I love my acupuncturist. However, the other day he handed me a jar of Chinese herbs which he said were to counteract my "excess energy flow." He then said, "We more commonly call them the anti-bitch bills."
I came home and told my hubby about my new daily antidote. He asked me if they came in bulk.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Saturday, March 29, 2008
How to Decorate a Funeral Home
In case you don't know this, I am pretty obsessed with funerals. Actually, with the planning of funerals. For this reason, it is okay to allow me to attend a funeral of one of your loved ones, but you should never, ever, ever allow me to have a voice in the preparations. My mother has finally figured this out after my participation in my grandmother's and stepfather's, so I am confident her instructions for her own end will be very, very specific and leave no room for my interpretations.
First of all, I must offer a disclaimer. The funeral home provided a lovely service. They brought dignity and respect to Ramsey's funeral, which I would not have been able to provide if left alone. Mainly because I am obsessed with funeral home decorations and how easy it is to be inappropriate. So, let's start with the yard art.
Just in case you can't tell, the dog is a BOBBLEHEAD. His head was just going with the breeze. And in the spirit of Easter, there was also a second Easter Bunny nearby.
Which begs the questions: What do you do for Halloween? Do you put Santa out front?
And, how exactly, do the copulating frogs fit in?
Nothing, however, prepared me for the interior. Each successive room provided more treasures. As you come in, you are greeted by her:
For some people it is clowns; for me, it is china dolls. And she wasn't alone.
It is really important that you notice the wallpaper, so you would be aware of how it tastefully is carried over into the bathroom.
That's right, folks, each of those flowers were carefully cut out, glued to the wall, and then shown growing out of the handpainted vase.
And, if in your old age you decide to start rolling yards again, consider crashing a funeral or two for supplies.
And, I am always a big fan of decorations that involve glitter and shiny paint.
Angels will be watching over you throughout your visit.
That's all, but I think it is enough.
First of all, I must offer a disclaimer. The funeral home provided a lovely service. They brought dignity and respect to Ramsey's funeral, which I would not have been able to provide if left alone. Mainly because I am obsessed with funeral home decorations and how easy it is to be inappropriate. So, let's start with the yard art.
Just in case you can't tell, the dog is a BOBBLEHEAD. His head was just going with the breeze. And in the spirit of Easter, there was also a second Easter Bunny nearby.
Which begs the questions: What do you do for Halloween? Do you put Santa out front?
And, how exactly, do the copulating frogs fit in?
Nothing, however, prepared me for the interior. Each successive room provided more treasures. As you come in, you are greeted by her:
For some people it is clowns; for me, it is china dolls. And she wasn't alone.
It is really important that you notice the wallpaper, so you would be aware of how it tastefully is carried over into the bathroom.
That's right, folks, each of those flowers were carefully cut out, glued to the wall, and then shown growing out of the handpainted vase.
And, if in your old age you decide to start rolling yards again, consider crashing a funeral or two for supplies.
And, I am always a big fan of decorations that involve glitter and shiny paint.
Angels will be watching over you throughout your visit.
That's all, but I think it is enough.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Resurrecting Drowned Flies
I just found out that I am almost world famous! I have sent a party trick on a trip around the world!
Last fall, we were over at a friend's house for dinner. The Vikings had just arrived, and we were all sitting around making polite chit chat. This was made more difficult because it was in English, and four of those present were mathematicians. All of these mathematicians are perfectly able to function in public situations, but it was still just a bit dull listening to discussions of math conferences, moving in, etc.
The weather was gorgeous, so we were sitting outside. It was windy enough that the mosquitoes were not attacking, but the breeze seemed to be causing the flies to kamikaze into all of our glasses of wine. After flicking one too many glasses of wine and dying flies into the grass, I remembered the only useful thing Mama's second husband ever taught me other than how to find muskrats. This was how to resurrect flies.
