Snippets of This Week

Customer at the seafood counter (to Pam the Seafood Queen): "Are you being nice today?"

Pam, insistently: "Me? I'm always nice."

Customer, with a wink and a sly grin: "Well, if you ever want to be naughty, you just let me know."


(You go, girl.)



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Me to Brenda, my advisor at AC: "I'm bored. I think I could handle one or two more classes next semester."

Brenda: "Bored? Hmmm. Well, we can't have that. Let's get you just as stressed out as the rest of us around here." (Hands me a list of FIVE recommended classes! gulp)



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Melina, after I tell her my opinion about the nationwide epidemic of women exploring promiscuity and throwing all inhibitions to the wind: "Oh yeah, I agree with ....whatever the fuck you just said."



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Bad Joke of the Week (told by a man):

What do you tell a woman with two black eyes?

Nothin' you ain't already told her twice.

Ketchup on Crackers

The page view count on my other blog reads 666 right now. This is not so scary to the religion-intolerant portion of my brain, but it's raising some eyebrows in the baptist-born corner. Considering that is the blog in which I air all my demons, well...

In other news, my college education is coming along just fine. All my dreams are taking place in the middle of the bloody American Revolution, and my participles are dangling where everybody can see them, but I'm well on my way to being a member of educated society. (Okay, okay, I'm only six credits in, but it's a start, dammit!)

I CLEP-ed out of College Algebra altogether. Now I can pretend that math doesn't exist. That alone was cause for a major celebration, so I took my daughter out to eat. I paid. That's the way of things around here. I didn't buy her a margarita, despite the fact that she's officially of a legal drinking age. I could tell you I wouldn't buy her any alcohol on principle, but the reality is, I was too cheap to shell out the four bucks. I'm just a poor college kid, after all.

The kids have moved out and then back in and then out and then in again. At this point in time, I have three and a half in the house, one tag-a-long and one and a half out of the house. Don't try to make sense of that. It's likely to change by the time I'm finished writing this post. They have eaten everything in the house that is edible and moved on to licking the things that smell edible. However, I've been informed that just because a Scentsy Bar smells like a orange push pop doesn't mean it tastes like an orange push pop.

Some people have to learn things the hard way.

From the Heart

Eleven years ago, I sat in my living room beside my (then) boyfriend Jeremy glued to my bubble screen TV wondering what was going to happen to our country next. There was no Facebook; there was no text-messaging; there was no Skype. I had to pick up the phone to call my loved ones to hear their voices and sigh with relief that they were okay.

I wanted to run to the school and gather my children close to me.

I wanted my mom.

Even though the tragedy of that day didn't affect me directly, it definitely affected me. Nobody in my family died. None of my friends died. We each woke up the next day and went on with our forever-changed lives, and we considered ourselves lucky for it.

I am truly thankful to be alive and safe today with all of my children within arm's reach.

Thank you Jeffery, Jodie, Destiny, Randy, Jeremy, Brian A, Brian N, Uncle Kelton, Dad, GrandDad, Shanna, Jason, Clint, Eduardo, Brandon W and all those who have stood up to protect our rights, our freedoms, and our lives.

It's Crazy How Sane I Am

A thin wall of plywood separates the neighbor's garage from mine.  It gives the illusion of privacy, but the truth is, I know when they decide to occupy that space on the other side of the wall. I can hear everything that goes on over there as long as I am standing in my own garage.

I'm not normally a nosey neighbor, but I am privy to those times Yessica  has gotten frustrated with Little Max and Sweet Ana. The children will be banished to the garage for an afternoon where they'll spend their time playing pirates and searching for treasure.

The music of the occasional midnight soiree drifts over to my side, sometimes low and melodic, sometimes booming. Sometimes I'm a forgiving neighbor. Sometimes, not.

I know when Jorge sneaks away from the family for a quick joint. The sickly scent of marijuana cannot be contained to one unit. It permeates my world as well as theirs. Once, I became so frustrated with the assault, I stood in my own garage and boldly announced to the unseen offender that I was allergic to marijuana (which is true). Some scuffling and a muted "Oh shit," could be heard, but I've never again had to suffer second-hand "euphoria."

I am fully aware that my neighbors will always be "in" on whatever I decide to do out there. The truth is, I don't do much more than park the car or search for a screwdriver, but that is beside the point.  I've never had any expectation of privacy in my garage. That is part of life when you have condemned yourself to live in a duplex like me.

This morning, I moseyed into the garage and immediately halted at the sound of soft cries. At first, I thought one of my kids was out there. My heart jumped a little at the idea of one of my little ones being hurt and alone in the corner of a cold, smelly, dark garage. But, silly me, my children aren't small. They are grown, and completely capable of finding their way to the door or screaming for help.

It was Yessica, the neighbor. The mom.

She was having a good old-fashioned cry over there. I recognized it for what it was, because I've done it myself. All women do it. It is as necessary to us as breathing. We need to get a little crazy to preserve our sanity. Men don't understand it, but women get it. I've never had my cry in the garage of course, but maybe this was Yessica's only option for retreat.

