Saturday, October 10, 2015

Abstract Jazz Brain

Sometimes my hands ache, full of words for a page. I see the ending. It’s me, I’m old, I’ve lived partially not fully like some. Enough. I’ve helped animals, taken care of my husband, listened to people’s problems. Made a mark nowhere but in the immediate landscape. Broader strokes, that’s where I feel that I’ve failed. There is potential to be known, to be respected but the fear abates. Fear of being that certain kind of honest that it takes to make it. The honest words that ache for the page. The one’s I’m afraid to write. The one’s I’m afraid they will read. I think of the old days. The early 90’s when everything seemed so impossible and possible. Every second felt like it could be the best one or the end. The insecurity of wondering if anyone would ever love me, be there for me, appreciate my soul and the kindness that I have to give. I have that now and don’t appreciate it like I thought I would back then. Now it’s more of a yearning for those years of uncertainty. I watch movies now as a middle aged adult, flicks about young people that are still trying to figure it all out and I envy them more than I could ever imagine I would have. The time they still have, that I’ve let fleet into the sky with the dreams of a 21 year old chick who thought she would achieve something more than this. A cubicle rat. There is still time. There is still time. I have talent but for some reason I push it away. Do I love to write? Sometimes. Like all things. Sometimes. I just want to be alive all the way again. Not in the sense that I was in that time, where I wasn’t sure if I wanted to die so I did the craziest shit I could think of to see if that would indeed be the end result. Today I want to live as long as I can without any assistance in wiping my ass or walking around. To be relevant to those I admire and to those dumbass kids like myself looking for some sort of inspiration in an older person who seems to have an answer or more.

Create, freedom, create, live, beauty. I can be those things. I can. I must. 