Yes, I know, it isn't particularly useful or desirable to help flies have a revival, but it gave me an opportunity to display my social skills. The next time a fly started swimming, I asked them to let it be, and I would bring it back. They were highly doubtful, as was I. I had only seen it done with Budweiser, and I was considering the possibility of a 30-year-old memory having been a trick on a little kid.
So, fly dies. We give him a few extra moments to see if he is really dead in the Vouvray. We dump it out on the table, and then we cover it with a pile of salt. Everyone is staring at it, and nothing is happening. Low level of panic sets in, but then, a mini-avalanche in the salt! A leg pokes through, then a wing. It is a zombie fly!! Fly drunkenly zooms away, and a conversation with lots of multisyllabic scientific terms ensues that I vaguely remember hearing last in ninth grade biology.
I promptly forgot about this event until last night. A partial horde of Vikings comes to our house, and they bring a mathematician from Spain whom I have never met. He walks in and announces, "You are famous in my neighborhood!" Turns out that Geir Arne, one of the Vikings, had performed my fly resurrection trick at a math conference (they never provide real entertainment at these events) in Barcelona, and Spanish Mathematician had gone home and taught his two boys. His sons had then taught other neighborhood boys, resulting in phone calls from parents about these new, oh-so-useful hobbies. Regardless, I am proud that fly resurrection will never be a dying art now that it has been accepted in the European Union.
Last fall, we were over at a friend's house for dinner. The Vikings had just arrived, and we were all sitting around making polite chit chat. This was made more difficult because it was in English, and four of those present were mathematicians. All of these mathematicians are perfectly able to function in public situations, but it was still just a bit dull listening to discussions of math conferences, moving in, etc.
The weather was gorgeous, so we were sitting outside. It was windy enough that the mosquitoes were not attacking, but the breeze seemed to be causing the flies to kamikaze into all of our glasses of wine. After flicking one too many glasses of wine and dying flies into the grass, I remembered the only useful thing Mama's second husband ever taught me other than how to find muskrats. This was how to resurrect flies.
Yes, I know, it isn't particularly useful or desirable to help flies have a revival, but it gave me an opportunity to display my social skills. The next time a fly started swimming, I asked them to let it be, and I would bring it back. They were highly doubtful, as was I. I had only seen it done with Budweiser, and I was considering the possibility of a 30-year-old memory having been a trick on a little kid.
So, fly dies. We give him a few extra moments to see if he is really dead in the Vouvray. We dump it out on the table, and then we cover it with a pile of salt. Everyone is staring at it, and nothing is happening. Low level of panic sets in, but then, a mini-avalanche in the salt! A leg pokes through, then a wing. It is a zombie fly!! Fly drunkenly zooms away, and a conversation with lots of multisyllabic scientific terms ensues that I vaguely remember hearing last in ninth grade biology.
I promptly forgot about this event until last night. A partial horde of Vikings comes to our house, and they bring a mathematician from Spain whom I have never met. He walks in and announces, "You are famous in my neighborhood!" Turns out that Geir Arne, one of the Vikings, had performed my fly resurrection trick at a math conference (they never provide real entertainment at these events) in Barcelona, and Spanish Mathematician had gone home and taught his two boys. His sons had then taught other neighborhood boys, resulting in phone calls from parents about these new, oh-so-useful hobbies. Regardless, I am proud that fly resurrection will never be a dying art now that it has been accepted in the European Union.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Let's Hear It For Small Towns!
