between forty and sixty players squeezed onto the tables, some in the host’s garage, some out on the patio. I always choose the patio—nice out there if you remember the bug spray. It was a gorgeous night—the mountains turning purple with the sunset, cool breeze. And I couldn’t help but notice a rather beautiful young man as he sat across from me.
I couldn’t keep my eyes off him, despite the indicators of youth that worked somewhat against him. He wore a black t-shirt which read, “101 WAYS TO TELL SOMEONE THEY’RE A STUPID MOTHERFUCKER!!” And it listed them out…fell out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down, you know the drill. Horrible shirt that no one past the age of about thirty would wear. And a ball cap that had that Playboy silhouette you see on the mudflaps of big rigs, the seated big-boobed woman, you know the one. It said something about single moms and I already stared at him more than I should, so I never could read it properly.
Boytoy. That’s all I could think, watching his muscular chest beneath that horrid shirt. We watched each other—it was so much fun to play poker and flirt with this hottie under the radar. Rob, an old friend, sat to my immediate right and talked to me the entire time—Rob’s a great guy, hilarious, married but constantly pressing the EO limits by making comments about my appearance. He calls a “hottie alert” whenever I go to his office, in a different building from mine. That type thing.
So I have the Lecher on one side teaching me poker tricks and this beautiful boy across the table. He introduced himself immediately and held my attention by commenting on my game—damn you’ve got a great poker face, etc. Teasing me and locking his hands behind his head in order to flex his sculpted arms at me.
It was intoxicating. I couldn’t stop looking at his chest—this guy looked like something out of Men’s Fitness. He even had a cleft chin and blue eyes. I laughed at myself—I knew I was behaving just like a guy and I didn’t care.
And I played it—he flexed his chest and arms, and I played the Lipstick Trick. See, if you apply lipstick the right way and catch a man’s eye in the process, all nonchalant and accidental-like, it works like a charm. I don’t know what it is about that gesture, but every man I’ve tried it on has behaved as if I suddenly grew three cup sizes in a bikini. This guy looked like he’d been slapped.
How did I learn this trick? I applied lipstick in a bar one night with Shannon’s friend Harris in attendance, and he went nuts and let me in on the secret—you do that and catch a man’s eye, it’s the sexiest gesture in the arsenal. I’ve thanked him at least ten times since.
In this case, Boytoy played out long before I did, and hovered around the tables waiting to see if I’d play out soon…and I considered it, going all-in on a crap hand so I could stand up and see if he’d approach me on the way to my car. He prowled around, staring at me and my chips, for about half and hour, then gave up and left in a very loud little old sportscar. See, nothing in common. But I’m looking for him next time—smart, easy to talk to, and friendly, who looks like that? Who cares if he’s ten years younger??
I’ll be in California next Friday, going to San Francisco to visit my old friend Luci. So I’ll miss him this week—but I’ll go every Friday night I can. If for nothing else, to enjoy the cross-table tension and watch his big chest flex under whatever bad t-shirt he wears next time. I’m already one of the only females there, I may as well behave like a guy while I’m at it. Behave like a guy but look like a girl, with pretty nails and lipstick and heels. Oh yes.
The nail spa there got me right in. The owner herself, an older Vietnamese woman, did my nails. I told her I’d just left Tam’s and she went into a tirade.
“He talk too much. He say he the only one who do Solar nail, everybody do Solar nail. I been in this business twenty year. I buy Solar nail wholesale.” She reached under the counter and produced a rather large jug of the powder. “See? He can’t get it wholesale. He come to me three year ago and asked for job, I said no, now he talk too much.” This went on for a good twenty minutes—the length of time it took her to finish my nails, about half what it took at Tam’s. And they looked fabulous.
If someone had told me a year ago that I would be a regular at a nail salon to the point where I had insight into the rifts in the local Vietnamese population, I never would have believed it. But at the end of it, the woman stood up and asked me, “What your name, young lady?” We shook hands and I told her I would come back and I only wanted her to do my nails, knowing it would please her. She was already pleased she’d stolen a customer away from Tam’s…I bet I’ll get right in and out of there with fabulous nails every time now.
So later that night (Friday), I drove out to my now-customary poker game. There are usually between forty and sixty players squeezed onto the tables, some in the host’s garage, some out on the patio. I always choose the patio—nice out there if you remember the bug spray. It was a gorgeous night—the mountains turning purple with the sunset, cool breeze. And I couldn’t help but notice a rather beautiful young man as he sat across from me.
