It’s been over a month since those deadly storms came through North Alabama. Just this past Friday, they removed the forest of debris filling the ditches along my street. There are many areas that still look like the storms hit yesterday. Again, I was so blessed/lucky/fortunate.

The FEMA inspector came to document the damage at my house yesterday. I’ll know in 7-10 days what they will do.

Life has, somewhat, returned to normal. I’m finally back at work. Three months of this year, I was without a paycheck. That was a bit stressful. It was also informative. I know that I will not be bored when I eventually retire. I’ve learned that my workaholic tendencies need to be fought. Paychecks are good. Life is better.

School is back in session. For further proof that I am insane, I’m taking five classes again this semester: Spanish Conversation, Technical Risk Management, Project Management, Legal Environment of Business, and Stats II.

I’ve apologized in the past for breaks in blogging. I’m not apologizing for that this time. I’ve made promises about posting. I’m not making promises about that this time.

What I will make a promise about is this: If/when I do post something, it will be ridiculous or deep or DIY psychoanalysis or a haiku or something else completely random.

Goals must be attainable.

In the spirit of ridiculousness, I give you the following cartoon as a warning about summer clothing choices:

Ima Little Bit Scared...

(Updated to add more pictures and video)
I didn’t see the news stories about the tornados that ripped through the Southeast on April 27th. The first round of storms took out the power at my house around 10:00 a.m.

I’ve lived in North Alabama for a long time. The first time was in 1973-74, so I lived here during the devastating tornados then. My brother and I huddled with my parents in the hallway of our quarters on Redstone Arsenal. I saw some of the damage in the weeks following but I was young enough that my biggest concern was about the veterinarian’s office and if the puppies were okay. I moved back here in 1978 and have been here since then. In 1989, I’d driven through the intersection of Airport Road and Memorial Parkway only minutes before a tornado struck there.

One time, I did go to my parents’ house (they had a basement) because the weather folks were saying a large tornado was in the next town and heading my way. During that short drive, light debris started hitting my windshield and I decided that I would not ever leave my house again during severe storms.

Even with all of that, I don’t get too twitchy about storm warnings. We hear them all of the time in this part of the country. If severe weather is expected, I keep the television tuned to a local station. I keep a watch on the sky to the West. Other than that, I don't modify my activities much.

On April 27th, I was studying for the last final of the semester but I had the television on so I could monitor the expected bad weather. A friend was visiting from out of town and I was hoping to finish my schoolwork early so we could go do something fun.

I’ve weathered a number of storms in my house. This day felt different. As the first line of thunderstorms neared, the sky looked different. For the first time in my life, I put on sturdy shoes and we went into my closet and shut the door. The power went out but we could hear the storm outside.

After the storm was over, I kept expecting the power to come back on. I’ve lived in my house for ten years and have never lost power for more than 15 minutes. I’ve often questioned why I even accepted the generator from my parents when they moved.

My son came home from work early and reminded me that our iPods worked as radios. Fortunately, both were fully charged. I found my headphones, we turned the volume up and huddled around the iPod to listen to the news. It seems a tornado had hit less than a half-mile south of my house.

My ex-husband called. He was on his way home from work as he had also been dismissed early. He had to take multiple detours due to the trees down on so many roads. What was usually a 20 minute or shorter drive became a two-hour trip. When he got home, my son went to get him and they came to my house. We were tracking the storms on the radio and knew that another line of severe storms, with tornados embedded, were headed our way. They were still at least a half-hour away so we went into my backyard to watch the horizon.

The lightning started getting intense and the birds were all heading East. Then, we saw something else in the sky. After a moment or two, we realized it was a shingle. Twenty to thirty minutes ahead of the storm, debris was falling from the sky. More followed.

A little background about my dog, Gulliver: He is terrified of slick floors. He has no interest in coming into the house since I got rid of the carpet and put down tile and laminate.



That day, he was quite insistent about coming into the house. He did not give a shit about slick floors on April 27th.

I told the guys, “We need to go get in the closet NOW.”

My son, with all of the scornful disdain a twenty-four year old can muster, said, “Mom, you live on a slab. We need to go across the street to the [neighbor’s] storm shelter.”

I’ve known these people for over twenty years. I’d never considered going to their storm shelter prior to that day. We grabbed flashlights, iPods, and my purse and took off across the street. My dog freezes when on a leash and Baby Kitty is also not a fan of any kind of confinement. We left the animals in the house. Other people, strangers, were already at the shelter. Two men, a woman, two young teenage girls with their puppy, my son, my ex-husband, my friend, and I nervously waited. We listened to the news reports and watched the horizon.

We saw the storm coming. More debris fell from the sky. As the storm came closer, we rushed down the stairs and three of the men held the door shut. The latch was broken and they were determined to keep that door closed. Through a small gap at the top of the door, we watched debris fly by the shelter.

“Here it comes! Hold the door!”

The sound had changed. You always hear people say, usually in a thick Southern accent, that a tornado sounds like a freight train. It didn’t sound like that to me. One person described it as sounding like you’re trapped in a Hoover vacuum cleaner. That better fits what I heard. We could hear and feel the air being sucked out of the vents in the ceiling of the shelter. Our ears popped as the air pressure changed. We could hear the large trees above the shelter snapping in two. It was terrifying. I heard someone crying. I told them that it would be okay, that we were in a safe place.

After the storm, we went outside. Water had filled the ditches and was rushing down the hill. Trees all around us had been uprooted or broken in half.

This, apparently, happened around this time. Please don’t be judgy… we’re not all that redneck in these parts…



I was still listening to the news.

“Another one’s coming, same path, about ten minutes out.”

My memories of the rest of the day are a bit jumbled and the timeline of what happened is off, I’m sure.

When there were breaks in the storms, we left the shelter to go check on our homes. Crossing my driveway was a bit scary. The water was deeper and more quickly moving than I was comfortable with but seemed passable, so we crossed despite this.