Just an update for the curious, the criminals must stay in jail because they can't make bail. And, Mama has, of course, made not one, but two more connections that may result in Scary Man being snapped up and added jail time for inept criminals. Apparently, she was talking to the principal of her school and telling him the scoop. One of the places that a check was written was to a bar/dance club where stepdad would really have stood out in the crowd. Turns out that the bar owner was friends with the principal and they had ALREADY had a conversation about this returned check that went something like this, "Hey, do you know RR (stepdad)?" Principal: "Yeah, he is a wobbly, old white man with a beard." (Not exact quote, but the essentials). Bar Owner then gives a pretty darn precise description of Scary Man. In a separate discussion on Easter Sunday, one of Mama's friends was telling the story at a big, family gathering. A friend of Mama's friend's cousin (follow me?) says, "What was that name? She stole money from my brother in SOUTH CAROLINA." If this was a made-up story, I would give it a failing grade for being too unrealistic.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Shacking Up in the Delta
The last time I came to the Delta was at the end of January. Hubby dear is on sabbatical in St. Louis, and there are 3 Scandinavian men at the university doing math, and two of them have significant others. So, I led 4 of the 5 on a “Freaks of the South” tour, and let me tell you, Mississippi and New Orleans PERFORMED. Clarksdale, MS, was phenomenal. We stayed at a lovely little place called The Shack Up Inn , and the pictures you see don’t even begin to capture the allure. When we drove up to “check in,” the Vikings thought I was simply turning around in an abandoned dump. They were quite speechless, but then they fell in love. My kids thought it was the best hotel I had ever taken them to, except those with waffle makers. On my roof was a bicycle tire. On my front porch was a ratty old sofa more commonly found in a frat house. I had a beer bottle collection and a piano in my shack. The dog, Pete, ran around barking and peeing on everything, and I knew there was absolutely no way he could harm anything.
The Shack Up Inn is part of a larger property called Hopson Plantation. Hopson Plantation used to be one of the biggest farms in the North Delta, and it was the site of the first mechanized cotton picking in Mississippi. The large plantation commissary has been converted to a bar that is quite the hopping spot for local blues, but on the night we were there, we were the only guests. The inside is fantastic and worth a visit in itself for all its blues memorabilia.
Anyway, we were met by James, one of the actual owners of the SUI, and his loyal customer/friend, whose name was, naturally, Harlan. Harlan told us he was a greeter at Wal-Mart. My BS radar started dinging since he was awfully well-dressed for a Wal-Mart employee, but the Vikings began asking him what exactly that entailed, and he started telling them he had won all these awards for being the best greeter in the district and how Wal-Mart was great for him. Finally, he said, “I am really not a Wal-Mart greeter. I am actually in the chicken manure collection and distribution business.” As the beer dribbles out my nose, Elin sweetly asks, “What is manure?”
Then we get THE CARD:. Harlan’s business card reads:
USED CARS LAND WHISKEY MANURE NAILS
FLY SWATTERS RACING FORMS BONGOS
Harlan ******* (can’t be sure I can tell this)
WARS FOUGHT WOMEN SEDUCED REVOLUTIONS STARTED
TIGERS TAMED ASSASSINATIONS PLOTTED BARS EMPTIED
GOVERNMENTS RUN LAMPS LIT UPRISINGS QUELLED
ORGIES ORGANIZED GLASSWARE BROKEN QUEERS QUERIED
And that would seem to sum up the night, except I had left my children back at the “shack” watching a movie. It was not even 100 yards away, and I told them where I was going, and I would be back in EXACTLY 30 minutes. I left them the phone and the dog and a movie rolling on the DVD. Apparently, the big ones decided they needed me, but when Bunny came looking for me, she was unable to find me. So, being the reasonable ten-year-old she is, she called her father. I believe the conversation went something like this, “Hi, Papa. We are fine. Mama left us in the cabin while she went to the bar, and now we can’t find her.”
The next day continued the surreal Mississippi life. At breakfast, the owner of the restaurant came and popped open his barcolounger right behind us, opened his mouth really wide, and went to sleep. The woman at the cute gift shop offered to host a Barbeque for the Vikings if they could stay for just one more day since all her friends just loved new people.