I don't know if she'd heard me come into my garage, but she didn't give any indication of it. I wanted to back up and gently close the door, but I was frozen to the spot. I felt like an intruder into what was obviously a private moment. Her soft cries quickly turned to heavy sobs.

My heart went out to her. Should I say something? Should I ask her if something was wrong? Should I call to her to let her know that everything was going to be okay? Would that even be true? Should I at least be decent enough to make a ruckus so she would know I was there?

I was stuck in a moment that was both awkward and heart-breaking. If I reached out to her, would that make me a good neighbor, or a bad one?

Jorge startled me into movement. I heard his booming voice call out to his wife. "Yessica! Where'd you go?"

A few moments passed before she answered. I imagine she needed to compose herself before returning to her loud, demanding husband, who would probably never understand the need for a good old-fashioned cry.

100 Words: I'm the Mom, Not the Maid

I'll move to someplace where it rains at least twice a week and relatives aren't allowed, specifically, offspring. I'll take the computer, the books and my nice comfy bed.

I'll probably take the coffee maker as well.

I'll eat out every night so I won't need to wash the dishes and I'll wear jammies all the time.

Nobody here notices what I do until I neglect to do it. Things pile up and get gross.

Then they point fingers at each other proclaiming, "He didn't clean it!" or "She didn't lift a finger!"

I think that's pretty obvious, don't you?

Also Known As

You may not realize this (especially if you work for Pier 1 Imports), but Nessa Roo is not my real name. Well, the "Nessa" part is real, but the "Roo" part is simply a musical note you sing at the end.

I found this mailer in my mail box today.

I have no idea how Pier 1 matched this imaginary name to my actual address, but there you have it.

You know what this means, don't you?


(I have an alias.)

Freedom

A quick note before you get into the meat of this post: I do love my job, and I do love the bright smiling faces I see on a daily or weekly basis. This particular week has been a little hectic. I needed to vent.


It didn't occur to me that I ought to celebrate the Fourth of July yesterday. The only thoughts I had on the matter were that I should celebrate that it was finally over. There'll be a short rest for me as far as holidays go. Then Labor Day will roll around and we'll all be back to grunting and grumbling.

I work in a meat market in a big, busy supermarket, you know. It seems that every holiday is a meat holiday. It's not like working in a flower shop, where the biggest, bestest holidays are Valentine's Day and Mother's day. Nope. Texans seem to need a slab of meat with every meal, and when a special occasion rolls around, meat makes up most of the menu:  prime ribs for Christmas, turkey for Thanksgiving, hams for Easter, so on and so forth.

We are a busy bunch of meat mongers. We roll in at six in the morning, start tossing briskets and hamburger. We cut, we grind we slice, we saw and we chop. We wrap and weigh and throw it in the counter just to watch it disappear within a few minutes. I've been stepped on, shoved aside, poked, grabbed and yelled at by some of the neediest, most demanding customers, and they have the audacity to snub their noses at me because I somehow failed to live up to their expectations by not having thirty pounds of cube steaks ready and waiting on the shelf for them.  As if I could even get to the shelf, as crowded as it is. I have to slink and sneak between people just to stock things. Lots of times, I don't make it to the counter. Shoppers often take what I've got straight from my arms. Sometimes I have to get a little pushy. I'm a real live person you know. I have my limits. (I'm such a bitch. I should be fired, really.)

whew!

Back to the point. I don't celebrate the holidays like other people do. By the time it's time to relax in the park with live music and an ice-cold beer, I just can't stand the sight of people. Not even the ones I actually like. I just want go home, lock the door, sink into a nice hot bubble-bath and enjoy the freedom and the solitude.

That's what I was doing last night when I heard the fireworks start. That's when I finally remembered it was a day of celebration, and that I probably ought to take a moment to respect it. I toweled off just in time to step outside and see most of the Grande Finale. I'm not sure which park it was, but I could see it from my house if I climbed up on the patio fence and stretched my neck. My neighborhood was eerily quiet. The pops and bangs of the pyrotechnics echoed against empty, dark houses.

A Lifestar Helicopter flew over, headed toward the hospitals, which are near my house, whoop, whoop, whoop. I wonder what the fireworks looked like from up there. Had the demonstration been as uneventful to the pilot as it had been for me? Was he more concerned about making it through the workday, or was he missing his friends and family, who were surely celebrating without him?

It occurred to me then that none of my friends or family had bothered to pick up the phone and invite me to celebrate with them. Likewise, I hadn't bothered to ask any of them to join me. I was too exhausted from working all week toward the one goal of making it through without stabbing anybody.

Barely made it.

I punched Domingo three times in the shoulder for being a disrespectful asshole, and I told Pablo to go to Hell, but other than that, the meat-heads remained relatively unharmed. I can't say as much for the customers.

My Fourth of July did not go out with a bang. I was in bed by eleven, alone and completely sober. I cherished every moment. Wouldn't have had it any other way. I will, however, be celebrating my 39th birthday next week, even if I have to bake my own cake. (My mouth has been watering for some Black Forest, just in case you were wondering what kind of cake you...er, I should be making.)