I’m really glad that I put my boots on early that morning. Looking down the hill, I could see that the bottom of my street was covered in water.

At least two of the houses now had lakes instead of lawns.


I noticed that, with the overflowing ditches and continuing copious amounts of rain, water was starting to come in my front door. I’m on a hill and not in a flood zone and the amounts of water were incredible. I thought about changing into dry clothes but, at that point, it seemed kind of pointless. We rolled towels and placed them between the storm door and the front door and hoped for the best.


I tried to call my daughter but calls weren’t going through. She lives about an hour south of me and they were having tornados, too. I texted her and, thankfully, received word that she, the son-in-law, and my grandgirls were all fine.

My son drove to his dad’s house to get his dog and bring him to my house. He unplugged my computer and moved it from the floor to a table. Phone signals were already shaky at best, texting worked a little bit. I texted him that another storm was coming and he needed to get back to the shelter.

One of the other men and his two daughters came back to the shelter. The girls were sobbing. They’d gone to check on their house and it was gone. Everything gone.

The radio stations told us what was going on around us. The reports were devastating. The Piggly Wiggly grocery store was destroyed, people were trapped inside. The nearby gas station was completely gone. Hacklesberg, Tuscaloosa, Birmingham, Cullman, Tanner and other towns and communities all hit.

As the storm got closer, we went back down the stairs and the men held the door. The only light was from the gap at the top of the door and my son’s iPod. My iPod’s battery had run out during the earlier storms. We heard a man shouting outside.

“Can we come in? We have babies.”

You know, it should have been obvious to me prior to this storm that you don’t need an invitation to use a storm shelter. No one cares if they know you or not. It doesn’t matter. Get in a shelter when there’s a storm coming. The man, his wife, and their two children joined us in the shelter.

The ground above the shelter was completely saturated and water dripped into buckets. That was the only sound before the roaring started again. I’m not sure how many storms went over and around us that day. It seemed as if they just kept coming. Every single time we left the shelter, the damage to the area was worse. The flooding was worse, more trees were down. It was awful.

When we finally got the all clear, it was dark. We navigated our way across flooded ditches back to my house. The water on my sidewalk was halfway up my leg. When we got into the house, the dogs and cat were completely freaked. The water was about an inch deep in most of my house. Fortunately, because I live on a hill, the water outside started to recede pretty quickly. By flashlight and candlelight, we used push brooms to get most of the water out of the house. On hands and knees, we used every towel, blanket and sheet in my linen closet to try to dry the floors.

I think we were all a little shell-shocked. We didn’t know what to do, so we just did stuff. ~shrug~

My ex and son decided that they were going to try to go to his house, about a mile away. My ex was pretty sure the house, a mobile home, wasn’t even going to be there but because of all the trees down, they were going to walk. My ex-husband’s street intersects mine but when they got to the end of my street, they couldn’t even see his street because of the downed trees and debris. They came back to my house and decided they’d drive and go around a different way. Within a few minutes, they were back. All of the roads leading to his house were impassable.

It was decided that the only thing to do at this point was have a beer or two. The ex rarely drinks but even he indulged that night. By candlelight, in the damp living room, we talked a little about how scary it had been and how lucky we were. We had no idea.

The next day, when the sun came out, it became very apparent how fortunate we had been. About 150 yards from my house and beyond, it looks like a war zone.



I have been at the north end of my street at least three times a week for the past ten years. If someone had blindfolded me and put me at the spot where my road intersects my ex-husband’s, when I’d take off that blindfold, I would not know where I was.
There used to be forest. There isn’t.


There used to be houses. Most are gone and those that are left are nearly unrecognizable. There was a storage facility in the neighborhood. The shell of that is gone but all of the belongings inside of it were left… just sitting there. Power lines were draped across the road. Trees turned into toothpicks. Huge power towers bringing TVA electricity to the county crumpled into piles of twisted metal.




People lost everything they owned. People died on my street, on the next street, and on the next street after that.

Most, if not all, of the county was without power. So, while the gas stations had gasoline, they didn’t have electricity to run the pumps. The stores and businesses were mostly shut down because cash registers don’t run without electricity. Some stores were open but it was cash only and correct change, please. Taxes were figured with calculators, pen and paper.

My brother drove down from Nashville. He brought beer (very important!), ice (also important!), a propane lantern (teh awesome!), and other supplies. He also brought his chainsaw and a willingness to work. He, along with my friend and neighbors, made quick work of the partially downed tree in my front yard. We went over to my ex-husband’s house and for an hour before he got home, my brother used his chainsaw to reduce some of the trees into manageable branches that my sister-in-law and I dragged to the road. After the ex and my son got there, we took care of more of the downed trees.

A few lessons learned:
1. Have cash on hand. I usually don’t but I will from now on.
2. Have a full tank of gas. Always. Thanks to my friend, I did. Fill up when you get to half a tank. I will from this point forward.
3. Have propane. I had a little but not enough.
4. Have a generator. Thank you, Mom and Dad. Thank you, my dear friend, for getting it running again. Side note: start the generator at least once a month and make sure it’s always in proper working order…even if you’ve never lost power for more than 15 minutes.
5. Have a battery powered radio. I partially have that now. I will completely have that soon.
6. Have extra water. We filled containers the next morning because we didn’t know if the water supply would be effected.
7. Have shelf-stable foods and a manual can opener.

I know there’s more but, honestly, I’m still trying to wrap my brain around what happened here. Two days after the tornados, I drove to Columbia, TN. I thought that because it was off the beaten track, I could go there and get what I needed. No D-cell batteries in the whole town. Propane was found at the Lowe’s. I filled 8 five-gallon cans with gasoline, bought bar oil and two-stroke additive for chainsaws, and stocked up on water and beer and other necessary items. I got lost on the way home and found D-cell batteries at a co-op in Maryville, TN. Go figure.