When we finally left for Greenville to pick up my Mama, it was very late and almost nowhere except fast food was open. For anyone who has ever been to Mississippi, particularly the Delta, you quickly realize how little integration has happened, especially when it comes to eating establishments. You can either eat in a white restaurant or a black one, but there really isn’t much mixing at the table away from Burger King. I have been away from MS for many years now, and I had kind of forgotten this. So, when I saw the ex-gas station with the beautiful word “tamales” painted on its side, I didn’t think twice about going in. However, I am pretty sure we were the first white people in there perhaps ever, and, if not, the first batch with people that were non-English speakers. We were conversation stoppers, but the lovely woman in the kitchen made a dozen tamales really fast JUST FOR ME. In addition to what may have been the best tamales ever, our reconfigured gas staion came with Peach, Strawberry and Grape Nehi Soda, a pool table with authentic local characters wearing old-fashioned hats, blow-up malt liquor bottles, and a toilet with no seat. It was the closest I have been to a perfect meal in ages.
Mississippi can be such a beautiful place.
The Shack Up Inn is part of a larger property called Hopson Plantation. Hopson Plantation used to be one of the biggest farms in the North Delta, and it was the site of the first mechanized cotton picking in Mississippi. The large plantation commissary has been converted to a bar that is quite the hopping spot for local blues, but on the night we were there, we were the only guests. The inside is fantastic and worth a visit in itself for all its blues memorabilia.
Anyway, we were met by James, one of the actual owners of the SUI, and his loyal customer/friend, whose name was, naturally, Harlan. Harlan told us he was a greeter at Wal-Mart. My BS radar started dinging since he was awfully well-dressed for a Wal-Mart employee, but the Vikings began asking him what exactly that entailed, and he started telling them he had won all these awards for being the best greeter in the district and how Wal-Mart was great for him. Finally, he said, “I am really not a Wal-Mart greeter. I am actually in the chicken manure collection and distribution business.” As the beer dribbles out my nose, Elin sweetly asks, “What is manure?”
Then we get THE CARD:. Harlan’s business card reads:
USED CARS LAND WHISKEY MANURE NAILS
FLY SWATTERS RACING FORMS BONGOS
Harlan ******* (can’t be sure I can tell this)
WARS FOUGHT WOMEN SEDUCED REVOLUTIONS STARTED
TIGERS TAMED ASSASSINATIONS PLOTTED BARS EMPTIED
GOVERNMENTS RUN LAMPS LIT UPRISINGS QUELLED
ORGIES ORGANIZED GLASSWARE BROKEN QUEERS QUERIED
And that would seem to sum up the night, except I had left my children back at the “shack” watching a movie. It was not even 100 yards away, and I told them where I was going, and I would be back in EXACTLY 30 minutes. I left them the phone and the dog and a movie rolling on the DVD. Apparently, the big ones decided they needed me, but when Bunny came looking for me, she was unable to find me. So, being the reasonable ten-year-old she is, she called her father. I believe the conversation went something like this, “Hi, Papa. We are fine. Mama left us in the cabin while she went to the bar, and now we can’t find her.”
The next day continued the surreal Mississippi life. At breakfast, the owner of the restaurant came and popped open his barcolounger right behind us, opened his mouth really wide, and went to sleep. The woman at the cute gift shop offered to host a Barbeque for the Vikings if they could stay for just one more day since all her friends just loved new people.
When we finally left for Greenville to pick up my Mama, it was very late and almost nowhere except fast food was open. For anyone who has ever been to Mississippi, particularly the Delta, you quickly realize how little integration has happened, especially when it comes to eating establishments. You can either eat in a white restaurant or a black one, but there really isn’t much mixing at the table away from Burger King. I have been away from MS for many years now, and I had kind of forgotten this. So, when I saw the ex-gas station with the beautiful word “tamales” painted on its side, I didn’t think twice about going in. However, I am pretty sure we were the first white people in there perhaps ever, and, if not, the first batch with people that were non-English speakers. We were conversation stoppers, but the lovely woman in the kitchen made a dozen tamales really fast JUST FOR ME. In addition to what may have been the best tamales ever, our reconfigured gas staion came with Peach, Strawberry and Grape Nehi Soda, a pool table with authentic local characters wearing old-fashioned hats, blow-up malt liquor bottles, and a toilet with no seat. It was the closest I have been to a perfect meal in ages.