Sunday, July 19, 2015

These Are The Crap Bags In My Neighborhood

“He’s retard. Bonafied! I know that to be fact cause I know’d his teacher and she told me he was bonafied.” 
Well goddamn. I mean I can’t stand the dude either. He’s made my dog walks hell for the last three years or so and I get what the old man is sayin’ and all, like he’s not right in the head but, geez. I mean this old buzzard didn’t even put an “A” in front of “retard”. Just straight up called Steven “retard”.  Kind of harsh for a Sunday morning stroll down the block.
“Well I just wanted you to know, cause I see you’a walkin’ your puppies all the time and I see you carryin’ that stick. Lemme see that a minute…”
I hand the old dude my stick, well really it’s one of those wooden poles used to hang clothes from in a closet. I like it because it’s long, light and smooth. I’ve tried actual sticks but they just feel awkward.  It’s because of Steven that I started carrying it in the first place.
“Yeah, you won’t last a second with those two vicious dogs of his. This fuckin’ thing’ll snap right in two and they’ll be all over that little’n of yours. You should’a seen what they just did to this dude who lives here. He was walking with his two little dogs and that idiot came out with those two big ass dogs just’a draggin’ him down the street. Fella who lives here had to take of runnin’ cuz that bonafied moron couldn’t barely control them dogs, they was just about to get away.”
Steven isn’t right in the head, we all know that.  When my husband and I first moved in 10 years ago he was probably about 17 and would come over and talk in the driveway sometimes. That quickly escalated into him just walking up in our crib without so much as an attempt at knocking. After we screamed at him and flipped him off a few times, the message got through, he stopped coming over and I could peacefully hit the streets with my mutts without driveway chats about “I.C.P.” or whatever horrible music he was listening to.
Then a while ago, Steven found a stray German Shepherd that had been abused. He named it Daisy, nursed it back to health and nurtured all of its insecurities. After that, pretty much every single time it encountered another dog, Daisy went to Psycho Town. What does Steven do when she’s trying to murder his fellow neighbors? He pets her and says “There, there girl.”  You bet.  So I guess, since that was going so well, Steven decided to rescue a giant Pit bull and have both of them walk him together.  It literally looks like he’s being pulled down the street by plow horses. He’s gotten dog trainers, I’ve seen them working over there but it’s him. He just doesn’t have the cognitive capacity to take charge of such powerful animals.
“Hey you don’t have to convince me.” I told the old man. “I’ve spent the last few years of my life being startled by that Shepherd since Steven never looks to see if I’m coming down my driveway before he comes out his front door. The thing just goes totally nuts and scares the crap out of me. Now that he has the other one, I say a prayer before I come down my driveway every time that he won’t come out.”
To be perfectly honest, I’ve pissed myself several times. For real. I also slipped on an acorn once and rolled down the driveway like a goddamn beer barrel. My dog’s extend-o leash flew out of my hand and was dragging after her, she was running in terror, it totally sucked. And it’s because Steven is brain challenged that I haven’t made a bigger deal out of it. Plus his parents are like disabled or something and they’re dealing with his loopy ass, it’s just a messed up situation.  
“Well that’s horseshit” said the geezer. “Lemme tell you something, I served in Vietnam. I was a pilot, I taught pilots, hell I wrote the goddamn Top Gun program. You ever see that movie “Top Gun? With Tom Cruise?”
I nod.
“Yeah well I wrote the manual, developed the protocols, ya hear me?”
“Wow” I gasp, all the while feeling like the chance of his proclamation being nonsense is probably somewhere around eighty percent. Especially the way he’s getting all amped up, staring deeply into my eyes like he really wants me to be impressed. It starts to feel too intense so I glance down at my dogs who generally seem uninterested as well.
“Anyways, I’m a smart man. Ya hear me? And I got into it with the retard about a month ago. He said I better back off or he’d put his “G” dog on me. I told that little stupid shit if that dog comes at me, I’ll put his ass in a fuckin’ hold and choke him out. You see these biceps?”
He flexes. I nod again.
“Hey I might be old but I’m still tough as shit. I’ll kill that retard and those dogs.”
The old man is now officially added to the list of things I will try to avoid on my street but still… he continues.
“Hey did you ever see “Debbie Does Dallas?”
Kill me.
“Well that couple ya’ll bought your house off of, you remember the wife? The brunette with the perky little boobs?”
I’m not even nodding anymore but he keeps going.
“Well I didn’t know until after they moved that she was doing all of Snellville. Everybody on this whole fucking block but me.”  
Now it’s just creepy.
“Well, I mean I don’t know what to do about Steven.” I inched away a bit more, hoping my seed of redirection would take root and this old perv would get back in his truck and keep going the three more driveway’s to his place. Luckily, Jim comes outside to further Steven bash and expound on his most recent run in. I commiserate then fade out into the horizon as they continue their plotting.
I hate Steven but I would never just call him “retard”. He loves those dogs and he saved them from the death. Well, actually his parents made all that possible since they take care of him and always will, but still, I’ve never thought of him as evil. That old man though, he doesn’t seem like a very good person at all. If the dogs do attack someone, he’d be as good as anybody I guess.

Monday, August 19, 2013

They Blinded Me with Boring

Two weeks ago we began implementing a new electronic medical record system in my office.
Two weeks ago, I thought I hated my job.
I've since come to realize that it wasn't so much hatred as it was boredom with the endless data entry, nauseating co-workers and finicky patients.

NOW I hate my job.

What used to take two key strokes now requires 14 clicks and the volume hasn't decreased in the slightest to make up for this nonsensical speed bump. It's so needlessly complicated, I actually began to wonder today if we were on some new corporate "Punk'd". And the truly maddening thing is to know why we had to do it. It's all about the government getting their stats and if they don't know how many Samoans we see per year, apparently the whole infrastructure will collapse. I mean, we could have rejected it but in doing so, would have been forced to take MASSIVE Medicare pay
cuts because that's how the government blackmails you into doing shit you don't want to. They take money away like a parent withholds an allowance if you don't take out the trash. They suck balls. I mean all the balls, in every universe.

 I can't tell you how fun it is to be challenged by a job you loathe at this age. The moments at my desk that I'm not stumped on what to to do next or  inwardly screaming at myself for not finishing college are usually filled with prayers that someone will strike me on top of the head with a lead pipe. Then maybe when and if I came to, it would be like the movies and suddenly I'd become some amazing writer or just tell them to go fuck themselves and run into the woods. Either would be a fine transition to my current existence.

People told us, they said over and over "'re converting? Well just be prepared for 6 months of hell."

I'm not sure if what my office is suffering from is the normal nightmare or it's beyond that. Like a Freddy Krueger type thing and we need some fucking Dream Warriors. I can't even rely on my boss because she doesn't know what the hell to do either.  I've never seen her cry so much. In fact all the chicks in my office look like someone has crapped in their Cheerios pretty much all day.Then this afternoon, something weird happened to me.