I couldn’t keep my eyes off him, despite the indicators of youth that worked somewhat against him. He wore a black t-shirt which read, “101 WAYS TO TELL SOMEONE THEY’RE A STUPID MOTHERFUCKER!!” And it listed them out…fell out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down, you know the drill. Horrible shirt that no one past the age of about thirty would wear. And a ball cap that had that Playboy silhouette you see on the mudflaps of big rigs, the seated big-boobed woman, you know the one. It said something about single moms and I already stared at him more than I should, so I never could read it properly.
Boytoy. That’s all I could think, watching his muscular chest beneath that horrid shirt. We watched each other—it was so much fun to play poker and flirt with this hottie under the radar. Rob, an old friend, sat to my immediate right and talked to me the entire time—Rob’s a great guy, hilarious, married but constantly pressing the EO limits by making comments about my appearance. He calls a “hottie alert” whenever I go to his office, in a different building from mine. That type thing.
So I have the Lecher on one side teaching me poker tricks and this beautiful boy across the table. He introduced himself immediately and held my attention by commenting on my game—damn you’ve got a great poker face, etc. Teasing me and locking his hands behind his head in order to flex his sculpted arms at me.
It was intoxicating. I couldn’t stop looking at his chest—this guy looked like something out of Men’s Fitness. He even had a cleft chin and blue eyes. I laughed at myself—I knew I was behaving just like a guy and I didn’t care.
And I played it—he flexed his chest and arms, and I played the Lipstick Trick. See, if you apply lipstick the right way and catch a man’s eye in the process, all nonchalant and accidental-like, it works like a charm. I don’t know what it is about that gesture, but every man I’ve tried it on has behaved as if I suddenly grew three cup sizes in a bikini. This guy looked like he’d been slapped.
How did I learn this trick? I applied lipstick in a bar one night with Shannon’s friend Harris in attendance, and he went nuts and let me in on the secret—you do that and catch a man’s eye, it’s the sexiest gesture in the arsenal. I’ve thanked him at least ten times since.
In this case, Boytoy played out long before I did, and hovered around the tables waiting to see if I’d play out soon…and I considered it, going all-in on a crap hand so I could stand up and see if he’d approach me on the way to my car. He prowled around, staring at me and my chips, for about half and hour, then gave up and left in a very loud little old sportscar. See, nothing in common. But I’m looking for him next time—smart, easy to talk to, and friendly, who looks like that? Who cares if he’s ten years younger??
I’ll be in California next Friday, going to San Francisco to visit my old friend Luci. So I’ll miss him this week—but I’ll go every Friday night I can. If for nothing else, to enjoy the cross-table tension and watch his big chest flex under whatever bad t-shirt he wears next time. I’m already one of the only females there, I may as well behave like a guy while I’m at it. Behave like a guy but look like a girl, with pretty nails and lipstick and heels. Oh yes.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Prodigal Daughter
My lovely grandmother (on the Bramlett side) passed. I didn't have time to drive all the way back, so I flew into Nashville. My boss wasn't happy--we're in the middle of a class--and logistically, it'll be messy coordinating the next Oxford/Arizona trip. But no arguing, Mamere died suddenly and peacefully as anyone could wish, and I needed to get home quickly.
I rented a car in Nashville—I’d reserved a compact and they’d run out, so I got a free upgraded to Luxury, which meant a funeral-black Lincoln Towncar. I thought the drive would be about three hours, which would put me there just in time to change out of the sweaty jeans and get to the funeral home for visitation. Four hours later (did I mention it’s been ages since I drove this route?) I pulled into the parking lot of a Zaxby’s Chicken, dug through my luggage, and changed into a skirt in the bathroom.
The visitation was set for 5-7 pm. When I pulled in at about ten after five, the greeting line was out the door and fully wrapped around the building. Grandmother was an Oxford icon, and the directors had to turn people away. I knew exactly four of the hundreds of well-wishers—my high-school guidance counselor (a great lady), my former boss in the Engineering School (another great lady), and representatives from our Batesville side of the family. Okay, so maybe it was about ten people. For not having lived there until recently for fourteen years, I guess that’s about right.
I discovered during the course of all this that my dad hadn’t been told yet—people were sick, there was so much activity surrounding the arrangements—so I made plans with my Uncle Stephen, Oxford’s Chief of Police, to ride out to the VA home the next morning and go tell him, make sure he would be up and ready to go for the funeral.