We were without power for ten days. Friends with a gas hot water heater offered up hot showers. I took one cold shower here and decided that conditioner is, despite my previous belief, completely optional. Will never do that again. Brrr. I can cook anyflippingthing on the grill. The Red Cross, particularly the Omaha-based crew working my neighborhood, was wonderful. They provided food, humor, and information. They brought hot lunches and dinners on most days. While I had the ability to cook on my grill, after you’ve worked all day cleaning up branches, debris, mud and other stuff, it sure is nice to have someone else cook dinner. I cooked breakfast every day. I had my neighbors over and offered up refrigerator and freezer space for their food (thankful again for the generator).

I will not be complacent about severe weather any more. I have a weather radio now (they used to annoy me). I am preparing a “go bag” to keep in my closet. It is a waterproof backpack with the bare necessities. April 27th and the ten days following taught me what those are.

I hope that by writing all of this (and I do apologize for the length), that I’ll stop getting twitchy about dark clouds. I’ve never been a fearful person and I don’t intend to start now.

I had damage to my house but no one in my family was injured. I was inconvenienced but was still able to stay in my home.

I saw this story about a week after the event. I'd heard that this had happened near me but didn't know there was a news report.


Ima very thankful gal.
(I have a few more pictures but email is slow tonight so I'm not able to quickly retrieve them from my phone - will probably have an update tomorrow.)

Winning Isn't Everything

I won! I won? Really? I re-entered the numbers from the slip of paper in my hand. I clicked the “Search” button. According to the Powerball website, I was the winner. I had just won forty-one million dollars. I felt light-headed. The corners of my vision started to turn fuzzy and grayish. I reminded myself that breathing was going to be crucial for continued consciousness.

Okay. Deep breath. I won? I won! First realization: I don’t have to work. What am I going to do now? The question came quickly. The answer came just as quickly as the question: I’m going to write. I am going to write.

The other details started crowding in about making sure my kids were taken care of and paying off my brother’s house and buying my parents a place in Gulf Shores. Sure, I was going to take care of my family but throughout the random “taking care of folks” thoughts, my brain’s town crier was waving a flag and shouting, “I’m going to write! I’m going to write!” I don’t know if I was more excited about winning $41 million or having the freedom to write.

Winning the lottery meant that I would be able to devote my time and energy to the activity that brings me joy. I called my parents. After repeatedly telling them that I was not joking, that I had really won, they told me they were on their way to my house. My daughter was in the front yard with her boyfriend. I went out and told them the good news. We jumped up and down in our excitement. They came back into the house with me and I showed them the proof of my incredible luck. Still, not believing what was right in front of me, I entered the numbers again. There was no doubt. I had entered the winning numbers.

I realized I had other numbers on the slip of paper and thought to myself, “What the hell, I’ll check these, too.” I entered the second line of numbers, clicked on the search button and waited. What? This isn’t possible. This just isn’t possible. Twice? I won twice? Fuzzy. Gray. Breathe, woman! Breathe! Forty-three million dollars? This, on top of the forty-one million I’d already won? I checked the third line. Winner. The fourth. Also, a winner. The fifth? Indeed, that one was also a winner. They were all winning numbers. They were all winning numbers. Slowly, mortifyingly, the light began to come on in my head. Winning numbers. I looked at the slip of paper again. Sure enough, right there, on the slip of paper, it said, “Winning Numbers.” Apparently, I’d picked up a print-out of the recent winning numbers. This wasn’t my lottery ticket.

I wasn’t a winner. I was an idiot. I was an idiot who wished she could crawl under the floor and die of embarrassment. Despite hair follicles that exude golden strands, I’m usually pretty damned smart. This, however, was The Ultimate Blonde Moment of All Time. I like making people laugh. I like bringing joy to others. This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.

It’s been seven years since I “won” the lottery. The story is still bringing joy to my family and making them laugh. What that experience taught me, even more than some much needed humility, was that what I love is writing. I will write.

I still occasionally buy lottery tickets. I don’t pick up print-outs of the winning numbers.

I will write.

What's Goin' On

A couple of posts ago, I mentioned that I had some job angst. I last worked a couple of days before Christmas. That sucks when you're a workaholic. By the way, the whoopie pies were good but too sweet. Once I figure out a better solution, I'll post a recipe.

So, you may be wondering why I haven't been posting more. After all, I haven't been on the job (save for a day or two) for about a month. Well, in the post I linked to above, I mentioned that I was insane and was planning to take five classes this semester. Boy, howdy. It's probably a good thing that I have this downtime from work.

I'm going to take the opportunity to not duplicate effort (that's government speak) in the next couple of days. One of my classes is a creative writing class. Yay! It was part of my grand plan. Yes, I'm taking more than a full load of courses but I needed to make at least one of them something I'd do for fun, if I had time.

In my next post, I'm probably going to dance for Mare. Fair warning. Dancing. Showcasing my insanity. Probably tomorrow.

In the meantime, I have two haikus for you.

I love to travel.
New travel regulations.
Is this a first date?

Dinner and a drink?
No, it's a trip for my job.
Still, it's second base!

Random Thought #11

I'd like to know just who thought putting the larger cup-size bras on the lowest rack was a good idea. Don't they know it's dangerous to have top-heavy women bend over that far?

Of Ewoks and Pudding and Making Whoopie

So, in addition to the fun-filled and exhausting days of work and school, I also managed to get bronchitis and sinusitus. Turns out that if I'm ever exposed to anthrax, I am completely screwed because I found out (the hard way) that I'm allergic to Cipro. After a good run of antibiotics to which I am NOT allergic, I managed to get the mother of all colds.