I was squinting way hard at this website that I'm supposed to be able to download my payments from. I went through the whole fucking thing with the dude over the phone last week, he took control of my PC and everything, walked me through all 4 thousand steps. Today, even going by my notes, I couldn't get it to do what he did.

"WHY Damn you??!!!!!!!!" Is what I was screaming in my brain when all of a sudden, there was this bright white flash and my vision went totally blurry. When I could focus somewhat again, I could only make out the top left portion of things. The bottom right of everything was just a blur. I went to the bathroom and couldn't even make out my face in the mirror. It reminded me of one of those caricatures of Hunter S., driving that brilliant red caddy through the desert. Face all stretched out on the bottom, glasses dripping down my cheeks in a runny rainbow. There wasn't anything good about it.

It lasted for about 20 minutes and then I started to develop a headache. Another woman I work with says it happens to her all the time. Fuck that. I'm starting to think that maybe I should just try to find another boring ass job instead of a challenging, boring ass job which, as I have discovered, is a million times worse. Maybe they need someone to sort the blank paper from the colored at Kinko's or maybe I could stack pallets of creamer and shit at Sam's club. Those jobs seem like just the right amount of boring without too much mental stress.

Sunday, August 18, 2013


“Your husband’s pretty grouchy” Garrett sneered over the rattling of his freshly painted wagon wheels.

He’d promised the week before when I saw him that black spray paint was really gonna sing and no doubt, he was right. It really zazzed up his whole riding lawnmower/wagon rig. It was also at that time that he’d inquired about doing a bit of yard work for me. I pussily faked interest just so he’d let it go.  He’s such a persistent little shit I should’ve known better, in fact, I'm sure I did.

If you’ve been following my blog over the years you may remember the time he tried to strong arm me into purchasing a used bathtub stopper from his “yard sale”. After he basically instructed me to toddle on home and get a dollar, I tore down the signs he’d made of notebook paper instructing the neighborhood on where they could buy crap Garrett found in his dad’s junk bin. You also may remember a post awhile back where I admitted how over the last few years, I’ve come to admire this little bastard’s work ethic. He’s tenacious, to the point you’d like to slap his face but hell, he gets shit done. I wish I could say the same for myself.

Anyways…so there he was, calling me out. I’d luckily avoided him all week on my dog walking adventures but there was no escaping his chilly gaze or cul de sac interrogation now. He backed up slowly, parking the wagon in front of my dog Walter who never minds a sit. I figured the best thing to do would be to just act as though I had no idea what he could possibly be talking about.

“What? Haha…what do you mean?”  I asked before quickly averting my eyes to the old man who’s been pouring a new driveway this week. I waved, he didn’t see me. I kept waving, trying my best to distract Garrett from this whole confrontation but he was cocked and locked.

 As I stated, a persistent little SHIT.

“All I did was come by your house…like YOU told me to, and your husband came to the door all mean and stuff…saying “Don’t ever ring my doorbell again! Now you go on! Git!”

He didn’t look hurt or upset, just furious. Granted it was the fury of a 12 year old raised in a comfortable suburban home, but still an awkward conversation I had no interest in having. I just want to be left alone and enjoy my fucking walk. Please universe! Can that happen?! Fuck.

The story my husband told the day it all went down had been a bit different. He claimed Garrett had come to the door like the police, banging on it hard/fast then immediately ringing the doorbell several times in quick succession. He said this cycle repeated 3 more times before he could finish wiping his ass and find out who the fuck was being chased by a deranged killer and needed to be let into our home.  Furthermore, he stated once said door was opened, the demon child on the other did not greet him, rather, demanded to speak with his wife about a business matter. At that point he said he gave the hell spawn instruction to never ring our bell in such a manner again and followed that up by shutting the door.  

I knew immediately that Garrett would not take kindly to this.

Now, here he was, frozen blue iris’ attempting to glare a confession of assholishness out of me.

Sometimes playing stupid is the smartest thing to do.

“Oh my God!  You’re kidding! I can’t believe he did that, wow…well…were you ringing the door bell like in a crazy way or something?”  I’d hoped maybe if I could coerce some sort of admission of guilt from him, he’d move his wagon so I could get home and watch Masterchef.

It didn’t work.