We didn’t call in advance, we just went out there. We wandered around a few minutes looking for his room, finally asked around, and found D-wing. There were men in wheelchairs everywhere you looked—catatonic or chronically disinterested in it all, needing help with basic functions—and I told myself that Dad wasn’t in that kind of shape, that we’d find him in the rec room playing cards or chess or something. His roommate was parked in front of their door as if on guard, his days in the military having never worn off. We asked him about Dad and he confirmed his housing status, and rolled back enough to let us in.
Dad was asleep, but dressed, no shoes. He sat up, confused, as Stephen told him about Grandmother—his stepmom. They’d been pretty close. Then Dad turned to me and asked, “So what’s your name?” I couldn’t hide the shock—at his evident neglect, at how much he has slid since I last saw him. “It’s Kristen,” I said. “I’m your kid!”
Excuses were made about my hair looking different, and I studied his external condition. I was horrified. His toenails were so long that one had begun to curl. There is no way to walk normally or wear shoes like this. His hair lay flat and dirty, unwashed and unfamiliar with the barber’s shears, not combed over his much-diminished scalp so much as smeared over. He was unshaven and it looked as if he’d missed many spots the last time he’d cranked up the electric. His face sagged and the look of total hopelessness had settled in. He didn’t smile once. Two years in this place had taken their toll. Mind you, Dad was always well-dressed and wouldn’t walk to the mailbox without a good shave. His hair never looked unkempt or uncut.
He remembered I have a dog, asked after him, asked if I’d heard from Jon (I heard through my still-solid local connections that he’s on the Gulf Coast living in a FEMA trailer and working for a non-profit), and looked as if we made him uncomfortable, like he wanted us to leave. He must know how he looks and it likely made him feel worse. He begged off attending the funeral, citing a pervasive nausea due to some medication.
I considered stopping at the nurse’s station and raising hell about his condition. But I don’t know the rules here as far as how much care they’re supposed to take. Is it normal to let an able-bodied patient go unwashed and uncared-for until his toenails extend an inch past his toes?
I think it was then and there that I made my next huge life-decision: I intend to return to Oxford and go to law school at Ole Miss. I'm more than halfway there anyway--I technically live in Oxford (although working in AZ could make things a bit weird).
I could study at a “better” school, more expensive, but I had a feeling this was the right move—I need to be near on a more permanent basis, take Dad out a couple of times a week, get back to my family full-time. I will likely practice there in Oxford when I finish—the female equivalent of the country gentleman lawyer. And as soon as I made the decision, everything began to magically fall into place. I can either rent or buy the lovely house I stayed in three miles from campus—it’s on a gorgeous piece of land, shaded by enormous old trees. Offers were made to speak to admissions officials—my family is deeply entrenched there, and I knew the built-in support system would kick in and take a great deal of the stress away. I will come out of it with very little debt. And Oxford is home, always has been. I won’t even have to live in a crappy little apartment like I’d expected, won’t have to make all the quality of life sacrifices I’d come to associate with school.
I'd been considering Georgia or Arizona, but I think this is the right move. I won't even apply anywhere else.
Maybe Grandmother’s passing at this pivotal moment was part of some link of fate. It felt true, like everything had been leading up to this, and I finally made the commitment to return to the one place on earth where I have some real history, still have some friends, don’t have to do everything by myself. Easy living and a cacophony of cicadas at sunset, fireflies and rain.
I rented a car in Nashville—I’d reserved a compact and they’d run out, so I got a free upgraded to Luxury, which meant a funeral-black Lincoln Towncar. I thought the drive would be about three hours, which would put me there just in time to change out of the sweaty jeans and get to the funeral home for visitation. Four hours later (did I mention it’s been ages since I drove this route?) I pulled into the parking lot of a Zaxby’s Chicken, dug through my luggage, and changed into a skirt in the bathroom.
The visitation was set for 5-7 pm. When I pulled in at about ten after five, the greeting line was out the door and fully wrapped around the building. Grandmother was an Oxford icon, and the directors had to turn people away. I knew exactly four of the hundreds of well-wishers—my high-school guidance counselor (a great lady), my former boss in the Engineering School (another great lady), and representatives from our Batesville side of the family. Okay, so maybe it was about ten people. For not having lived there until recently for fourteen years, I guess that’s about right.
I discovered during the course of all this that my dad hadn’t been told yet—people were sick, there was so much activity surrounding the arrangements—so I made plans with my Uncle Stephen, Oxford’s Chief of Police, to ride out to the VA home the next morning and go tell him, make sure he would be up and ready to go for the funeral.