Mississippi can be such a beautiful place.
Termites and Identity Fraud
Before I start telling all of you about my latest whacked-out encounter with my beloved homestate, I think it is necessary to give you some background information about my less beloved hometown of Greenville. You know those energy lines that New Age folk believe converge over places like Stonehenge and Sedona, Arizona? There are more lines, called Freak Lines, and they radiate out from here. Almost every neurotic behavior, survival skill, or good story I know or possess is directly related to this freakopolis.
Here are some random pieces of knowledge that prove this. Benazhir Bhutto bought her first pair of blue jeans in Greenville. The woman who Emmett Till whistled at and whose death pretty much started the Civil Rights Movement now lives up the street from my Mama. Mooning barges on the Mississippi is a primary source of entertainment. The water is the color of pee.
Anyway, here goes the latest story about Greenville. My stepfather died last week, which is definitely a sad occasion, but I am pretty sure he is feeling much, much better. I came down to stay with Mama through all this, and I am still here. She has been a little wackier than normal, but nothing that my immunity shots will not protect me from. So, the real story begins with a phone call. Mama, who has never owned an answering machine because that is what Caller ID is for, looks down and sees the name of her dying husband on the caller ID. She knows there is not a hotline from heaven, and she sure as heck knows he isn't calling to chat, so she picks it up.
It is a woman I will call Pam, since that is her name. Pam is a supposed friend, who has periodically been running errands for them, keeping stepdad company while Mama works, tending to the dog, etc. and so forth. Mama chats with her a minute, but after she hangs up, she says, "We need to go to the bank." Yep, you guessed it. "Someone" has been using my stepfather's account and has been shopping. This person has set up a handy-dandy payment plan using stepdad's account to buy some new stuff, get internet, and chat on their nifty new cell phone. Fortunately, this person is an idiot, and her daughter who was in on it all is even a bigger idiot, but I will come back to in a minute after I tell you about the termites.
The actual funeral was as good as any funeral can be, and Mama seems relatively sane after everyone departs, so she sends me off to spend the night with my beloved and the three munchkins at a hotel. The next morning, I get a call from A CRAZY LADY. It is my mother, screaming, "There are BUGS! Bugs EVERYWHERE! Bugs up MY NOSE! Bugs UNDER THE COVERS! COME NOW!" I think various expletives, but the real thought is, "Crap. My mother has started dropping acid at 60." So, off I run in my night shirt, dirty jeans, and high heels which were conveniently clustered together.
Get to the house. Mama is sitting in the car, in her underwear and night shirt, with a cigarette in her mouth, another in her hand, sobbing and twitching. She sure looks like a drug addict right now, but I go inside, and DANG! there were bugs! Like 10,000 of them! A swarm of termites had gotten in the house and picked my mama's head to be the landing pad. Of course, this is really funny to me, which just pleased Mama even more, let me tell you. Mama tells me that she KNOWS they are termites because she had already chased down the next-door neighbor (in her underwear and nightshirt) to get him to tell her what they were. He apparently told her, "Don't you want to get dressed now?" She told him, "After you get all those damn bugs off my clothes, I will."
So, after we responsibly deal with the termites by simply closing the door and walking away, we go to bank. We now have piles of paper with forged checks, credit card receipts, overdrawn notices, etc. that we can take to the police station. On the way, we decide to ride by and see if Pam is still in town. Sure enough, she is. Mama stops and runs into a store, and while she is gone, Pam calls on her cell phone that I think my stepfather bought for her. Mama calls back, and she says, "Why did you ride by?" Mama makes up some crazy story that takes the entire time to get to the police station where she is going to be swearing out a warrant for the woman's arrest. She honestly says to Pam, "Well, we are almost to where we are going, I will chat with you later."