“Well I rang it a couple times, but no, I didn’t ring it crazy. He’s just a grouch.”

Truthfully, he is kind of a grouch sometimes but knowing Garrett like I do, I didn’t doubt the events played out just as my husband had recanted them. However, I still couldn’t seem to bring myself to chastise him for it. Instead I took the easy way out. I totally fronted on my old man.

“Well…haha..yeah, he can be a butthole sometimes…for sure…haha…how’s about maybe we’ll talk about you raking the leaves this fall. But you just talk to me about that okay?”

I totally sold my husband out, right the fuck out.

“Oh believe me, I’ll ONLY talk to you” Garrett replied sarcastically before throwing his rig in “mow” allowing my dog and I passage through his turf. He didn’t even look back as his mower wagon combo snaked up the long driveway that leads to his house.

 He’s kind of a dick if you haven’t picked up on that yet.

Hubby was more than pissed when I regaled my tale of Garrett upon returning that evening.  I didn’t tell him that I didn’t back him up at all. No, no, that would’ve resulted in some sort of Bloodsport death match. He really despises that kid. Instead, I mentioned the part about him saying “Go on-Git!” the part that made me howl because I really wasn’t sure if it was true. If it were, well then I wasn’t sure I’d recognize who I’m married to anymore.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Go on!? Git!? Am I 90 years old? Shaking a cane in the air, shitting my pants?  You honestly think I’d say that?”

I could only laugh.

“So this little asshat is a liar too? Well that’s just great. All I know is he had better never come to our door like that again. Go on…git…that little retard. I’ve never hated a kid so much.”

I should’ve been honest with Garrett, I know that. He’s just a jerky little douche. He probably would only have benefited from it, a life lesson and all about how to approach the customer. But it’s too late now. I just hate being hassled on my walks. It’s my decompression time, one of the only chunks of the day I stop thinking about everyone and everything I hate and revel in simple pleasures like how happy my dogs look when they’re smelling the grass or how happy I am smelling the kickass ribs my neighbor’s cooking up on the grill. That’s what we do. We walk and we sniff. I will throw my husband under the bus or lie to any obnoxious child to preserve this special time.

That being said, here’s to hoping next time the little bastard just leaves a written estimate in the mailbox or even better, moves to fucking Borneo.

Thursday, July 4, 2013

That Time I Should've Quit While I Was Ahead

Still relishing the victory of getting away with slipping “Straight Outta Compton” on to our kickboxing playlist, (the clean version-I'm not that gangsta) the mood began to shift as I caught sight of the most peculiar shadow in my peripheral. Half blind without glasses, my first assumption was that a tiny, fat stripper had made her way into class at some point while I was busy doing lousy pushups, thinkin’ I was the shit because I know Eazy-E lyrics.

This is pathetic and completely true.  

It didn’t seem right though. A midget pole dancer just decides to wander into a Martial Arts school WELL after the class has commenced? Right when N.W.A. is blaring? But then…maybe that’s exactly what drew her in? Maybe she was a crack baby from Compton and that’s what caused her dwarfism? It was fun to think about such scenarios and as much as I would’ve loved to believe that classic West Coast gangsta rap might be like some Pied Piper shit for the tiny, crack bred dancers of the world, (and it might be)- not so much in this case. No, as it turned out, it was the child.

I saw her briefly when she came in with her mother, taking notice of Mom’s right away as she reminded me of a woman who tried to scam me for cash back in Detroit. We had a slight fender bender that she found no need to report, which was perfectly fine by me since I was driving the group home van when it happened and my record was already total ass. But then the estimates for her bumper kept going up… and up…. and up until my friend Terry stepped in and talked her into not being such a scummy bitch. He knew this woman. She worked for another group home and was picking up in the same parking lot as us. He banged her a few times after the dust settled then stopped calling her. I felt vindicated.

“Never trust a woman who wears gold shoes and silver lipstick, that’s what I learned.”

He was right though, that should’ve been a dead giveaway that she was going to try and soak me.  I mean who color clashes metallic’s like that if they’re not a piece of shit? I will now say it just stands to reason.

Anyways, back to the fucking story which is about the kid, not the mom, I just smoke too much weed. Sorry.