Oh, and my job situation is in complete and utter turmoil. For the past several months, it's been a roller coaster of stress. I didn't know if I'd have a job on October 1st until late September. I didn't know if I'd have a job on November 1st until late October. I still don't have confirmation that I have a job on December 1st although it does seem likely but then, of course, it's back to wondering if I have a job on January 1st. After that, I will either definitely be employed or I will definitely not be employed. Makes it a little hard to plan for much of anything.

Thus, I've spent the majority of the month of November either whining or in a strange fog of ewok-filled pudding dreams and whining...lots and lots of whining. But that's all over now and I am right in the middle of making whoopie...





Whoopie pies, that is. Pumpkin whoopie pies to be exact. What? You thought I'd be blogging about sexual adventures? First of all, um, NO. Secondly, even though we've already established the fact that I am insane, between work and school and making whoopie pies, there is no time for much of anything else. Oh, and I'm learning (re-learning?) Spanish.

So, rather than whining, I've decided to give it up for a day or two and see how that works out for me. Hopefully, I'll be able to let you know how that goes. If I'm not back soon, do not assume that my head exploded from unrelieved-by-whining stress... unless, of course, you hear about a woman in Alabama who was found with her head all exploded from stress and shit.

If the whoopie pies are good, I'll post a recipe.

I also want to rant (different than whining) about the TSA and the new "You can't see London, can't see France, unless we see your underpants" policy.

Revelation

Muthah fuckah.

Blogger ate my post.

It's okay, though. It was self-serving whining about how I'm working too hard and how that effects what I eat and drink. Really, it was so boring I almost fell asleep writing it.

I'll try for something more invigorating tomorrow.

In the meantime, have you seen BethLamPen? Freakin' awesome.

Educating Ima

After a more than decade-long break from educational endeavors, I got back on the path to getting my degree at the beginning of this year. I’m nearing the end of my third semester and am so very thankful for online classes. They make it possible to continue working 50-60 hours a week while still gettin’ me some learnin’. I can view lectures, complete homework, and take tests online from anywhere I happen to be.

We use a system called Blackboard for the online classes. It’s pretty good. Discussion boards, library links, relevant videos, chat capabilities, course materials, and links to textbook publisher sites all make it very useful. My university also uses it to post information of interest to students and graduates: notices on job fairs, campus events, etc. There’s room for improvement but overall, I really like Blackboard.

When I have an annoying professor, I can roll my eyes without fear of retribution in grading. I can fast-forward past boring or unnecessary portions of the lecture. Once, after twenty minutes of a lecture, I’d had enough and screamed at my monitor, “He is! They are!” Blackboard/Tegrity benefit: My cat was the only one startled by my outburst. I mean, come on, buddy. I know we’re in Alabama and this isn’t a composition class but this is a four-year university. I’m paying a boatload of cash out of my own pocket for my education and I deserve proper grammar from my professors. /end whine

I’ve been taking two classes per semester up to this point but I have a path and a plan that will have me graduating in mid-2012. That plan includes taking five classes next semester…

…because I’m insane.

While I plan to start taking at least one class per semester on campus, I will continue to take most of my classes online. Fortunately, since I will no longer have any kind of personal life whatsoever, I was quite pleased to see that the folks running our Blackboard have decided to include humor with the other postings.

Dear Juxtaposition

Dear Juxtaposition,

The Fitness Magazine next to the cheesecake in the breakroom was BRILLIANT. Thank you!

Love,
Ima

Translation is Tricky

While I'm a huge fan of locally grown/raised foods, I adore markets where you can buy foods from various locations around the world. The Dekalb County Farmers Market near Atlanta, GA is one of those places. The fruit and veggie selection is stunning. You can buy live, fresh seafood from who knows where (hell, it's still gasping for breath so I think it's fresh), pate from Russia, and a huge variety of goods from any country you can imagine.

While I appreciate that more than I can say, I must admit that part of my brain is that of an 11-year-old boy. I've saved this photo for months, simply because it makes me giggle.

If you sell to an audience that speaks Americanized-English, please get someone who speaks the language to critique your packaging. Honestly, I think it will help your bottom line. I didn't buy the item pictured below but I did consider it...

Really? No one caught this?

I'm feeling less constipated than Jamie Lee Curtis in an Activia commercial... just because I know about Poopy Seeds.

Things My Parents Taught Me

I’m not sure if I was even born yet when the incident I’m about to relate to you occurred; however, I’ve heard about it for years and my parents claim it is true. A comment Becca left on my last post made me realize it might make for an interesting blog story and I’ve received permission from my parents to post it.

My parents were in their early 20s and hadn’t been married long. Mom had given up the security of her family and home near Baltimore to move to El Paso, TX where my dad was stationed at Ft. Bliss. Dad had gone out with his Army buddies for an evening of cultural enrichment in the lovely border town of Juarez.

Many hours later, his buddies poured him out of the car onto the front lawn of our quarters. As he crawled to the front door, no doubt clutching the sparse grass firmly to keep from falling off the earth, I’m sure he was considering himself quite the party animal.

The next morning was a completely different story. He woke up with a marching band practicing maneuvers in his head and a sneaking suspicion that a cat had shat in his mouth.

I need to explain something here. My mother is a kind, caring, lovely woman. She’s volunteered for the Red Cross, Meals on Wheels, Hospice, and a number of care and compassion groups in her church. She is a good woman.

When Dad woke up groaning late the next morning, his darling bride had just walked into the room to check on him. She leaned over him, lovingly laid her hands on his shoulders, and quietly whispered, “Oh, honey. Do you have a hangover?”

“Yes,” he whimpered.

“GOOD!” she yelled, as she shook the daylights out of him.

I don’t know if my dad ever had another hangover. I do know that he’s never complained about one.

Mom and Dad will be celebrating forty-five years of wedded bliss this August. They’ve had good times and bad times and, for the most part, been fair with each other.