Police say come back in 45 minutes to sign papers. Mama decides to leave me at home with the kids and goes back on her own. In Greenville, there are absolutely NO DEGREES of separation. If that person standing next to you isn't a relative, neighbor, former classmate, former student, relative of former student, former boyfriend, relative of former boyfriend of my mother's, or doesn't know one of the above, then that person is from out of town. Anyway, one of the three random strangers in Greenville overhears Mama, and says, "Oh, I know where that person cashes her checks. Hold on." So, he speed dials from his cell phone the seedy pool hall, and tells him the situation. Not FIVE minutes later, pool hall dude calls back and says, "She is here. She even has one of his checks for me to cash." Police drive down there, and pick up daughter. Daughter calls Mama. Pool Hall Man looks at Trashy Mama and says, "Oh, she does it, too!" Daughter lies about her name, a charge by police is added. Trashy Mama says, "Oh, he was paying me for services." Yeah, moron, tell the police you are a prosititute. Let's just say that we know she is lying, particularly because she gives details of where services were supposedly provided. If she had actually been in the hot tub at my parents' house, as claimed, then she would be in the hospital with some skanky skin disease or she would have at least smelled. So, Mama stays until they show up, she waves sweetly to them as they walk past, and the funeral festivities seem to end on a high note because since the judge is in that no degrees of separation (he was the law partner of my stepfather's daddy) and would have a conflict of interest, she and daughter can't be arraigned until the other judge gets back from his vacation next week.
You would THINK this is the end, but you must remember I am still inGreenville. Last night, THE CALL comes. From stepdad's funded phone number at the arrested people's house. From the son-in-law/husband of the stupid thieves. Problem is, he IS crazy. Like crazy where the police investigator goes, "oooooh," when you say his name. Like as Mama put it, "Where the government gives you a check for being crazy." Needless to say, I wig out. My liberal ideals are GONE. Call the police! Load the guns in the attic! Hide the children! We get 3 cops (assistant chief is, naturally, another no-degree connection), a report, and documentation for possible restraining orders. Sleep, finally, at 2 a.m.
Well, I guess that is all so far. Welcome to my blog! And remember, I still have over 48 hours here, .....
Here are some random pieces of knowledge that prove this. Benazhir Bhutto bought her first pair of blue jeans in Greenville. The woman who Emmett Till whistled at and whose death pretty much started the Civil Rights Movement now lives up the street from my Mama. Mooning barges on the Mississippi is a primary source of entertainment. The water is the color of pee.
Anyway, here goes the latest story about Greenville. My stepfather died last week, which is definitely a sad occasion, but I am pretty sure he is feeling much, much better. I came down to stay with Mama through all this, and I am still here. She has been a little wackier than normal, but nothing that my immunity shots will not protect me from. So, the real story begins with a phone call. Mama, who has never owned an answering machine because that is what Caller ID is for, looks down and sees the name of her dying husband on the caller ID. She knows there is not a hotline from heaven, and she sure as heck knows he isn't calling to chat, so she picks it up.
It is a woman I will call Pam, since that is her name. Pam is a supposed friend, who has periodically been running errands for them, keeping stepdad company while Mama works, tending to the dog, etc. and so forth. Mama chats with her a minute, but after she hangs up, she says, "We need to go to the bank." Yep, you guessed it. "Someone" has been using my stepfather's account and has been shopping. This person has set up a handy-dandy payment plan using stepdad's account to buy some new stuff, get internet, and chat on their nifty new cell phone. Fortunately, this person is an idiot, and her daughter who was in on it all is even a bigger idiot, but I will come back to in a minute after I tell you about the termites.