She was a chubby little dumpling, I did notice that when she came out on the floor, but she was wearing a baggy t-shirt and bike shorts. Pretty legit, nothing beyond what she could pull off.  And I mean that literally ladies and gentleman as that is exactly what occurred.  Midway through MC Wren’s poetic flow, the girl who I pegged to be around 9 years old, tore off that confining Hello Kitty t-shirt, revealing the silver lame' sports bra that went with those bike shorts and the swash buckling belly that did NOT.  It was like a lava lamp, filled with chocolate, completely mesmerizing all on lookers with every fluidic swish. If you’ve ever seen the SNL sketch where Chris Farley competes with Swayze for a Chippendale’s spot, then you’re half way there. 

Now picture Farley as a little fat black girl with really long braids and yep…that’s it.

When I tell you that this child was “feelin’ herself”, you need to understand that she kept the boxing gloves ON as she gyrated seductively to Jay-Z’s “Dirt Off Ya Shoulder”, while staring at herself in the mirror , right into the eyes of that future sex kitten she just knows she’s gonna be.  It was haunting to the point that the manager of the gym came over to discuss it with me during my workout.

GYM MANAGER: I feel like there’s a weird energy in here tonight.

ME: I think it may have something to do with what’s happening over there (gestures to the girl with a neck twitch).

GYM MANAGER: I don’t understand what’s going on. I go into the bathroom for like two seconds and when I come out, there’s a 6 year old in a sports bra trying to “make it rain” in my gym.

ME: She’s 6??!!

Guys, when I tell you this kid was already in a fucking “C” cup-I’m not even slightly exaggerating.  She had some tig-ol-bitties and while I realize they were mostly from being incredibly overweight, it was horribly confusing for on-lookers to put together with a girl of that age. 

The class grinded on for another 20 minutes or so, as people tried their hardest to focus on the instructor instead of the milkshake that would bring only the creepiest to the yard. Walking past her, I didn’t make eye contact because I wasn’t sure if I could do it without laughing, then my inner monologue kicked in. The one that usually tells me when I’m being a turd and who is almost always 100% on point.

This time it said “Hey asshole! Remember when you were a little fat shit? How you always wanted to be invisible? Yeah- well this kid actually has some self esteem and you should respect that seeing as you’re still so fucked up that you won’t even wear a tank top in public.”

True dat inner-self.

She beamed with pride as I complimented her on making it through such a tough class. Mom’s appreciated the shout out, replying “Dat’s my baby”.  Indeed. Taking two seconds out to acknowledge her definitely made me feel a lot better about being such a shallow realist who worries far too much about what others think sometimes. Especially when I realized that none of the other “adults” in class said a fucking word to her which is pretty lame. Really? Do you think they won’t let you sit at the “cool” lunch table if you speak a kind word to mini-Precious?  She may have the body of a sixty year old but she's only six. C’mon dickheads.

Driving home that night, I was lucky enough to witness one of those sky miracles. A brilliant, perfect, orangey-pink sunset that was just a perfect visual moment. The kind a person hopes might be the last thing they see before final curtain call. A biker had pulled over to the side, snapping pics of the odd strikes of lightning that were popping in and out of the horizon commanding driver’s attention to the degree that we we’re running 10 miles under the speed limit with smiles on our faces.

When I finally put my eyes on the road, I noticed something in the turn lane. A turtle. A turtle with his legs pulled into the shell, just lying there. I kept driving but couldn’t stop thinking about him. What if he was afraid? I mean what would be the point of setting things right with little fatty if I let this turtle get smashed to bits? I decided this night of big girl kindness and ghetto Aurora Borealis’ would not be marred by the image of a splattered reptile on my way to work in the morning.

Speeding and praying all the way there that my delayed conscience would not be the death of Filbert (See Rocko's Modern Life), I cut off two people. One was driving a Porsche’ Cayenne so screw him since usually everyone who drives one of those deserves to be smothered in their sleep anyways. Closing in, I saw his perfect shell was still intact so I whipped into the turn lane fully about to Baywatch sprint and then the truth emerged.

I had risked a multitude of traffic tickets to save a fucking Wendy’s salad bowl. 

Monday, April 8, 2013

That Time I Was So Proud

So Superboy called me a couple weeks ago looking for some help with a paper he was doing on the Walking Dead and the roles that women play in it's hypothetical apocalypse. We went back and forth a bit and this is what he came up with....