We didn’t call in advance, we just went out there. We wandered around a few minutes looking for his room, finally asked around, and found D-wing. There were men in wheelchairs everywhere you looked—catatonic or chronically disinterested in it all, needing help with basic functions—and I told myself that Dad wasn’t in that kind of shape, that we’d find him in the rec room playing cards or chess or something. His roommate was parked in front of their door as if on guard, his days in the military having never worn off. We asked him about Dad and he confirmed his housing status, and rolled back enough to let us in.
Dad was asleep, but dressed, no shoes. He sat up, confused, as Stephen told him about Grandmother—his stepmom. They’d been pretty close. Then Dad turned to me and asked, “So what’s your name?” I couldn’t hide the shock—at his evident neglect, at how much he has slid since I last saw him. “It’s Kristen,” I said. “I’m your kid!”
Excuses were made about my hair looking different, and I studied his external condition. I was horrified. His toenails were so long that one had begun to curl. There is no way to walk normally or wear shoes like this. His hair lay flat and dirty, unwashed and unfamiliar with the barber’s shears, not combed over his much-diminished scalp so much as smeared over. He was unshaven and it looked as if he’d missed many spots the last time he’d cranked up the electric. His face sagged and the look of total hopelessness had settled in. He didn’t smile once. Two years in this place had taken their toll. Mind you, Dad was always well-dressed and wouldn’t walk to the mailbox without a good shave. His hair never looked unkempt or uncut.
He remembered I have a dog, asked after him, asked if I’d heard from Jon (I heard through my still-solid local connections that he’s on the Gulf Coast living in a FEMA trailer and working for a non-profit), and looked as if we made him uncomfortable, like he wanted us to leave. He must know how he looks and it likely made him feel worse. He begged off attending the funeral, citing a pervasive nausea due to some medication.
I considered stopping at the nurse’s station and raising hell about his condition. But I don’t know the rules here as far as how much care they’re supposed to take. Is it normal to let an able-bodied patient go unwashed and uncared-for until his toenails extend an inch past his toes?
I think it was then and there that I made my next huge life-decision: I intend to return to Oxford and go to law school at Ole Miss. I'm more than halfway there anyway--I technically live in Oxford (although working in AZ could make things a bit weird).
I could study at a “better” school, more expensive, but I had a feeling this was the right move—I need to be near on a more permanent basis, take Dad out a couple of times a week, get back to my family full-time. I will likely practice there in Oxford when I finish—the female equivalent of the country gentleman lawyer. And as soon as I made the decision, everything began to magically fall into place. I can either rent or buy the lovely house I stayed in three miles from campus—it’s on a gorgeous piece of land, shaded by enormous old trees. Offers were made to speak to admissions officials—my family is deeply entrenched there, and I knew the built-in support system would kick in and take a great deal of the stress away. I will come out of it with very little debt. And Oxford is home, always has been. I won’t even have to live in a crappy little apartment like I’d expected, won’t have to make all the quality of life sacrifices I’d come to associate with school.
I'd been considering Georgia or Arizona, but I think this is the right move. I won't even apply anywhere else.
Maybe Grandmother’s passing at this pivotal moment was part of some link of fate. It felt true, like everything had been leading up to this, and I finally made the commitment to return to the one place on earth where I have some real history, still have some friends, don’t have to do everything by myself. Easy living and a cacophony of cicadas at sunset, fireflies and rain.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
...And The Hits Just Keep Comin'
I should start buying up lottery tickets, due to the debt karma owes me. My grandmother, who figured prominently in the better memories from my childhood, died this morning of a massive heart attack at the age of 88. She survived the death of her husband in the early ‘80’s and several strokes, but was still quite lucid and still got around town to visit with all her children and grandchildren. She came from an old south Louisiana family, smoked Pall Malls throughout my childhood, and had a wonderfully warm, raspy voice that never scolded the three kids, despite my brothers being extraordinarily wild and notoriously difficult to keep under any semblance of control. She was quite a lady and will be sorely missed.
So I’m flying into Nashville and driving down to Oxford this Tuesday. I’ll be glad to see my family in its entirety (well, minus my self-exiled brother), and I’m spending one night with the bio-mom in Tennessee on the way back to Nashville.
I don’t know if it’s just this summer, but this has quickly grown tiresome. I’m afraid to answer the phone or check email, wondering what the hell is next.