What this story illustrates is one of the valuable lessons about personal responsibility that my parents taught me: If you knowingly do something that causes you pain, you lose your right to complain about it.

I won’t run down the list of my flaws and virtues but I have a fair amount of each. I’ve claimed for a number of years that I am both the very best and the very worst of my parents.

I’m good with that.

Atlas Shrugged

I want to post more. I'm strangled by my work obligations. However, I had to let you know...

Atlas Shrugged is being made into a movie. I'm not Jewish but I just might plotz.

Reading this book is going to take time out of your life. It's a fucking brick. It is the most amazing book I've ever read. It's better than Erica Jong's Fear of Flying. It's better than George Orwell's 1984.

READ THIS BOOK.

It's important. It's prophetic. IT.IS.REAL.


I know... I don't post much these days. For that, I apologize. I'm busy. Fifty to sixty hour work weeks combined with school (eek! I'm an old student!) and then add home improvement projects... Ack. I'm overwhelmed.

READ THIS BOOK.

I just hope the movie does it justice.

Be a producer. Please don't be a looter.

READ THE BOOK!

(obnoxious enough? I can do more!)

Promises, promises

Damned promises.

Okay, so I promised some mind-numbing blather that would probably do nothing for anyone but me. Here goes.

I was a really obnoxious teenager. I excelled at arguing whenever I thought I was being treated unfairly. At thirteen, I protested what I thought was an unfair wage for lawn mowing. My protest was complete with marching and signs. Really. There’s photographic proof.



Shut up. It was the early 80s. You can't see the sign on the right but it says, "Unfair Wages."

You’re probably wondering why I’ve posted a really embarrassing photo from my awkward teenage years, right? I thought a visual would help explain how far I’d go to protect my rights.

Somewhere along the line, I stopped arguing for myself and started just accepting things. A portion of that is due to an appreciation of Eastern religions and being Zen, Al-Anon and all of that. I’ve learned to accept the things I cannot change. That is a good thing. Another rather large part of it is due to a flying queen-sized bed, ripped out phones, and spackle. Lots and lots of spackle. Spackle and fear. (I’m having a huge struggle here between sharing this and protecting the privacy of others.)

While I’ve always hated discord, I was taught through some extremely unpleasant experiences that I should only stand up for what I believed was right if it wasn’t about what was right for me. In that, I tried to keep and make peace. I have a friend who once told me, “I don’t need you to be a fucking peacemaker.” Fair. She didn’t need for me to be a peacemaker. I needed to be a peacemaker. There was an awkward time in our friendship because of that. I think/hope we’ve moved beyond it.

As I said in Thought Garden, “I’ve compromised myself, not because it was demanded or requested or expected, and I’m trying to figure out why and how I can change it.” In the relationships that followed after the one with the flying queen-sized bed, I accepted a lot of things I shouldn’t have accepted. I excused things that hurt me (not physically, never again physically) in the name of peace.

I shouldn’t have done that.

On the rare occasion that I spoke up and said (admittedly, rather timidly) something, the fact that I said ANYTHING was a big, freaking deal. In my last relationship, I even got to the point where I could say “If I say anything at all, it’s a big, freaking deal.” That wasn’t strong enough. Another lesson learned.

I’ll never be the woman throwing a glass of wine into her companion’s face at a restaurant. I’ll likely never cause a scene. It’s not my style.

I will speak up. I will say, “No. That’s not okay with me.”

Baby steps.

Viagra and Casinos

It's not that I don't appreciate gambling and hard-ons but, seriously, the spammers are getting rather annoying. I apologize to those of you who like to comment on my random (and, recently, infreqent) postings... I'm going to have to put some of those anti-spammer restrictions on this blog.

I feel the need to post my bloggity, DIY psychoanalytical ramblings but life is getting in my way. In Thought Garden, I started getting into my angst. There's more of that coming but I find myself overwhelmed with details. I promise (damn, that's hard... that means I have to do it) to post something mind-numblingly boring and pertinent only to me within the week.

Please, bear with me. This is an unusual time in my life.

A Tale of Two Seatmates

*IT WAS the best of flights, it was the worst of flights, it was the age of reason, it was the age of insanity, it was the epoch of Atlas, it was the epoch of Alice. There were gifts received (one rather reluctantly) and I share the tale of both flights and their associated seatmates so that you may compare.


Standing by gate A2 at the El Paso International Airport, I was looking forward to the journey home. It had been a good trip and the four-day weekend was just ahead.

I noticed him immediately.

You don’t see many people walking through airports in their socks. Sure, there are lots of visible socks and bare feet in the TSA security areas but folks normally return their shoes to their feet before entering the concourse. Not this guy. Clad in knee-high, white, athletic socks, shorts and a striped t-shirt, he had both arms wrapped around a large overstuffed bag while one hand gripped his sneakers. He had a conservatively short haircut and a scraggly beard. He appeared to be in his late 40s or early 50s. His escort was a TSA agent.

“Can I get on the airplane now?” he asked.

“You can when they call your group number,” the TSA agent replied.

A few minutes passed while everyone in the boarding area waited to hear his or her group number. The gate agent announced first class and priority boarding.

“How about now? Can I get on now?”

“Sir, I’ll let you know when you can board.”

I was in group two so I made my way down the aisle, breathing a sigh of relief when I realized I was a good ten rows behind the baby who would soon be loudly and painfully confused about air pressure and earaches.

I tucked my laptop into the overhead bin, my purse under the seat, and my water bottle into the seat pocket in front of me. My iPod was in reach, my phones turned off and my book resting on my lap. I glanced up the aisle to see how boarding was going.

There he was - shoes in hand, feet in socks, overstuffed bag in arms. He was looking at the seat markers and mumbling loudly to himself.

“25A, 25A, 25A.”

I glanced in horror at the seat beside me. It was 25A.