Women in AMC’s The Walking Dead
It was a dreary morning toward the end of November, and I was looking for a good show to watch on Netflix. As I scrolled through the list of “Suggestions for You,” I came across a particular program that my good friend Stephanie had mentioned in the past. Opening up the show, I began to watch and was almost instantaneously hooked. The Walking Dead takes place in Georgia in a post-apocalyptic world that has been overrun by flesh-devouring zombies, colloquially known as “walkers,” who have been infected with a horrible virus and prey on the still living humans who have been able to survive the devastation of the disease. The group of survivors that the show follows originally starts off with about 18-20 members, and over the course of the show, the members are one-by-one killed off until there is a group of about 10 members remaining in the third, current season. The group is led by Rick, a strong-willed, natural leader and former sheriff, and consists of about a fifty-fifty mix of men and women. However, while I watched the show, I began to realize that I did not perceive the women of the group in the same manner that I saw the men. Even in this post-apocalyptic world where every remaining survivor, black, white, or other, must join together simply to continue living and maintain some resemblance of a normal life, the women, for some reason, seem to be reduced to a subservient role that is a common prejudice present even in the modern world we live in today.
Take the likeable character Carol, for example. Carol appears in the show in the first season with her innocent daughter, Jane, and her brutish husband, Ed. Right from the start as a new viewer of the program, I was bewildered by the portrayal of Carol. Unlike many of the other survivors who are rough and rugged and willing to kill some “walkers” at any moment, Carol is a simple housewife: washing the clothes, preparing the meals, doing the dishes, etc. Carol is also extremely subservient to her abusive husband, Ed. The odd aspect about Carol is that even in the current season after she lost Jane and Ed, she is still portrayed as this “fragile butterfly,” well put in the words of Daryl. In the current season, the group has found refuge in an abandoned prison and is engaged in a quasi-turf war with another group led by a mysterious, seductive leader, simply known as the Governor. When almost everyone man is out on what they call “runs” for supplies or scouting the Governor’s troops, Carol is quite simply “in the kitchen” preparing a fresh meal for when the men return from their journey, or she is seen taking care of Rick’s newborn daughter since Rick’s wife died in childbirth. In the new season, she almost dies not because of a bite from a walker, which happens to one of the men in the group forcing Rick to severe his leg at the knee (a very bloody, masculine scene), but rather from simple heat exhaustion and dehydration. The ruffian outdoorsman, Daryl, saves her and literally carries her like a baby to safety. It seems that after the lost of her dominant patriarch, Carol has become even more dependent on the men and has almost taken over Rick’s wife role as a mother. Carol is little more than the simple housewife of the group and seems to be quite happy with her role.
For the other primary women of the show, their roles are a tad more complicated than Carol’s. Maggie is first seen as an innocent, know-nothing farm girl; however, in the new season, she has developed into more of a strong-minded young woman. Do not think for one second, however, that she is among the dominant male leaders of the group. In fact, the one time that she does go out on a “run” with a young man named Glenn, she ends up being forcibly kidnapped by the Governor’s troops and taken back to their camp along with Glenn. Brutally beaten and even threatened with a captured“walker,” Glenn is interrogated about the whereabouts of the prison. On the other hand, the Governor never even questions Maggie about the rest of her group; instead, he chooses to sexually abuse her by making her remove her shirt and bra before forcing himself on her. Maggie is never viewed as a real threat and is basically just a pawn that the Governor uses to draw in the rest of the group. After this traumatic incident, she almost becomes a helpless, little farm girl again afraid to venture out on any more “runs.”
What makes the women’s portrayal so obvious is the contrasting roles of the men in the show. The leader of the group, Rick, is a man who relies on other men, Glenn, Daryl, and T-Dog, to help him fight the men under the Governor’s regime. Even Herschel, the oldest member of the group who had his leg severed due to a bite, takes on the role basically as the “grandfather” of the group, providing much needed advice and insight in certain situations for the group. Indeed, all the men are forces to be reckoned with and have considerable control over the affairs of the group. Even in the latest episodes when Rick has really gone off the deep end because of the devastating loss of his wife, his authority is still respected more than that of any of the women. According to the Walking Dead, even in what seems to be the end of times, the old prejudice that women nurture and care for the children and handle menial household chores while men hunt, fight, and make the decisions still holds true.
He got an A+ on the paper and I don't think I've been this proud for any reason in quite some time. I really needed it. I picked him up last Saturday and we spent the day laughing and attempting to kill ourselves with a Krispy Kreme burger. That's right. Angus beef, BBQ sauce, carmelized onions, bacon, cheddar cheese and 2 grilled Krispy Kreme doughnuts brilliantly used as buns. It was incredible! Anyways, for those of you who have followed my blog over the years, you know I'm always waiting for Superboy to tire of my antics. So far he just turned 17 and I think we get along better than ever. Next up- we're going to see Big Boi in June before he leaves for a six week stint at Valdosta University. I think I can safely say that I've got him until he leaves for college in the Fall of 2014 but hopefully, he'll never outgrow me.