So I’m flying into Nashville and driving down to Oxford this Tuesday. I’ll be glad to see my family in its entirety (well, minus my self-exiled brother), and I’m spending one night with the bio-mom in Tennessee on the way back to Nashville.
I don’t know if it’s just this summer, but this has quickly grown tiresome. I’m afraid to answer the phone or check email, wondering what the hell is next.
Saturday, July 29, 2006
One Foot in the Trailer Park
This all started with the rains. After seven months of scorching drought that drove the coyotes and mountain lions down from the mountains into the front yard, the monsoon rains swept in and so began the streak of hard luck that seems to have blanketed all of southern Arizona.
First there was my house. Then Gus’s fiancé broke his heart. Then Shannon got arrested for driving on a suspended license. They cuffed her in front of her kids and the one other woman in lockup told her that they don’t allow smoking in county, either. Bailing her out took seven hours and her boyfriend had to put his house on the line and three hundred bucks on the counter. The cops were courteous, but as soon as she was booked and shackled, the lockup staff treated her like a crack whore. Also in front of her kids, who tell anyone who will listen that Mommy went to jail. Shannon tried to explain to the boys, ages five and seven, that there are some things that happen in a house that aren’t discussed in public. The older one shrugged and kept right on telling us all that mommy had cuffs on both wrists and ankles. She didn’t have the money to pay for a speeding ticket from six months ago and drives like a bat out of hell on a good day, but who the hell am I to judge after I nearly destroyed my home with bad decisions?
Times like these bring it all into glaringly sharp focus, how little control any of us have over anything. Most people are hanging on by their fingernails and are one bad decision away from the trailer park on the corner of 7th and Busby, and it may be a long time before I can drive by the weed-clotted little dirt patches and not wonder how long I can hold out, even ensconced in the cool interior and black leather of my car. No amount of salary or savings can entirely neutralize the perceived threat, which has only grown worse in six weeks of living in one hotel or another here in town. I felt it most acutely when the nice hotel where I stayed before our business trip to Texas overbooked and landed me in that skid-row motel next to Domino’s Pizza. Other guests looked like they are on vacation from that same trailer park and the third mammoth cockroach I killed in the tub drove me out the door and back to the nicer digs near the front gate of the base.
This morning I helped Shannon move into the painfully dated house where she’ll live rent-free for one year while the homeowner is in Iraq. While suffering from three decades of bad taste, the home is enormous and is, after all, free.
First there was my house. Then Gus’s fiancé broke his heart. Then Shannon got arrested for driving on a suspended license. They cuffed her in front of her kids and the one other woman in lockup told her that they don’t allow smoking in county, either. Bailing her out took seven hours and her boyfriend had to put his house on the line and three hundred bucks on the counter. The cops were courteous, but as soon as she was booked and shackled, the lockup staff treated her like a crack whore. Also in front of her kids, who tell anyone who will listen that Mommy went to jail. Shannon tried to explain to the boys, ages five and seven, that there are some things that happen in a house that aren’t discussed in public. The older one shrugged and kept right on telling us all that mommy had cuffs on both wrists and ankles. She didn’t have the money to pay for a speeding ticket from six months ago and drives like a bat out of hell on a good day, but who the hell am I to judge after I nearly destroyed my home with bad decisions?
Times like these bring it all into glaringly sharp focus, how little control any of us have over anything. Most people are hanging on by their fingernails and are one bad decision away from the trailer park on the corner of 7th and Busby, and it may be a long time before I can drive by the weed-clotted little dirt patches and not wonder how long I can hold out, even ensconced in the cool interior and black leather of my car. No amount of salary or savings can entirely neutralize the perceived threat, which has only grown worse in six weeks of living in one hotel or another here in town. I felt it most acutely when the nice hotel where I stayed before our business trip to Texas overbooked and landed me in that skid-row motel next to Domino’s Pizza. Other guests looked like they are on vacation from that same trailer park and the third mammoth cockroach I killed in the tub drove me out the door and back to the nicer digs near the front gate of the base.
This morning I helped Shannon move into the painfully dated house where she’ll live rent-free for one year while the homeowner is in Iraq. While suffering from three decades of bad taste, the home is enormous and is, after all, free.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
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.
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.
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.
Friday, June 23, 2006
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.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
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.
"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.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
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.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
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.
"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.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
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.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
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.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
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…
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…
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
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?
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?
Sunday, February 26, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
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?
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?
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