“If you’re naturally kind, you attract a lot of people you don’t like.” William Feather

I immediately felt guilty. I didn’t know this man. I didn’t know if he was mentally disabled, crazy, drunk or a combination of all three. I decided not to pre-judge. I think we (the general public) try to pretend crazy, disabled, drunk people don’t exist. I try to be kind. I was not going to ignore this man. I would be polite. I would be kind.

I stood up to allow him access to his seat. The overstuffed bag would not fit under the seat and there was no more room in the overhead compartments but the flight attendants let him leave it partially wedged. They seemed unwilling to risk upsetting him.

Since he didn’t seem to know he should, I told him he’d need to put on his seatbelt. When he seemed confused, I handed him the piece between us and told him the other half was probably under the armrest. He dug around a bit, found the other section but then appeared to be confused about how to put them together. I helped.

He told me I was a nice lady.

I said, “My name is Ima.”

He said, “My name is Kit.”

“Oh,” I said, “like Kit Carson!”

“No. I’m from Kentucky.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Kit from Kentucky.”

We chatted the fellow-passenger chat of where-are-you-traveling-to-today-and-is-this-home. Kit from Kentucky said he used to be in the Army, lived in El Paso, had lived overseas for a time, and was now on his way to visit family in Jacksonville, FL. I shared that I had been in El Paso for work and was flying to Huntsville, AL (“No, Kit from Kentucky, not Huntsville, TX, not the prison.”).

He told me again that I was a nice lady and said he had a gift for me. I assured him that I did not need a gift. He continued to dig around in his bag and pulled out my gift. At the sight of the gift, I even more strongly, yet politely, assured him, “no, no, I’m good, thanks!” He insisted.

Not sure yet if he was crazy, drunk, disabled, or the combo and because I didn’t know what else he had in that bag and didn’t want to upset him, I thanked him and put the gift in my purse.

The gift? You want to know what the gift was? Really, now, does the actual gift matter? Isn’t it the thought that counts?

Oh, all right.

THE GIFT:

According to one of my colleagues, who was also traveling back that afternoon and heard this story in the Dallas-Fort Worth airport, there’s a little-known fact about this sequence of events. Because I assisted Kit from Kentucky with his seatbelt and then accepted his gift of sardines (in Spring Water!), we are now betrothed.

Kit from Kentucky told me that the security guards had taken his whiskey. He’d had it tucked into his waistband. I think he said it was Old Crow. At this point, I decided to keep drunk on the list of possibilities. Based on the other bits of conversation, crazy and disabled were still on the table.

He asked if he could buy me a beer. I declined. He asked again. I said no.

Thankfully, the captain authorized the use of approved electronic devices so I put in my ear buds, powered up the iPod, and opened my book.

From time to time, Kit from Kentucky would lean over, touch the page of my book, and say something. Even though I could hear him, I made a point of pressing pause on the iPod and taking out my ear buds each time.

He asked me if I was married. Reconsidering the value of truth but unwilling to abandon it, I told him I was not. He proceeded to ask if he could have my address and phone number. I said no and he asked why not. I didn’t explain but just said no again. Firmly.

I got back to my book and music and several minutes passed. I drank some of my water. Kit from Kentucky asked me if I was a catfish.

“No. No, I’m not a catfish.”

I continued reading and listening to music. Then, Kit from Kentucky told me that I was pretty and smart. I thanked him.

Kit from Kentucky seemed content, for the most part, to look out the window at the clouds and patches of visible ground. The interruptions were, thankfully, not excessive. However, the last interruption was a doozy.

Kit from Kentucky made a comment that I heard perfectly well, even with the iPod playing. I ignored him. He said it again, louder this time. Realizing that if I continued to ignore him, he would get to the point where he was yelling, I decided to acknowledge the fact that he had just said, twice, “I’d be fine if I could just get this tampon out of my ass.”

I slowly closed my book, paused the music, removed the ear buds, channeled a dear friend who would never be questioned about her catfish status, turned to my left and gave him my best “oh, no, you didn’t” one-raised-eyebrow stare.

“WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?”

“Aw, nuthin’. I was just funnin’.”

Kit from Kentucky seemed to realize that I was not interested in more conversation with him and, fortunately, we had begun our descent into Dallas.

Crazy? Check.

Drunk? Probably.

Disabled? Still not sure.

I got away from the arrival gate as quickly as possible, determined the departure gate for the Jacksonville flight so I could avoid it, and found my fellow business travelers. I shared with them the story of Kit from Kentucky. I’m mostly- partially- almost not at all certain that they were laughing with me, not at me. When I slipped outside to have a cigarette, they insisted that I leave the sardines (in Spring Water!) with them. We were not about to risk having such a lovely gift confiscated by the TSA.

For the second leg of my flight home, I had an upgrade to first class. So nice. My seatmate was wearing shoes and proper trousers. He was reading, then napping. Before we took off, I had to call my mom and tell her about the long, strange trip it’d been. Very quietly (at least that’s what I thought), I whispered the whole shoeless-catfish-sardine-inappropriate-comment experience to her. Then, I settled into my comfy, roomy seat with my complimentary gin and tonic. For the first hour of the flight, I enjoyed uninterrupted music and reading. At the end of that hour, my seatmate sat up, opened his eyes, and turned to toward me.

“So, tell me about Kit from Kentucky and the sardines.”

I did. We laughed. His name was John. It turns out that we have mutual friends and business acquaintances.

John also insisted on presenting me with a gift.



Did you know that banded penguins eat sardines?