Thursday, March 21, 2013

That Time It Finally Happened and I Questioned The Universe

I saw a dog get killed yesterday. It’s almost occurred a few times in my life…the breath stopping..eyes covering and then, ahhh… everything’s fine. Not this time. I wanted to look away but he was so fucking close, one more second and he would’ve made it. There is NO escape from the back wheel of an obnoxious white Chevy Avalanche hauling all kinds of ass in rush hour traffic. Not even a brake light, just one moment a very cute Corgi mix was gettin’ it across the road, like he was killing the 12th level of Frogger, Jesus if he would’ve just stayed in the median, it was a miracle he made it that far, but he went for broke and fell off the log. It sucked. I went back to make sure, even though I watched it roll right under the tire, just had to make sure it wasn’t still alive, suffering. It wasn’t.

Today, I kept picturing it in my head over and over, like some horrible Youtube mind trend. Along with that is this feeling of gratefulness. Appreciating how lucky I’ve been/am to rarely be subjected to crazy shit like that in my life. 

Well there was this other thing.About 8 months ago on my way to work,I noticed a rabbit that had been run over in the road. Its bottom half was smashed flat on the pavement, while in a cruel twist of fate, his top half was still very much alive and struggling furiously to get away from the bottom half. I screamed then struggled with the decision to go back and run over the top half or perhaps, use the machete I keep under the driver’s seat to chop his head off then realized I was far too pussy to enact either plan and just cried for the next few minutes to work. I called animal control, they said they’d had 6 previous calls and someone was on the way. I thought about asking if could have their names so we could form a support group because I was pretty fucked up. I hit “end call” instead. I was late to work frequently over the next four months as I refused to drive down that road.I think about that damn rabbit at least once a week, hoping my husband’s right, it was in shock at that point, couldn’t actually feel the smashin’s. Please let that be true.  

This afternoon, I read about how scientists have discovered that the universe is 800 million years older than previously believed. I know the theory, we all came from one atom that exploded. In a nanosecond, nothingness became the universe. That’s how things work in this world, everything is alive and dead instantly, it all relates back to that first moment. I’m also incredibly high right now so excuse the rambling. Really though, where did that atom come from? I asked one of the Dr.s at my job that question today. He’s Jewish, believes in God but is also a man of science. He believes the atom came from God. Where did God come from? Why aren’t the dinosaurs in the Bible/Torah?? Was Adam a Cro-Mag since he was the first man? Those things definitely existed, we have proof. Much like my Papaw Stewart, a Southern Baptist preacher I tormented daily, Dr. Silver didn’t have those answers either.  Why do we deserve the way we live, roof over our head, clean water, food while so many others starve and freeze to death? Why did every other dog I've ever seen in similar situations make it but this one didn’t? What the fuck is out there and will I live long enough to see it? Will I find out when I die?

Will it be like that old SNL sketch with John Laroquette and Dana Carvey?

Laroquette/deceased: Well. Let's see.. what's the grossest thing I ever ate?

Carvey/Angel: You don't want to know.

Deceased: Oh. Okay. What about the 200th grossest thing?

Angel: Okay.. that would be some butterscotch pudding that had a dead earwig in it.

Deceased: [ grimaces ] Oh, gross! You mean I never tasted it!

Angel: Well, you made this very funny face.. but you were watching a football game on TV at the time.

I saw that one back in high school and it’s always stuck with me as a positive to death, the possibility of knowing all the secrets of life. I mean if you do it right, you’ll have like 80 years worth of shit to ask about. Past all of the existentialism I’ve been paddling through, the simple things ARE the most intriguing. 

By the way, I’ve listened to this song about 20 times today. No.. it’s fine, not obsessing at all.