How long since the last Disjointed?

This morning I took a phone call askin' for Nissan Frontier parts. I told him we handle Ford parts and haven't ever had a Nissan Frontier. His exact words: "Oh... How'bout a Grand Am?" I (gently, I promise) reminded him we handle Ford parts. Then he asked if we were "on the corner." I told him we were on the North edge of town.

I shit-ya-not, he said "North edge? What's that mean?"

Uhm, well, if you leave the center of town to drive toward The North Pole where Santa Claus lives, you'd have to drive past the North edge of town.

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It's not all a total bastard though, one of the ladies from here in town (I think she lives toward the South edge, hA) sent us a Chocolate Cake. I'm no serious connoisseur of cakes, I tend to love 'em just about any way I can get 'em. I can't say I have any serious skills when it comes to discerning "mix" from "homemade," but this cake is so seriously wonderful, I'd just about bet it didn't come from a boxed mix and the frosting may not have come from a plastic tub either. It's rich and moist and beautiful like a little bit of heaven in a lovely glass pan.

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As a reasonably educated person with a love of language, I am not afraid to admit that I used the MacBook's Dictionary because I wasn't completely sure how to spell "connoisseur." Some people wouldn't go to that kind of trouble, would they? I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'...

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Saturday, and only Saturday, we got an incredible amount of snow. Turns out I'd caught a large quantity of that Spring melt-off in the floor of the Mark 8, but I didn't notice until I got home and slung a wet laptop bag over my shoulder. Luckily the seventy-nine-cent thrift-store bag is fairly well-padded and the moisture didn't make it through to the computer or the external hard drive.

--

Saturday also brought me a string of interesting text messages with an odd feel to 'em; culminating with something like "I usually stay with Clay on the weekends," and a reply of "Oh. Do you have any single friends?"

I'm pretty sure that makes three guys who have asked me that same question fairly recently. I can only think of one single friend I have, but I can't really imagine her really hittin' it off with any of the three of these guys... I would love to wish each and every friend all the love in the world with somebody who'd be good to 'em -- I just don't want to be held responsible for putting any of 'em together because the odds are just too great that they'd end up with somebody who irritated the piss out of 'em.

I can only think of one "perfect couple" that I'd put together, but one of 'em is in Kansas and the other is in Southeast Tulsa, and neither of 'em has asked me about single friends.

That settles it, I ain't touchin' the matchmaker thing.

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Today is also a HoMeSkOoL dAy, which means I just might post again real soon...

_\,,/

When my sick sense of humor looks back.

The other morning I opened my cell phone to find a Twitter Tweet from my friend Scott, who was taking a tour of a Tulsa hospital. I couldn't help but hit "reply."

When I was 19, I got my first "real job" at a different Tulsa hospital; and though I'd taken a little "tour" amongst my little group of new hires, there were certain areas that I didn't get to see until much later...

The Summer that I was 25, I saw more than I'd ever wished to see.

There were a few weeks of hazy blur with only bits that stand out. The morning of the tenth of May was a Friday, and I'd spent most of the previous night stumbling back and forth between a king-size waterbed and a blue tweed couch. Sleep was essentially out of the question, but I was alternately trying to lay down on either one so that I might stare at the ceiling and wonder what the hell I was going to do. Those were the days when I could take a shower at night, go to bed with wet hair, and get away with it; but I don't remember if I showered or not.

I do remember going out to the garage that Friday morning and sliding behind the wheel of the SHO, the schweeet green Ford that I'd pushed easily past 125MPH, left hand around a spoke of the wheel, right hand on the gearshift; flyin' up US75 coming home the night before, just to remind myself that I was still me and still here.

I closed the car door and put my seatbelt on, then I hit the remote and watched my mirrors as the garage door rolled up. There was sunshine, but it wasn't the same anymore... I pulled my black Coach bag, the one I still refuse to sell or give away, out of the passenger seat and into my lap; and I took out the other piece of my bridal set. I figured I'd about as well wear both rings since there wasn't going to be a wedding anyway.

I don't really remember the drive to Dave's sister's house, but I do remember sliding into the shotgun seat of that buttery new Lincoln Towncar, and I vividly remember going to the airport to pick up his parents. I remember taking them back to the hospital to see him, even though it had been nearly 24 hours. I remember how his dad held my hand and told me he'd help me keep racing if he could. None of his family helped me with anything but learning how the worst comes out in people sometimes, but that's a whole different post.