Perfect.

~~~~~~~~~
The colleague who clued me in about my unintended betrothal knew that I was going to write about this and suggested a few alternate titles.

TITLE : SUBTITLE

"Don't accept Sardines from a shoeless Kentuckian: Betrothed on a flight from El Paso to Dallas"

"A New Wife in Kentucky: How Sardines and a Flight from El Paso to Dallas changed my Life"

"Single in El Paso and Betrothed before landing in Dallas: How a chance seatmate turned into my lifemate"

"I Don't Like Sardines Anymore: A Tale of A Betrothed Kentuckian's Wife"

"Stay out of my Feminine Hygiene Products!: A Betrothed Kentuckian Wife Speaks Out"

"Does Anyone Know How You Annul a Sardine Betrothment?: One Woman's Fight To Be Free”
~~~~~~~~~

*I’ve borrowed shamelessly from Dickens’ first lines in A Tale of Two Cities because the title inspired mine and the first lines provided the perfect template for depicting the differences in the two legs of my journey last week. Confession: I have never read A Tale of Two Cities. (the.shame!) Although I’m a voracious reader and even though it was required for one of my high school classes many years ago, I just couldn’t get into this book.

~~~~~~~~~

Thought Garden

Have you ever seen what passes for dirt in Alabama? It’s ugly. It’s a reddish-orange, dense, clay-like ground that somehow manages to get a coating of green every year. Weeds seem to have no problem growing in it but good things struggle to strive in this inhospitable environment. The earth packs down and turns brick-hard in the hot southern summers.



It’s hard to grow anything in this hateful soil.

My attempts to grow myself are hampered by a similar dense, clay-like soil. Sure, there is some growth but weeds grow more readily than nourishing plants.

I’m struggling to figure out how I’ve allowed my foundation to turn into something hard and averse to growth. I’ve become stagnant and infertile. I used to engage in self-discovery. I believed I would make a difference. Instead, I’ve allowed complacency and procrastination and fear keep me from being who I am. Whether it was deliberate or unintended, I’ve allowed so many other external activities to crowd my head that I didn’t have time to think about what was happening to me. I’ve compromised myself, not because it was demanded or requested or expected, and I’m trying to figure out why and how I can change it.

This is my thought garden.

This is hard. There’s lots of digging. I’m pulling up roots and rocks and trying to put good things in their place. I’m amending my soil soul.

To do that, I have to indulge in some more of that do-it-yourself psychoanalysis. I have to admit my faults. It involves some wallowing… I guess that’s the right word. I have to go back and visit those hard places. I have to re-examine those times in my life where I went off my path - where I abandoned self in the name of peace or obligation or fear or laziness.

I Did Promise Ridiculous Posts...

I've mentioned that I'm doing some home improvement projects. Even more recently, I wrote about needing to do some of that do-it-yourself psychoanalysis. I'll call that internal improvement. I've also gone back to school for some educational improvement. Then, to top it off, I've joined a gym (and I actually go!) so I can work on some physical improvement. I joke all the time that, "I'm old and I'm tired and my everything hurts."

Well, the truth is that I'm not that old, I shouldn't feel that tired and if my everything is hurting now it's not going to get any better as I get closer to being that old. Plus, I've added a couple of , um, several more pounds than I'm comfortable with having gained. I'm not at my heaviest but I was getting close enough that it scared me.

So, I promised some ridiculousness.

The other day, I changed into my workout clothes so I could go to the gym and get sweaty and buff and stuff. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and thought, "Ack! This is not flattering at all. I can't be seen in public in this!"

Then, I gave myself a mental slap upside the head, went to the gym in my unflattering clothes so I could work on getting back to the point where I like the way I look. It was great inspiration to really get into my workout.

When I got home, I realized that I had my shirt on backwards. Doofus and a fashion NO? Double score!


*********
In other news, Garnier Fructis hairspray and Scrubbing Bubbles both are packaged in green cans. They are both aerosol products. Both can often be found in bathrooms.

They are not interchangeable.

Arrggh!!!

I hate to post this now because it will push down the post I did about Jane's Divine Inspiration but since this is for her - and for me - it seems like it might be okay.

Dar Williams
This Is Not The House That Pain Built

My house is hard to find, but I'll give you directions,
You can visit sometime, down where all that I built surrounds me
Just make sure your car's got good shocks
There's steep hills, there's potholes, there's rocks
I work in the garden, my son plays around me
Close the gate behind you, there's a horse that can't get out
I will see you first, is that all right
And can you remember, can you remember

This is not the house that pain built
This is not the house that pain built
I was drowning in something, I jumped in the rift
And you knew me back then, when I spat on my gift, but no

It's tough and it's tiring when you go it alone
I learned about wiring, I learned about stone
The building is done but the work's never through
And I won't give up, no how, it reminds me of who I am and where I am now
I remember myself, that's the work that I do
On a spring night when the snow is melting
You'll see two sets of footprints walking
Look at all the stars, and turn around, and walk home,
Slowly walk home.

This is not the house that pain built
That is not a house that pain built
My friends all think that I holed up and hid
But I tell them I didn't, you know I don't think I did, no.

And this is where I let my pain go
This is where I let my pain go
This is where the footprints dance in the snow


I've run my ooh-ick-trojan-pop-up-virus-dealio and it didn't yell at me but visit this link at your own risk if you'd like to hear the song.

Inspiration

There are certain people who inspire me. Oftentimes, they are people I’ve never met: writers/bloggers, activists, politicians (rarely, but still). I’m also inspired by people I know: coworkers, family, and friends. Very recently, inspiration came from a blogger/writer who I also consider a friend.

Duchess Jane is that person.

She’s also known as Beth but she is and always will be royalty, in my opinion, so I love the “Duchess” moniker. I’d like to tell you why.