The actual funeral was as good as any funeral can be, and Mama seems relatively sane after everyone departs, so she sends me off to spend the night with my beloved and the three munchkins at a hotel. The next morning, I get a call from A CRAZY LADY. It is my mother, screaming, "There are BUGS! Bugs EVERYWHERE! Bugs up MY NOSE! Bugs UNDER THE COVERS! COME NOW!" I think various expletives, but the real thought is, "Crap. My mother has started dropping acid at 60." So, off I run in my night shirt, dirty jeans, and high heels which were conveniently clustered together.
Get to the house. Mama is sitting in the car, in her underwear and night shirt, with a cigarette in her mouth, another in her hand, sobbing and twitching. She sure looks like a drug addict right now, but I go inside, and DANG! there were bugs! Like 10,000 of them! A swarm of termites had gotten in the house and picked my mama's head to be the landing pad. Of course, this is really funny to me, which just pleased Mama even more, let me tell you. Mama tells me that she KNOWS they are termites because she had already chased down the next-door neighbor (in her underwear and nightshirt) to get him to tell her what they were. He apparently told her, "Don't you want to get dressed now?" She told him, "After you get all those damn bugs off my clothes, I will."
So, after we responsibly deal with the termites by simply closing the door and walking away, we go to bank. We now have piles of paper with forged checks, credit card receipts, overdrawn notices, etc. that we can take to the police station. On the way, we decide to ride by and see if Pam is still in town. Sure enough, she is. Mama stops and runs into a store, and while she is gone, Pam calls on her cell phone that I think my stepfather bought for her. Mama calls back, and she says, "Why did you ride by?" Mama makes up some crazy story that takes the entire time to get to the police station where she is going to be swearing out a warrant for the woman's arrest. She honestly says to Pam, "Well, we are almost to where we are going, I will chat with you later."
Police say come back in 45 minutes to sign papers. Mama decides to leave me at home with the kids and goes back on her own. In Greenville, there are absolutely NO DEGREES of separation. If that person standing next to you isn't a relative, neighbor, former classmate, former student, relative of former student, former boyfriend, relative of former boyfriend of my mother's, or doesn't know one of the above, then that person is from out of town. Anyway, one of the three random strangers in Greenville overhears Mama, and says, "Oh, I know where that person cashes her checks. Hold on." So, he speed dials from his cell phone the seedy pool hall, and tells him the situation. Not FIVE minutes later, pool hall dude calls back and says, "She is here. She even has one of his checks for me to cash." Police drive down there, and pick up daughter. Daughter calls Mama. Pool Hall Man looks at Trashy Mama and says, "Oh, she does it, too!" Daughter lies about her name, a charge by police is added. Trashy Mama says, "Oh, he was paying me for services." Yeah, moron, tell the police you are a prosititute. Let's just say that we know she is lying, particularly because she gives details of where services were supposedly provided. If she had actually been in the hot tub at my parents' house, as claimed, then she would be in the hospital with some skanky skin disease or she would have at least smelled. So, Mama stays until they show up, she waves sweetly to them as they walk past, and the funeral festivities seem to end on a high note because since the judge is in that no degrees of separation (he was the law partner of my stepfather's daddy) and would have a conflict of interest, she and daughter can't be arraigned until the other judge gets back from his vacation next week.
You would THINK this is the end, but you must remember I am still inGreenville. Last night, THE CALL comes. From stepdad's funded phone number at the arrested people's house. From the son-in-law/husband of the stupid thieves. Problem is, he IS crazy. Like crazy where the police investigator goes, "oooooh," when you say his name. Like as Mama put it, "Where the government gives you a check for being crazy." Needless to say, I wig out. My liberal ideals are GONE. Call the police! Load the guns in the attic! Hide the children! We get 3 cops (assistant chief is, naturally, another no-degree connection), a report, and documentation for possible restraining orders. Sleep, finally, at 2 a.m.
Well, I guess that is all so far. Welcome to my blog! And remember, I still have over 48 hours here, .....
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