A hospital employee, possibly a social worker, met us in the main lobby, out front where everything's pretty with polished wood and well-kept flowers. We chatted a bit while we waited for Dave's sister to make her way back in from parking the car; yes, I've been here before, I used to work here. No, I don't think there's anyone from my old floor I'd like to see, I'm pretty sure none of 'em give a shit about me, so no, don't call up there...

I had already decided I wasn't going back in -- I'd gone back into that little room in the ER more times than I could count, and everyone close to me told me that he would only look worse and it would only be harder on me, so my mind was made up, I wasn't going in this time.

She led us through a maze of hallways, some familiar, some not; and the further we went, the less "well decorated" the building was. We took an elevator down to the basement and around turn after turn, past the laundry, past the bulletin board with the job postings on it, around corner after corner, back toward the employee parking garage, and into the cafeteria.

The Cafeteria. We went through the exit door past the steamy conveyor belt where a few people were leaving their trays, around the cashier stands, and past that turntable where the special of the day was displayed plate-by-plate... When I was working, the "Margarita Chicken" was one of my favorites. We followed the social worker across the cafeteria and over to the wall near where the fruit and cereal are, and she opened a door into another small hallway where she said "here we are."

I stayed in the hallway with his aunt, and she held me while his parents and his sister went in. I got back in the car. I took a few phone calls. I answered questions at the funeral home, yes, we'll have music, no I don't want to leave him laid out for people to gawk at. That night, we had salty fried chicken from some place in Southeast Tulsa; the containers were unmarked, but it was good, and it was the first thing I'd had to eat since lunch the day before, before everything changed.

Late that night on the blue tweed couch, I stared up at the ceiling in the spill from the TV, and in a rare break from wondering what the hell I was going to do, it hit me. The Cafeteria.

The morgue was right next to the cafeteria.

They didn't show us that part in the employee tour. I'll bet nobody knows the dead folks are right on the other side of that wall. Somebody's probably standin' there right this minute tryin' to decide between corn flakes or bran flakes, somebody's probably reachin' for an apple or an orange, and I'll bet they have no idea who's just mere feet away, lying cold in the very next room.

Looking back, it's one of those situations that's hell when you're in it, but almost humorous when looked back on.

Oh bullshit, who am I kidding, there's no "almost" to the humorous there. In a sick-ish sort of way, it is kinda funny, and I've no doubt Dave would see the humor in it as well.

When people ask about the hearse, and say things like "You know it's had dead people in it, right?" With a couple drinks in me, I just might say something like "So? So have my hands, how'bout that?"

Look for the humor, Love for the loving, 'cause ya never know what's lurking around the next corner.

Or just on the other side of that wall.

More later... _\,,/

Actual Conversations.

It took me several years to give in to the phrase "flip-flops."

So, this afternoon, I'm standin' by the fireplace when My Mom walks up behind me and says "Do you wear thongs?"

I owned one pair of thong undies in college. I only wore 'em one day and they bugged me so bad I ditched 'em at lunchtime and went back to class with nothin' but jeans. The fact that I got rid of 'em by tossing them over a cable that ran between the floor joists in boyfriend-at-the-time's bedroom (which was in his mother's basement) is neither here nor there.

Mom asked if I wear thongs.

A quick flip of the mental rolodex shows a few places this question is likely to lead; the moral connotations of my underwear, the size of my ass, or something do do with my feet.

I know how these things usually go, and like any smart game show contestant, I picked the safest category. "I'll take footwear for a hundred, Alex!"



So I said "No, not unless I'm just steppin' into 'em to dash out to the car or something."

It was an honest answer. I've never been a fan of thongs or flip-flops, in the footwear or underwear departments. I keep a few pairs of the footwear variety around just in case I need to step into 'em real quick instead of putting real shoes on, but much like sweats or pajama pants, I pretty much refuse to wear 'em out in public. I'll wear 'em if I'm just dashing out to be out in the yard for a while, or if I'm going to the drive-thru and guaranteed to not have to get out of my car, but that's it. Of the footwear variety, I have three pairs; plain blue, orange with loofah-ish soles, and a pair with Tasmanian Devils on surfboards on 'em. It's not that I'm a Tasmanian Devil fan, I was just trying to find some that fit my odd feet -- but none of 'em do. Of the underwear variety, I have none, unless that pair from the basement is stuck in a box somewhere with all the stuff that he brought back after the break-up. I may have some chance of finding "flip flops" to fit my feet someday; but I seriously doubt I'll ever convince my ass to deal with "thongs."