Jane writes about what is real. She writes about what is hard. She digs down deep into her soul, her heart, and her pain. She describes what she discovers in ways that evoke emotion – strong, life-changing emotion – and in ways that inspire those of us who don’t/can’t find that truthfulness in our writing.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t live truth. I do. I try really hard to always be honest with myself and my feelings. I try to not be false or dishonest in anything I do. Unfortunately, I sometimes find that I don’t write about my truth. The reasons for that vary but, usually, it’s associated with not wanting to hurt people. I worry that sharing my experience puts other peoples’ experiences out there for others to examine. I worry, even if I don’t name names, that people will assume they know who I’m discussing. That’s one of the dangers of non-anonymous writing. People who know me in real life read what I write. They will see themselves whether or not I’m writing about them.

I have been a coward.

Jane is not. (I tried, but can not find, the link to Jane's post about how people should not assume but should ask if a certain post is about them.)

Yesterday, Jane wrote about how Empires Weren't Built Here, Part 1. I read it today and, once again, I was in awe of her ability to yank feeling out of words. She talked about dying and what would be left. What would her last words be… out there in the ether on the Internet. Would it be something meaningful? Would people look at her last status update? Her last blog post? Her last Tweet? What if something tragic happened and she survived? Would people look at that and what she wrote?

She wrote about writing of experiences and whether she should chronicle those encounters. She wrote about her anxiousness concerning that. She wrote, “…would I succumb to this fear of being viewed as a pillager of my own tragedies and betrayer of my family, peddling their pain for pennies on the internet?”

I understood this all too well.

It seems so lame to say, “Me, too!” “I know!” “I feel that!” “Yes, yes, YES!”

I waited until my blog reader updated; thankfully, it was quickly. Empires Weren’t Built Here, Part 2 showed up soon after. This one was harder for me. I’m going to change the way I describe this. Writing is good but it felt like Jane was talking, confessing, exposing and confiding. So, I’ll now say that she spoke to me. She talked about love. She talked about hopes and dreams and joining. She also talked about losing ourselves in relationships. She talked of dreams lost and compromises and stagnation.

I can’t blog from work. That’s probably a good thing.

I can read. Sometimes, I can comment on some blogs but not on others. I will check out my favorites when I take a break or eat lunch.

Today, after I read Jane’s blog, I did something very uncharacteristic. I am a workaholic. I keep my life very compartmentalized. I am all business when it comes to my job. Today was different. I closed my door and I put my “teleconference” note on the door.

I cried.

I.do.not.cry.at.work.

Well, okay, I did once at my last job and I’ll probably (thanks to Jane) write about that one day.

Why did I cry today?

I saw myself in her words. This is not to say that any other person is to blame for what happened to me. Actually, I blame only me for what I did to myself.

There is a very fine line between compromising for the sake of a relationship and sacrificing what is integral to our souls. I made sacrifices that were not asked of me.

I’ve known that I wanted needed to write since I was nine years old. I’ve wanted to write about fun. I’ve wanted to write about self-exploration. I’ve wanted to write to entertain. I’ve wanted to write to be understood.

I work in a job where my writing is technical. It doesn’t satisfy my heart and soul. I created this blog so I could write about what matters to me. I found myself shackled by frustration and compassion and fear and kindness. I lost a little a lot of myself in that.

I need to say this: MrWurdi always encouraged me to write. He encouraged exploration of my soul and my heart and my dreams. I’ll always love him for many reasons but, especially, because of that. The restrictions that were on me were those I placed all on my own.

I used to work on my car. I used to go to the range and shoot. I used to hunt. I used to build things. I used to be more social. I don’t know that I stopped these activities because of relationships. Did I get lazy? Did I get complacent? Did other things become more important? Those are questions that I will be asking myself for some time to come.

Do-it-yourself psychoanalysis is hard. It means that you have to revisit those experiences that are hard. It means digging down into your pain, wallowing just a little bit, and understanding it. It means overcoming the pain – again – and growing because of your understanding.

There is something important that I learned today. I learned that I need to be like Jane. I need to write about what is real. I need to write about what is hard and painful and meaningful. That means that I might write about things that are uncomfortable. It means that I may write about things that make other people uncomfortable. That is really hard for me.

I want and need to be honest. It is part of who I am.

Stay tuned. There will still be ridiculous posts and random thoughts but I think this blog may change a little bit.

Thank you, Jane.

Rock Out With Your Caulk Out

~Am I supposed to caveat this by saying that I received no payment or product for this review?~

I've mentioned that I was doing some home improvement work. Part of the doing the home improvement means that I have to follow up and finish the darned home improvement stuff. I am at the caulking stage for several of my projects.

I've never caulked before now. I was talking to my dad about it and he mentioned seeing an ad on the television (As Seen On TV!) for this caulking tool kit called PROCaulk. He admitted that it might be complete crap and not work but said the commercials looked pretty convincing. I agreed to be the guinea pig.

Of course, before starting any project, research is a good idea. I googled, "How to Caulk." There are LOTS of web pages and videos dedicated to removing old caulk and putting down new. They are extremely intimidating. After watching several of them, I was feeling a bit out of my league. I don't even have any mineral spirits. I had already gone through three rolls of painter's tape for the painting projects. I was not looking forward to putting down even more of it. Damp rags, excess caulk (I am so not going to make some kind of inappropriate comment about how you can never have too much caulk...). What? Where was I? Oh, yeah. Caulk.

Since this pack-o-gadgets my dad told me about was As Seen On TV!, I decided to see if there was an ad out there on the Interwebs. Tah Dah! https://www.buyprocaulk.com/ . Cheesy, huh? Oh, and all those other videos? Not quite as messy as the guy in the ProCaulk ad.


I got my carefully chosen clear silicone. Clear, so that if I was really horrible at this caulking business, it wouldn't be so obvious.



So, I know you're just dying to know. Did it work? Was it messy? Was Ima now permanantly siliconely bonded to the shower stall?

Seriously, Internet. This.Stuff.Rocks. ProCaulk is the bombdealio. It is easy. It is not messy. No mineral spirits, no blue tape, very little waste of caulk.

I'm going to have to go get the white caulk so I can show off my fancy, new caulk skills.

That's hot.