Straight-faced, Mom's reply was "You'd run out to the car in your underwear?"

It's always about my ass.

More later... _\,,/

On getting me to wear a coat...

Knitting in or with a group is a totally new thing for me, and I'm not sure if I would've been willing to just walk right into any group and sit down amongst people I didn't already know. That's the main reason I got so excited when my Librarian called to tell me that there was going to be a start-up at the library -- I've known her for a while, so it would be less like walking into a room full of strangers. I was also thankful to have my very own friend there with me for that first day, and we had a lovely time. I had fun with the girls from the library, and I met a few new people too.

I love the knitting... I just love it, it's everything I'd hoped it would be a few years back when I got the bug to want to learn how to do it. I get a big kick out of the "I made that!" phenomenon, and handing a hand-knitted gift to someone is a warm-fuzzy feeling that's hard to beat. I'm as proud as I can be every time I see My Mom wear either one of her scarves, the loom-knitted one or the hand-knitted one, and she wears 'em with or without a coat; something I've never really felt like I could pull off.

The Boobie Scarf came from an auction for Breast Cancer Awareness, and it is the first hand-knit item I have ever owned; which means I'll always think of Robin as my mentor in the world of knitting. That scarf is one factor that convinces me to wear my coat, because I'm not a real big fan of wearing my heavier coats and it just doesn't seem like a scarf goes with a nylon joggin' jacket or polar fleece pullover. My orange Boobie Scarf usually stays laced under the hood or tucked into the sleeve of my Tulsa Speedway top ten coat from 2004, which is almost always in the back seat of whatever I'm driving. I don't like to drive with it on because I feel all bound-up like my arms don't move like they should; if I'm in the shotgun seat, I'll still take it off and just cover up with it. It's that amazing scarf that makes me put the coat back on to get out of the car -- possibly partly due to the fact that it's got shocking little Boobies all over it, and mostly because it's a real, hand-knitted, fuzzy, real-wool scarf.

I learned what I know about knitting from books and the internet. I've never really had another person sit down with me and show me anything about knitting, but I've learned a LOT from videos on the 'net. It took me several re-readings of the pattern to finally decide I could do it, but I've knit three of those scarves now. A white one just to prove to myself that I could, a raisin-y purple-ish one that went to a Physical Therapist who works in a Cancer Center, and a deep red variegated one that was a special request. I actually got to watch the deep red go from the gift bag to the new owner's neck, and if that don't make ya wanna go knit some more, I don't know what will!

I finished that last Boobie Scarf just a little while before this little Knitting Group got started.

This past Saturday, it was cold, so I pulled that coat out of the back seat and put it on before I made my way across the parking lot and into the library.

What better place to show off the lovely hand-knitted item that made me oh-so-desperately want to learn to knit?

Eh, what better place to watch a little more of how some people work...

Our awesome Librarian was out of town, so there were only three of us there.

It was the same one who asked me what a lightsaber was. The same one who told me that tying knots was uncouth under any circumstances. The one who really, really reminds me of a guy I used to spend a little time with but just had to get away from.

She says it's Obscene.

I'm not about to try and argue about it with her, it'd be too strange -- so just like I did with that guy she reminds me so much of, I'll just listen politely and hold my own ground and that'll be that. I stood my ground with him until he threatened to get out of the truck and take off walkin'. I'm not hiding my scarf for anyone.

Obscene? My already raging fire appreciates her gift of a lit match.

I just might have to abandon flannel and wear sleeveless shirts in the cold just so I can keep wearing that coat every chance I get.

My oldest brother says he wants a sweater with Boobies all over it. He's a fireman, and he participates in the Relay For Life every year with a whole group of firemen who all wear Kilts.

I need to track down some bright red yarn so maybe I can get started on a Boobie Sweater next weekend. Heh.

More later... _\,,/